That is great news.
Two phenomenal reads:
Bad Marie by Marcy Dermansky is, somehow, a French film from the '60s in book form (starring in my head, probably because of the cover art, Audrey Tautou as Amelie's evil twin). Wicked, swift, and a curious but well-executed mix of detached from and deeply involved in the exploits of its eponymous heroine, who within the first 50 pages has absconded to Paris with the husband of the friend who gave her her first post-jail job and the friend's little girl. Read it in one go, work the next morning be damned.
How to Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe, Charles Yu: A father-son story bound up in time-travel trappings, which I'm not sure I wrapped my head around entirely, but which came to marvelous fruition in the last ten pages. With some marvelous sidekicks: a flirty operating system with self-esteem problems, a chatty boss who doesn't know he's a computer program (though his wife, who's spreadsheet software, does), and a dog that only sort of exists.
And I finally read Colm Toibin's Brooklyn and was terribly disappointed--bored me to tears. And then I felt guilty for being bored, because it's such a nice, calm, unassuming little book. I suspect having heard Toibin's name linked with Henry James in the past should have warned me off; I've only read Daisy Miller and The Turn of the Screw, both of which I liked, but years ago I read (what the introduction told me was) Edith Wharton's most Jamesian novel, The Reef, and thought it was such a snooze I've never even attempted Portrait of a Lady or The Ambassadors. (I further suspect that we all have our own half-willful gaps in our literary pedigree.)
Splitting the difference between boring and engrossing were a photo-laden book on pre-Code Hollywood, Mark A. Vieira's Sin in Soft Focus, and Juliet Nicolson's recent book on the two years immediately following the Great War in Britain, The Great Silence. Both shared a curious tendency to jam way too many disparate anecdotes into one paragraph, and Nicolson's has an unfortunate over-reliance on how 1918-1920 affected the wealthy and the nobility (she comes by it honest, being the granddaughter of Vita Sackville-West. And how weird would it be to have a grandmother who slept with Virginia Woolf?)--I don't really care that the Duke of Devonshire had to sell off some of his houses. Both were worth reading, however, and were well-done evocations of historical periods I knew little about.
Next up, because I'm worth it: Scott Westerfeld's Leviathan, a YA re-imagining of the Great War in which it's fought between steampunk armies and genetically engineered super-beasts. I have no idea how I haven't read it before now. Or, hell, written it.
12 August 2010
01 August 2010
ALL CAPS TWEET EDITION
NOT ONLY is there a new Brian Lies picture book--Bats at the Ballgame--there is a new Jeffrey Brown kitty-pictures collection, Cats Are Weird & More Observations!!! I have no erudite literary commentary to offer; in lieu of such I offer my tweets as each title was unpacked.
1:25 pm: BATS AT THE BALLGAME BATS AT THE BALLGAME BRIAN LIES I LOVE YOU
1:55 pm: OH MAN AND A NEW JEFFREY BROWN CAT-DRAWING BOOK my cuteness cup, it runneth over
Oh! And Maine bookseller extraordinaire Josh Christie is snagging me a signed copy of Bats at the Ballgame later this month. Thank you Twitliterati! (And oh God, he's 24. I am ancient. It is a wonder I can work a computer.)
I may also add that Greenpoint's favorite book of the day is the brilliant sadorable All My Friends Are Dead, 3 of which I have sold in the past, oh, two and a half hours. Poor Mr. Brontosaurus (yes, I know it's an apatosaurus. Brontosaurus is his name.)
1:25 pm: BATS AT THE BALLGAME BATS AT THE BALLGAME BRIAN LIES I LOVE YOU
1:55 pm: OH MAN AND A NEW JEFFREY BROWN CAT-DRAWING BOOK my cuteness cup, it runneth over
Oh! And Maine bookseller extraordinaire Josh Christie is snagging me a signed copy of Bats at the Ballgame later this month. Thank you Twitliterati! (And oh God, he's 24. I am ancient. It is a wonder I can work a computer.)
I may also add that Greenpoint's favorite book of the day is the brilliant sadorable All My Friends Are Dead, 3 of which I have sold in the past, oh, two and a half hours. Poor Mr. Brontosaurus (yes, I know it's an apatosaurus. Brontosaurus is his name.)
31 July 2010
LeastPopBronteSis
So Anne "The One Who Didn't Glorify Byronic Douchebags" Brontë's Agnes Grey really started out strong: the eponymous heroine (O how I love this phrase. Also when it employs the word "titular," although it always makes me giggle) becomes a governess to help support her family after her clergyman father loses a ton of money in a dodgy investment. The first family she's placed with--the Bloomfields--are masterfully demonic, the parents simultaneously indulgent and distant, the three children (as is to be expected with such an upbringing) gleefully obdurate little sociopaths, led by an heir who enjoys torturing baby birds. It's a great portrait of the plight of the hired caretaker: all the responsibility for the children's progress, no authority to enforce it.
This theme carries through the beginnings of her second position, with the rich and vulgar Murrays; Agnes describes her job as being "to render [the girls] as superficially attractive, and showily accomplished, as they could possibly be made without present trouble or discomfort to themselves . .. to study and strive to amuse and oblige, instruct, refine, and polish, with the least possible exertion on their part, and no exercise of authority on mine." Again, frustrations familiar to any teacher. But then, the parish gets a new curate, full of informed abilities--we are told many times of his marvelous, simple, humble sermons, but never hear a word. Miss Grey gets all gushy, and the book turns into Mansfield Park, the only boring Austen novel.
I know that in the long run, the broody, tortured male leads of Jane Eyre and especially Wuthering Heights (which can more or less be blamed for the more disgusting in-the-name-of-love excesses of Twilight) are worse romantic ideals for ladies than the sedate, nice-to-poor-old-ladies-and-kittens Mr. Weston of Agnes Grey--and Agnes is no flashy dame herself, so I'm sure she is as happy as Austen's Fanny Price is with Mr. Snoozeville Edmund. But good and kind do not equate to dull; it's still hard to find books that recognize this fact.
This theme carries through the beginnings of her second position, with the rich and vulgar Murrays; Agnes describes her job as being "to render [the girls] as superficially attractive, and showily accomplished, as they could possibly be made without present trouble or discomfort to themselves . .. to study and strive to amuse and oblige, instruct, refine, and polish, with the least possible exertion on their part, and no exercise of authority on mine." Again, frustrations familiar to any teacher. But then, the parish gets a new curate, full of informed abilities--we are told many times of his marvelous, simple, humble sermons, but never hear a word. Miss Grey gets all gushy, and the book turns into Mansfield Park, the only boring Austen novel.
I know that in the long run, the broody, tortured male leads of Jane Eyre and especially Wuthering Heights (which can more or less be blamed for the more disgusting in-the-name-of-love excesses of Twilight) are worse romantic ideals for ladies than the sedate, nice-to-poor-old-ladies-and-kittens Mr. Weston of Agnes Grey--and Agnes is no flashy dame herself, so I'm sure she is as happy as Austen's Fanny Price is with Mr. Snoozeville Edmund. But good and kind do not equate to dull; it's still hard to find books that recognize this fact.
28 July 2010
Backlist ahoy!
I love being a bookseller, don't get me wrong. But there's always a downside to making a passion your job (even though it's worth it): for me, that's the necessity of keeping up with new books. While some of the summer-release books I've written about here are among the best I've read in years, and I have two oddly-similarly-named galleys I'm super excited about (Charles Yu's How to Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe, December & Sarah Bakewell's life of Montaigne, How to Live, December), lately I've just been yearning for backlist. After all, there are still so many gaps on my shelves, books I've been meaning to read for years, further novels by some of my favorite authors, co-worker raves I missed. So over the past few weeks, with the exception of Gary Shteyngart's Super Sad True Love Story, I've been indulging myself with catchup. And you know what? I don't feel guilty.
Re SSTLS, first: Perhaps it's not fair that subsequent criticism can retcon one's enjoyment of something, but my liking for this book has paled a bit since a couple of the Twitliterati (to coin a phrase) (@jchristie & @bookavore, specifically) were less than enthusiastic. I agree that as satire it's predictable, and a bit toothless--social networking TMI, Chinese domination of the world economy, an increasingly paranoid right-wing U.S.--but the vein running through the novel, the love story, is notable for how old-fashioned it feels. The unattractive older male lover, the young woman of limited prospects, the themes of fierce family loyalty and heartbreaking social climbing: all are very nineteenth-century, at the latest, and I think it's well done. Maybe some of why it's unsatisfying is the combination of near-future and recent-past? Like a stunt-casting version of Hamlet where Ophelia's a dude or something.
Ooh, segue! Matt Haig's The Dead Fathers Club is, in fact, a semi-retelling of Hamlet, with a much younger protagonist (11), which serves to highlight the extremity of the ghost's request: to kill without proof. And from the beginning, it's unclear whether the child's father's shade is even trustworthy; he seems to get details wrong, and he bullies his son into some shocking actions. The occasional direct Shakespeare-analogues are fun to come across (I especially loved the idea of a movie version of The Murder of Gonzago with Mel Gibson and Tobey Maguire), but they don't overwhelm the story. Haig, like Wes Anderson, has made a career out of a fixation on the failures of family, especially fathers; both gentlemen's oeuvres have become favorites of mine. (I hasten to add that I actually have the best father EVER.)
Other reads: Haven Kimmel's The Used World--not up to the brilliance of Iodine, but then what is?--Donald Spoto's wonderful biography of Marlene Dietrich, Blue Angel--a great mix of real-life detail and artistic analysis. I'm currently working on Jane Hamilton's A Map of the World, which is gorgeously written and TERRIBLY sad: makes Laura Rider's Masterpiece's hilarity even more of an achievement. And, because I left that one at the boyfriend's Friday night, I've also started the serious-backlist Agnes Grey, by Anne Bronte (the sister nobody reads). Not very far in, but it seems a bit House of Mirth in its depiction of the bleak choices for a skill-less, poor, unmarried woman.
Re SSTLS, first: Perhaps it's not fair that subsequent criticism can retcon one's enjoyment of something, but my liking for this book has paled a bit since a couple of the Twitliterati (to coin a phrase) (@jchristie & @bookavore, specifically) were less than enthusiastic. I agree that as satire it's predictable, and a bit toothless--social networking TMI, Chinese domination of the world economy, an increasingly paranoid right-wing U.S.--but the vein running through the novel, the love story, is notable for how old-fashioned it feels. The unattractive older male lover, the young woman of limited prospects, the themes of fierce family loyalty and heartbreaking social climbing: all are very nineteenth-century, at the latest, and I think it's well done. Maybe some of why it's unsatisfying is the combination of near-future and recent-past? Like a stunt-casting version of Hamlet where Ophelia's a dude or something.
Ooh, segue! Matt Haig's The Dead Fathers Club is, in fact, a semi-retelling of Hamlet, with a much younger protagonist (11), which serves to highlight the extremity of the ghost's request: to kill without proof. And from the beginning, it's unclear whether the child's father's shade is even trustworthy; he seems to get details wrong, and he bullies his son into some shocking actions. The occasional direct Shakespeare-analogues are fun to come across (I especially loved the idea of a movie version of The Murder of Gonzago with Mel Gibson and Tobey Maguire), but they don't overwhelm the story. Haig, like Wes Anderson, has made a career out of a fixation on the failures of family, especially fathers; both gentlemen's oeuvres have become favorites of mine. (I hasten to add that I actually have the best father EVER.)
Other reads: Haven Kimmel's The Used World--not up to the brilliance of Iodine, but then what is?--Donald Spoto's wonderful biography of Marlene Dietrich, Blue Angel--a great mix of real-life detail and artistic analysis. I'm currently working on Jane Hamilton's A Map of the World, which is gorgeously written and TERRIBLY sad: makes Laura Rider's Masterpiece's hilarity even more of an achievement. And, because I left that one at the boyfriend's Friday night, I've also started the serious-backlist Agnes Grey, by Anne Bronte (the sister nobody reads). Not very far in, but it seems a bit House of Mirth in its depiction of the bleak choices for a skill-less, poor, unmarried woman.
12 July 2010
Kids' books that make me cry.
I make no secret of being a total sap. I also don't and (really can't) have kids, so sometimes just straightening up the kids' section makes me teary. The following, though, have threatened to reduce both me and Stephanie into quivering heaps of jelly:
This one's about coming back from terrible loss--I think the death of a parent.
This one's all friendship and frolic until three-quarters through, and then BAM! sucker punch.
This one's more poignant than "sad" per se--it's more or less an introduction to moral ambiguity for children. Petit just can't understand why he is sometimes good (like when he plays with his dog, and takes good care of his toys) and sometimes bad (like when he pulls hair and throws things at pigeons). "Am I some kind of not-yet-discovered type of monster?" he asks himself...mind-blowing stuff for a 5-year-old. Her (I think Isol is a her; ah, yes, says Wikipedia. Also Argentinian!) It's Useful to Have a Duck is also sniffle-inducing sweet.
Ditto with this one, where the eponymous bunny goes to visit his city-gal friend Little Rabbit and gets exhausted being rushed around to cafes and museums and parks. "I just wanted to show you everything!" she finally says; "But I came to the city to see you!" he responds. OMG SO SWEET AND SO TRUE I LOVE IT. Uh, and the illustrations are gorgeous too.
And on the other side of the spectrum, I've personally tested it several times, and I defy you to get all the way through Big Rabbit's Bad Mood without feeling better. It's great stuff!
This one's about coming back from terrible loss--I think the death of a parent.
This one's all friendship and frolic until three-quarters through, and then BAM! sucker punch.
This one's more poignant than "sad" per se--it's more or less an introduction to moral ambiguity for children. Petit just can't understand why he is sometimes good (like when he plays with his dog, and takes good care of his toys) and sometimes bad (like when he pulls hair and throws things at pigeons). "Am I some kind of not-yet-discovered type of monster?" he asks himself...mind-blowing stuff for a 5-year-old. Her (I think Isol is a her; ah, yes, says Wikipedia. Also Argentinian!) It's Useful to Have a Duck is also sniffle-inducing sweet.
Ditto with this one, where the eponymous bunny goes to visit his city-gal friend Little Rabbit and gets exhausted being rushed around to cafes and museums and parks. "I just wanted to show you everything!" she finally says; "But I came to the city to see you!" he responds. OMG SO SWEET AND SO TRUE I LOVE IT. Uh, and the illustrations are gorgeous too.
And on the other side of the spectrum, I've personally tested it several times, and I defy you to get all the way through Big Rabbit's Bad Mood without feeling better. It's great stuff!
Something is amiss at the RH paperback design department.
[N.B. The images in this post will likely not be aligned in any sort of pleasing fashion. Sorry in advance.]
I first noticed this back in January but was reminded today with the arrival of Jim Lynch's Border Songs in paperback. Here's the hardcover jacket, followed by the paperback cover:
I know, right? We've got Crazy Seraphim Glob, and...cow. Cow crossing nondescript highway.
Some others, all from Random House, all evocative hardcover above, generic paperback below:
Srsly. What is going on in the Random House paperback design department? These are from two different imprints (Vintage & Anchor), so the problem is spreading. And Vintage puts out some gorgeous classic reprints (cf. Forster's Where Angels Fear to Tread, or the recent line of Nabokov reissues [link goes to my fave, Pale Fire]). Shouldn't they know better? All of these seem to be repackaging the titles downward, from Literary Fiction to quasi-literary book club territory. I seem to recall Cutting for Stone being a Times bestseller in hardcover, though. It's fascinating to me how this works, or attempts to work; without changing the text of a title, you can change the audience.
Two more, non-Random House examples (they're just the worst offenders), the first from Grove/Atlantic (admittedly, the hardcover is no great shakes either), the second--and definitely the most awful downgrade--from Simon & Schuster:
I first noticed this back in January but was reminded today with the arrival of Jim Lynch's Border Songs in paperback. Here's the hardcover jacket, followed by the paperback cover:
I know, right? We've got Crazy Seraphim Glob, and...cow. Cow crossing nondescript highway.
Some others, all from Random House, all evocative hardcover above, generic paperback below:
Srsly. What is going on in the Random House paperback design department? These are from two different imprints (Vintage & Anchor), so the problem is spreading. And Vintage puts out some gorgeous classic reprints (cf. Forster's Where Angels Fear to Tread, or the recent line of Nabokov reissues [link goes to my fave, Pale Fire]). Shouldn't they know better? All of these seem to be repackaging the titles downward, from Literary Fiction to quasi-literary book club territory. I seem to recall Cutting for Stone being a Times bestseller in hardcover, though. It's fascinating to me how this works, or attempts to work; without changing the text of a title, you can change the audience.
Two more, non-Random House examples (they're just the worst offenders), the first from Grove/Atlantic (admittedly, the hardcover is no great shakes either), the second--and definitely the most awful downgrade--from Simon & Schuster:
08 July 2010
Hat trick!
What I've actually been reading, while pondering the problem of imitation and fretting about my bookstore moves:
Hard at work on my boyfriend-bestowed summer assignment (unlike, as I'm proud to point out, his other "students"), I've read The Cinema of Josef von Sternberg (John Baxter) and up-until-the-Dietrich-Sternberg-split in Blue Angel, a Dietrich biography by Donald Spoto. Waiting on reading a tome about the sadomasochistic aesthetic in their films until I've actually seen them all--Dishonored is coming on VHS from the NYPL, but darned if I can find Shanghai Express anywhere (OK, at the two library systems and the independent video store I've tried). I've got the paper structure outlined in my head--will probably subject you to excerpts here. But first, I've got an actually-paying article to write for my alma mater's alumni mag, The College. (Read my article on the philosophical implications of Facebook here!)
And I'm now on Book 3 of the Georgia Nicoloson series, and still finding it a hoot and a half. I once again made the mistake of looking at the Goodreads reviews (NOTE TO SELF: the only comments that don't angry up your blood are those at the Comics Curmudgeon. The rest of the Internet is dead to you). There were a lot of complaints that Georgia was shallow and mean. Uh, yes? That's the point? A. She's a fourteen-year-old girl, and they are the most judgmental and terrifying creatures on the planet. B. We can see her better than she sees herself--we know that her parents aren't horrible, that her constant school shenanigans are beyond childish, that dating the boy you can't talk to is Bad News (but a mistake we all make). The self-revealing narrator, particularly in a humorous context, goes back to, I don't know, Don Quixote? Even though that's not first person. Lighten up, folks.
Hard at work on my boyfriend-bestowed summer assignment (unlike, as I'm proud to point out, his other "students"), I've read The Cinema of Josef von Sternberg (John Baxter) and up-until-the-Dietrich-Sternberg-split in Blue Angel, a Dietrich biography by Donald Spoto. Waiting on reading a tome about the sadomasochistic aesthetic in their films until I've actually seen them all--Dishonored is coming on VHS from the NYPL, but darned if I can find Shanghai Express anywhere (OK, at the two library systems and the independent video store I've tried). I've got the paper structure outlined in my head--will probably subject you to excerpts here. But first, I've got an actually-paying article to write for my alma mater's alumni mag, The College. (Read my article on the philosophical implications of Facebook here!)
And I'm now on Book 3 of the Georgia Nicoloson series, and still finding it a hoot and a half. I once again made the mistake of looking at the Goodreads reviews (NOTE TO SELF: the only comments that don't angry up your blood are those at the Comics Curmudgeon. The rest of the Internet is dead to you). There were a lot of complaints that Georgia was shallow and mean. Uh, yes? That's the point? A. She's a fourteen-year-old girl, and they are the most judgmental and terrifying creatures on the planet. B. We can see her better than she sees herself--we know that her parents aren't horrible, that her constant school shenanigans are beyond childish, that dating the boy you can't talk to is Bad News (but a mistake we all make). The self-revealing narrator, particularly in a humorous context, goes back to, I don't know, Don Quixote? Even though that's not first person. Lighten up, folks.
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