Twilight
Twilight by Stephanie Meyer
I’d been meaning to read this one for some time now, since I was feeling out of the YA loop. Then, one of my friends started raving about it, and there was finally a copy available at the library, and that was that.
I was immediately and thoroughly drawn into the book. I was completely absorbed by it, and couldn’t seem to read it quickly enough. In fact, I’m sure that I only skimmed some bits of it in an effort to find out what would happen all the faster.
I finished it quite some time ago and returned it to the library as there were holds on it, so I don’t have too much to say about it (which is really why I should write entries for books immediately upon finishing them) but I’m definitely interested to read the rest of the series. Reading this book recalled memories of reading when I was much younger.
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“How long have you been seventeen?”
Written on the Body
Written on the Body by Jeanette Winterson
I haven’t entirely made up my mind about this book. I decided to read it because a couple of the girls I was friends with in one of my English classes last Fall raved about it. I can see why they love it, and I can also see why I could love it, but I’m not sure if I even like it all that much. Perhaps this is one of those instances when seeing the value in something is quite different from enjoying it. I think I could really benefit from a solid treatment of it in class, or at least some discussion on it.
The book details the romantic relationship that develops between the unnamed, gender-ambiguous narrator and a beautiful married woman named Louise. The main thing that stood out to me when I first started reading was the precise and beautiful writing. This carried me through approximately the first third of the book, and then I started feeling bored and irritated.
I think that part of what bothered me about the book was that it seemed much more a statement, argument, or commentary on society than an actual story. It’s not that I think that novels should be only about character and plot, but I don’t think that those elements should get thrown into the backseat while political agenda hops into the driver’s side and takes off. I like a little more subtlety, the interweaving of all the different elements that make up a story.
Because I felt that the characters weren’t developed very fully, I felt uncomfortable reading the details of their romantic relationship. I’ve never encountered this before. Often, I identify with at least one of the characters, or, failing that, I feel that I’ve been invited to read, to learn about their lives. Reading this book made me feel like an intruder, like I was reading someone else’s embarrassingly personal diary without permission.
The other result of the flat characters for me was that I just didn’t care about them. There isn’t much of a plot to speak of, so if you don’t care about what happens to the characters, that’s pretty much all there is. Besides the fantastic writing, of course.
I feel that I might have just been in the wrong frame of mind for the book. I can’t summarize my opinion into a recommendation this time because I’m still undecided. I do have a suspicion that this will be one of those books that stays with me. Maybe I’ll re-read this in a few years and decide then.
Articulacy of fingers, the language of the deaf and dumb, signing on the body longing. Who taught you to write in blood on my back? Who taught you to use your hands as branding irons? You have scored your name into my shoulders, referenced me with your mark. The pads of your fingers have become printing blocks, you tap a message on to my skin, tap meaning into my body. Your morse code interferes with my heart beat. I had a steady heart beat before I met you, I relied on it, it had seen active service and grown strong. Now you alter its pace with your own rhythm, you play upon me, drumming me taut.
A Study in Scarlet
A Study in Scarlet by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
This time I decided to follow up a fantastic read with a complete change of pace: a leap into the criminal underworld of Victorian London, as navigated by none other than Sherlock Holmes.
I became addicted to Sherlock Holmes stories during exam period last semester when I picked up a copy of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and the Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes and read them when I should have been writing my final essay of the term. I decided on A Study in Scarlet next, because it’s actually the first Sherlock Holmes book, and explains how Holmes and Watson meet.
I’m not going to get into the plot, mostly because I would just spoil it, but also because I find that if you try and explain Sherlock Holmes stories, they come off as ridiculous and far-fetched (which they are) without getting across their charm and humour.
After reading this book, which at 130 pages is much longer than the stories in the book I read, I’ve concluded that I prefer the shorter stories. This one felt a bit dragged out, and as the first book I felt that Holmes wasn’t quite the character I’ve come to love. The major failing of this book though was that there was about 40 pages of back story that didn’t involve Holmes at all! Really, I read the stories for Holmes’s hilarious antics so this section of the novel was mostly wasted on me.
My overall recommendation is to begin with Conan Doyle’s shorter Holmes fiction, and to save A Study in Scarlet for when Holmes has already won you over.
I gathered up some scattered ash from the floor. It was dark in colour and flaky — such an ash as is only made by a Trichinopoly. I have made a special study of cigar ashes — in fact, I have written a monograph upon the subject. I flatter myself that I can distinguish at a glance the ash of any known brand either of cigar or of tobacco.
And finally, a question: Where did the image of Sherlock Holmes in a deerstalker come from? He isn’t described as wearing such a hat in any of the stories I’ve read so far.
White Oleander
White Oleander by Janet Fitch
Once I had finished Cloud Atlas, I had no idea what to read next. I often find it really difficult to follow up a fantastic book. I’m never sure if it would be better to raise the stakes by reading something that I know can compete with the quality of the book I just finished, or if I should just read something short and fun that I don’t have high expectations for. Sometimes, I wonder if I would have liked perfectly okay or even solidly good books better if I hadn’t read them on the tail of excellent ones.
This time I decided to re-read an old favourite. I’d been thinking about the protagonist of the novel, Astrid, for some time, so I decided just to go for it. I was a bit hesitant to re-read this one though, just because it spoke to me so deeply the first time I read it. Re-reading can be disappointing, and I really didn’t want to ruin my memories of the book.
As it turns out, I wasn’t disappointed at all. There’s something about this book that catches hold of me, and just doesn’t let go. It’s the story, but also the prose. Fitch’s writing style is like reading a 450-page prose-poem. When I was reading the book I found myself savouring every word like a morsel of delicious food, letting them melt on my tongue. I felt that Fitch chose each of her words with the care a fine jeweller would take when selecting precious stones for a necklace.
The Santa Anas blew in hot from the desert, shriveling the last of the spring grass into whiskers of pale straw. Only the oleanders thrived, their delicate poisonous blooms, their dagger green leaves. We could not sleep in the hot dry nights, my mother and I. I woke up at midnight to find her bed empty. I climbed to the roof, and easily spotted her blond hair like a white flame in the light of the three-quarter moon.
Cloud Atlas
Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell
I don’t entirely know how to begin to describe Cloud Atlas, but I feel that a brief consideration of its structure is essential to understanding the uniqueness of the book. I understand it in terms of a metaphor that came to mind while I was reading. Imagine a set of Russian nesting dolls that have been taken apart. The dolls have been taken apart in such away that the only intact doll is the centre one; the others remain in halves. To reassemble the set so that all the smaller dolls are inside the largest, you nest all the bottom halves of the dolls inside each other, then place the intact doll in the very centre, and then add the top halves from smallest to largest.
There are six interconnected stories in Cloud Atlas that are presented in precisely this manner. Mitchell begins five stories, tells the entirety of the sixth, and then resumes the first five in reverse order (12345654321). The stories are connected to each other, but each happens to a different character, is set in a different time period, and belongs to a different literary genre. This is where David Mitchell’s talents as a writer comes out, because each he handles each shift in the novel with skill and mastery. Each story has its own distinct tone to it, but fits in perfectly with the others.
One of my favourite details was the way that Mitchell altered his language to suit the time period and focalizing character of each story. Not to give too much away, but two of the stories are set in the future, and Mitchell alters the language of these stories to reflect and emphasize the setting. I found it interesting that in one of these stories, spelling and grammar was simplified in a way that Webster might have approved of, but Mitchell still retained the subjunctive mood.
This is one of the best books I’ve read in a long time (and I’ve read lots of good ones lately!). I really recommend reading this one, and untangling the mystery of the stories.
I watched clouds awobbly from the floor o’ that kayak. Souls cross ages like clouds cross skies, an’ tho’ a cloud’s shape nor hue nor size don’t stay the same, it’s still a cloud an’ so is a soul. Who can say where the cloud’s blowed from or who the soul’ll be ‘morrow? Only Somni the east an’ the west an’ the compass an’ the atlas, yay, only the atlas o’clouds.
Bridget Jones
Bridget Jones’s Diary by Helen Fielding
Re-reading this was completely inspired by a Bridget Jones movie night plus chips and pickle dip (which, I’m pretty sure, is the only correct way to watch Bridget Jones). Can it be true – I think I actually prefer the movie to the book!
Interesting fact: when I read the diary in the ninth grade, I remember that all the records of her weight were meaningless to me as the measurements were all given in stones. In the copy I read this time, her weight is recorded in pounds. Was this changed for the American reprint?
“That is just such crap,” I slurred. “How dare you be so fraudulently flirtatious, cowardly, and dysfunctional? I am not interested in emotional fuckwittage. Good-bye.”
It was great. You should have seen his face. But now I am home I am sunk into gloom. I may have been right, but my reward, I know, will be to end up all alone, half-eaten by an Alsatian.
Sevenwaters
Child of the Prophecy by Juliet Marillier
I’ve put off writing about this book because it’s the last book in a trilogy and it feels strange to write about this one without mentioning Daughter of the Forest and Son of the Shadows, which I read a year and a half ago and six months ago, respectively. I’ve decided that instead of giving this one its own post, I’ll put it into the context of the series. Of course I’m also trying to keep this journal relatively spoiler-free, and especially so in this case because I know of people who specifically want to read or finish this series!
Anyways, I read Daughter of the Forest after Rin recommended it to me the summer before last. It is the retelling of Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tale “The Wild Swans”* set in Ireland in the 10th century. Not only is this one of my favourite fairy tales, but it also happens to be one of my favourite historical periods, so all-round points for that. Of course, I also loved Marillier’s portrayal of the period and her interpretation of the fairy tale. I also liked that she added in some of the folklore of Ireland.
To give a brief outline of the fairy tale – it is about a young girl (named Sorcha, in this story) who must save her six older brothers who have been turned into swans by their evil/jealous/sorceress step-mother. In order to do this, she must weave shirts for each of her brothers out of a thorny plant that rips open her hands, after taking a vow of silence. Of course, she runs into many complications along the way.
The second book in the series doesn’t follow the fairy tale at all, but tells the story of Sorcha’s children. The main plot of this book and the next one, in which the main protagonist is Sorcha’s granddaughter, follow a story introduced but not dealt with in the first book.
My mother knew every tale that was ever told by the firesides of Erin, and more besides. Folks stood hushed around the hearth to hear her tell them after a long day’s work, and marveled at the bright tapestries she wove with her words. She related the many adventures of Cù Chulainn the hero, and she told of Fionn Mac Cumhaill, who was a great warrior and cunning with it….She told tales that had the household in stitches with laughter, and tales that made strong men grow quiet. But there was one tale she would never tell, and that was her own. – the beginning of Son of the Shadows
*”The Wild Swans” is in turn based off of the Norwegian folk tale “The Twelve Wild Ducks,” which was collected by Asbjørnsen & Moe and then translated by George Webbe Dasent in the late-Victorian period. Angela Carter has suggested that Andersen “upgraded” the ducks to swans because swans provide more romantic imagery. (Andersen also cut down the number of brothers by half, but I’m not sure what the significance of that might be.)
Emma
Emma by Jane Austen
Sometimes I’m just in the mood for some Austen. (This mood is characterised of course by a desire for wit, outspoken heroines, and neat, clean, unambiguous endings.) I picked up Emma because I felt like re-reading Northanger Abbey but Mum was reading my copy. Besides, I’d never read Emma and am working my way through all of Austen’s novels. Now I just have Persuasion left. (It and Emma were the only ones that weren’t assigned in school!)
I had a bit of trouble getting into it at first, but once I did I found it absolutely hilarious. Emma herself was just too much for me in her complete inability to understand the realities of a situation. The best part about this is that Austen makes it perfectly clear to the reader what is going on, so you get all the smug benefits of dramatic irony. Also the dialogue is fantastic. A couple of specific things struck me when I was reading the book:
1. Whoever it was who said that Austen is embarrassing to read because her novels centre around money was absolutely correct. (How I wish I could find that exact quotation again!) I should elaborate and say that I don’t find Austen’s discussion of money embarrassing, but I do find it significant that it is such a prominent feature in her books, especially in relation to marriage. I noticed it more in this book than in her others, but maybe that’s just because I was paying more attention to it.
2. I kept thinking about the Facebook group I came across called “Reading Jane Austen gave me unrealistic expectations about love.” I know that there are obviously major differences in the way that relationships work today compared to how they worked 200 years ago in high society, but the whole courtship game really stood out to me in an uncomfortable way because I kept thinking about it in light of today. Do people really still have expectations about love based on Jane Austen novels? I honestly can’t imagine being disappointed that my love life doesn’t play out like an Austen novel (and this is no way intended as an insult to my delightful first cousins).
Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable house and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her….The real evils indeed of Emma’s situation were the power of having rather too much her own way, and a disposition to think a little too well of herself; these were the disadvantages which threatened alloy to her many enjoyments. The danger, however, was at present so unperceived, that they did not by any means rank as misfortunes with her.
The Thirteenth Tale
The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield
I have to admit to being drawn to this book entirely because of its cover. Something about it really appealed to me, but when I picked up up in the bookstore I was a little put off because it was labelled as a “Heather’s Pick” and I rather dislike reading anything Heather or Oprah or anyone, really, has picked out for everyone to read (I guess I’m a bit of a snob). But I decided to get over my snobbery and read it.
The book follows the story of a young woman named Margaret, who receives a letter from the popular writer Vida Winter asking her to write her biography. This is unusual because Winter has spent her whole public life as a writer clouding her past in mystery, and now she wants to reveal the truth. As one commentator points out on the back of the book, Winter’s life story is “reminiscent of such spellbinding classics as Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, and Rebecca.” It is also described as “a love letter to reading,” which is a description I can only agree with.
My favourite thing about this book was the way that Setterfield created the perfect atmosphere for a gothic novel. (I have a bit of a soft spot for gothic novels, especially ones written during the Victorian period.) I would recommend the book based on her talent to create mood alone. Of course, the plot is also completely absorbing and well tied together, as well as just weird enough to be interesting without being over the top.
All children mythologize their birth. It is a universal trait. You want to know someone? Heart, mind, and soul? Ask him to tell you about when he was born. What you get won’t be the truth: it will be a story. And nothing is more telling than a story.
