Book Learnin'
I am introducing a new feature to this site: Book Learnin'. This is where I read books, and you learn what I think of them. Yee-haw!
Since I've been devouring books lately, let's jump right in:
I am Charlotte Simmons, by Tom Wolfe.
Two words: Excruciating fun. I haven’t read much Wolfe, but his Bonfire of the Vanities was, in my teens, one of my very favorite books. That book was about New York’s race/class struggles seen from all sorts of different viewpoints; Charlotte is about modern-day life at an Ivy League college (one that is inexplicably filled with idiots). It’s been a long time since I last read Bonfire, but I loved its mean-spiritedness and its peek inside a world that I’d known nothing about. Charlotte Simmons is more heavy-handed, by comparison, but definitely gets a lot of things right. Disquietingly so, when you remember that it’s written by a 1000-year-old fop—the man wears spats! Just thinking of him writing the hyper-expository descriptions of teenage body parts (which is not as hot as you’d think—he used the term mons pubis so often I was ready to find his and kick it) in various states of work-out, dance, and general thrusting felt much more perverse than anything described in the book.
The overall old-foggyish tone to the writing undermines much of the book’s would-be brilliance. Objectively, I am Charlotte Simmons could be picked up 100 years from now, and it would be a pretty accurate historical document of college life in the early part of the 21st Century. Unfortunately, anyone who is currently young enough to relate to its accuracy might be left cold by the tone. It’s sort of like getting a play-by-play of the Paris Hilton/Lindsay Lohan feud from your reverend’s 80-year-old wife. For example, early on, the basketball star, Jojo, is described as speaking in Fuck Patois (other characters later speak in Shit Patois). It’s a dead-on observation—people today use fuck and shit in most sentences, as verbs, adjectives, nouns, etc.—but it’s dripping with tsk, tsk, tsk. The author’s own sensibilities seem to be channeled through Charlotte, the ridiculously pure virgin/genius hillbilly—a tabula rosa when it comes to all things pop culture (or, for that matter, all things current). What 18-year-old today is deeply affronted by the fact that no one introduces themselves using last names anymore? I hated her—pages and pages of angst over using a co-ed bathroom; endless inner monologues about her righteousness and purity (always ending in the resolute personal mantra, “I am Charlotte Simmons”); and her parents, with their ridiculously written mountain accents (unlike us, dey ain't tew keen on book learnin') and utter obliviousness. And when Charlotte screws up and falls into a deep depression, I wanted to slap the fucking shit out of her. The I realized that these intense sections, while laborious to read, were as close to perfect in describing an 18-year-old’s depression—and how it makes something relatively incidental seem life-endingly important—as anything I had ever read.
Basically, the book is cheesy and long, and I couldn’t get enough of it. Granted, I was ashamed to be seen reading it on the train—and not just because it was spotted on Bush's bedside table—but I read the 700 pages in under a week and when I was done I kind of wanted more.
Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs, by Chuck Klosterman
Why didn’t I know about Chuck Klosterman? I had heard of him but hadn’t bothered to investigate. I had the idea he was Gen-X’s answer to humorist Dave Barry—writing home spun tales about Volkswagens and Macs. I guess I wasn’t that far off, but I love him. Klosterman is my age, and has pretty much my exact sensibilities (although he is far more into 80s hair metal than I have ever been). Any pop culture weirdo worth their salt should read this book – if only to add one additional reference to their lexicon.
The Emperor’s Children, by Claire Messud
This thing was praised to the heavens by... well, everyone. I thought it was really good. I liked the characters, the premise was right on, the writing was beautiful (even the overwrought sentences). But I saw this review on Amazon.com, and thought it was better than anything I could possibly say:
This is a great book if you live in NY, write books for a living, and think esoteric thoughts about issues with little merit.
Exactly why I loved it!
Lucky Jim, by Kingsley Amis
I started reading this book years ago, after randomly picking it up in the bookstore. Back then, I couldn’t get into it—I read about 15 pages before realizing I had no idea what I was reading. I don’t know if I’m alone in doing this, but sometimes I rush headlong into a book but only really begin comprehending what I’m reading three or four pages in. That didn’t happen with Lucky Jim. My eyes were working, my hands were turning pages, my mind was doing its best, but nothing stuck.
I recently decided to try again. It worked. The book is a hilarious send-up of British college life in the early part of the last century—Charlotte Simmons for the Cambridge set, only far funnier and more appealing, and with less pubis. I loved the main character, Jim Dixon, a college professor teaching who must have just stumbled into the job. He drinks too much, plays ridiculous practical jokes, and is always about to be found out for doing something ridiculous. He has a sort-of girlfriend who he doesn’t really like but feels obligated to help, as she has just recovered from a suicide attempt over another guy. She’s brilliantly written. The girl of his dreams is dating Dixon’s boss’s son, Bertrand, a beret-wearing art snob who speaks Preppy Patois: that’s when you end sentences simultaneously drawing out and nasally eating words, and end up pronouncing phrases like “you see” as “you sam.” So funnam! And when Dixon give his speech on Merrie England... well, read it and you'll see.
Rabbit, Run, by John Updike
I picked this up after seeing it listed as one of the NY Times' Best Works of American Fiction Over the Past 25 years. (It was actually written 46 years ago, in 1960, but it's included because it was published as a set with the four other "Rabbit Novels" in 1995.) I haven't read much by the GREAT AMERICAN MALE NOVELISTS (TM) that include Updike, Roth, Bellow and Mailer. I've read about one book by each - Bellow's perfect Humbolt's Gift and Mailer's excellent The Executioner's Song in their entireties, and half of Roth's Portnoy's Complaint. I didn't finish the Roth because I bought it used and halfway through I found some funky (literally and figuratively) scrap of 1920s-era pornography with a typewritten message on the back shoved in between the pages. Those of you who have read Portnoy's Complaint or have the generally queasy distrust of used paperbacks that I have will understand the potential hideousness of this finding. I hastily deposited the book and its bookmark in the nearest trash container and have not read a word of Roth since.
I had read nothing of Updike but a review of his entire career by David Foster Wallace in Consider the Lobster. Wallace concedes that Updike is one asshole of a beautiful writer, but when he asks some of his female friends for their take, one sums Updike up as: “Penis with a thesaurus." So I had to get my hand’s on Rabbit, Run.
I'm now sorry I did, because I hated it but am compelled to continue on to the next Rabbit nightmare. I really hated this book - I hated the character Harry "Rabbit" Angstrom with a passion. He is a selfish misogynist who leaves his wife and child, yet everyone in town (as well as in neighboring towns) still can't help but love him. Why? Why can't they help it? I managed to resist his charm through 300-plus pages. And the book left me so depressed. I think I took it out on my husband and son - I was tired and grouchy all the time, and felt that everything was meaningless. And, near the end, when Rabbit's idiot wife who I had initially felt pity for does something unreasonably stupid and horrifying, I wanted to drop the book and say a prayer for humanity. (I was on an airplane and felt compelled to hug and then slap all of my flying companions.)
I was so grateful when the whole thing was over, and now I want to read Rabbit Redux, the next piece of the saga. I just have to know, what happens to Rabbit's son Nelson. And idiot Janice, his wife. And the strumpet, Ruth, from the other town, etc. I'm sucked in.
Anyway, that wraps up the inaugural edition of Book Learnin'. Ya'll come backa nyow -yaheah?
Since I've been devouring books lately, let's jump right in:
I am Charlotte Simmons, by Tom Wolfe.
Two words: Excruciating fun. I haven’t read much Wolfe, but his Bonfire of the Vanities was, in my teens, one of my very favorite books. That book was about New York’s race/class struggles seen from all sorts of different viewpoints; Charlotte is about modern-day life at an Ivy League college (one that is inexplicably filled with idiots). It’s been a long time since I last read Bonfire, but I loved its mean-spiritedness and its peek inside a world that I’d known nothing about. Charlotte Simmons is more heavy-handed, by comparison, but definitely gets a lot of things right. Disquietingly so, when you remember that it’s written by a 1000-year-old fop—the man wears spats! Just thinking of him writing the hyper-expository descriptions of teenage body parts (which is not as hot as you’d think—he used the term mons pubis so often I was ready to find his and kick it) in various states of work-out, dance, and general thrusting felt much more perverse than anything described in the book.
The overall old-foggyish tone to the writing undermines much of the book’s would-be brilliance. Objectively, I am Charlotte Simmons could be picked up 100 years from now, and it would be a pretty accurate historical document of college life in the early part of the 21st Century. Unfortunately, anyone who is currently young enough to relate to its accuracy might be left cold by the tone. It’s sort of like getting a play-by-play of the Paris Hilton/Lindsay Lohan feud from your reverend’s 80-year-old wife. For example, early on, the basketball star, Jojo, is described as speaking in Fuck Patois (other characters later speak in Shit Patois). It’s a dead-on observation—people today use fuck and shit in most sentences, as verbs, adjectives, nouns, etc.—but it’s dripping with tsk, tsk, tsk. The author’s own sensibilities seem to be channeled through Charlotte, the ridiculously pure virgin/genius hillbilly—a tabula rosa when it comes to all things pop culture (or, for that matter, all things current). What 18-year-old today is deeply affronted by the fact that no one introduces themselves using last names anymore? I hated her—pages and pages of angst over using a co-ed bathroom; endless inner monologues about her righteousness and purity (always ending in the resolute personal mantra, “I am Charlotte Simmons”); and her parents, with their ridiculously written mountain accents (unlike us, dey ain't tew keen on book learnin') and utter obliviousness. And when Charlotte screws up and falls into a deep depression, I wanted to slap the fucking shit out of her. The I realized that these intense sections, while laborious to read, were as close to perfect in describing an 18-year-old’s depression—and how it makes something relatively incidental seem life-endingly important—as anything I had ever read.
Basically, the book is cheesy and long, and I couldn’t get enough of it. Granted, I was ashamed to be seen reading it on the train—and not just because it was spotted on Bush's bedside table—but I read the 700 pages in under a week and when I was done I kind of wanted more.
Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs, by Chuck Klosterman
Why didn’t I know about Chuck Klosterman? I had heard of him but hadn’t bothered to investigate. I had the idea he was Gen-X’s answer to humorist Dave Barry—writing home spun tales about Volkswagens and Macs. I guess I wasn’t that far off, but I love him. Klosterman is my age, and has pretty much my exact sensibilities (although he is far more into 80s hair metal than I have ever been). Any pop culture weirdo worth their salt should read this book – if only to add one additional reference to their lexicon.
The Emperor’s Children, by Claire Messud
This thing was praised to the heavens by... well, everyone. I thought it was really good. I liked the characters, the premise was right on, the writing was beautiful (even the overwrought sentences). But I saw this review on Amazon.com, and thought it was better than anything I could possibly say:
This is a great book if you live in NY, write books for a living, and think esoteric thoughts about issues with little merit.
Exactly why I loved it!
Lucky Jim, by Kingsley Amis
I started reading this book years ago, after randomly picking it up in the bookstore. Back then, I couldn’t get into it—I read about 15 pages before realizing I had no idea what I was reading. I don’t know if I’m alone in doing this, but sometimes I rush headlong into a book but only really begin comprehending what I’m reading three or four pages in. That didn’t happen with Lucky Jim. My eyes were working, my hands were turning pages, my mind was doing its best, but nothing stuck.
I recently decided to try again. It worked. The book is a hilarious send-up of British college life in the early part of the last century—Charlotte Simmons for the Cambridge set, only far funnier and more appealing, and with less pubis. I loved the main character, Jim Dixon, a college professor teaching who must have just stumbled into the job. He drinks too much, plays ridiculous practical jokes, and is always about to be found out for doing something ridiculous. He has a sort-of girlfriend who he doesn’t really like but feels obligated to help, as she has just recovered from a suicide attempt over another guy. She’s brilliantly written. The girl of his dreams is dating Dixon’s boss’s son, Bertrand, a beret-wearing art snob who speaks Preppy Patois: that’s when you end sentences simultaneously drawing out and nasally eating words, and end up pronouncing phrases like “you see” as “you sam.” So funnam! And when Dixon give his speech on Merrie England... well, read it and you'll see.
Rabbit, Run, by John Updike
I picked this up after seeing it listed as one of the NY Times' Best Works of American Fiction Over the Past 25 years. (It was actually written 46 years ago, in 1960, but it's included because it was published as a set with the four other "Rabbit Novels" in 1995.) I haven't read much by the GREAT AMERICAN MALE NOVELISTS (TM) that include Updike, Roth, Bellow and Mailer. I've read about one book by each - Bellow's perfect Humbolt's Gift and Mailer's excellent The Executioner's Song in their entireties, and half of Roth's Portnoy's Complaint. I didn't finish the Roth because I bought it used and halfway through I found some funky (literally and figuratively) scrap of 1920s-era pornography with a typewritten message on the back shoved in between the pages. Those of you who have read Portnoy's Complaint or have the generally queasy distrust of used paperbacks that I have will understand the potential hideousness of this finding. I hastily deposited the book and its bookmark in the nearest trash container and have not read a word of Roth since.
I had read nothing of Updike but a review of his entire career by David Foster Wallace in Consider the Lobster. Wallace concedes that Updike is one asshole of a beautiful writer, but when he asks some of his female friends for their take, one sums Updike up as: “Penis with a thesaurus." So I had to get my hand’s on Rabbit, Run.
I'm now sorry I did, because I hated it but am compelled to continue on to the next Rabbit nightmare. I really hated this book - I hated the character Harry "Rabbit" Angstrom with a passion. He is a selfish misogynist who leaves his wife and child, yet everyone in town (as well as in neighboring towns) still can't help but love him. Why? Why can't they help it? I managed to resist his charm through 300-plus pages. And the book left me so depressed. I think I took it out on my husband and son - I was tired and grouchy all the time, and felt that everything was meaningless. And, near the end, when Rabbit's idiot wife who I had initially felt pity for does something unreasonably stupid and horrifying, I wanted to drop the book and say a prayer for humanity. (I was on an airplane and felt compelled to hug and then slap all of my flying companions.)
I was so grateful when the whole thing was over, and now I want to read Rabbit Redux, the next piece of the saga. I just have to know, what happens to Rabbit's son Nelson. And idiot Janice, his wife. And the strumpet, Ruth, from the other town, etc. I'm sucked in.
Anyway, that wraps up the inaugural edition of Book Learnin'. Ya'll come backa nyow -yaheah?
posted by j.m. at 2:49 PM
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