Only three "classic" reviews left after this one. Still not sure what I'll be doing after I've run out of them. -M.R.
Context: I still have very fond memories of reading this book, although I'm not sure I'd still agree with the sweeping generalizations I've made in this review. Unfortunately, I read this book before I started keeping a book journal, and I don't remember anymore what part I've eluded to that made me cry. Also, fun fact: the first book to make me cry was Catherine Marshall's Christy, which inspired the Christy tv series that I loved with my entire nine year-old heart and can't find on youtube for some reason.
Year Published: 1997
Pages: 321
First Sentence: We have been lost to each other for so long.
Review:
Oh wow. First things first, this is only the second book ever to make me cry. Seriously, I shed tears over this thing.
And there's no punch line that I was crying only because it was so terrible, either. This was an excellent, excellent book. I will hazard that males may not find it quite so enjoyable. As I informed one friend, it's pretty "womanish."
The story is that of Dinah, one of the many women in the Bible mentioned only in passing. However, Dinah is given several verses worth of a story, where most are only named. Apparently she was no Esther, but her story was interesting and bloody enough to be noted. You don't need to be Jewish or Christian to appreciate this story, though. It isn't preachy, and even though I grabbed my Bible again and read a bit of it because I'd forgotten the story as it is told there, you don't need to do that either.
The only danger is in believing Diamant too much. This is after all, what she imagines Dinah felt, not what was actually experienced. By which I mean that maybe what Diamant describes as love really was rape.
Or then again, maybe not.
There is stunning depth and tragedy here, and Dinah's story is not only evocative, but interesting. This was a bestseller for a reason. Again I will caution that this book would probably not entertain the vast majority of men to the extent that it entertained me. First of all, it is principally (pretty close to entirely) about women, and the women's world which we've all but lost. There are no battles, although there is murder and lots of overall sensual earthiness (which I don't know how to describe any better than that).
This book made me think, which I appreciate. So much that is written isn't designed to provoke thought, but simply to entertain. The Red Tent accomplishes both, not necessarily with 'style and panache' but rather with simplicity and grace of storytelling. Basically, what I concluded from reading this thing and enjoying it so much, is that we women love our right to vote, and being 'persons,' but deep down we miss this entire separate world that used to be ours.
And I won't tell you what part made me cry.
88. The Call of the Wild by Jack London
Year Published: 1903Pages: 137
First sentence: Buck did not read the newspapers, or he would have known that trouble was brewing, not alone for himself, but for every tidewater dog, strong of muscle and with warm, long hair, from Puget Sound to San Diego.
Review:
So this is the first review of a book that I've already read (excluding Jane Eyre, obviously). My first experience with The Call of the Wild wasn't a very good one. I borrowed it (that time and this one) from my sister's box set of "Children's Classics" (e.g. Black Beauty, The Wind in the Willows, The Secret Garden, White Fang, etc.). Actually I think I bought the set as a gift for her, and I've read all the books, but she hasn't. Anyway, I don't think I was more than 14 years old or so the first time I read this book, and I hated it. As a child and cat person, I couldn't appreciate a book with a dog as the main character, no matter how good the execution.
Which brings us to the present, but first I'll tell you what the book is about. Like I said, the protagonist is a dog. I have a pretty strong suspicion that that that makes the book unique in The List. Buck is a St. Bernard/Shepherd cross living in luxury on some rambling estate in California or somewhere. That is until sturdy dogs like him become a precious commodity to be shipped up north during the Yukon gold rush. So off he goes, and he's brilliant and wonderful, and gradually starts to hear THE CALL OF THE WILD.
Sounds pretty lame.
Isn't!
I was totally ready to hate this book again, but it very pleasantly surprised me (take that, Ironweed!). Though pretty weak in the plot department, that's not at all what the important thing is here. What happens to Buck is what matters. The so-called Call of the Wild is a beckoning to the primitive time before our ancestors tamed his, and it's oddly affecting. And even though I'm still a cat person and believe the one lounging on the rug in front of me right now hears the Call of the Wild at all times and simply ignores it in favour of a life of ease, Jack London somehow convinced me that dogs are capable of being kind of cool sometimes, too. I've also developed an even more urgent desire to go to the Yukon.
To be completely honest, though, the main impression I got from this book had very little to do with the book itself, and is basically that Jack London must've been a fucking cool dude. Someone please direct me to a good biography. This is the first dead author crush I've had since the first and only (so far!) time I read Vonnegut, back in 2006. Seriously though, Jack London: too bad he died before any of my grandparents were even born.
Quotations:
With the aurora borealis flaming coldly overhead, or the stars leaping in the frost dance, and the land numb and frozen under its pall of snow, this song of the huskies might have been the defiance of life, only it was pitched in minor key, with long-drawn wailings and half-sobs, and was more the pleading of life, the articulate travail of existence. It was an old song, old as the breed itself—one of the first songs of the younger world in a day when songs were sad.
Rating: 3/3 (read it!)
R12. The Man in the High Castle by Philip K. Dick [classic]
Sorry about the "interesting points that I'm definitely interested in" last week, you guys. I had a cold... That's my only excuse. Another "classic" review this week. -M.R.
Context: I actually don't really remember when I read this one or much about reading it, but I know I'd really like to have another look at it. I'm not quite willing to stand behind this review anymore, because a ton of sf nerds love to drool all over "PKD" and I need to give him a few more shots before I dismiss him entirely like I seem to've done here. So far I've read this book and The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch, which was... okay. But then I've seen Blade Runner and A Scanner Darkly and really enjoyed both. (Obviously I know that's not the same thing as reading the books they're adapted from, but it still seemed like a relevant detail.)
Year Published: 1962
Pages: 272
First Sentence: For a week Mr. R. Childan had been anxiously watching the mail.
Review:
This book was not as awesome as it could've been, not by a long shot. Okay, sure, it won a Hugo and everything, but my theory is that it's just because the concept is so neat. The writing, however, leaves much to be desired, at least by me.
For one thing, PKD (as I will abbreviate the author's name over the course of this review so that I can avoid any bad jokes involving the word 'Dick') makes use of, at certain times, a very halting sort of language. I don't recall now whether it was articles that he was leaving out, or what (and I no longer have the grammatical expertise to truly define what he was doing anyway), but it disrupted the whole flow of the narrative. What I mean by that is that I was much too aware, at times, that I was reading. Perhaps there was a certain effect he was going for, a semblance or parallel he was trying to draw with the speech pattern of his Japanese characters. Maybe it works on some people, but it certainly didn't work on me.
Also, there's use of German in this book and I, like many others, don't speak German. I don't read it, either. That's why it would've been nice for PKD to toss in some translations, because every once in awhile I felt like I was really missing out on something where the German bits are concerned. Not a lot, of course, but enough.
We now come to the perplexing ending. Don't worry, I won't give it away or anything. But what the hell? Many a promising sf story is sadly marred by an obscure or absurd ending. Case in point: John Wyndham's The Chrysalids. The ending for The Man in the High Castle wasn't even close to being that awful, but it was still... well, it was just weird. Maybe PKD was trying to lighten things up a little, given that his subject matter on the whole was pretty bleak, but if that's the case, then it kind of cheapens the whole novel. Alternate history is about saying what could have been, rather than, "This could've happened, but oh God, that's way too scary, so I, the author, am going to cop out at the end so that my readers don't get too unsettled." Terrible terrible. Of course, that's not necessarily the case. I may just have to give PKD the benefit of the doubt: that he was not self-censoring, but rather making a point, and that point went over my head.
Maybe the key was in the untranslated German phrases.
Context: I actually don't really remember when I read this one or much about reading it, but I know I'd really like to have another look at it. I'm not quite willing to stand behind this review anymore, because a ton of sf nerds love to drool all over "PKD" and I need to give him a few more shots before I dismiss him entirely like I seem to've done here. So far I've read this book and The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch, which was... okay. But then I've seen Blade Runner and A Scanner Darkly and really enjoyed both. (Obviously I know that's not the same thing as reading the books they're adapted from, but it still seemed like a relevant detail.)
Year Published: 1962
Pages: 272
First Sentence: For a week Mr. R. Childan had been anxiously watching the mail.
Review:
This book was not as awesome as it could've been, not by a long shot. Okay, sure, it won a Hugo and everything, but my theory is that it's just because the concept is so neat. The writing, however, leaves much to be desired, at least by me.
For one thing, PKD (as I will abbreviate the author's name over the course of this review so that I can avoid any bad jokes involving the word 'Dick') makes use of, at certain times, a very halting sort of language. I don't recall now whether it was articles that he was leaving out, or what (and I no longer have the grammatical expertise to truly define what he was doing anyway), but it disrupted the whole flow of the narrative. What I mean by that is that I was much too aware, at times, that I was reading. Perhaps there was a certain effect he was going for, a semblance or parallel he was trying to draw with the speech pattern of his Japanese characters. Maybe it works on some people, but it certainly didn't work on me.
Also, there's use of German in this book and I, like many others, don't speak German. I don't read it, either. That's why it would've been nice for PKD to toss in some translations, because every once in awhile I felt like I was really missing out on something where the German bits are concerned. Not a lot, of course, but enough.
We now come to the perplexing ending. Don't worry, I won't give it away or anything. But what the hell? Many a promising sf story is sadly marred by an obscure or absurd ending. Case in point: John Wyndham's The Chrysalids. The ending for The Man in the High Castle wasn't even close to being that awful, but it was still... well, it was just weird. Maybe PKD was trying to lighten things up a little, given that his subject matter on the whole was pretty bleak, but if that's the case, then it kind of cheapens the whole novel. Alternate history is about saying what could have been, rather than, "This could've happened, but oh God, that's way too scary, so I, the author, am going to cop out at the end so that my readers don't get too unsettled." Terrible terrible. Of course, that's not necessarily the case. I may just have to give PKD the benefit of the doubt: that he was not self-censoring, but rather making a point, and that point went over my head.
Maybe the key was in the untranslated German phrases.
89. Loving by Henry Green
Today we're finally returning to some semblance of normality, although I'm a bit concerned cuz I'm not reading very far ahead anymore. The Old Wives' Tale is an exceptionally long book. But anyway this letter from the Hipster Book Club editor is again kind of relevant and brings up some more interesting points that I'm definitely interested in, and thought you guys might be, too. -M.R.
Year Published: 1945
Pages: 204
First sentence: Once upon a day an old butler called Eldon lay dying in his room attended by the head housemaid, Miss Agatha Burch.
Review:
Loving is a sort of fairytale about the English servants of some rich English people on an estate in Ireland during World War II. It also has an extremely lame title. Seriously. Loving?! (Henry Green, by the way, gets bonus points for having been an engineer as well as a novelist, which gives me a little hope for my own literary pursuits.)
Anyway, to elaborate, the book begins with the death of Eldon, the old butler, and the promotion of Charley Raunce. The residents of "the Castle" are Mrs. Tennant, her daughter-in-law Mrs. Jack (Tennant), and Mrs. Jack's two daughters, Moira and Evelyn. There are, in retrospect, a ton of characters in this book. Agatha Burch is the head housemaid, in charge of two other maids, Kate and Edith. Raunce is in charge of a boy called Albert. The staff is rounded out by a Mrs. Welch, Mary, and Jane in the kitchen; the Irishman O'Conor, lampman and peacock caretaker; Miss Swift the nanny; and Mrs. Welch's nephew Albert. Oh, and Michael the driver. It's hard to describe the plot with any brevity when there are this many people running around in it, but basically the servants' quarters are drama central. Raunce is stealing from Mrs. Tennant by cooking the books, Edith steals waterglass from the cook, Mrs. Jack is cheating on her husband and all the servants know, Kate is somehow involved with O'Conor, "Raunce's Albert" is in love with Edith, and so on.
For being so action-packed, Loving was actually just boring, such as I suppose these people's lives must've been.
Green's writing was both amazing and horrible. The narrative often failed to draw me in, and when it succeeded, it often kicked me right back out again, mainly because the man appears to despise commas (and I, as you know, am too fond of them). As I said, in retrospect there are lots of characters, but actually they're almost all very distinct personalities, despite Green's really minimalist treatment of them. Probably my favourite thing about the novel, though (except the last sentence, which was the most astonishing one since The Postman Always Rings Twice), was the way that descriptions of the Tennant's riches were randomly—but oh so deliberately—scattered throughout the narrative. Like, the story is just sauntering along as Edith cleans a grate, and then it suddenly zooms in on the rich brocade of the sofa, or whatever.
Finally, I have to say that I don't think I know enough about British accents (circa the 40s, even) to appreciate the significance of the dropped Hs here. There's probably some giant class commentary happening that I only caught the edges of because of that. I mean the commentary is obvious, but although I can see it I feel like maybe I'm not getting any of the jokes or something.
I'm not quite sure how to sum up except to say that I think this one does better as a study of writing technique than as an entertaining novel.
Quotations:
I have to admit that I cheated a little bit with this one and read the Wikipedia article about the book. It hardly says anything, but yielded this little gem regarding what Green told someone about his inspiration: "I once asked an old butler in Ireland what had been the happiest time of his life. The butler replied, 'Lying in bed on Sunday morning, eating tea and toast with cunty fingers.'"
Rating: 2/3 (meh)
Year Published: 1945Pages: 204
First sentence: Once upon a day an old butler called Eldon lay dying in his room attended by the head housemaid, Miss Agatha Burch.
Review:
Loving is a sort of fairytale about the English servants of some rich English people on an estate in Ireland during World War II. It also has an extremely lame title. Seriously. Loving?! (Henry Green, by the way, gets bonus points for having been an engineer as well as a novelist, which gives me a little hope for my own literary pursuits.)
Anyway, to elaborate, the book begins with the death of Eldon, the old butler, and the promotion of Charley Raunce. The residents of "the Castle" are Mrs. Tennant, her daughter-in-law Mrs. Jack (Tennant), and Mrs. Jack's two daughters, Moira and Evelyn. There are, in retrospect, a ton of characters in this book. Agatha Burch is the head housemaid, in charge of two other maids, Kate and Edith. Raunce is in charge of a boy called Albert. The staff is rounded out by a Mrs. Welch, Mary, and Jane in the kitchen; the Irishman O'Conor, lampman and peacock caretaker; Miss Swift the nanny; and Mrs. Welch's nephew Albert. Oh, and Michael the driver. It's hard to describe the plot with any brevity when there are this many people running around in it, but basically the servants' quarters are drama central. Raunce is stealing from Mrs. Tennant by cooking the books, Edith steals waterglass from the cook, Mrs. Jack is cheating on her husband and all the servants know, Kate is somehow involved with O'Conor, "Raunce's Albert" is in love with Edith, and so on.
For being so action-packed, Loving was actually just boring, such as I suppose these people's lives must've been.
Green's writing was both amazing and horrible. The narrative often failed to draw me in, and when it succeeded, it often kicked me right back out again, mainly because the man appears to despise commas (and I, as you know, am too fond of them). As I said, in retrospect there are lots of characters, but actually they're almost all very distinct personalities, despite Green's really minimalist treatment of them. Probably my favourite thing about the novel, though (except the last sentence, which was the most astonishing one since The Postman Always Rings Twice), was the way that descriptions of the Tennant's riches were randomly—but oh so deliberately—scattered throughout the narrative. Like, the story is just sauntering along as Edith cleans a grate, and then it suddenly zooms in on the rich brocade of the sofa, or whatever.
Finally, I have to say that I don't think I know enough about British accents (circa the 40s, even) to appreciate the significance of the dropped Hs here. There's probably some giant class commentary happening that I only caught the edges of because of that. I mean the commentary is obvious, but although I can see it I feel like maybe I'm not getting any of the jokes or something.
I'm not quite sure how to sum up except to say that I think this one does better as a study of writing technique than as an entertaining novel.
Quotations:
I have to admit that I cheated a little bit with this one and read the Wikipedia article about the book. It hardly says anything, but yielded this little gem regarding what Green told someone about his inspiration: "I once asked an old butler in Ireland what had been the happiest time of his life. The butler replied, 'Lying in bed on Sunday morning, eating tea and toast with cunty fingers.'"
Rating: 2/3 (meh)
R11. The Black Cat by Robert Poe [classic]
Here is a very timely A.V. Club article discussing some of the points that came up last week. I just read it last night, but I really wish I'd seen it when it was first posted.
I'm going to be taking a short break from reviewing the romnovs. This isn't because I feel that I'm doing anything wrong, just because a) they mostly aren't much fun to read, and b) I'm trying to figure out how to continue the project in a way that makes me comfortable with the fact that some author might see what I've said about his or her book(s). The "R" in the romnov numbering is going to stand for "Random" for a little while. However, because I don't have any reviews of other books prepared, and haven't read anything recently enough to do a good review of it, I'm going to post some "classic" reviews that I originally wrote for my old angelfire website. None of these was written more recently than 2006. Some of them are less than generous, however since they've already been on the internet, I feel less weird posting them than I would posting a new romnov review (at the moment, anyway). And they're all pretty horrible. Better than nothing, though, right? -M.R.
Context: None available, really. To this day I'll read anything that catches my eye, but I couldn't tell you why this one did, except that I truly do like E.A. Poe.
Year Published: 1998
Pages: 278
Review:
I am not going to say that this book was all bad. But I am going to say that Robert Poe isn't the greatest writer in the entire world. Not by any stretch of the imagination.
When you write, you don't want the reader to be aware that they are reading. You want them to be completely and totally unaware of that fact. So, Mr. Poe manages this most of the time, but then every once in a while, he'll slip some strangeness into the narrative or dialogue that brings you back to reality with an unpleasant jolt.
As far as the plot was considered, it was actually pretty good. It was kind of structured around the original Edgar Allan Poe story by the same name as the novel, which I liked, because good ole Edgar Allan is one of my favourites. However, there were a few not-so-cool loose ends, and some awkwardness in the characters. For example, the Reverend What's-his-name was fanatical, for no reason. The novel could've been much better than it was.
Another problem was that Poe was a complete idiot about his subject matter. Well, maybe not quite that bad. Maybe it was just the topic that was stupid. I'm referring to the discussion of heavy metal fans, that kind of thing. Poe made it so that the average teenager who listened to heavy metal was a complete creep. Listening to a certain band entailed that the teenagers were immediately misguided. I don't know. It was just absurd.
There were a lot of good elements to this novel, but towards the end, I'm not sure if it was out of boredom and the necessity to finish or suspense that kept me reading.
I'm going to be taking a short break from reviewing the romnovs. This isn't because I feel that I'm doing anything wrong, just because a) they mostly aren't much fun to read, and b) I'm trying to figure out how to continue the project in a way that makes me comfortable with the fact that some author might see what I've said about his or her book(s). The "R" in the romnov numbering is going to stand for "Random" for a little while. However, because I don't have any reviews of other books prepared, and haven't read anything recently enough to do a good review of it, I'm going to post some "classic" reviews that I originally wrote for my old angelfire website. None of these was written more recently than 2006. Some of them are less than generous, however since they've already been on the internet, I feel less weird posting them than I would posting a new romnov review (at the moment, anyway). And they're all pretty horrible. Better than nothing, though, right? -M.R.
Context: None available, really. To this day I'll read anything that catches my eye, but I couldn't tell you why this one did, except that I truly do like E.A. Poe.Year Published: 1998
Pages: 278
Review:
I am not going to say that this book was all bad. But I am going to say that Robert Poe isn't the greatest writer in the entire world. Not by any stretch of the imagination.
When you write, you don't want the reader to be aware that they are reading. You want them to be completely and totally unaware of that fact. So, Mr. Poe manages this most of the time, but then every once in a while, he'll slip some strangeness into the narrative or dialogue that brings you back to reality with an unpleasant jolt.
As far as the plot was considered, it was actually pretty good. It was kind of structured around the original Edgar Allan Poe story by the same name as the novel, which I liked, because good ole Edgar Allan is one of my favourites. However, there were a few not-so-cool loose ends, and some awkwardness in the characters. For example, the Reverend What's-his-name was fanatical, for no reason. The novel could've been much better than it was.
Another problem was that Poe was a complete idiot about his subject matter. Well, maybe not quite that bad. Maybe it was just the topic that was stupid. I'm referring to the discussion of heavy metal fans, that kind of thing. Poe made it so that the average teenager who listened to heavy metal was a complete creep. Listening to a certain band entailed that the teenagers were immediately misguided. I don't know. It was just absurd.
There were a lot of good elements to this novel, but towards the end, I'm not sure if it was out of boredom and the necessity to finish or suspense that kept me reading.
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