Hilary's book blog experiment

The Magicians - Lev Grossman, 2009

noreply@blogger.com (Hilary) — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 02:40:00 +0000

People I admire and respect loved this adult fantasy. Me, not so much, though I wanted to. It sounded right up my alley: a cross between a sorcerer school story and realistic fiction. We meet Quentin Coldwater as a brainy seventeen-year-old Brooklynite. Led into a community garden which gets bigger as he walks through it, he finds himself in the grounds of Brakebill College for Magical Pedagogy somewhere up the Hudson. In this world magic takes talent but most of all ferocity at studying long hours and memorizing arcane scholarship--it's kind of like law school. Quentin's spent oodles of time practicing sleight-of-hand, which has prepared him well. That's a brilliant touch--great magicians in real life are the ones who've put in crazy time practicing, so it fits. The professors and the other students are well-drawn and believable modern people. I liked the idea of the Disciplines (herbalism, physical magic, etc.) grouping the students into little clubs, and that the initiation rite is for the "sorted" students to figure their way into the clubhouse.

So the book has redeeming qualities--many, in fact. I can see why others have liked it. But I have two major problems with it, which in combination ruined the experience for me.

1. Ultimately what makes the novel realistic/modern/"psychologically piercing" as the jacket says--it goes on "...in which good and evil aren't black and white, love and sex aren't simple and innocent, and power comes at a terrible price"--is almost entirely that the characters are miserable, drink a lot, swear, and treat each other badly. Quentin in particular is one of those people who mopes around, always expecting that the next goal (getting into Brakebills, having a girlfriend, entering Fillory (the world from their children's fantasy books which turns out to really exists)) will make him happy, and always bitterly disappointed that it doesn't. A major character, Eliot, is described as an alcoholic, but Quentin commits a terrible betrayal while drunk and doesn't acknowledge that as a problem. Plus this existential malaise they all share is far more told than shown. I was heartily sick of the lot of them halfway through.

2. Quoting the jacket flap again: "Grossman pays homage to the fantasy novels of C.S. Lewis, T.H. White, and J.K. Rowling while creating an utterly original realm..." If only it were so.

2a. OK, he's pretty open about the Rowling references--the characters frequently refer to Harry Potter, and given the contemporary setting we start in, it all makes sense. But does Brakebills have to be quite so slavishly Anglophilic, especially in upstate NY? Do we have to have a magic game (not Quidditch, but indebted to wizard chess) with an international tournament between magic schools? And for goodness' sake, the inconsistent number of students at Hogwarts has always been a problem in Rowling, but at least she can't be pinned down. Grossman specifically states the size of the maximum student body (100) and then, like Rowling, has many scenes and situations that just don't work if there are that few of them. Ultimately it feels a little lazy to model the Harry Potter world so closely.

2b. The major T.H. White reference I noticed is a doozy: as part of their education, the students live as animals, specifically geese. Merlin has the Wart inhabit many animal societies, and one of them is geese, including migration and courtship. Couldn't Grossman have picked something of his own? Again, lazy--very lazy. (Plus where they end up is basically the Isolate Tower from LeGuin's A Wizard of Earthsea.)

2c. But the Narnia rip-off is totally brazen. In the book, everyone has read these Fillory and Further books by Chistopher Plover, about the five Chatwin children who enter the magical land of Fillory, the first time through the cabinet of a grandfather clock. The older children can't return in the later books, etc. etc. It's Narnia with just a few details changed. The final straw for me was when the characters enter Fillory themselves and recapitulate The Magician's Nephew. They hold buttons, rise through a fountain, and find themselves in one of countless squares, each fountain the gateway to a different world. To me, stealing the concept of the Wood Between the Worlds is inexcusable--and that's just the worst of many, many direct lifts from Lewis. Once in Fillory, our mopey crew travel to an underground tomb (aka Aslan's How) where the god of that world, a giant golden ram (!) waits to crown two kings and two queens, yada yada.

There's a decent twist at the end where the Big Bad turns out to be somebody rather unexpected, but I no longer cared about any of it. I felt like Grossman had plagiarized C.S. Lewis only to sully good fantasy with exchanges like this one:

"What the fuck, man! Didn't you plan for this?"
"This is the plan, Earth child," Dint snarled back. "You don't like it, go home. We need kings and queens in Fillory. Is that not a thing worth dying for?"
Not really, Quentin thought. Asshole. That slutty nymph was right.

I immediately went back to read the Narnia books again and get the taste of this out of my mind. All seven put together are about half the word count of The Magicians and at least an order of magnitude better, IMO.

U is for Undertow - Sue Grafton, 2009

noreply@blogger.com (Hilary) — Sat, 02 Jan 2010 03:28:00 +0000

Does Grafton have a contractual obligation to turn in a certain number of pages? This is a really good 250 pager bloated to 403, and all the extraneous stuff is front-loaded. I was on the verge of bailing early on, and almost the only thing that kept me going was the entertainment value of the excessive, prosaic details. I started reading passages aloud to Jonathan, like this series from one trivial backstory scene (all on pages 60 & 61):

Annabelle shrugged and chose a roll from the basket. She pulled off one segment and buttered it. She took a bite and tucked the nugget of bread into one side of her cheek, a move that slightly muffled her speech.
...
There was a pause while they studied their menus and decided what to have. Salads, rare New York strips, and baked potatoes with sour cream, green onion, and grated cheese.
...
He paused, looking up, as the waitress arrived at the table with the wine. She turned the bottle so Kip could read the label, and once he approved, she proceeded to open it. Kip sampled it, nodded, and said, "Very nice."

A little later Kinsey goes to interview someone who lives in a small town.

I retrieved my Mustang, gassed up at the entrance to the 101, and headed down the coast to Peephole (population 400). The area, like so much of California, was part of a Spanish land grant, deeded to Amador Santiago Delgado in 1831. His mother was distantly related to Maria Christina of Bourbon-Two Sicilies, the fourth wife of King Ferdinand VII...

It goes on like that for two entire pages. Is this tourist brochure in any way relevant to the plot? No! It's as though the protagonists took down the gun on the wall in the first act, examined it, discussed the model, its provenance, and how to fire it, and then we never saw it again.

As I mentioned while discussing R is for Ricochet (I read S and T but didn't blog them & barely remember them), Grafton's alphabet mysteries are gradually turning into historicals. One could argue that she's dwelling on the details to document the 80s, or to show off her research (a common historical fiction failing)...or for the benefit of people from another culture? Jonathan wondered whether she'd hired someone to pad out the beginning of this book to meet the hypothesized page quota, but it reads exactly like Grafton's distinctive voice, taken to an extreme or parodied. She's always excelled at the immersive first-person experience, so that we know far more about Kinsey's daily life than about most other mystery protagonists.

But Grafton here crosses the line between documenting every detail in an interesting way--like Nicholson Baker in The Mezzanine--and walking the soporific reader through every minute of every day, diluting the telling moments with tedium.

Then on page 123 Walker McNally, one of the many people we've met so far, wakes up in a hospital with no memory of his drunken weekend and is told he killed a girl with his car. Like a python emerging from a swamp, the compelling, plot-weaving Grafton lifted me right out of the slog of the first quarter of the book, wrapped me in her coils and didn't let go again until the very satisfactory ending.

In other words, hang in there or skim until you get to the good stuff. Where are the editors of yore? Couldn't someone have carved away the flab and helped this become the taut little joyride it ought to be?

Claimed - Francis Stevens, 1920

noreply@blogger.com (Hilary) — Thu, 31 Dec 2009 03:14:00 +0000

I just stumbled across Stevens a few weeks ago while reading up on A. Merritt, one of my favorite pulp writers (years ago I purchased the rare Seven Steps to Satan for a Norwegian friend, read it before sending to him, and had to get my own copy). Merritt is said to have been influenced by both Lovecraft (I like, but a little goes a long way) and this Stevens, who as it turns out was Gertrude Barrows Bennett, US fantasy pioneer who essentially created "dark fantasy." This is one of her most well-known works, and after reading this I'll look out for more. A mysterious blue-green box, inscribed with characters in an unknown tongue which always flow back to the bottom no matter which way the box is turned, passes from hand to hand and brings a curse with it. J. J. Robinson, tenacious man of business (Uncle Jesse to the inevitable love interest, Leilah), won't give up the box, though the sea itself comes to claim it. Dr. John Vanaman is the protagonist who traces the box's origins and protects Leilah and Uncle Jesse to the best of his ability. The pace and tension pick up when they leave land. The Nagaina, a stout sea-going vessel, chases the spectral Red Dolphin across the ocean to a lost blood-red city... It's great classic pulp, very atmospheric and eerie even when it doesn't entirely make sense.

In Connection with the De Willoughby Claim - Frances Hodgson Burnett, 1899

noreply@blogger.com (Hilary) — Mon, 28 Dec 2009 23:50:00 +0000

I'd seen this referenced on many FHB title pages (in the "author of" list), but knew nothing about it--I would have guessed it was one of her few European historicals like A Lady of Quality, and would have been wrong. It's actually set in the U.S., and the title refers to a claim for damages from the Civil War. The protagonists have to move from North Carolina to D.C. for almost a year to pursue the claim with the government, and the depiction of the city back then is fascinating--Dupont Circle is referred to as a residential backwater--but that's not the core of the book. It's primarily about lazy, carefree Big Tom, postmaster and general store keeper in a tiny town, and the changes he undergoes after adopting an orphaned infant girl. Her mysterious origins are eventually revealed along with Tom's, and everything resolves very satisfactorily. It's one of Burnett's sprawling, ambitious works, bringing together many plot threads and third-person perspectives, and I enjoyed it thoroughly. The subplot about two out-of-wedlock pregnancies isn't at all psychologically believable, but Burnett's liberal-for-her-times views are interesting.

Vagabondia - Frances Hodgson Burnett, 1884

noreply@blogger.com (Hilary) — Thu, 24 Dec 2009 19:52:00 +0000

Plowing through new-to-me FHB paid off with this book, which I stayed up late reading, crying through the last few chapters. Why was this a successful tear-jerker when the other heroines dying for love left me cold? Because Dolly and Grif, the star-crossed lovers, are so believably specific, people with strengths, weaknesses, and quirks. The misunderstandings that separate them are neither ridiculously trivial nor engineered by a villain. None of the other characters--the foolish sister, the rich suitor, snooty Lady Augusta--are cardboard. The cultural camps of Philistines and Bohemians are distinct but neither all-good nor all-bad. A new favorite.

Frances Hodgson Burnett kick - minor works

noreply@blogger.com (Hilary) — Sat, 19 Dec 2009 22:37:00 +0000

Now that Project Gutenberg offers epub format, and the Sony Reader is switching over to it, I'm downloading stuff like crazy. One click from Google Books, too! I have both a PRS-505 (thanks, Boyce!), which I'm using now, and a PRS-500, which is off at the Sony factory being updated to use epub (500 owners, don't miss your chance!).

My first catch-up has been Frances Hodgson Burnett, one of my favorite authors. I picked up everything in PG and Google Books, finding some stories, novels, and novellas I've never read. Here are some not-very-good ones:

The White People - 1920. Burnett did write some great stuff late in life (Robin, one of my favorites, is 1922), but this is almost dreck. A little girl sees ghosts but doesn't know that's what they are until she grows up. Burnett's indulging her woo-woo leanings but not providing any compensating character development. I can read T. Tembarom every year but I'd never pick this up again.

Theo: A Sprightly Love Story - 1877. Not close to dreck but not good either, from the other end of her career (yet I loved 1873's Vagabondia, which I'll cover in a separate post). A poor girl is brought to London by a wealthy aunt, falls in love with a man who's engaged to be married, pines away until everyone is noble & self-sacrificing. Burnett sure knows how to work the cliched situations, but at least these characters have a little more dimension.

Lodusky - 1877. Burnett's narrative bag o' tricks includes having two protagonists, an unreflective "uncouth" character (rural or blue collar/spontaneous and natural) and a sophisticated observer (citified and cultured/buttoned up and inhibited). Here there are three: the title character, a backwoods siren; a middle-aged female writer; and the writer's love interest, an artist who's fatally fascinated by the beautiful-but-evil temptress. Crossing class lines never works out in FHB stories. Lots of bad southern dialect, although not as incomprehensible as some 19th-century attempts can be.

In the Closed Room - 1904. Another mystical the-afterlife-is-wonderful story with a live child playing with a ghost child, but more fleshed out than The White People. Like that one, it's full of italics (late Burnett lurvs italics) which the early PG texts unfortunately rendered in CAPS, which leaves a very WEIRD impression.

Esmeralda - 1877. This time it's a sophisticated couple (French, teacher and artist) who are observers of an uncouth American couple: "Esmeraldy" and Wash, North Carolinians separated by E's social climbing nouveau-riche mother. Mother has her heart set on a "Markis" for her daughter. Double pining--Wash follows the family to Paris and almost dies of starvation before the French couple operate the mechane.

"Le Monsieur de la Petite Dame" - 1877. A noble husband tries to sacrifice himself for his young American wife, pining for another. Set in Pari, sprinkled with "Pouf!" and "Mon Dieu!" in lieu of dialect.

The Guinea Pig Diaries: My Life as an Experiment - A.J. Jacobs, 2009

noreply@blogger.com (Hilary) — Thu, 10 Dec 2009 23:56:00 +0000

Jacobs' books are catnip for me, and Guinea Pig Diaries is the funniest yet - a cross between Malcolm Gladwell and Dave Barry. Instead of focusing on a year-long project, as The Know-it-All and The Year of Living Biblically did, this one collects nine shorter stunts. Some (outsourcing all his activities) are inherently more promising than others (posing for a nude photo), but AJ milks them all for maximum laughs, interspersed with personal insights. But what completely blew my mind was discovering that his outsourcing experience, which first appeared as an article in Esquire (9/05), is what inspired legendary asshole Tim Ferris to write The 4-Hour Workweek, whose siren song (not unlike Amway) drew millions of gullible buyers. (It's "been sold into 35 languages!") You can't blame Jacobs, whose humane and fundamentally sensible outlook underpins everything he writes. Don't miss the priceless book trailer.

Heart-Shaped Box - Joe Hill, 2007

noreply@blogger.com (Hilary) — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 21:48:00 +0000

Gushing reviews led me to order this for the library, and I finally got around to reading it. Joe Hill is Stephen King's son, and the buzz was that he'd matched his dad's horror ability in a totally different voice. True, and it's a satisfactory novel, though not one I'd re-read. The premise--a rock star who collects the macabre buys a haunted suit on the Internet and can't get rid of the ghost--is good, the characters believable, and the plot ties up nicely. Hill writes well and doesn't display any of King's faults, but he lacks a little bit of King's compelling narrative drive.

I'd completely forgotten the title is drawn from a Nirvana song--it's a very evocative phrase on its own.

Jackaroo - Cynthia Voigt, 1985

noreply@blogger.com (Hilary) — Wed, 25 Nov 2009 02:59:00 +0000

On a particularly stressful day I found a list of young adult fantasy which included a number of titles I wasn't familiar with. This is one of the few from the library's collection that I read after scanning the first few pages. The idea of a Robin-Hood-like disguise hidden away intrigued me, and the vivid realism kept me reading through the long initial sections before the Jackaroo cloak, sword, and mask showed up. Like Ursula LeGuin, Voigt shows a strong female protagonist dealing with a sexist society, but even more dominant is the class struggle. Innkeeper's daughter Gwyn and Lord's son Gaderian very slowly develop a genuine relationship after being stranded in a tiny cottage together for weeks, but the obstacles aren't waved away. The world of the Kingdom, which Voigt returned to in three other books, is darker than any of LeGuin's setttings; the attitude toward human nature reminded me of "Souls" by Joanna Russ. This actually wasn't fantasy at all, which disappointed me a little in the middle, but the deeply satisfactory ending made me glad I stuck with it. It sounds like the sequels can be read independently, so at some point I'll read #3 (The Wings of the Falcon) which is also in the library collection.

Roald Dahl's Book of Ghost Stories - 1983

noreply@blogger.com (Hilary) — Sun, 26 Apr 2009 02:11:00 +0000

Though I do enjoy the occasional ghost story, an entire collection--even of the best ever--was a little much, and I'm happy to list this on Paperback Swap where 3 members are wishing for it. Perhaps they work better when you're not alerted to the genre. When you know it's a ghost story, right off the bat the mysterious child/dog/crone/policeman isn't so mysterious--only the details remain to be determined. The only image which stuck in my mind was the "white fat hand" in Sheridan Le Fanu's "The Ghost of a Hand." The story itself is more imagistic than plot-driven. I did especially enjoy my dear E.F. Benson's "In the Tube," more light-hearted than the rest and with an optimistic ending (as in The Sixth Sense, the ghosts want the help of the living to communicate with their loved ones). That's the key--I like fantasy and not pure horror because the latter is so often purposeless. Why the haunting? No reason is given in classic horror--the scary stuff just is, and the story dwells on the protagonists' reactions. My impression is that seeing the motivations and mechanisms of the Big Bad steers closer to fantasy.

In the introduction, Dahl claims that women are/were (this was the early 80s) disproportionately represented in the writing of great ghost stories, as they are/were in great children's books. After talking about how rare and difficult it is to write a truly classic children's book, he veers off into an anecdote about the publisher Crowell Collier inviting "all the most celebrated writers in the English speaking world to write a children's story."

...[A]ll the writers accepted. These were big names, mind you, famous novelists, so-called giants of the literary world. I won't mention who they were but you would know them all.
The stories came in. I saw each one of them. Only one writer, Robert Graves, had any conception of how to write for children. The rest of the stories were guaranteed to anaesthetize in two minutes flat any unfortunate child who got hold of them. They were unpublishable.

Three Bags Full: A Sheep Detective Story - Leonie Swann, 2005 (English translation 2006, Anthea Bell)

noreply@blogger.com (Hilary) — Sun, 12 Apr 2009 13:41:00 +0000

What an unusual book! It does work - the sheep are believable sheepy and yet solve the mystery - but I can't say I loved it. It's a lot better than Play Dead, where the dog is the key to the mystery, but precisely because the narrators are sheep and don't fully understand what's going on, the solution doesn't have the complete mystery payoff. We're at a remove from all the human protagonists. Instead the payoff is how Swann manages to have her sheep act and reason within their species limitations. It's brilliant in a way, and funny, but not compelling. I don't want to read anything else on these lines, but I would pick up her next book with anticipation.

Buy from Powell's Books

Buy through Indie Bound

Museum: Behind the Scenes at the Metropolitan Museum of Art - Danny Danzinger, 2007

noreply@blogger.com (Hilary) — Sat, 11 Apr 2009 01:31:00 +0000

I grew up just a few blocks from the Met and have spent many, many hours there. It's not my favorite museum in the world (that would be the V&A, followed by quite a few others before getting to the Met), but it's the one I know best. Yet I saw many other sides of it in this Studs-Terkel-style interview book. Danziger's no Terkel, but he draws out many different sides of his subjects. The most interesting aspect to me was probably the clear class divisions between the workers (security guard, plumber, etc. - not totally blue-collar but close), the curators (intellectual, boho), and the trustees (obnoxiously wealthy and privileged). Because the order is simply alphabetical by last name, they rub elbows in the pages in a way that presumably doesn't happen in real life. A quick, enjoyable read, which makes me want to visit again and take a closer look at Duccio's Madonna and Child, Rembrandt's portrait of Gerard de Lairesse, and the pi-pa (a Ming dynasty lute). The Akkadian (Assyrian) reliefs always fascinated me, but I didn't realize before how unusual they are.

Song of the Wild by Allan W. Eckert - 1980

noreply@blogger.com (Hilary) — Fri, 10 Apr 2009 22:29:00 +0000

This book was described on the Project Wombat list, and to my surprise we had it at the library (it hadn't circulated since 1994, but it's a memorial so we kept it anyway). The concept is fascinating - a boy can project his consciousness into any animal, bird, or insect, and share its experience - but the writing doesn't do the idea justice. It's a strange book - it should fit into the tradition of great fantasy fiction like the animal parts of The Sword in the Stone, but it's actually on the dry side. Caleb's life in the human world is downer realistic fiction, and his experiences in the animal kingdom don't feel involving. It's partly the distant third person narration. The overall impression is Mark Trail come to life. Apparently it was pitched as an adult novel, but it falls between two stools - it's not involving enough for teens, but it doesn't feel like a standard novel either. I'm glad I read it once.

Lady of Quality - Georgette Heyer, 1972

noreply@blogger.com (Hilary) — Fri, 28 Mar 2008 01:38:00 +0000

The other in the pair of Heyer's Regency romances which I like enough to have kept and re-read (along with The Grand Sophy). Annis Wychwood, practically "on the shelf" at twenty-nine, takes in and gives countenance to impetuous young Lucilla Carleton, who 's run away from home to avoid being married off to Ninian Elmore. Her companion in this escapade? Ninian himself, who doesn't want to marry her but is being guilted into it by his parents. The inevitable sparks between Annis and Lucilla's guardian naturally kindle into love, but the many amusing moments come from primarily from Lucilla, Ninian, and Annis' foolish suitor Lord Beckenham. The plot climax arises when Annis nurses her little niece through influenza and then catches it herself. Heyer's heroines may be independent, rebellious, and witty, but of course they reveal themselves as Angels at the Sickbed when needed--I guess as part of their competence and clear-headedness in contrast to the other flighty and muddle-headed females (very Austenish), but it's a bit tarsome, as Georgie Pillson from the Lucia books would say.

The Mapp and Lucia books - E.F. Benson

noreply@blogger.com (Hilary) — Sun, 16 Mar 2008 12:40:00 +0000

This must be my fourth or fifth time through this wonderful series of novels, but this is my first reading of them on my Sony Reader. It was great to stick all of them in my purse and take them on vacation. Unlike many feather-light comedies, the more I read these the more I relish every word, and I'm always sorry to get to the end. Their appeal is hard to explain; the characters have no redeeming virtues and in fact are snobbish, fake show-offs; the plot incidents are the most trivial possible minutiae of everyday life; there is no real change or growth. But there are hundreds if not thousands of fans who absolutely adore them, and I'm one of them. It's mostly Benson's writing, which extracts the maximum comedy and suspense from the tiniest observations. The titles are:

Queen Lucia (1920) - We're introduced to Lucia as the Queen of Riseholme society--a small British village with Elizabethan architecture, which Lucia and her husband Peppino make the most of ("Perdita's garden" full of only Shakespearean flowers, smoky fireplaces, tables that are difficult to sit at). Some wonderful episodes, including the stir caused by an imported Guru with whom Lucia's rival Daisy Quantock tries to outshine her. Lucia's victories will become even more satisfactory when she encounters a more formidable opponent.

Miss Mapp (1922) - Introduction to Elizabeth Mapp and Tilling society. Similarly, we're itching for Lucia to get there and the maximum fun to begin, but Captain Puffin and Benjy's "duel" is one of many delightful scenes.

Lucia in London (1927) - Lucia and Peppino inherit money and Lucia uses it to claw her way up the social ladder in London. Her snobbery and pretension reach their peak. Also features the wonderful Riseholme museum, with an assortment of junk donated by the residents, including mittens which supposedly belonged to Queen Charlotte. (They would have looked like this and not this.) Peppino falls ill at the end and we glimpse Lucia's better nature for one brief moment.

Mapp and Lucia (1931) - Finally, the two social titans meet when Lucia and Georgie rent houses in Tilling. The irresistible force encounters the immoveable object! In the climactic episode, the two ladies are swept out to sea on a kitchen table and vanish for three months, but the plot point that dwarfs this minor excitement is that Mapp has copied Lucia's recipe for Lobster à la Riseholme. The psychological warfare over a recipe mattering more than physical jeopardy epitomizes the feel of these books. Perhaps that's one reason they're so appealing--it's a bizarre kind of escapist fantasy...

Lucia's Progress (1935) (US title: The Worshipful Lucia) - Contains probably the funniest episode of all, when Lucia thinks she's discovered Roman remains in her garden.

Trouble for Lucia (1939) - More plot than I remembered, with Susan Wyse's dead parakeet and Major Benjy's tiger whip popping up in various places throughout the book.

Oh, how I wish there were more of these! Although on principle I hate sequels by different authors cashing in on the originals, perhaps I'll try to ILL the two Tom Holt follow-ups, which do seem to have a certain credibility among Bensonites.

The Smartest Investment Book You'll Ever Read: The Simple, Stress-Free Way to Reach Your Investment Goals - Daniel R. Solin, 2006

noreply@blogger.com (Hilary) — Fri, 14 Mar 2008 01:54:00 +0000

Here's the same basic investment advice you'll hear from the few smart-and-honest money people out there: index mutual funds with low expenses, folks. So why do we need another book about it? Because people still choose active over passive investments. Why do they do that when study after study has shown that nobody can beat the market consistently?* Because media companies of all kinds make money on financial pornography, and dull doesn't sell; the very adjectives "active" versus "passive" fit into that paradigm. Solin instead calls them "hyperactive investing" and "smart investing" styles. It's a quick read and an extremely worthwhile one if you have any money at all to invest. The meat is in the chapter telling you exactly what funds to invest in, and to rebalance twice a year. (For Vanguard, Total Bond Market 80%/60%/40%/20% from low to high risk, rest in Total Stock Market Index and Total International Stock Index, 2.33:1 ratio). If only the library's 401(3)b was in the "smart" TIAA-CREF instead of the "hyperactive" Putnam Investments (with correspondingly high fees). Aaargh.

*Unless they are actually getting involved in the company's future, like Warren Buffett. Thas was fascinating to read about--I think it might have been Andrew Tobias who explained it, but I can't remember.

Slackjaw - Jim Knipfel, 1999

noreply@blogger.com (Hilary) — Sun, 09 Mar 2008 23:22:00 +0000

Years ago I went through a phase of reading the New York Press when we visited New York, and my memory of that publication boils down to Jim Knipfel's column, Slackjaw--kind of fascinating, kind of repellent. When the book came out, I noted the positive reviews, but never had an opportunity to read it. Then it turned up as a donation at the library, and I'm the first to check it out. He's a brave, articulate, cynically funny man who's had more bad breaks already than another ten people put together, from retinitis pigmentosa to a brain lesion. His descriptions of dealing with the various agencies helping the blind in New York City--particularly the way they valued him symbolically for holding down a full-time job, yet continually expected him to have time during the day for their bureaucratic paper chase--are both entertaining and enlightening. I enjoyed the writing and the anecdotes, admired Knipfel's resilience, and identified to a certain extent with his misanthropy. But overall, I can't say I loved it, and I was glad to part ways with him at the end. Sometimes the person who moves into my head when I read a biography or memoir turns out to be somebody I just don't click with long-term; no reflection on the book itself. My favorite passage, about a stint at the Whitney when they decided to hire impoverished artists as museum guards:

This is what my fellow guards and I experienced, during a typical ten-hour day: Packs of wild grade-school children on a field trip, running rough-shod over Giacometti sculptures. Tourists protesting, "But I am French!" when told not to touch the paintings. American visitors demanding their money back, arguing that there was no real art in the museum.

Oh, and Thomas Pynchon loves him! I thought blurbs from Pynchon must be pretty rare, but perhaps I'm wrong.

Blog Rules: A Business Guide to Managing Policy, Public Relations, and Legal Issues - Nancy Flynn, 2006

noreply@blogger.com (Hilary) — Sun, 09 Mar 2008 23:08:00 +0000

This is the one book on blogs we had at the library, and I wanted to read up before teaching my Montrose Adult School class. It's OK, not great, and could have been edited down to a much shorter book. Two problems that jumped out at me: quite a few of the author's examples of trouble that can be caused by blogs were actually email issues, and she seems to have misunderstood what permalinks are: "posts...typically remain accessible forever via the permalink (unlike web pages, which are subject to change and removal)." Ummm...unless the post or entire site is taken down, which happens not infrequently! But for a large organization, this does provide a helpful overview of pitfalls, best practices, and the importance of including blogs and relationships with bloggers in crisis communication plans.

The Grand Sophy - Georgette Heyer, 1950

noreply@blogger.com (Hilary) — Tue, 04 Mar 2008 19:51:00 +0000

Continuing on my Heyer kick--this time one of the few Regency romances I like. Now that I've finally become an Austen fan, I can understand the desire to create works like hers, but not the veneration of the Regency period itself as a setting. What makes Austen delightful to read, for me, is primarily her humor and subtle observations--she was not writing historical fiction. As in most Regencies, proof of research is laid on with a trowel; every page is studded with period detail and every speech is stuffed with period slang, ironically far more than in all of Austen put together. But this book is so delightful that it doesn't bother me too much--and even thought I don't think it works well artistically, I do enjoy the vocabulary itself, from "great gaby" to "puptons of fruit." Sophy Stanton-Lacy is a wonderful heroine--independent, wise, funny, and kind--but there are lots of great minor characters as well, like the impractical poet Augustus Fawnhope and the interfering fiancée of the male protagonist, whose appearance gives rise to my favorite exchange (between the two leads):

"Since you have brought up Miss Wraxton's name, I shall be much obliged to you, cousin, if you will refrain from telling my sisters that she has a face like a horse!"
"But, Charles, no blame attaches to Miss Wraxton! She cannot help it, and that, I assure you, I have always pointed out to your sisters!"
"I consider Miss Wraxton's countenance particularly well-bred!"
"Yes, indeed, but you have quite misunderstood the matter! I meant a particularly well-bred horse!"
"You meant, as I am perfectly aware, to belittle Miss Wraxton!"
"No, no! I am very fond of horses!" Sophy said earnestly.

I hadn't noticed the profusion of exclamation points in the dialogue until typing it up. !

Fair warning: on top of the usual classism, there's a very offensive (anti-Semitic) scene with a money-lender.

Envious Casca - Georgette Heyer, 1941

noreply@blogger.com (Hilary) — Tue, 19 Feb 2008 02:53:00 +0000

A week ago I would have called this one of my favorite mysteries of all time, but on re-reading it's not as compelling as it used to be. It may be the falling tide of my interest in mysteries lowering all boats (as I get pickier with age) because all the ingredients still seem to be present: good British cozy setting, entertaining characters (well-meaning Uncle Joe, who manages to drive everyone straight up a wall while trying to be nice, is particularly memorable), the always-enjoyable locked room setup, funny dialogue and situations, and a heart-warming romance. But there's a little too much telling instead of showing, and the solution is not as believable as one might wish. Maybe I've just read it too many times. I got out all the Heyers I kept (purged most of them years ago) because of recommending them to a library patron who loves Agatha Christie best of all and doesn't find anyone to compare to her. She enjoyed the one (IMO inferior) Heyer mystery we had at the library (A Blunt Instrument, I think) and I'm going to lend her mine. Where's Behold, Here's Murder, though? I must have misplaced it...

Play Dead - David Rosenfelt, 2007

noreply@blogger.com (Hilary) — Sun, 17 Feb 2008 01:33:00 +0000

Oh, how I wanted to love this mystery, centering on a golden retriever who "testifies" in court to get his owner out of jail--in a completely realistic and believable way (ie no Lillian Jackson Braun-style anthropomorphization). It had great reviews so I ordered it for the library and put it on hold for myself; there was a hitch in the ordering so anticipation built for much longer than usual. And... it's fine, no more. Lawyer Andy Carpenter, the narrator, has a not-particularly-funny wisecrack for every occasion. The story is told in present tense--bleurgh--is that popular simply because it allows authors to avoid the pluperfect? I've seldom/never found it to be anything but annoying as a technique. The solution was a little deus-ex-machina, especially because the dog, crucial in the beginning, is shuffled off to the side by the end. The golden rescue operation in the book is based on the author's real-life Tara Foundation, but it's only mentioned in passing. I would have loved more dog detail instead of rote courtroom scenes!

Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith - Anne Lamott, 1999

noreply@blogger.com (Hilary) — Sat, 16 Feb 2008 22:48:00 +0000

(Another large print read on the elliptical trainer.) Lamott can be a wonderful writer with interesting things to say...sometimes. Other times she is a good writer who's gratingly narcissistic and overdramatic. I'm afraid most of these essays show the second style. Her willingness to expose her worst sides is admirable (although where is the line between emotional bravery and exhibitionism?), and she's certainly handled more adversity than most--I feel almost guilty that she gets on my nerves.

Good Dog. Stay. - Anna Quindlen, 2007

noreply@blogger.com (Hilary) — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 15:46:00 +0000

There's been a lot of "it's just a jump on the Marley & Me bandwagon," and it's true that at a skimpy 82 pages for $14.95, this is basically an essay posing as a book. But on the other hand, Quindlen writes rings around Grogan and compresses almost all the emotion in a fraction of the space. A good third of the book is cute dog photos, which is a little confusing because some of them do seem to be of her two dogs (Beau and Bea), but taken by the same professional pet photographer (Amanda Jones) who did many of the unrelated dogs. (Alas, my favorite (p. 6, a Bichon Frise whose eyes are totally concealed by fur) isn't on the website). One hopes this wasn't some kind of kickback. But no matter, if you love dogs, the book's a winner. (My favorite dog book ever ever is still Elizabeth Marshall Thomas' The Social Life of Dogs.)

O'Keeffe & Stieglitz: An American Romance - Benita Eisler, 1991

noreply@blogger.com (Hilary) — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 13:46:00 +0000

Reading biographies often takes me a long time. The people move into my mental landscape, and I feel almost like I'm living life along with them in real time. (I had to return Ackroyd's wonderful Dickens to the library eventually, before finishing it, so he's still hanging out in my brain at the peak of his career.) For the past month or so my companions have been Georgia O'Keeffe and Alfred Stieglitz, thanks to this engrossing book. (Eisler was recently at the Historical Society researching George Catlin and his family, and it turns out she knows my mother, hence my interlibrary loan.) O'Keeffe's art doesn't speak to me particularly, but Stieglitz's photos, especially his portraits of Georgia herself, certainly do. The story of their relationship, the rise and fall of Stieglitz's galleries (from 291 to An American Place), and O'Keeffe's path to the Southwest (which seems so inevitable now) are particularly interesting, as are the canny ways they positioned and marketed themselves in the art world. Unsurprisingly, neither seems like someone you'd want in your own circle--all kinds of power corrupt. Eisler has chosen wonderful plates, and each chapter also starts with a painting or photo. I can't think of any other woman whose image is more striking or iconic than O'Keeffe's. Her little sideways smile haunts me still.

Duma Key - Stephen King, 2008

noreply@blogger.com (Hilary) — Sun, 27 Jan 2008 20:00:00 +0000

King is one of those writers I (usually) find compelling despite his flaws. But the worst of those flaws were barely in evidence in this book, one of his very best. Presumably because he's drawing on his recent experience of recovering from a horrible accident, the non-supernatural characters and incidents in Duma Key are fully realized and believable. I particularly love stories of success, and Edgar Freemantle's sudden flowering as an artist was delightfully involving; finding redemption and healing in creation clearly draws from King's recovery as well, and it's thrilling to watch unfold. The supernatural elements are still somewhat random and motiveless (which is why I fundamentally prefer fantasy and SF to horror--a lot of horror relies on not questioning WHY the Big Bad showed up and why it's attacking the protagonists). King's worst faults in my view: a) vulgarity; b) going for the cheap gross-out; c) an intrusive sort of verbal ticcing, where he repeats cultural or personal catch phrases (joking expressions, song lyrics, ad taglines) ad nauseam. The latter has its good side of adding texture and interest, and it's realistic in the way the human mind works (mine included). In the recent Lisey's Story, where he did it constantly, it was incredibly irritating. Here he manages to do it almost as much, but it works because it becomes a natural part of the exchanges between Freemantle and his friend Wireman. Duma Key also has a wonderful portrait of the love between father and daughter. I'm very glad King hasn't retired, as he threatened to do years back, since he has books like this still in him.