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Book Rate
A
digested book "review": cheap shots, glib commentary,
shameless advocacy of insidious ideology of social and economic
justice and idiosyncratic and totally arbitrary choices of books
that come our way via our gallant and steadfast UPS drivers and
other routes...
Maybe.
Note: (RB) = Robert
Birnbaum; (RLW) = RL
Whalen; (JT) = Janice Tsai; (AK) = Angie
Kritenbrink; (MB) equals Matt
Borondy; and soon enough there will be other abbreviations to
deal with. Links go to Amazon.com.
Last updated: October 7, 2004
Arc of Justice: A Saga of Race, Civil Rights and Murder
in the Jazz Age, by Kevin Boyle (Henry Holt, 415 p.p.)
The Scottsboro Boys case--and a few decades later, the murder of
Emmett Till--have acted as landmark instances of the virulent racial
hatred that has bubbled under the surface of American history and
occasionally grabbed headlines for an instant or two. Historian
Boyle retrieves the case of a young black doctor, Ossian Smith,
from the dustbin of history and presents the story of Smith's murder
trial in Detroit in 1925. The personae dramatis include
famed defense attorney Clarence Darrow and playwright James Weldon
Johnson, who contribute to this vivid and detailed portrayal of
a riveting moment in American history. Speaking of the Emmett Till
case, the indictment of the admitted murderers earlier this year
seemed to overshadow the publication of Mamie Till Mobley's memoir,
Death of Innocence: The Hate Crime That Changed America.
Sadly, Mobley passed away before she might gain some measure of
satisfaction from the long overdue attempt to rectify a heinous
act. (RB)
Beautiful Somewhere Else, by Stephen Policoff
(Carroll & Graf, 253 p.p.)
It’s a simple thing, really, but I was drawn to the idea
of reading Stephen Policoff’s debut novel because of its title.
I carried Beautiful Somewhere Else around with me on the
bus and to work -- even to the Social Security office -- and often
thought it was deeply appropriate to be reading a book called Beautiful
Somewhere Else in such dreary and uninspiring places. Susan
Choi called BSE “the literary equivalent of riding
out a hurricane on the beach in a lawn chair with a beer in your
hand,” and, as the recent veteran of four hurricanes, I’d
agree with that. I kept thinking this was the kind of book that
would be good to read at a café in Paris. It actually felt
a lot like a French New Wave film: artfully done, a bit experimental
and nonlinear, and highlighted with random awkward sexual situations.
So, if you’re into that sort of thing, Beautiful Somewhere
Else is definitely worth a look. You might also be interested
in reading about Policoff’s frustrating experiences with the
publication and promotion of this novel. For more on that, check
out Salon.com
and an essay over at the Elegant
Variation. (MB)
Farewell, My Queen, by Chantal Thomas
(Touchstone, 2004)
Farewell, My Queen tells the story of the last days the
French aristocracy through the eyes of a minor member of Marie Antoinette’s
court, her reader. This is the first novel by Thomas, a specialist
in 18th century literature who does research for a prestigious French
institution and previously the author of two nonfiction books. The
historical detail is meticulous –- this is not one of those
historical novels that is only concerned with the budding romantic
or intellectual spirit of a young fictional narrator.
But when reading historical fiction, that’s the fun part.
This one takes itself too seriously. The style of the novel was
somewhat disconcerting. The narrative has a proclivity to drift
in and out as if the narrator were coming in and out of consciousness,
and while this does lend to a sense of immediacy necessary for this
story, it proves to be somewhat distracting. As the situation grows
more bleak for the royal court, there is quite a bit of waiting
around, wondering and gossiping in the narrative as well, which
could be suspenseful –- if I didn’t already know how
the story ended.
Off with their heads; on to the next book. (AK)
Going Nucular, by Geoffrey Nunberg (PublicAffairs
Books, 2004)
Anyone who is a fan of Geoff Nunberg’s work on NPR’s
Fresh Air will love this book. So will anyone who loves
words, anyone who is concerned about the culture of communication,
anyone who is looking for something concise and insightful to read
on an airplane, etc. Going Nucular is a collection of Nunberg’s
linguistic columns and commentaries that that is loosely structured
around the culture of politics and war, with additional chapters
about business and the media.
One especially interesting chapter examines the way the Bush Administration,
the media, and the public at large have used language to describe
the current war on whatever, including a commentary in which Nunberg
considers, as part of a larger argument about the difference between
“typos” and “thinkos,” the tendencies of
W. and others to consistently mispronounce the word “nuclear”
when discussing weaponry. His ultimate point is a larger one about
politicians’ purposeful use of “folksy” language
to try to appeal to mass audiences as well as the purposeful misuse
of the word in the weapons industry.
You get all of that in four pages. And then there are dozens more
like it. Ultimately, it’s hard to find something this great
that you can read this quickly. If you fit any of the above criteria
and your schedule is anything like mine, this book will be a welcome
addition to your reading list. (AK)
Join Me!, by Danny Wallace (Plume, 337 pp)
The book-marketing people describe Join Me! as “the
story of how one man started a cult…by accident.”
That one man is Danny Wallace, who thought it would be clever to
put a vague ad in an obscure London newspaper that simply read “join
me” (and asked for a passport photo in order to gain membership).
Much to the dismay of his girlfriend, the ploy got responses from
several curious people and then snowballed into a worldwide social
phenomenon. The book, written in a comic tone, details Danny’s
experiences with the idiosyncratic folks who joined his “collective”
and performed random acts of kindness to strangers. It’s a
fun read, and it reminded me a lot about what it was like to start
identitytheory.com: not knowing entirely what you were starting,
yet having a bunch of people get involved for no apparent reason.
Anyway, you can check out the actual members of Join Me--passport
photos and all--over at http://www.join-me.co.uk/.
(MB)
Last Dance in Havana, by Eugene Robinson (Free
Press, 271 p.p.)
So few books manage to capture anything resembling a dependable
view of the magical island nation—coming from some unspoken
imperative to demonize both Castro and the Cuban revolution—that
anyone that offers even a glimmer of non-ideological insight and
observation might be labeled a triumph. Washington Post
Managing Editor Robinson uses the island's music scene as the lens
with which to comprehend Cuba's present and near future. He delves
into a little cultural history and writes, "Cuba's music is
Cuba's greatest freedom, its inalienable liberty, its irrevocable
bill of rights." (RB)
Mina, by Jonatha Ceely (Delacorte Press, 2004)
There is nothing I like more in a historical novel than a spunky
heroine with red hair. What’s even better is Mina, the titular
character in Jonatha Ceely’s new novel, has to hide her red
hair. In addition, you guessed it, circumstances have required that
she dress like a boy. You see, it’s the height of the Irish
potato famine, and Mina, after losing most of her family and being
separated from the brother she has left, has escaped to England
and taken work as a stable boy.
But of course, this doesn’t last long, and of course, she
goes to work in the kitchen for the kindly, and of course very handsome
chef, Mr. Serle, who is a bit of an outsider himself. As they form
a bond, etc., they also cook a lot of really delicious sounding
food, young Mina learns a few things, Mr. Serle teaches a few things,
and before you know it you have chewed your way through a thoroughly
enjoyable novel, suitable for reading on an actual beach somewhere.
(AK)
Mortification: Writers' Stories of their Public Shame,
edit. by Robin Robertson ( 4th Estate, 265 p.p.)
I suppose in the spirit of curatorial ambition and imagination,
the drive to collect the real-life stories of those odd creatures,
the writers among us, editors (the new curators) like English poet
and editor Robin Robertson will continue to collect and anthologize
all manner of narrative ephemera. In Robertson's case, "Having
spent many years in the company of writers before and after public
engagements, I have been regularly entertained by their tales of
past deflations and struck by their willingness to turn abasement
into anecdote. And for the reader, apart from the sheer schadenfreude
of it all, there is admiration too: for the acknowledgement of human
frailty, of punctured pride, but also of the seeming absurdity of
trying to bring private art into the public space." The 70
short tidbits include revelations from Margaret Atwood, Carl Hiaasen,
Paul Muldoon, Mark Doty, William Trevor and James Wood, et cetera.
This volume's epigram taken from Francis de la Rochefoucald shows
the appropriate tone of this odd salad, "We are all strong
enough to bear the misfortune of others." (RB)
Open City Number 19 (Summer/Fall 2004, 218 p.p.)
This latest edition of this Thomas Beller-founded small literary
magazine weighs in with the usual assortment of small gems, not
the least of which are four poems by Rosie favorite Jim Harrison.
I probably forgot to mention that Beller has an excellent story,
“Sally the Slut,” in the newest Ploughshares.
(RB)
Pablo Neruda: A Passion for Life, by Adam Feinstein
(Bloomsbury, 497 p.p.)
Recently (in noting a new biography of Jorge Luis Borges) I observed
something dumb, to the effect that last year saw the publication
of numerous literary biographies and that there appeared to be some
surcease since. That is most likely not true as this biography and
a new Kafka by Nicholas Murray (as well Robert McCrum's forthcoming
P.G Wodehouse) attest. Feinstein's claim to be the first authoritative
biography of Chilean poet Neruda comes in the Nobel Laureate's centenary
year. Revered thoroughout the world and lionized in the film Il
Postino, Neruda's reputation is not without its blemishes.
Take Steven
Schwartz's screed:
"There is probably no more chance of halting this current
binge of Neruda worship than there is of banishing the cicadas,
but, still, the truth does need to be said: Pablo Neruda was a bad
writer and a bad man. His main public is located not in the Spanish-speaking
nations but in the Anglo-European countries, and his reputation
derives almost entirely from the iconic place he once occupied in
politics--which is to say, he's ‘the greatest poet of the
twentieth century’ because he was a Stalinist at exactly the
right moment, and not because of his poetry, which is doggerel."
Naturally, Edward Hirsch demurs, "Neruda remains an immense
presence in poetry. His work contained multitudes, like his beloved
predecessor Walt Whitman. He was a poet of freedom and the sea,
a wondrous love poet, the singer of an endlessly proliferating nature,
a necessary voice of social consciousness. His work is radiantly
impure and obstinately humane.”
In his Memoirs, Neruda asserts: "Poetry is a deep
inner calling in man; from it came liturgy, the psalms, and also
the content of religions. The poet confronted nature's phenomena
and in the early ages called himself a priest, to safeguard his
vocation … Today's social poet is still a member of the earliest
order of priests. In the old days he made his pact with the darkness,
and now he must interpret the light." Oh well. (RB)
Sore Winners (and the Rest of Us) in George Bush's
America, by John Powers (Doubleday, 371 p.p.)
John Powers occupies a senior editorial position at LA Weekly
and writes a column of hybrid cultural interests called "On"
for that newspaper—which is the foundation for this book.
Powers calls it a "piece of pop mythology that explores the
polarized culture of unreality over which (George W) Bush rules."
Powers is a witty observer (Cheney as the "President's cloven-hoofed
Richelieu"). I was drawn to a kind of laid-back sensibility
of criticism that is reflected in Powers recalling his own mother's
admonition, "You're supposed to treat people decently no matter
who they are. If you don't know that, you don’t know a goddamn
thing." (RB)
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