Book Fetish Making Sweet, Sweet Love to Books

Good day, wonderful person!  As a part of my job, I’ve been researching quality international literature.  This is probably the most fun thing I’ve ever been paid to do - I love it so much!  Consequently, I purchased ~200 books originally published outside of the US and Great Britain, mostly in languages other than English.  Not for me, not with my money.  I cannot even tell you the pleasure I felt as they began to arrive a few months ago.  I wanted to throw them up around me like Scrooge McDuck.  And the covers are amazing!  Really.  If you ever get the opportunity to be a book buyer, or a collections librarian, I highly recommend it.  It’s very satisfying.

So, after these books began to arrive and get processed, I read a couple of them.  I had a lot on my plate, reading-wise, so I only checked out 2, which was a helluva difficult decision.  The two I picked absolutely slayed me.

GIRLS OF RIYADH

This book is awesome.  It’s such a quick read, not because it’s light & fluffy, but because it’s so gripping and real!  The conceit of this book is that a young woman in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, has formed a yahoo group (this takes place in the early 2000s, so it makes sense) online and she sends out true stories about her group of 5 or so female friends every week, dealing with their complications in love.  She highlights the cultural, religious, & societal reasons why these women, and by extension all women in Saudi Arabia, are facing new difficulties in marrying & settling down.

Rajaa Alsanea’s characters are intensely privileged, which she acknowledges, from the Saudi upper class, but they feel like authentic people.  Alsanea argues, quite effectively, that older Saudi women are just as responsible as men, if not moreso, for the oppressive situations in which younger Saudi women are forced into.  Now, it’s still a patriarchal structure, to be sure, but the older women become the enforcers, preventing the younger women from discovering love, dressing how they please, or even going outside alone.

Even with all that, it is still a light, quick read.  I absolutely loved it.  It doesn’t look like this author has written anything else, but I wish she would.

BEIRUT BLUES

This book destroyed me.  I finished it at a coffee shop in Tallahassee, and had to run out to my car & call my boyfriend before I started crying.  I don’t want to say too much, because the unfolding of emotions is so perfect, but this book was devastating (in the best possible way).

The conceit of this novel is that it is made up of letters written by the main character, a woman, I think in her 30s, in Lebanon during the war.  Novels about war can be tedious, or sentimental, but this one steers well clear of those adjectives.

This woman loves her country so much, even when her country is broken.  It’s a part of her identity.  This is something that, as an American, I instinctively shy away from in my own life.  I don’t want to be trapped by the “american” label, I don’t want to be stuck here.  But to this woman, her country is like a mother, a lifegiver, even when it’s the stage of so much despair.  It’s a beautiful sentiment to read.

- Madame Sharkish

Molly, a middle-aged Londoner of the 50’s, asks this poignant question at many points in the narrative and it’s expressive of the absolute bewilderment of two single mothers as they struggle with the conundrums and failures of their political, personal and creative lives. From their political activism in the Communist Party to their daring social experiments with ‘feminism’, this novel is justifiably noted as one of the most defining of feminist texts.

And yet, as any age-defining novel, it’s also much much more than that. This novel is an experience in existential bewilderment. And, to be honest, I was much more struck by my emotional engagement with this text than by my intellectual engagement with its sweeping 20th century themes (Communism, Decline of Empire, WWII, Feminism etc.)

Because, like I said, this novel is above all things about existential bewilderment. At least for me.

Fearful of going mad, Anna Wulf (Part single mother, part Communist, part writer) has decided to keep four different colored notebooks to keep track of different strands of her life: political, emotional, daily life and writing life. Ultimately, it’s the fifth notebook - the Golden Notebook - that brings all the strands of her life together and -well, I can’t quite explain what it does. Perhaps the Golden Notebook is where she faces her complete inability to subdue the forces of chaos - an act that is the core and center of existential bewilderment.

And a great deal of bewildering and humbling failure happens before the Golden Notebook moment, in which a projectionist shows a film that conflates all the other notebooks narratives and in a sneering tone asks, “And what makes you think the emphasis you have put on it is correct?” She feels sick at the word “correct” and somehow, I felt incredible emotional release the moment Anna experienced this nausea. Life has asked me that question on numerous occasions and every time I have the same feeling. Sick. As Anna puts it, “It was the nausea of being under strain, of trying to expand one’s limits beyond what has been possible.”

Because at this point, I’ve followed her through 529 pages of existential bewilderment: her emotional crash from working non-stop for the Communist Party in Africa and then in Britain, a string of hapless love affairs, the attempted suicide of her best friend’s son, and the pressures of raising a child. 529 pages of relentless exposure of disappointment and failure. Of the conundrum of human existence.

And in the end, while Anna does find stability and a path forward, I’m still haunted by Molly’s trademark question:

“It’s all very odd, isn’t it?”

Signing Off,

Madame Nikita

I’ve just been reading up a storm lately, which has been fun.  That does make it a bit more difficult for me to decide which books to write about here, though.  Additionally, it makes it a bit harder for me to fit together an over-arching theme.  Here’s my best shot.

I recently read the book A Short History of Women, which  I picked up on a whim from a Borders at an extremely steep discount during it’s Going-Out-of-Business sale.  The book is essentially the story of a whole line of women, starting with a suffragette in Britain who starved herself to death for the cause.  Each chapter switches back and forth between a few of her female descendants - granddaughter, grand-niece (maybe?), great-granddaughter, great-great-granddaughter, etc.  It can’t be the first book to use this structure, but I can’t seem to recall which book.  Something famous, I’m sure. 

Anyway, the book highlights the repercussions & reverberations of the original woman’s feminist act.  One finds herself feistier and more rebellious in her old age than anyone could have imagined.  She’s getting herself arrested, putting on sporadic lectures on cruise ships, and really befuddling her family.

I don’t really want to say too much, because it truly is a short book and a quick read.  It’s also really enjoyable.

This is my Grandpa Henderson. He taught me to love a good story. And for some reason, after my brother looked into our family history, I started to have a real obsession with history’s overlooked and unrecorded. Those masses of forgotten souls whose ‘labor created our world’. To the end of indulging this obsession, the Reading Odyssey I’ve created for myself has a hell of a lot of historical fiction. But not just any historical fiction. I wanted to read authors who took the time to reconstruct the lives of those who weren’t famous, wealthy or privileged. I want history’s marginalia. I want its footnotes. I want its ghosts.

So, here are a couple novels that give voice to those anonymous poor, to those folk who created the future but didn’t get any credit for it.

Kristin Lavransdatter

This novel won the Nobel Prize. And for a damn good reason. This epic unfolding of the life of a 14th century Norwegian farmer’s daughter does exactly what a masterpiece of historical fiction should do…it’s nearly completely free of philosophical anachronism. Sigrid Undset is gifted. Bar none. She somehow manages to immerse the reader in a world that is both deeply religious and materially poor, while managing to not be irritatingly pedantic about modern values. She recreates the experience of Norway’s historical marginalia. Okay, granted, Lavrans (Kristin’s father) is a fairly wealthy landowner but he’s definitely not the grandiose monarch that would dominate popular historical consciousness. Besides, Undset’s depiction of the harsh material conditions must have been the common lot of most 14th century Norwegians. 

Fall of Giants, Ken Follett

I hate the fact that I even feel the urge to defend myself for reading a ‘commerical’ novel. Urg.

Anyways, when it comes to feeding my obsession with history’s marginalia, this novel does a damn good job. 

The scope of the novel is massive: From fomenting revolution in a Welsh mining town to WW1 to women’s suffrage, the story centers around the complex relationships of well-rendered characters. My personal favorite is the feisty Welsh maid-turned-activist Ethel. She’s my long lost sister. For real.

At any rate, at the end of the day, if you want to get a grasp of the cluster fuck that was WW1, then this novel also does a superb job in that arena.

That’s it for now. Future recommendations are up and coming….the journal of an 18th century Quaker Abolitionist….the Nobel prize winning story of a British official’s daughter running off with an Indian Prince during the height of Empire….and the quintessential feminist text that defined a generation.

Recently I read a whole spate of novels that were either recommended by, given to me by, or lent to me by my younger sister.  I love (gently!) mocking my sister, as she is a huge nerd and future cat lady (it must be said).  Unfortunately, these novels were all completely fantastic.

First I read The Angel’s Game by Carlos Ruiz Zafón.  Dude…this book is intense.  It’s rich, layered, and epically literary.  It took me awhile to read, but I couldn’t read anything else before I finished it.  It gets slightly confusing at times, and there are some supernatural themes that threaten to get a bit much at times, but overall it is thorough enjoyable and supremely fantastic.

Not too long after I finished this, I took up reading Jasper Fforde’s Thursday Next series.  Holy crap.  It was awesome.  The Thursday Next series is comprised of the following novels:

- The Eyre Affair

- Lost in a Good Book

- The Well of Lost Plots

- Something Rotten

- Thursday Next: First Among Sequels

- One of Our Thursdays is Missing

So, that’s a lot of pages to read.  Totally worth it, though. 

This is the kind of series that is really difficult to describe.  Basically, it’s an alternate universe where Britain is still engaged in the Crimean war with Russia, Wales has seceded from the UK, a giant corporation has essentially taken over England, dodos are common household pets, and there is a branch of the police devoted entirely to literature-based crimes.  I don’t want to say too much, because it can be convoluted, but I highly, highly recommend it to anyone who loves literature.  You basically can’t go wrong.  There are tons of inside jokes for the well-read.

These books basically took over my life.  That’s not a complaint.  It’s such a richly-developed world/universe, I honestly can’t comprehend how one person just dreams all that up.  I am also discovering that there is quite a bit of online fandom for this series.  Again, not complaining.  I read somewhere (maybe on the inside cover?) that these books are like “Harry Potter for Adults”, which is, I feel, a very astute observation. I am basically the exact target audience for this.

I am seriously considering going as Thursday for Halloween.  Jasper Fforde has me in his grasp.

About a month ago I read a book by incredibly famous and prolific Spanish author Javier Marías.  It’s one of those books that I would describe as ponderous, but I don’t mean that as an insult in any way.

So…what is this book about, anyway?  Not much really happens in it, but it’s fascinating.  Essentially, it’s narrated by this Spanish guy, who opens by telling us the tragic story of his father’s first wife who committed suicide after returning from her honeymoon.  His father then went on to marry her sister, the narrator’s mother.  I know that sounds like the entire plot of a book, but NO it’s just the beginning!  Doesn’t it sound action-packed?  It really isn’t, though. 

Narrator becomes a very successful translator, meets an even more successful translator, they fall in love and decide to get married.  They seem to actually have a fairly good, healthy relationship, which is kind of shocking how rare that is in quality literature.  I suppose by focusing all the dysfunction and conflict on the narrator’s father, the narrator and his wife are free to live in harmony.

Anyway, on the narrator and his wife’s honeymoon, a couple of things happen.  Narrator witnesses a scene from his balcony in Cuba and becomes drawn in to this other couple’s story.  He can’t get it out of his head, and it causes him to ruminate on his father’s wifely situation, and wonder why his mother’s sister killed herself those many years ago.  Apparently, no one knows why except for his father, and he refuses to speak on the matter.

The rest of the novel is basically an extended rumination - it’s basically a piece done by a symphony.  You’re drawn in, transfixed, as the music drifts slowly about the room.  It’s one of those books you should read over the course of an evening, drinking espresso, taking breaks to think about what it might be like to live in an apartment in Spain, walking out to your balcony and surveying the city below.

I’ve been meaning to write about this book for a couple of weeks now, but I kept getting distracted.  By my boyfriend, mostly.  He’s cute, what can I say.

A few years back I read this book, Let the Northern Lights Erase Your Name, and I loved it.  It’s weird though - I can’t really remember that much about the plot, or the dialogue, or even the characters really, but I vividly recall how I felt while reading it.  I felt like someone, maybe a slightly better version of me, had taken over my life for a moment.  The book is hauntingly beautiful; it gives off an aura while you’re reading it that sticks with you for a few days.

That cover art basically sums it up, even if I can’t really put it into words.

Anyway, Vendela Vida wrote that book.  She also wrote (with her husband Dave Eggers [I kind of resent that I always feel compelled to mention her husband when I talk about her, even though I like Dave Eggers, but it makes me feel like a bad feminist, like, what, she can’t have her own accomplishments?  Anyway, I apologize.  But she did write the movie with him!]) the fantastic film Away We Go, which I have watched countless times.  It’s my current go-to feel better movie.  I cry every time.

Really, though, what compelled me to start writing this post about Vendela Vida is that I just finished her most recently novel, The Lovers.  Dude.  I cried.  I read it in one sitting.  It’s awesome.  How did it not get nominated for anything this year?  It actually got a few pans (although Publishers Weekly is a fucking terrible publication.  They hated Icelander, too, so they can suck it).  I don’t understand it, though, because it’s incredible.  Everyone should read it.  Well, ok, everyone who likes Away We Go should read it, because it’s got that same raw connectivity, if that even makes sense.

I don’t really want to write that much about the plot, though the plot is great, it’s just that what really drew me to it is, again, the aura of the book (so to speak, I realize I sound like a hippie).  I read it in the morning, and I spent the rest of the weekend in a haze, running through it over and over again in my mind.  It’s the story of a recently-widowed 50-something woman, who decides to take a solo vacation in the same town she and her deceased husband spent their honeymoon.  But really it’s about her figuring out the rest of her life, who she can trust, deciding if she wants to connect or reconnect with anyone ever again.  I’d suspect, though we haven’t all lost someone as close as a husband, that many of us have had that desire to lock ourselves away, metaphorically, and not let anyone in anymore.

I love it.  I love it so much.  I want to read it forever.  It’s just comforting, at the end of it all.

- Madame Sharkish

So, my boyfriend and I have a sort of inside joke about the graphic novel Blankets.  Maybe joke is the wrong word.  Anyway, Blankets was a big hit, a crossover hit, even.  Somehow, for some reason, this graphic novel is constantly recommended to me.  All the time!  Like, give it a rest, everyone in the world!  I’ve read Blankets.  So has my boyfriend.  It’s fine, but we hate it.  I’m sorry, world!  Well, not really.  It’s so twee, but in a bad way.  It’s like 500 pages of banal nothingness.  First love, blah blah blah, SHUT UP.  I can’t even remember what happens, because so little happens.  It’s so self-involved.  It’s sooooooooo boring.  But this post isn’t about Blankets.  This post is about the opposite of Blankets.

It’s about Fables! 

First of all, the covers are GORGEOUS.  James Jean is the cover artist, and I’m telling you, the man is a genius.  I could star at his covers all day long.  I want them on my wall.

I mean look at that wolf!  Anyway.  Besides having the best covers ever, Fables is packed with awesome action.  The gist of it is this: all the fairy tales you’ve heard, all the legends, all the (dare I say it) fables, those are all true.  Well, the characters in them are all real, at least, and they’ve been forced to flee their world and take up residence in ours.  Those that are in human form (Cinderella, Snow White, Bluebeard, etc.) live in a colony in New York City, while those in animal/monster form (the three little pigs, the three bears, etc.) live on a giant farm upstate. 

Who doesn’t love fairy tales?  You, dear reader, almost assuredly do, or you wouldn’t be reading this blog.  The author (Bill Willingham) interweaves the stories and backgrounds masterfully.  You might think that a graphic novel based on myths would inherently fall into the trap of simply retelling the original stories, but Willingham creates something new altogether. The characters are so fleshed-out, so intriguing, I can not get enough.

Fables is still running, so I have quite a bit of catching up to do.  I’m hoping the quality holds up over the series.  These deluxe editions they’re putting out are really, really nice, but they’re only up to Book 2, which is like 4 volumes total.  That is just not enough volumes.  Next up, I’m going to try to get my hands on one of the one-off stories, 1001 Nights of Snowfall.  It has the same characters, but is sort of a side story.

How can you not want to read that?

- Madame Sharkish

“And I will eat you…..And I will eat you…..And I will eat you.”

 from The Path soundtrack.

Live Art?

A short horror game?

A 2D literary experience?

Surreal psychological experience that taps into modern archetypes?

An allegory about growing up?

All of the above, ladies and gents.  This game is an absolute work of art; it’s a psychological mystery game that will hook you emotionally and visually. Of course, you may be asking why I’m doing a video game review on a book blog. Totally reasonable.  The answer is that this game is a superb piece of storytelling and demands review space - largely because it is a novel-esque experience.

The circular tale begins with six sisters in an apartment:

You choose one, the sister’s journey inaugurated by haunting female vocals and the sound of a door closing.  The sisters are all of varying ages and their activities suggest differing personalities as well. 

And each one has a different wolf they must encounter in the woods.

Once you choose, the scene shifts to the title credits accompanied by the evocative echoing female vocals that will continue to enhance the mysterious atmosphere of the game.  The sister then walks onto the path with the instructions: “Go to Grandma’s house and stay on the path.” The fateful irony, of course, is that to do so is ultimately a failure and in order to play the game you MUST stray from the path:

Then prepare for your alpha brain waves to take over and to be lost in a dream state in which the lush dark forest becomes a surreal experience in modern archetypes.  As you run through the woods, you encounter mundane objects - a rusty car, a television, a swing set etc - and each object ‘unlocks’ a room in grandma’s house.  Your goal is to find all the objects…

And then to encounter your wolf. And for each sister, the wolf comes in a different form, sometimes deeply disturbing, sometimes magically quotidian.  Once she encounters the wolf, the scene shifts and the sister is lying in front of Grandma’s quaint cottage.  Shivering and cold in the pouring rain, the sister slowly makes her way to the front door.  But what you encounter once inside is definitely not lace, knitted sweaters and sweets.

Honestly, you’ll just have to play to know what awaits each sister in Grandma’s ultra-surreal cottage.

Here’s the game trailer.  

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3G0DEoicnFM