"Every Letter Was a Love Letter"

It’s hard for him to do wrong.

I speak of Jeffrey Eugenides, celebrated author of formative Virgin Suicides and Middlesex, two novels so distinctly unique and tone and approach that it seems uncanny they were written by the same person.

But, even in assessing those two tomes it’s obvious they were written by Eugenides, if for anything, that he is a master of language.

I read the aforementioned years and years ago, and while they left an impression, whatever it was dissipated because I didn’t sink myself into the novel. I didn’t block out the stimuli and distraction and pressures of everyday living just to be one with the character. Thankfully, somehow with the author’s latest (and greatest) The Marriage Plot, I was able to do just that.

It was a spectacular book.

Now, I will gush over the greatness of the characterization and subtle cultural call-backs, but first I want to focus on something I usually don’t: the plot.

How appropriate that the plot is emblazoned in the book’s title. I consider myself lucky in knowing nothing of the book when I picked it up. I knew I liked Eugenides and that the namesake was sexy, but wasn’t prepared for a simple, yet relevant subtext within the novel. Basically what our fearless writer has done, to some extent, is take your average Joe, run of the mill Victorian plight and posited it into a modern day novel. It is a telling of the Marriage Plot, through the lens of our flawed female lead, Madeline; a waspish high-brow academician coming of collegiate age in the culturally revolt 80’s.

Madeline isn’t instantly likeable, and I’d argue she’s not all that likeable at all. The story weaves a tale between her relationships with two binary suitors, Leonard (a manic-depressive genius hell-bent on destroying himself) and Mitchell (a Midwestern zen chaser who plays according to rules). While it conveys a tone similar to that of a damsel in distress, I’d argue that’s the beauty of the novel. Madeline, for all her attempts to subvert the context, has riddled herself into her own Victorian marriage plot. It isn’t until a slightly deflated, albeit lovely ending that we understand the true value of a dénouement.

The story straddles itself on the narrative powers of Madeline mostly, but also glimpses into the inner thoughts of Mitchell and Leonard, who inexplicably find themselves all ensconced in similar plights. The tragedies feel real. The pain understandable. The entire book has a sad, pompous air, similar to those of Victorian sagas. You want to root for the characters, but also wouldn’t mind their repentence. It’s just the right amount of emotional turmoil to keep those pages moving.

I don’t know if this is Eugenides take on Jungian meta-narratives. That’s to say, if he believes there is really only one story told time and again in altered ways, or not. Perhaps not. I think instead he found himself crafting a world of three young college graduates who had to figure things out. And found that that’s not much different now, than it was in days of old.

“It took courage to let things fall apart so beautifully.”

It certainly did. 4/4 Hula Hoops. A real luau!

As with a wound on one's own body, it is possible to develop an intimacy with the most disturbing of things

“It's surprising how much of memory is built around things unnoticed at the time” - Barbara Kingsolver.

I jumpstart with this quote because I'd like to examine the inverse of. That is, the malleability of memory, and no one explores it better than Kazuo Ishiguro.

Literary king that he is, I'd recently read his latest pyschological tear-inducer, "Never Let Me Go" and found it hard to think of anything else for weeks following. I was so impressed by Ishiguro's slow, rhymthic style, coupled with intense, surging personal conflict that's enough to really rile up the most docile of book clubs. There is something so telling about what he omits, or... forgets. It stings. You feel personally admonished. Such a swell of emotions was exactly what I wanted and I am forever Ishiguro-san's dearest fan.

Therefore, when at a book store a couple months' back I noticed "A Pale View of Hills" in the bargain bin. I knew nothing of this book except that it was his first and seemingly took place in Japan. I picked it up for a few bucks and left it on my bookshelf for another few weeks.

I picked it up at a time when I wanted to be still. I assumed the book would take some time. That it would have the slow, self-deprecating tone of Japanese genius and that I could savor each word in paced contemplation.

That did and did not happen. The book reads fast.

So fast that I read it in a day. Truth be told, I called in sick to work the next morning because I stayed up all night to finish it. It was really that good.

The story is set in post-war Nagasaki, after a bomb ravaged east coast Japan struggles with its own identity. Our main character, Etsuko, posits herself in real-time, as a mother in England with a proud, stubborn daughter and seemingly nothing else. It's quickly discovered that Estuko lost a daughter, Keiko, to suicide. Her reasons for, and even an exploration into who she is as a person, is lost to the reader. Etsuko is soon flooded with memories that she prefaces as being slightly unreliable. Etsuko then retreats to tell a narrative of her time as a young wife in Nagasaki sometime after the city was destroyed by atomic bomb.

Her recall is weak in hardened details but strong in emotional duress. She references loss (everywhere), showcases hope and forward thinking (under the guise of the noodle shop owner), and recalls with tenderness the man who took her in after she lost all of her family (Ogata-san).

Her memories don't allow for much sympathy, nor are they of a happy variety. Instead, Etsuko dedicates her life to living, almost in survival mode, where it seems no one will allow her to grieve. The shop keeper and Ogata-san remind her of her good fortune, and her husband, Jiro, enslaves her and his lack of love reduces their intimacy to the rubble that once surrounded them. Perhaps as an escape mechanism, Etsuko forms a bizarre and somewhat forced friendship with Sachiko, a brazen single mother to a lost child, Mariko. Etsuko worries for the little girl who skips school, doesn't respect her elders and wanders around with a lost and angry affect.

Sachiko and Etsuko somehow form a friendship, although the two women seem very self-serving in their engagement in the friendship. Sachiko bullies and coaxes Etsuko to pry into her personal life, at times behooving her ask embarrassing questions. Etsuko, in turn, seems disinterested in discovering the truth about Sachiko and instead filters all of her energy into Sachiko's daughter, who spends most her days and nights alone, while Sachiko works at the noodle shop and "entertain's" her American boyfriend.

There are so many subtle nuances to this story, that to disect them all would be to write forever. So I will focus mainly on my interpretation of the book, which many disagree with and which Ishiguro himself as deemed a "moot point". But because the book resonated so well with me, this is how I see it:

The book is about nothing more than memory and our interpretation thereof. Sachiko is not a person in Etsuko's life, but a distorted, "new" memory of herself. As such, Sachiko is Etsuko. Mariko (Sachiko's lost daughter) is Keiko. Here's how this works out:

Etsuko recalls these memories at a time when some responsibility and memory of her deceased daughter, Keiko is called to light. It's my belief that Etsuko conjures up a false memory of Sachiko in punishment and to recall her sins. It may be that Etsuko couldn't deconstruct the ways in which she destroyed her own daughter. She is filled with immense guilt, especially when she admits to her living daughter, the one with an "American" name, "I knew moving here would be hard for her. But I did it anyway."

She is basically copping to her own daughter's death. If you really look at the book, Sachiko is so ethereal. There is no rationale for who she is, where she came from, why she left or when if she was. Sachiko's cousin is an excellent projection of Ogata-san. Sachiko had to leave, despite the tenderness from that part of the family. If you look at the two there are so many overlapping similiarities it stands to reason that they are one of the same. Especially when Etsuko recalls, near the close of the book, her one nice memory with Keiko, on the hills. The only other reference to hills was with Mariko, up top, the day that she climbed the tree and seemed, at least marginally, at peace.

Irregardless of what Ishiguro intended, the potentcy of the memories and their hazy status, thereof, begs to be examined. Ishiguro did a stand-up job calling to question memory, who it really belongs to and how quickly it may be re-shaped. It's a lifelong struggle for all that he encapsulated in this, his beautiful first work.

None of my pets know their own names, what kind of person am I?

Page 32 reads, in its entirety: "Please marry me."

"Anyone who believes that a second is faster than a decade did not live my life."

And so I start my review to gush over the greatness that is "Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close", the latest gift given us from the notable author Jonathan Safran Foer. I was wary of this read because it's conflict is concerned with the September 11th catastrophie, but Foer weaves the event (what could be so easily overdone and dramatized) subtely, so that at times we, the reader, are so concerned with the current conflict (real time, New York, and our narrarator- the young and unforgettable Oskar) that we aren't overwhelmed with a sense of pity, or dramatic irony, or blatant patriotism or political unrest over the events of 9-11.

"And also, there are so many times when you need to make a quick escape, but humans don't have their own wings, or not yet, anyway, so what about a birdseed shirt?"

The story isn't a convenient coming of age. It isn't a mere acceptance of death. It is an observation of the living. Foer introduces a great many characters in this novel. At first it seems too many to mention, but Oskar's organization, his sense of priority make convenient our characters. I've never read so strong a character before and I found myself taking on the characteristics of young Oskar at any and all times. He is developed to an exhausting degree. This works in context because Foer feeds us bits of characters, seemingly prominent that we yearn to know more of. Only do we fully understand them through Oskar. He is the middle of the venn diagram. Foer takes great risk in developing him as such an essential and dominant character. Thankfully, Foer is maybe one of the best writer's of our day and produces a character we, the reader feel so attached to, that if he weren't the cornerstone of the novel in every sentence and nearly every word, we'd feel cheated and abandonned and let down.

Foer takes liberties in his novelization. He integrates pictures and edited text. I've never been a fan of mixed media in literature. I feel as though the words should hold their own, but Foer establishes a format unlike any I've yet read. Dave Eggers is the closest I've come to actively incorporating variant media in a novel- but Foer does so through the care and concern of his narrarator. Without these added pictures or edited pages (circled with red pen) I wouldn't have such an understanding of Oskar. And while it worked, I'm certain that anymore would have spoiled the text. It seems Foer has a good understanding of when he's outdone himself, as at the end of the read Oskar was becmoing slightly irritating.

"When I was your age, my grandfather bought me a ruby bracelet. It was too big for me and would slide up and down my arm. It was almost a necklace. He later told me that he had asked the jeweler to make it that way. Its size was supposed to be a symbol of his love. More rubies, more love. But I could not wear it comfortably. I could not wear it at all. So here is the point of everything I have been trying to say. If I were to give a bracelet to you, I would measure your wrist twice."

Regardless, this book supplied some of the greatest quotable lines of all time, and I'd argue one of the best methods of characterization I've yet read.

"In bed that night I invented a special drain that would be underneath every pillow in New York, and would connect to the reservoir. Whenever people cried themselves to sleep, the tears would all go to the same place, and in the morning the weatherman could report if the water level of the reservoir of Tears had gone up or down, and you could know if New York was in heavy boots. And when something really terrible happened- like a nuclear bomb, or at least a biological weapons attack- an extremely loud siren would go off, telling everyone to get to Central Park to put sandbags around the reservoir."

4 of 4 Hula hoops. It's a dance party around here.

"What does a woman think about while she attaches a button?"

"I did not bathe or shave or brush my teeth, because love taught me too late that you groom yourself for someone, you dress and perfume yourself for someone, and I'd never had anyone to do that for."

Filthy in the most beautiful sense of the word. "Memories of My Melancholy Whores" is Gabriel Garcia Marquez's debut novel in over a decade of selfish hibernation. I've never felt more privileged to have read a story in all my years of reading. Marquez's words are like an invite. He draws in the reader in such a way as to suggest that the story is a product of the reader's own making, that that Marquez is just a guide in our own fight for self discovery.

In this modern day Lollita (although to call it that, or even make so absurd a suggestion is to do it a great injustice) Marquez crafts our narrarator, a ninety year old writer who lives with the health and effectiveness of a 7o year old. However, it isn't until he falls in love for the first time that he begins to exhibit the vivaciousness and restored agility of said 70 year old. He finds love in one Delgadina, who he prefers to speak silently, and in this we see age as something other than the sum of time. Marquez doesn't fall prey to convenient recollection or remorse or regret. He also doesn't herald old age as a glass half full proposition. Instead he narrates life for what it is. Here. Now. This moment in June. Our character dances blindly and gropes cowardly. I feel throughout everything that Marquez simply allows the character to be instead of basing the character in bias. In the end the reader is unsure of the outcome but certain of the income. The prose is so perfectly positioned. With sparse dialogue, and enriching self reflection on the part of the narrarator, Marquez dazzles the reader with his delicate diction and assured prose.

"I always had understood that dying of love was mere poetic license. That afternoon, back home again without the cat and without her, I proved that it was not only possible but that I myself, an old man without anyone, was dying of love. But I also realized that the contrary was true as well: I would not have traded the delights of my suffering for anything in the world. I had spent more than fifteen years trying to translate the poems of Leopardi, and only on that afternoon did I have a profound sense of them: Ah, me, if this is love, then how it torments."

This novel restored my belief in love.

4 out of 4 Hula hoops. I'm dizzy from all the ecstatic spinning.

There is something demoralizing about watching two people get more and more crazy about each other, especially when you're the only person in the room

It's far too easy to suggest that a good book is something to come home to. That the characters of this cleverly crafted piece, now family, illicit the raw emotion and like minded comfort that home breeds. I've scoffed at the notion, and still I've found myself cradling Francie Nolan, trudging through the snow banked army camp with Joe Kavelier, and begging Beloved to stay. There is a militia of books I've re-read, and too many that prompt silent stuper. They are the reason for reading, as if the writer had included an afterword, in invisible ink, that said, "I know..."

But good literature should do just that. It should envelope the reader so much so that we're convinced this piece was written for no one else. Or, in taking on a different tack, it should convince the reader that there is something so much more out there. It prompts introspection, choice reflection and a 'where am I going/where have I been?' freak out of the mind.

After having read a slew of good, great, wonderful books (that I sadly haven't reviewed) I thought of the reads I refer to as my most favorite. The Bell Jar immediately came to mind, and while I hadn't read it in a good five years I became obsessed with its opening line.
How the hell did that book open?
And because I'd lost a good lot of my library in my many moves I had to run out to the Borders and find out.

"It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenburgs, and I didn't know what I was doing in New York. I'm stupid about executions. The idea of being electrocuted makes me sick, and that's all there was to read about in the papers-goggle-eyed headlines staring up at me on every street corner and at the fusty, peanut-smelling mouth of every subway. It had nothing to do with me, but I couldn't help wondering what it would be like, being burned alive all along your nerves.

I thought it must be the worst thing in the world."

Hot damn! Now we're cooking with gas. The opening alone evokes the essence that is the main character Ester Greenwood. Aside from those two power packed sentences relaying the isolation, paranoia, bitterness, setting and capacity of our main character, they are also beautifully drafted lines of prose.

I've always been one for over extended, lengthy sentences when composed in such a fashion that they leave the reader gaping. I'm surprised Plath opened in this respect, as she is typically prone to more concise, rhythmic lines. That may be the beauty that is "The Bell Jar". It reads like a novel. It moves along, in chronological order with the seamlessly transitioned flashback like a novel, but its prose is so fluid, and its characters internal responses so lovely that at times I swore it was an epic poem.

"A dispassionate white sun shone at the summit of the sky. I wanted to hone myself on it till I grew saintly and thin and essential as the blade of a knife."

Surely this book isn't for everyone. Plath makes no concessions about crafting a mostly internal novel that acts as a confessional for main character Ester. It was published initially under an alias as Plath was embarrassed that it would be mocked as a serious piece of literature, however the fluid language, the engaging characters and knock me down memorible internal conflicts of our narrarator certainly station this book in a league of its own. Plath should also be noted for her mostly layered (although, at times obvious) allegories, metaphors and symbols splayed throughout the text. The obvious tie to electrocution isn't beaten to death. Ester's madness is played pragmatically, where, at times, I felt nothing but a cool, calm distance toward the character, and at others, when the Plath language deepens, an intense rush of empathy, concern and like minded insanity.

I appreciate that this isn't the story of Ester's apotheosis. The shock treatments aren't regaeled as a cure-all. Even more Plath doesn't copy the post-modern doctrine of story for story's sake or a Chekovian plot less puddle of something happened. Rather, she tells a story and allows the reader to infer its conclusion. In so doing so also allows the reader to create its introduction, and, upon 2nd, 3rd, and 4th reading, I've found that I've made Ester into something completely different upon each read. She is malleable, as a character. She may be deemed helpless. She can become a pawn or a brat or a Yellow Wallpaper'ed victim. I love that she changes with my changed scenery and Plath executes her camelion status perfectly.

I could quote almost all of this book and claim every line as my favorite, but I'll conclude with what I consider to be the most fitting sentiment to the author,
"Everything she said was like a secret voice speaking straight out of my own bones."

4 out of 4 Hula Hoops.
I could twist and turn forever with this one.

"...the sky is as blue as the ribbon on a prize-winning lamb"

This will be a great undertaking.
Prolific and fiercely prominent author Michael Chabon can keep things difficult, in that he tackles historical, contemporary, cultural and sensitive issues in his works. Thankfully, he tackles said issues in droves, so if one has read, and embarked on the Chabon experience, they may be more inclined to move forward with the read as opposed to furrowing their brow in firepissed frustration.

This reader will merely provide a snapshot synopsis of her opinion of the novel, as to dive into the finer nuiances would be to take all the days of my blog.

To begin, Chabon is a beast. He's fabulous and his writing is so assured, patented, and cooly executed that I lost sight of reading and fell into a trance of beautiful and unexpected imaginative day dream. It was through his description of his characters imagination that his fine eye for detail differeniciated him from his fellow minutely detailed writer pals. The story is built on a series of foundations that crumple and rebuild themselves at all points of the novel. First and foremost we're introduced to the strong relationship established among Sammy and Joe - two distinctly different, yet forever fused personalities who mirror that sick 'togetherness' of the Gilmore Girls and leave the reader gasping for explanation and demanding reunion when they're not in one another's company. Chabon doesn't seem to favor one more so than the other - and while Joe seems the character more strongely illustrated in change and his phoenix like return - the story really seems dedicated to Sammy's apotheosis.

It's a give and take and Chabon uses near principle characters (see: Rosa, escapist) to weave a delicate balance among the two. The characters seem soft in their voracity- and the obvious heroic ties aren't convoluted or overdone.

I think Chabon acheives this through his characters eagerness and child like adherence to the American Dream. It's satirical in its delivery, and hopeful in its execution. The comic book references, so intricately relayed and historically accurate only heighten the realistic endeavors with which these characters set foot. I never once questioned the unbelieve way in which Sammy and Joe made their millions.
I found myself connected and gripping pages in intense anticipation of Sammy's lost love and Joe's family ties.
The writing - a voice both cocky and with a solipsistic swagger - further convinced me of the characters youthful vitality and lended understanding to their mistakes. Chabon makes them real in their quests - often failing - and unfledgingly childish in their dreams.

The first thing that came to mind at the finish of the novel was how colorful a read it was. Not in the sense that their was imminent action! (which there was) or crazy, cooky characters (which there were): but in the notion that the inks and drawings and glossy dog eared covers of the comic book realm described- that paralleled the world of the main characters - was so vivid and real and beautiful that I felt as though I were reading a lovely graphic novel that went on for days.

I could never thank Mr. Chabon enough for this experience.

4/4 Hula hoops.
Now we're cooking with gas.....

"The silence is pregnant with avoided topics."

The subject heading references a forthcoming review. Something sing-song, to talk about in the company of pleased people: "Bee Season" by Myla Goldberg. There's an accompanying Decemberists song dedicated to the author that can be deconstructed in kind when I'm finished reading.

But first, and somewhat out of order, "Specimen Days" by Michael Cunningham.

Again, I often review in haste, and haven't the text to use as a reference. However, I'll relay my general impressions of the text with hopes comments can further confirm or counter my opinions.

To begin- and as a token disclaimer- I adore Michael Cunningham. His prose is both confirming and confident and his characters beg extreme credibility. While he doesn't strike me as the epicenter for characterization and consequent description - he certainly exhausts a lot of energy describing the actions/ thoughts/ opportunities and expressions of each character. To do so seems simple for Mr. Cunningham. The writing in fluid and I'm always generally interested in the fate of our established character sects.

Specimen Days seems more an exercise in defying conventional plot, than an execution of a desired to be told story. To explain: S.D. is, in effect, "The Hours". All the same techniques are employed, in that parallels are drawn between shifting characters in a triad of novellas fused together to become a novel. Real life literary figures are re-born and integrated into the prose to highlight a character's flaws and help carry them to their inevitable apotheosis. The reader moves along a continuum of time, and in so doing, are subject to variant colloquialisms and archaic and new age styles of prose. The only big difference I found so that "The Hours" was written first, and therefore, more dramatic and precendent setting than SD. Also, "The Hours" wove its tale so finely so that the reader moved in and out of spatial time lines so fluidly that the reader isn't even aware of the vast shift in style.

SD does not do this.

As stand alone stories, they are completely indicative of Mr. Cunningham's obvious and beautiful ability to write. The plots, in and of themselves, are intriguing, if a bit contrived. The reader works through stories that progress in time. Their individual plots are expectant and overwrought. The characters, who are used again and again, born new in each new story become increasingly obnoxious. They seem to harbour a weight, that grows in size and burden with each progressing century, that isn't dedicated much attention to begin with.

Chekhov wrote that if we're to introduce the gun in the first chapter, it best go off by the second.

Walt Whitman is the gun.
However, he won't stop firing.

My biggest issue with the text is that the Whitman connection seems silly. The idea that links all three stories to one another through a fusion of characters that is certainly intriguing in premise is killed by Whitman's general characterization. Either in the form of the man himself, or personified by alternate principal character or alien spacecraft, Whitman's repeated lines always echo the introduction of the first story (arguably the weakest) - and the repeated lines "Every atom that belongs to you..." become redundant and annoying for the reader to re-invent.

To compare to it's predecesor a bit more- The Hours brought with it an emotional connectivity among the characters. Characters weren't merely made new in variant settings, but chiefly affected one another through their actions, intents and emotions. SD characters seemed static in their obvious. It seemed change for change sake and I didn't find myself empathetic or hopeful for their general being.

All in all, Specimen Days warrants some days I could live without. The second vingette is worth the read, and the writing is written in classic Cunningham style. It may not be "The Hours", but need we another?

A reluctant 2 out of 4 Hula hoops, with hopeful increased rotations for future projects to come.

"She kept all of her pens in the drawer, off the desktop. It was a little like quitting smoking."

A return to school and I wore my most capable looking outfit. The program is designed to aid one’s attempt to apply for MFA programs, or provide a light shove so that they may run screaming. I haven’t yet identified which path I’ll travel.

It’s helpful, the rigor of coursework. The readings and the projects and the deadlines with their consequent, "Once I’m done with this I am never doing it again". I miss my neuroses. So I’m loving this lap pool of academic possibilities.
In my harried attempt to make something of my life I’ve re-prioritized ( I don’t know if that word can be claimed) and in so doing, have been reading in mass quantity again.

I should then abide by the purpose of this blog (and stop wading in the shallow pool of ‘listen to me wallow’) and rant and rave over these current gems of a book:

To begin, and I’ll surely do this an injustice (the book at home, and read so long ago): "The God of Small Things" by Arundhati Roy.
You can skip the analysis and focus on the meat of this reviewers opinion. An immediate, no-holes-barred, knock me off my seat for an automatic re-read 4 out of 4 Hula hoops.

In fact, if I could speed up the rotations I’d hip flex as many times as humanly possible to pay homage to this book. It is really that wonderful.
Roy’s style is indicative of Barbara Kingsolver. From the opening passage to the dense body and complicated characterization, to the harrowing conclusion, Roy’s words don’t just read – they direct. She plays with convention in the sense that her words are so fluid and descriptive you don’t even realize that they’re convoluted in a thick jungle of assonance, consonance, and a hybrid of poetic/literary devices. Her words are so lovely that they move the text and the reader can seemingly feel the temperature the story relays, feel the characters clothing, taste the bitter berries of the Indian farm fields.

Now, for many, this would be a deterrent. Roy definitely tips her hat within the first few passages to forewarn the reader that this particular read will be trying, and complicated. The characters themselves are so multi-faceted and she is one of very few authors who really convinces the reader of the character and their associative wants/needs/dreams/devices. One can tell that Roy loves her characters as we consequently love them. She never fails to follow through on even the most mundane aspects of the characters life and upon finishing the novel this reader did not want to let them go (hence the immediate re-read).
Something that strikes me regarding Roy’s prose is her ability to peak and lull.

To explain: There are moments in which the subject seems so intense, so noteworthy that the reader can not remove the image from their minds. These moments, which didn’t seem so much a ploy to develop and increase climatic plot lines, but rather memorible moments of characterization, are complimented by the preceding and following storyline. What begins and what follows is a paced plot. Roy seems so in charge of her words and the characters and events move fluidly before these so-called peaks. In my mind this writing style resembles the heart monitor of a suddenly excited someone. Rise and fall, rise and fall, rise and fall, and a sudden alarm, only to fall into pace with the rise and fall…

The work is a masterpiece and I will supply more analysis when I consult my notes.

Until then, read and re-read and find beauty in the small things.