Just Read: The Night Circus, by Erin Morgenstern

{image from the book trailer, which you should definitely watch here}

I promise, this is the last you'll hear my gush about this book...for today, at least.

If I said that it's rare for a book to entrance me like this, I'd be lying.  Yet at the same time, The Night Circus caught my imagination in a different way than usual.  The book was equal parts thrilling and emotionally intriguing, which is a rare find, I think.  You turn pages curious, excited, and a little bit in love, wondering what could possibly happen, and you are continuously surprised by what comes next.

After reading these pages, I want to write and imagine so much.  It's one of those stories that makes you want to tell a few of your own, and to live adventurously, even in the smallest ways.

Reading The Night Circus

Source: etsy.com via Katie on Pinterest

ohmygoshthisbookissogoodi'mnotevenusingcapsorspaces...

...which actually takes me longer to type because I hit the spacebar and shift key so very naturally that I don't even notice.

But seriously, this book is brilliant.  I'm even ignoring the comma splices everywhere and the one mistaken homonym I encountered awhile ago.

Also, I originally put "it's" after "ohmygosh" up there, then realized I spelled a swear word.  Oops.

If you're stopping by, you've caught me on a perky kind of cheerful day.  Usually I'm just cheerful, so this post is a rare find.

Just Read :: Sisterhood Everlasting, by Ann Brashares

Books that close series must be terrifying to write.  I've come to that conclusion in the past, because I rarely read series anymore.  But Ann Brashares took it on and did it well, surprisingly and seriously well.  I'm sure there are plenty of nay-sayers, but I'm not one of them.  Perhaps the story is a little unrealistic, perhaps overly imagined, yet I think that is exactly what made the series so endearing to my teenage heart when I first picked up The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants in high school.  I've sympathized with the characters from the very beginning and felt a startling closeness to Lena, one of the four protagonists.  I lived vicariously through the characters more than I care to admit.  My real high school life consisted of a lot of nothing happening--something for which I'm actually glad--and the plots, contrived or not, of books filled in a lot of interestingness that my imagination craved.  Perhaps I could have filled my time with more literary pursuits (and I did, to an extent), but I remember connecting well to these novels.

In Sisterhood Everlasting (overstated title aside), I found again the reason I connected to the characters.  They feel real; since they are developed over the course of five novels, which I've read over six or so years, I feel I've gotten to know them.  The thoughts that Brashares gives to Lena aren't too far from my own on occasion.  The end is an uncontrived embodiment of bittersweet.  I won't make any apologies for reading this book and praising it, regardless of the chick lit category I'm sure it's being shoved into thoroughly.  If you haven't read the rest of the series, you probably won't fully understand what's going on and you won't enjoy the novel.  But if you have and you love the characters as much as I do, prepare to read with a very full heart and a few tears.    

Just Read :: Peony in Love, by Lisa See

I just finished this book a few days ago and I'm trying to formulate my feelings about it.  I loved it in places, hated it in others, and for the first time, was glad that I took that Chinese Literature course a few years ago.  Yet I can't seem to discern how I feel about how it all came together in the end--or even if it did.  Perhaps a little further study of Chinese literature, mythology, folklore, or historic spiritual teaching would help.  Perhaps my perspective is too westernized to fully appreciate the tale.  I don't know.  I feel like I can recommend it, but I don't feel like I can say I actually liked it.  Does that make sense?

It might be awhile before I get to reviewing another book.  I'm tackling the translations of The Illiad and The Odyssey along with a few other (shorter) works that I'll be using in teaching an English curriculum to a couple of home-schooled students this fall.  Is it horrible that I've only read abridged prose editions of Homer's works?  This will be my first time reading the poetic version in its entirety, though I have read dozens of pages' worth of excerpts.  

Just Read :: Till We Have Faces: A Myth Retold, by CS Lewis

I just ended a three year period in which I read nothing by CS Lewis.  This had several causes, but the primary one was a professor at my first college who was, in his own words, a renowned CS Lewis scholar.  Everything in his classroom somehow came back to Lewis.  Everything.  He even managed this in our American multi-ethnic literature course while reading Maya Angelou, Toni Morrison, Sandra Cisneros, and Amy Tan.

I'm glad I picked this book up from its lingering place on my old bookshelf at my parents' house.

Till We Have Faces is a retelling of the myth of  Cupid and Psyche.  The tale comes from the perspective of one of the Pysche's half-sisters, given the name Orual.  She is ugly, lonely, and loves Psyche as her own child.  I won't go into the plot, but I'll tell you that it's unexpected.  It grows a little forced in a few places, but generally works itself back into a natural flow.

Orual is a character that can (and probably will) be both pitied and censured.  Her life is full of sorrow.  She is motherless and her father is tyrannical.  Her only comfort is her friendship with her Greek tutor, called the Fox for his reddish-hued hair and beard, and her half-sister, Istra (also called Psyche).  Her father's kingdom, Glome, falls on hard times and an offering must be made to appease Ungit (the name given to Aphrodite).  Psyche is this offering.  The next part of the story follows just like the myth, with one notable change--Orual is not jealous of Psyche, but rather jealous for her.  She wants her sister back home, to belong to her again.  Instead, they are separated, and Orual desperately tries to possess the love of everyone she knows

It is only in the end that Orual finally confronts the ugliness in her soul--her selfishness, sense of entitlement, and the hurt she has caused others through a possessive, destructive sort of love--and is able to see her sister again.  After confronting and casting out the ugliness in her soul, she becomes as beautiful as Psyche, even though her features do not change.  The only tragedy that remains in the last few pages of the novel is that Orual became beautiful only in her last few days.

Till We Have Faces is a novel about finding one's identity--finding a face, in a sense--but it is not cliché the way self-discovery stories tend to be.  I think this was a good return to an author who was a favorite during childhood, and I'm glad I didn't let my overzealous professor turn me away from CS Lewis' works for good.

Just Read :: The Elegance of the Hedgehog, by Muriel Barbery

I suppose I'm late to the party in celebrating The Elegance of the Hedgehog (it's been published in English for three years now).  I first heard about it on The English Muse (one of my favorite places to look for a good book) and I've been meaning to read it ever since I first came across a copy at Joseph-Beth in Lexington.  Yet in spite of my serious love for books, I have a hard time spending fifteen dollars on a paperback, even one that's as sweetly put together as this one.  So I was a bit delighted to find a copy at the library last week, and I am happy to say that the novel did not disappoint.  Its format is not too terribly innovative, but it effectively creates a narrative with just enough change and movement to engage the reader, even though the novel contains only a few actual events.  It's character driven, like nearly everything I read, and the best word I can think of to capture the emotion of the entire tale is calm.  There is little in the way of events, as I've noted, and even the twist that comes at the end is surprisingly relaxed.  That said, I was a bit shocked, yet I can't imagine that the novel could have ended any other way and still been so terribly effective.

I'll spare you a reiteration of the plot, since you can find it here.  But I will tell you what captured my attention.  Firstly, Renée, one of the two narrator-protagonists, is terrific.  Her quick diagnosis of the ways that an additional comma can be either disastrous or disarming will charm the heart of anyone who is nutty for grammar.  Her calm but nonetheless passionate love for Anna Karenina and the works of Tolstoy--she has a cat named Leo--brings back the memories I have of reading through that novel (a story I will absolutely have to write sometime, because it's terribly funny).

But Paloma, the other narrator-protagonist, is hardly less lovable.  She is twelve and aware of the frustration and bother of growing up in a way that is rather advanced for her age (how often does a twenty-something find that they empathize quite thoroughly with a twelve-year-old?*).  Determined not to end up a half-human whose life is dictated by social mores and impossible personal expectations, she resigns herself to death on her thirteenth birthday and observes the world as if she will only be in it a short time.  Of course, she is not entirely serious in her intent to die, but she is quite serious and adept in her observations of her small world, and she will charm you, I promise.

I just finished the book an hour ago and I was itching to write about it immediately--it's one of those sorts of books that leaves you feeling full of creativity and makes you want to hunt for beauty.  I also think it expertly communicated an understanding--or as close as you can get, anyway--of the sublime that my literary theory professor used to try to explain to no avail (but then, he was just as obsessed with psychoanalysis as Paloma's mother, and perhaps that was his fault).  In Paloma's words, you can see and understand its essence, as I understand it: "...beauty consists of its own passing, just as we reach for it.  It's the ephemeral configuration of things in the moment, when you can see both their beauty and their death" (272).

It's haunting, is it not, to think that the greatest beauty exists in that moment that it is passing, but could it be as beautiful if we could always capture it?  I would say no, but that does not mean that life cannot have beauty and lots of it.  It just means that we must love it every time it comes and create it when we can, because death, trouble, and ugliness try to stamp it out, and we must continually search for and recreate it so that beauty endures.

Have you read anything great lately?

*I feel I should add that I empathize with the frustration she has with growing up and her deep wish to avoid a half-life, not her mildly obnoxious family members or her (slightly juvenile and definitely not serious) desire to die before facing adulthood.

um.

I don't know how to start saying this, but here goes: the majority of books I've read in the past few weeks have had Oprah's book club stickers on the front.

I didn't do it on purpose.  It just happened.  I haven't decided how I feel about it, either.  I mean, I'm basically indifferent when it comes to Oprah (though I thought she was fantastic in Beloved), but I feel a little weird about this, like I've sold out on great literature in favor of what's popular.  If that were true, though, wouldn't I be indulging on cheap romance novels instead of thought-provoking, artful works?

I'm going to just say that it's because Oprah's team of book selectors must be thoughtful folks who look for books that bridge the gap between intelligent/scholarly and approachable, and clearly I have excellent taste as well.

Right?

Hey, they were good books!

just read :: The Age of Innocence, by Edith Wharton

I can't believe no one told me to read Wharton before my dear friend Shelby recommended The Age of Innocence a month ago.  Not only is it a moving portrait of unspoken and thus unrequited love, as well as a troubling impression of an entire era, but it is superbly readable.  Of course, it's a little slow in the way all character-driven novels are; however, for me, this was not an issue in readability.  I'll acknowledge that not very much actually happens, which is of course part of the point of the novel.  Its protagonist mourns over the lack of happenings in his life.  He aches for adventure and interest but cannot let go of the mores of his time and social standing.

Newland Archer is at times sympathetic (how he aches for Ellen!) and at times impossible to stand (why does he not break with convention?).  We never know the full story from any character, but we get the most information from him.  I wonder how the dynamic of the novel would change if May's or Ellen's perspective--or even Catherine Mingott's--was given to us instead.  However, since the story is told primarily from the perspective of a man discontented with his life, it lends an interesting perspective on the female role in late 1800s New York society (society meaning the upper-upper-upper crust).  Early in the novel, Newland claims, in a heady rush of emotion, that women should have the same freedoms of men.  However, he discovers quickly that the society he lives in not only prevents women from gaining freedom, but actually (and disturbingly) trains them out of desiring it, as seen in the case of his wife, May.  He is deeply in love with Ellen Olenska, I think, because she has the desire for freedom, and sees the sham that society really is.  Because we see the plight of women through his eyes, rather than through the eyes of any of the female characters, I feel that we see the great interplay of various individual roles in any formal society, not just those of gender.  Of course, I have no idea if this was the reason Wharton chose to narrate through the male perspective, or if there were other factors at play, but this is what strikes me as a strength of the point of view.

This novel is both stirring and thought-provoking in the way all classics are, taking what could be only a period piece and connecting it to a general human experience--the difficulty we trod through when our role amongst and connection to others conflicts with our hearts' desires.

If you're looking for a novel that you can feel intellectual reading (it is a classic!) and still find the reading enjoyable, rather than tough work, this is an excellent choice, but be forewarned: you won't find a happy ending.  It's not a tragedy, but it's not happy.  Still, Wharton writes with beguiling eloquence and some occasional poetic turns of prose, and you will find the novel beautiful, and I haven't even told you about the splendid descriptions of the scenery.

available for purchase here

Just Read :: No Man's Land, by Duong Thu Huong

This book is challenging.  It's sad and it's hard.  But it is incredible.
The setting is Vietnam, a few years after the withdrawal of US troops.  Mien is the wife of Hoan, a wealthy merchant; they have a son.  Fourteen years earlier, she was married to Bon, a soldier believed dead.  Within a few pages, all filled with imagery of a living, breathing, storming jungle, Bon returns to their small hamlet, surprising everyone by simply living.  Out of duty, Mien returns to him.  The novel tells the next year of their lives--Mien, playing the dutiful wife while deeply missing Hoan, who she loves; Bon, desperately trying to reassert his role as a husband while running out of money and health; and Hoan, trying to make a life without the woman he loves deeply.

Huong's imagery is among the most sensory I've ever encountered.  The world she details comes to life around you as you read.  In a single page, sometimes even a single sentence, the hot, damp, and often sensual landscape feels like it surrounds you.  Every character is enigmatic; we cannot cast our own stock associations onto anyone.  A reviewer noted that the greatest trait of the novel is the way Huong makes it difficult, if not impossible, to take sides.  No one can win entirely.  We just have to hope for the best possible outcome--which I believe comes with the end of the novel.  I can't tell you what that is, not only because it would be a spoiler, but because it won't make sense.

I found it hard to believe how well I could sympathize with the characters, even though my modern western world is in an entirely different time and place from theirs.  Huong gives a full personality to every character, except, perhaps, Mien.  We know the least about Mien's emotion and experience at the end of the novel, and I think this is intentional.  Mien ends up being "no man's land," always caught between the two men that love her and caught between duty and her heart.  She must become her own, rather than someone else's.  When the story closes, I believe she achieves this.

This is a hard book to read, not because of its difficulty or because it's a translated work (Nina Mcpherson's translation is readable and beautiful, as I've noted), but because the story is so sorrowful for so long.  You ache for the characters to figure out a way to be happy again, yet for four hundred and some odd pages, it feels like nothing will change.  Still, somehow, the end is life-affirming and the novel feels beautiful.  Duong doesn't give us a lot of hope--her life and her place in her home country as a political prisoner and human rights advocate don't lend themselves to a happy outlook--but she does give us a little, just enough to make one feel that even if we feel our lives just drift along, they can and do drift towards something good, towards possibilities for good.

You can purchase this novel here, but I should note that a good portion of this book is extremely sensual and some of the content is mature.  It's not gratuitous, though, which is why I found this novel so impressive.

Just Read :: I Capture the Castle, by Dodie Smith

Cassandra Mortmain and her family live in a house built onto a crumbling castle sometime between the world wars.  She lives with her elder sister, Rose, her younger brother, Thomas, her father, her stepmother, Topaz, and the son of their deceased housekeeper, Stephen. Her father once wrote a greatly acclaimed book that inspired scholarship, but has not written since a mildly humorous incident more than ten years before the narration begins.  He has also been distinctly antisocial since their mother died, save for a few months, in which he met and married Topaz.  The Mortmains are almost entirely out of money when the novel opens and without the means to begin earning any.  The girls are not skilled in any kind of service and Thomas is too young to leave school.  Stephen is able to provide some income, but the family is still in dire financial circumstances.  Their luck begins to change when the Cottons arrive in town to lay claim to their family property, which includes the castle the Mortmains lease.  A friendship develops between the Cotton family and the Mortmain family, and eventually results in an engagement.
Cassandra narrates the entire novel with a wittiness that becomes well-tuned as the story develops.  She is thoroughly an optimist, even when she navigates the dreadfulness of unrequited love.  She attempts to "capture" the people and experiences in her life through writing, and her skill grows stronger as the novel continues.  The story is part coming of age, part journal, part an artist's journey, and entirely enjoyable.  The plot is character driven and will bore you if you're looking for a lot of action, but make you smile if you are not.

I know I recommend every book I post here, but I really adore this one.  Cassandra reminds me so much of myself in her interests and her tendency to go a little against the grain without ever being rebellious.  If you were ever a book-loving, dream-prone, thoughtful teen, you too will sympathize with her.  I smiled my way through this entire book.  Give it a read and I think you will, too.

It's available for purchase here.

Just Read :: Hanna's Daughters, by Marianne Fredriksson

I should preface this review by noting that I'm a sucker for a good mother-daughter or intergenerational female relationship story.  Maybe it's because I come from a family where the women outnumber the men, or because my mom's family is close, both relationally and geographically.  I'm sure there's a psychological reason at play here, but I don't really care what it is.  I like mother-daughter stories, and Hanna's Daughters is no exception.

Marianne Fredriksson's novel is framed by Anna, the daughter of Johanna and granddaughter of Hanna.  Anna narrates a visit to her mother, who is in end-stage dementia and lives in a nursing home.  Anna spends the night at her parents' home, caring for her elderly father, and begins to look through old photographs late in the night.  She sees a photo of Hanna, and remembers the grandmother she knew but never understood.  The next portion of the novel tells Hanna's story, followed by a little narration from Anna, then Johanna's story, and finally Anna's story up until the point at which the novel opened.  Though the stories overlap, they are told independently of each other.

The novel is set in Sweden, with Hannah's story in the late 1800s, Johanna's in the early to mid 1900s, and Anna's narration sometime in the late twentieth century.  The women's lives intersect with border disputes between Sweden and Norway, the world wars, and the advent of the modern age.  Hanna retains her rural upbringing, superstitions and all, all the way to her death sometime in her nineties.  Johanna is politically involved, fighting for socialist democratic reform, and is thoroughly accustomed to the city.  Anna is able to remain in school, unlike her mother or grandmother, and teaches and writes.  Each woman struggles through relationships with husbands and sons, fighting to keep the good in their men alive and strong.  They are each betrayed and beloved by their men at different points.  As we follow the narrative, making discoveries about this family history, we are able to see what Anna, Johanna, and Hanna cannot--that they are all inseparably linked and startlingly similar.  What separates them is not so much their personalities but their upbringings in completely different settings.

The novel's only shortcoming, in my opinion, was an occasional confusion of the sequence of events and the narrative voice.  Perhaps this was intentional on Fredriksson's part, or perhaps the translation is at fault; I'm not sure.  A map of Sweden and the towns in which the novel is set, as well as a family tree, would have been helpful.  Ultimately, though, the story arcs through beautifully, and the framework of Anna's narration, in spite of being a literary structure common to the point of being cliche, works, because Anna is not just a narrator, but a character that we get to know and even love.

What's the verdict?  This book is a really good read.  I also enjoyed reading more about Swedish history and getting to know a bit more about a part of the world with which I'm not very familiar.  It's interesting, isn't it, that I can live in a completely different part of the world from these characters and even the author, yet still connect so much to the characters.  That, to me, exemplifies the strength of the writing and of the story.  If you read it, I think you'll feel the same way.

Hanna's Daughters is available for purchase here.

Just Read :: Julie and Julia, by Julie Powell

You'll get hungry (a year of French cooking includes desserts).  You'll get a little nauseous (deboning is not for the fainthearted).  You'll laugh out loud.  If you're a Republican, you'll probably get at least a little offended (but that's all I'm saying about her politics, and I'm not even approaching mine).  If you're a Democrat, you might still get offended.  Julie and Julia is not for the easily offended, but somehow it's a bestseller.  I guess I got into the trend late, but that's really just because I'm rather cheap about buying books (in spite of how much I love them) and it's only recently been marked down below ten dollars.

Julie and Julia is built on a paradoxical tenet: one year's worth of gourmet food is prepared in a kitchen in a cheap loft apartment in Long Island City by an untrained cook (who happens to be incredibly skilled in cooking).  They eat Domino's pizza when the meals go awry.  Julie Powell loves and hates the meals she creates.  Her metaphors are humorous and at times scandalous, and the connotations of every meal are discussed, mulled over, and often become remarkably amusing.

This is no great literary breakthrough, I realize, and a bit more chick lit than I usually go for, but it was entirely fun to read.  Besides, after three years as an English major and before six to eight years as a graduate English graduate student, I think a fun read is entirely permissible.

Available for purchase here.

Just Read :: Joy in the Morning, by Betty Smith

{I love the cover, don't you?}

Betty Smith is better known for A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, a book I read and loved in high school, but last week, I came across Joy in the Morning.  Her female protagonists--both Francie Nolan and Annie McGrairy Brown--are voracious readers.  It's hard to ignore the similarities between Francie and Annie, who both educate themselves beyond their underprivileged backgrounds through books; however, while these characters are similar, their stories are told at entirely separate times.  While A Tree Grows in Brooklyn traces Francie through her teen years, Joy in the Morning introduces Annie on her wedding day, just four days past her eighteenth birthday, in September of 1927.

The narrative follows Annie and Carl through a difficult first year of marriage.  They have no money, Annie has no education past eighth grade, Carl is two years from graduating with a law degree, and they are both in the midwest, far from their semi-dysfunctional families in Brooklyn.  The majority of the novel is told in short episodes (usually just the narration of a day and a night, or occasionally several days at a time) in which Annie and Carl encounter some sort of trial, such as a shortage of money for food, and then find some sort of delivery, like when Carl is offered rent-free living in exchange for maintenance and they can use their money for food.

I enjoyed this book for several reasons, but in particular, I loved that it is a story of a young marriage succeeding in spite of all the difficulties life can create.  As a pretty young (twenty-two) newlywed, who was crazy enough to marry before her husband finished college (and before she graduated), I'm always grateful to find novels--outside the romance genre, which I don't read--that are, well, pro-marriage, for lack of a better phrase.  A lot of things I read are full of turbulent relationships, difficult marriages, and an occasional dose of unrequited love, so it's refreshing to read something different, particularly from a strong female author.  

I do wonder what happened next; the novel closes in 1929, and I believe we all know what happened that year.  Furthermore, much of the novel reflects Smith's own life.  She, too, did not finish high school as a teen, married a law student, and moved to the midwest with him, where they lived until their divorce in 1938.  However, since Joy in the Morning was written in 1963, twenty-five years after she remarried, I can't help but think that she is still optimistic about Annie and Carl's future when the novel draws to a close.  The tone is too hopeful and too happy to think otherwise, and the newlyweds have fought through difficulties and reaffirmed their love thoroughly enough to believe that the best is actually yet to come.

I will say that this novel is not incredibly innovative, nor is its prose particularly remarkable, but because Smith's narrative focus is almost entirely shaped by Annie's perspective, the novel is wonderfully sweet.  Annie is the epitome of endearing, and because we see almost everything through her eyes, despite the third person perspective, we have to hope with her, and laugh, and even get a little choked up with her.  This is a quick and easy read, so if you're looking for something sweet, romantic, and still clearly honest, it's a good choice.  It's also old enough that you can probably pick up a used copy like mine for about two dollars.  Inexpensive and enjoyable reads are one of the best things in life--at least for me!

If you can't find a copy at your local bookstore, you can order it here.

Just Read :: Never Let Me Go, by Kazuo Ishiguro

Never Let Me Go is my first experience with Kazuo Ishiguro's gifted prose.  His language has an intelligent and occasionally elegiac sort of conversational tone, as if Kathy H was sitting across from you, with an infinite source of memories and the time to tell and connect them.  From the start, I felt as if I had to question her reliability, for she is already defending herself from the first page.  "I'm not trying to boast," she tells us, and she informs us that "I'm not making any big claims for myself" just a few sentences later.  For the rest of the novel, however, only her viewpoint is shared, which kindles a question in my mind--is her perception of the events of her life accurate, or is it shaded by what she wants to make of it?

This question, in turn, shaded my reading of the rest of the novel, and yet kept me enchanted.  Kathy H does not often describe her emotions, but rather her reactions.  Everything feels hushed, covered up, and I believe this is exactly what Ishiguro intended, because that is the experience of the characters.  Their lives are hushed and hidden from most of the world, and the outside world is hidden from and hushed for them.  People would like to forget that they exist.  Even the people who fight to improve their lives--at least for a little while--want to hide and live quietly in the end, unable to face the reality of who Kathy, Ruth, Tommy, and the other children from Hailsham really are.  

I'm intentionally obscuring the plot because I feel this is a novel you have to read for yourself.  I still haven't decided what I think, honestly.  I don't know if I can sympathize with anyone--Kathy, Ruth, Tommy, Madame, or any of the teachers.  I wonder if Ishiguro meant for Miss Lucy to be the one good teacher, who loved the students fully for who they were, or if Miss Emily and Madame are the ones that actually love the students, and Miss Lucy is a bit of a wolf in sheep's clothing.  Is Miss Lucy better than the other teachers because she confronts the truth and lets the children know their future, or is it better that Miss Emily deliberately shelters them, telling them only little bits at a time, and gives them a childhood?

In the end, the most deep-seated question is simply this: are Kathy, Ruth, and Tommy real, true, full people, or are we going to imagine that they are not, so that their fate does not weigh on our hearts--and regardless of the answer to this question, we have to ask ourselves how we could ever decide what it is that makes a person.  It's a heavy question, and a heavy book, but Ishiguro executes his prose so gracefully and beautifully that every page somehow remains light.  What's the verdict? Read it.

Never Let Me Go is available for purchase through better world books here or at your local bookstore.  Please see my first just read post for my thoughts on where to buy books, and my favorite book shop in my hometown.  You can also rent the movie, but a lot of things are different, so be prepared for that.  I loved it enough to buy it, but in a different way from how I love the book.  It's worth watching for the visual appeal alone; the entire film has an ephemeral atmosphere.  Since I could never, ever tell someone to watch a movie instead of reading a book, I recommend you do both.

Just Read :: Let the Great World Spin, by Colum McCann

"Those who saw him hushed."

The novel opens with a snapshot of New York, stunned and silent at the sight of Philippe Petit walking a tightrope between the towers of the World Trade Center in 1974.  McCann then proceeds to take us through what ultimately feels a heady race through the lives of characters whose fates will all cross before the close of the novel.  Ciaran narrates the story of his borther, John Corrigan, a Jesuit priest, struggling with his faith and trying to give a refuge to prostitutes in the projects of the South Bronx.  Fernando Y. Marcano dreams of being a photographer but for now tags subway walls with spraypaint in places no one can see.  Claire lives on the Upper East Side, embarrassed by her wealth and grieving for her son killed in Vietnam.  Lara and Blaine are artists, married, leaving the city after a night-long drug binge for their 1920s lifestyle in upstate New York.  Gereth, Compton, Dennis, and Sam are in California, writing computer code and prank calling pay phones in New York; they hear the narration of the tightrope walk from two bystanders.

These narrations are only half the book.  It's a little dizzying, but keep reading, because it comes together, and McCann knows how to throw in a sharp phrase and terse dialogue.  In a scene set in a hospital, we read "A pair of oddly frightened eyes, looking way beyond the camera. 'And the girl?" (137).  These phrases and structures catch you and make you see the narrator's world.  McCann briefly narrates Petit's preparation and walk in between sections, imagining the strength and discipline it took to accomplish the sensational feat.

The overall reviews of Let the Great World Spin are positive.  Some challenge that he employs stock characters.  The fallen priest, the tragic woman of the street, the hipster artist, and the self-conscious socialite wife are all common figures.  But in a novel of this scope, with this great a cast, stock characters not only work, but become necessary--and a case can be made that McCann's characters are thoroughly developed enough to be much more than stock.  I can't tell you if you will love them or hate them.  I often faltered between the two myself, which is why I feel that they were real and multidimensional.  Regardless of your take on the extent of cliche characters in this novel, they will make you feel.  McCann is not afraid of grit or melodrama, and employs them both.  The language is sometimes strong, not so much in the sailor's-mouth sense, but in that it is hard and solid and occasionally grotesque.  I read this book quickly but not lightly.

McCann, along with nearly ever reviewer, acknowledges that it is impossible to read this novel without thinking of the ultimate fate of the World Trade Center nearly ten years ago (can you believe how long it's been?), and I must agree.  It doesn't cloud your thoughts constantly, perhaps, but it continually shades the narrative, which itself seems to be spinning towards imminent disaster.  What McCann does, however, is bring up a touch of life from the disasters that strike, and the narrative does not end in utter defeat, but instead reaffirms that life will keep moving, always.

Ultimately, I have to recommend it.  It makes you feel and pause.  The heady and hurried narrative and the constant crossings and additions of characters all form a living New York, 1974, and make you feel that no matter where you are, even a small town in the midsouth, the world and peoples' lives are constantly going on and perpetually intertwined.

if you are looking for the book, it can be purchased online through Better World Books here, or you can check your local library.  if you choose to purchase it in a bookstore, i recommend finding a local store and supporting them.  they can often order a book they don't have in stock for a discount.  if you are in louisville, please visit a reader's corner in st. matthews.  they are wonderful and i spend obscene amounts of money there when i have it.  usually, they can give you at least 10% off any new books, and their used copies are often less than half price.  

just read :: The Kite Runner

Over the weekend, I read the copy of The Kite Runner that I picked out for myself for Christmas.



It's sad.  It's heartbreaking.  But it's also worth reading, especially in our current America.  I'm not about to lapse into politics or discussions of the past or present wars in the middle east, by any means, but I think that reading this novel will bring a new angle of perspective on the America we live in--and the global culture that this country exists in.

Aside from that, it's an elegantly narrated story with, as Isabelle Allende commented on the cover, all the makings of a great story.  Altogether, it's a worthwhile read.