Meditations, by Marcus Aurelius

Meditations
Marcus Aurelius

This might be deemed a rather traditional pick, but I’m surprised to find myself liking Meditations so much.

First, however, I have an interesting anecdote related to my reading this book. About eight years ago, I worked in a prominent Philadelphia law firm. I hated it. The people were creeps, for the most part. Well, everyone knew that I was only working there while on break from college, and that I wasn’t *really* interested in becoming a lawyer. There was one guy there, a secretary (which is odd in itself; not that there’s anything wrong with being a male secretary, except for the fact that he was the only one). Aside from being practically the only male secretary (in a firm which boasted about several hundred permanent and floating secretaries), he was just an odd dude. He had a penetrating stare that seemed to bore into a person, and yet he rarely spoke to others. When he did, his conversation was stilted and awkward. Well, anyway, once this guy confronted me in an elevator. I worked on about the fiftieth floor, so we were in the elevator for a bit, and escape was, unfortunately for me, impossible.

“I hear you’re an English major,” he said.

“Um...yeah, I am.”

“Have you read Meditations?”

“Um…no. Who wrote it?”

“Marcus Aurelius. It’s excellent. I will bring it in for you to borrow.”

The next day, here comes Mr. Weird, with his prized book. Who lends a book to someone he hardly knows? Not I. I don’t like lending books to my own mother, much less a twenty-year-old stranger. It’s even more bizarre when you consider that this, according to him, was one of the most influential books he’s ever read. You wouldn’t pry that book from my cold dead hand. What can I say, I’m protective of my books.

Anyway, that summer, I was busy partying, like every other summer before I turned 21 and became bored with such doings. I had no time for Marcus Aurelius or anyone else, for that matter. But a few weeks later, he stops by my desk.

“Have you read it? What do you think?”

“Actually, no…I haven’t had a chance to read it yet. I’ve been so unbelievably busy. [A blatant lie.] I will bring it in for you tomorrow since I am taking so long with it.”

And then, unbelievably, he says, “No. Give it back when you’ve finished it.” And, with those words, he walked away.

I never saw him again. I returned to college, graduated, and got a real job, one that did not involve lawyers. [If you are a lawyer, I’m sorry. But it is more than likely that you are a pain in the ass to work for.]

I graduated college in May 2000, and I’ve finally found time to fit Marcus into my life. Of course, I still have this poor guy’s book, and now I’m mocking him on my stupid blog. I can respect his generosity, although I can admit that I would not be so generous myself. And I thank him, really I do, because Meditations is really damn good.

As the translator notes in his introduction, this book is an excellent bedside book, because you can just pick it up, read a short selection from anywhere in the book, and put it down again. The book basically consists of his thoughts (ahem, meditations) on life. Sometimes he writes his advice on how to lead a good life; other times, he writes his thoughts on death and other important topics. Each nugget is short—a paragraph at most—and these paragraphs are compiled into 12 books, or chapters.

While I don’t find every thing he says to be relevant to my life, he does make many points that I find myself going back to underline so that I might remember them. To wit:

1. To wonder what so-and-so is doing and why, or what he is saying, or thinking, or scheming—in a word, anything that distracts you from fidelity to the Ruler within you—means a loss of opportunity for some other task. (Book 3)


2. That men of a certain type should behave as they do is inevitable. To wish it otherwise were to wish the fig-tree would not yield its juice. In any case, remember that in a very little while both you and he will be dead, and your very names will quickly be forgotten. (Book 4)


3. Nothing can happen to any man that nature has not fitted him to endure. (Book 5)

In a nutshell: I cannot imagine that anyone would read this book and not find it helpful in some way. There is something for everyone here. His wisdom is timeless, and he makes many points which we would do well to remember more often.

Bibliolatry scale: 6 out of 6

Possession, by A.S. Byatt

Possession
A.S. Byatt

Maybe I just don’t get it. I consider myself a literary person—I’ve read a lot of classic and contemporary literature. I consider myself educated; I have a Master’s degree in literature. But I just don’t get Byatt’s Possession. What is wrong with me? Everyone else sings this book’s praises.

Well, not me.

Possession has been recommended by nearly everyone I know. Ok, that’s an exaggeration, but close. And, based on everything I’d heard, I thought that, when everything was said and done, I’d recognize it as a great book as well. It didn’t happen.

This book took me forever to read because I simply couldn’t get into it. I could give a shit about every single one of these characters. If you are unaware of the storyline, Possession is about two literary scholars who are each researching a poet. As they pour through the old letters of their respective poets, they uncover the secret love affair that these two carried on. Meanwhile, the two researchers fall in love. Conflict arises because other academics want these love letters, as this research is obviously earth-shattering and would forever change academia. So the race is on to find all of these letters and piece together the zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Oh, sorry. I fell asleep.

Good lord, I consider myself an academic; I love learning, and I love literature, and I love poets. I even love secret affairs. I love mysteries!! So I should love this book, right?

Allow me the following analogy. I love brownies. And French fries. And cookie-dough ice cream. OOH, and butter cake. I LOVE ME SOME BUTTER CAKE. And coffee! I love coffee. I also love cheese, like gouda. And grilled cheese sandwiches. And Red Bull. And salad with raspberry vinaigrette dressing. Using the above logic, if I combine these things into one big meal, I’d have THE BEST MEAL EVER, right? Wrong. I’d have pile of shit that most Fear Factor contestants couldn’t even eat. That’s what Possession was like. A brownie-cookie-dough-butter cake-coffee-cheese-and-Red-Bull salad with French fries.

Ok, perhaps I’m being unfair. The love letters were good, and I was interested in watching the love affair unfold through them. But when the book shifted to the two dolts performing the research, I wanted to gouge out my eyes in Oedipal despair. MY GOD, I berated myself, WHAT HAVE I DONE? WHY, YE GODS, WHY HAVE YOU LET ME BE DUPED BY THE HYPE THAT IS POSSESSION?

And the ending!! For a book that is touted as “literature” even though only a few years old, I expected the ending to be a bit better than this. I suppose it is fitting that, in keeping with the mystery that the characters seek to solve, the ending is no better than a Scooby Doo episode. And at least that show had Scooby and Shaggy, enjoyable and fun characters, not these annoying nerds. And I’m a nerd, so you know these characters must be bad.

Back to the novel’s contrived and improbable ending. The lead male character (a.k.a. boring researcher #1) and his new girlfriend (a.k.a. the other boring researcher) go to a pub with his ex-girlfriend. Never mind that he and his ex have suffered through a particularly bad relationship and breakup—he’s going to ask her help in his quest. She and her new boyfriend immediately and unreservedly agree, of course. Then after a very-Scooby chase scene, they catch the bad guy, who is in the act of stealing the last few letters necessary to understanding the mystery! Thankfully they save them, because at this point in the novel, I was only continuing to read the novel just so I could see what these letters contained. In case you were curious, after being “caught,” the bad-guy academic makes some very Scooby comments. You know the drill: “I would have gotten away for it, too, if it hadn’t been….” Ugh.

A few people have said that the best part of the novel is Byatt’s poetry, which is the poetry of these fictional poets. Sure. No offense, but whoever said this to me should never recommend another book to me again. In reality, the best part of the book is the letters that these two poets share. If you want good poetry, go read REAL POETS. I’ve read that the male poet is based on Browning. Great. Go read him, not this silliness. Who calls this book literature?

And YES, I do understand that I am a twenty-seven-year-old NOTHING, who has written NOTHING*, and will never writing anything like Possession, which I am okay with. If Satan came to me and said: Give me your soul and you will be the author of Possession and will achieve literary success for having written it, I’d have to politely refuse. I’m ok with writing my blog, and I’m entitled to my opinion. And I recognize the irony in critiquing the writing of others when my own is subpar / nonexistent. Deal with it.

*That’s actually not true. I was once editor (and sole writer) of The (now-defunct) Inside Scoop. I was 11, and the magazine was the shit, let me tell you. My mother STILL has copies. And I also once wrote a beautiful story about some animals in the forest, lead by a noble stag whose name I now forget.** AND, I’ve written lots of A papers, some even in French, so there.

**It's several days later, and I remember the stag's name: Nestor. The wise stag was Nestor. Now THAT'S literature, folks.

In a nutshell: Apparently I’m the only one who hates this book. So go ahead and read it, nerd. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Bibliolatry Scale: 1 out of 5 stars

The Coming Global Superstorm, by Art Bell and Whitley Strieber

The Coming Global Superstorm
Art Bell and Whitley Strieber

Considering that

1. winter seems to be abnormally upon us, with several snow storms hitting the US early (and, did you know that, last week, the Middle Eastern country of Dubai received snow for the first time in recorded history?!); and


2. I recently saw the highly mediocre (despite the beauty that is Jake Gyllenhaal) The Day After Tomorrow (also written by one of our great authors here),

I now feel a resurgence of my old paranoia rising from the pit of my stomach and threatening my usually cool exterior. What a great time to discuss The Coming Global Superstorm! (I might here gloat that I read this book years ago, well before Hollywood hopped on the bandwagon. So there.)

Now, I love ridiculous theories as much as the next geek. And if it’s a conspiracy theory, even better. So I was eager to read this work by Art Bell (radio talk-show host who deals with topics such as UFOs, conspiracy theories, etc….And no, I’ve never heard his program, and I’m not interested in hearing it, either) and Whitley Strieber (author and regular on Bell’s show).

Admittedly, these two do not have much in the way of credentials to recommend their work; they are neither scientists nor scholars. At best they are concerned citizens; at worst, crackpots. But because I am a sucker for a good theory to arouse my great paranoia and curiosity, I figured I’d give the book a whirl.

To be fair, the duo admits in their preface that they were denounced as alarmists by such bastions of insightful reporting as Matt Lauer and the Today show team. And, to be even fairer, I believe this theory. One only needs to watch the news to see some alarming patterns in the weather. Does that mean the next Ice Age is creeping up on us? Probably not (hopefully not?), but we still need to recognize the warning sings of an ecology in upheaval.

Bell and Strieber make a thorough case, and I must say I was convinced by their argument, which appeared thoroughly researched. And now we get to my problem: not the argument, but the research itself. That they did research seems obvious; first, they say they did research, and, secondly, they do “cite” some studies and news articles. However, as an English teacher, I have to call them on this: WHERE IS THIS “RESEARCH”??

To Bell and Strieber: What are you citing? Where are the references? The bibliography?? Works Cited?? Perhaps these references have been swallowed by the superstorm, but if they were in the book, I couldn’t find them. And, while I believe you did find some (if not many) sources to support your thesis, failing to include them leads a skeptical reader to call bullshit. And I wasn’t skeptical upon beginning the book. I wanted to believe!!! (Although I’m glad that I can’t believe. Who really wants to believe that a very cold death awaits them in a few years?)

Admittedly, there are a few (take that literally) times when the authors state something like (and, Bell and Strieber, if you are reading this [yeah right], take note at what I’m about to do): “On March 15, 1999, scientists at the University of Arizona and the University of Massachusetts reported…” (10). DID YOU SEE THAT??? A CITATION!! A DIRECT QUOTE, TOO!! Go ahead, marvel at my talent. It is amazing, I know.

But what the above quote did NOT contain was an indication of where the authors found this information. Where did they read it? I’d like to know in case I’d like to read it for myself! (I won’t. But I’d like the option.) And, even more problematic is the fact that most of the time, they don’t even give you that tiny nugget of information.

If their sources were documented completely and therefore verifiable, this book would go from being a piece of alarmist overreaction to a valid, scientific hypothesis on the future of our planet, one that is clearly written for even a lay person. Such a work would be important and could not be ignored. Alas, this is not the case. Again, I’m glad; otherwise, I might have to give this work more credit than I do.

In a nutshell: if you already believe in the truth of their message, or if you have a solid scientific background and know the studies on which they “based” their information, then this book is for you. Skeptics won’t be convinced by their shoddy reporting and their apparent lack of research that turns this work of non-fiction into science fiction.

Bibliolatry Scale: 1.5 out of 6 stars. (only for entertainment’s sake)

A Long and Happy Life, by Reynolds Price

A Long and Happy Life
Reynolds Price

This is an interesting piece to write after just having discussed The Probable Future. Since finishing that book on Tuesday, I finished A Long and Happy Life in less than two days. Obviously it’s a quick read (it’s not even 200 pages), but after finishing it, I felt as if I had just read a much longer novel. I mean this as a compliment.

Reynolds Price is a Southern novelist, although I hate to characterize him as such. But like his fellow Southern writers, he shares a lot of their characteristics (such as the extra-long sentence). Usually I am turned off by this technique, but Price’s prose is simply too exquisite to reject it because of such a silly reason.

The plot of A Long and Happy Life focuses on Rosacoke (lord, what a name) Mustian and her love for Wesley Beavers. Hehehe beaver. Ok, seriously. Even though I’ve never really been to the South (well, Hatteras once and Orlando twice, but I’d hardly call either The South) and even though I’m living roughly fifty years after the story takes place, I could really connect to Rosacoke and her misguided love for Wesley. The novel didn’t feel dated at all, another of its strengths.

The narration is third-person, told from Rosacoke’s point of view. I’ve heard it said that A Long and Happy Life is one of the few novels in which an author successfully embodies a character of the opposite sex without seeming false. I must agree, because I never thought that Rosacoke seemed false to me, and I totally forgot that she was written by a man.

(Having taught Tess of the d’Urbervilles, I spend some time on Hardy’s treatment of Tess, and it never fails that several [female] students are outraged because a woman would never act like that! However, I disagree; I strongly believe in Tess as a character, so perhaps I am not the best one to believe when I say I never questioned Rosacoke.)

At any rate, the book began slowly, but I was hooked by the tenth page. The story starts in medias res (in the middle of the action), and it is only gradually that the reader learns important facts about these characters. It makes the beginning of the story somewhat confusing; for example, there are two characters named Sissie and Little Sister, and for a few pages I thought they were the same person, but no. Also the story subtly shifts at times from present to past in that Faulkner-esque way that is also characteristic of Southern writers.

However, it wasn’t very long before I forgot those minor annoyances and let myself enjoy the beauty of the book. Unable to put it down, I finished it quickly and still had time to reread a few parts that I found especially moving. Price has an ability to take even the most mundane of actions and create poetry out of it. Consider exhibit A, Rosacoke watching Wesley dive:

Wesley had run from the bathhouse and taken the high-dive steps three at a time and up-ended down through the air like a mistake at first, rowing with his legs and calling “Milo” as he went (for Milo to laugh), but then his legs rose back in a pause and his arms cut down before him till he was a bare white tree (the air was that clear) long enough for Rosacoke to draw one breath while he went under slow—not a sound, not a drop and what began as a joke for Milo’s sake didn’t end as a joke.

One more example should suffice. Exhibit B, Rosacoke staring up at a hawk:

She took her breath to go, and a light wind in her face brought two things out to meet her—low on the trees a hawk with his tan wings locked to ride the air for hours(if the air would hold and the ground offer things to hunt) and his black eyes surely on her where she stood and clear against the sky, his iron beak, parting and meeting as he wheeled but giving no hawk sound—only shivering pieces of what seemed music riding under him that came and went with the breeze as if it was meant for nothing but the hawk to hear, as if it was made by the day for the hawk to travel with and help his hunting—yet frail and high for a killing bird and so faint and fleeting that Rosacoke strained on her toes to hear it better and cupped her ear, but the hawk saw that and his fine-boned wings met under him in a thrust so long and slow that Rosacoke wondered if they wouldn’t touch her—his wings—and her lips fell open to greet him, but he was leaving, taking the music with him and the wind.

It’s not all like this, by the way. These long pieces of descriptive prose are broken by dialogue and shorter descriptions, depending on the scene.

In a nutshell: A Long and Happy Life is excellent—true literature, it is a beautifully written novel that you won’t regret reading.

Bibliolatry Scale: 5.5 out of 6 stars.

The Probable Future, by Alice Hoffman

The Probable Future
Alice Hoffman

Well, I just finished this novel, and I have the perfect word for it: meh.

It was ooookay. I would describe it as a beach book, the type of book that should be read when you want to fly through a novel without taxing your brain. In fact, I skimmed a good third of the book without feeling cheated afterward.

The book’s plot is interesting enough: all of the Sparrow women, upon turning 13, receive a “gift” of some sort. One could make food out of anything; another could feel no pain. The story focuses on Elinor Sparrow (who can tell when a person is lying), her daughter, Jenny (who dreams the dreams of others), and Jenny’s daughter, Stella, who has just turned 13 and received the ability to see a person’s death.

However interesting the plot may seem, it is filled with so many contrivances and conveniences that prevent the reader from even trying to believe the story. I’d be willing to believe the Sparrow’s supernatural abilities, but I just can’t swallow that ten individuals, several having suffered failed marriages or major life upheavals, can, in the span of only a few months, manage to resolve all their problems AND find (and connect with) their true loves. By the end, everything has been tied up neatly in a way that rarely happens in the real world. If only.

The characters were for me the most interesting part of the book, but they weren’t truly remarkable, either. Finally, the prose was well enough written, but was overall bland and trite. Granted, I’m not exactly writing Nobel-prize-winning material here, either, but I just call ‘em like I see ‘em, folks. At any rate, I was able to read this book quickly and with little mental exercise on my part.

If this book were a movie, it would be You’ve Got Mail. That is to say, it’s not even Sleepless in Seattle. Rather, it’s the type of book for when there’s nothing else on, but you really just want to lounge on the sofa and veg out, so you settle for whatever old thing is playing for the billionth time on USA.

In a nutshell: this is a good book to read in between literary classics or other tough reads. Ultimately it’s a forgettable novel, but one that will help you pass a few hours in a mundane, yet basically enjoyable way.

Bibliolatry Scale: 3.5 out of 6 stars

Earth, by David Brin

Earth
David Brin

I’m not a big fan of science fiction, although I do occasionally read it and usually enjoy what I read (I loved Dune enough to consider it one of my many favorite books). So when I read the brief summary of Brin’s Earth, I was hooked. Basically, the plot revolves around a scientist who, working on creating a tiny black hole in order to use it as an energy source, discovers this tiny singularity has somehow fallen into the center of the earth—whoopsie!—where it will eat away until THE VERY WORLD IS DESTROYED. Of course, a race against time ensues: can they save the earth before it is destroyed by the black hole eating away at its core?

Upon reading this brief synopsis, I thought: interesting! I’ve certainly never read something like this before, and all the reviews gave Brin’s handling of the scientific aspects a big thumbs-up (implying even a dummy like me would have no problem grappling with the physics behind black holes and gravity).

WELL.

I stuck with it—really, I did—and it takes A LOT for me to abandon a book before I’ve finished with it. Not only did I abandon this book with a good four, five hundred pages left unread, I got rid of the book entirely. Exorcising the demons, you understand.

What was wrong with it? Where to start? I’ll start with the science, since I’ve mentioned it already. Now, I consider myself no total dolt when it comes to physics (in fact, I’d like to inform you that yours truly won the coveted “Physics Bowl” plaque during her senior year of high school) and, before deciding to be a psychologist (which I scrapped in favor of the highly lucrative world of education), I had intended on becoming an astronomer (I was obviously unaware of how much math would be involved). The point is, I understand many of the concepts even if I don’t know the equations behind them. That’s enough to understand Earth, right? A book that is apparently easy enough for a layperson? Sure. Unfortunately, I was wrong. Very wrong. I found my mind wandering during this long discussion of gravity and energy and mass and blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. What? Can we get to the VERY DESTRUCTION OF THE EARTH, please? I don’t think I need to go into any more detail about this aspect of the book.

The next biggest problem was the characters. First, there was about a gazillion of them. It seemed as if every new page brought a new character. This was especially bad because I couldn’t have cared less about a single one of them. Fine, black hole: eat ‘em all. I don’t care. It’s not that Brin didn’t do a good job of making them seem real—in fact, the one strength of his book, as I will soon discuss, is just that—but I couldn’t give a rat’s behind if they all died in the swirling mass of chaos wreaked by a black hole.

The only aspect of the book which I enjoyed—but was not, alas, enough to prompt me to read further—was Brin’s rendering of his futuristic world. It was pretty darn good, actually. His futuristic world was VERY detailed (at times, too detailed) but was interesting and unique, and it provided an insightful commentary on current society.

In a nutshell: The book is about 500 pages too long; a good 200, 250 pages is more than enough to get this story told. The plot is excruciatingly slow, and the characters, though real enough, are bland. But if you’re a hardcore science-fiction fan, you’ll probably find something redeemable in it.

Bibliolatry Scale: abandoned

The Tin Drum, by Gunter Grass

The Tin Drum
Gunter Grass

Not too long ago, I decided that I needed to read more twentieth-century Nobel laureates. One that I’ve chosen is Gunther Grass (who won the Nobel in 1999) and his first novel, The Tin Drum.

I won’t lie; it was a difficult read. I’m not even really sure I enjoyed all it, although I have to admit to wanting to brag about having read it. I should really find a way to inject it into more of my conversations. (“Ahh, yes, I know exactly what you mean. It’s just like Oskar from The Tin Drum, by Gunther Grass; have you read it? No? Grass is one of the most important German writers of the post-WWII era. It’s amazing to read about what has happened to German culture after the war. Oh, the book is juuust FAAAscinating.”)

And, yes, the book did fascinate me, although I’m still not sure I liked it. Of course I want to be challenged when reading, but I also like to have a firm grip on a book’s reality, which I didn’t often have when reading The Tin Drum. Of course, that is the point: in a world that spawned the Nazi regime and the horrors of the holocaust, reality is not something that can be easily grasped and understood.

For this reason, The Tin Drum disturbed me, which I’m sure is the author’s intention. I was particularly disturbed by the narrator, Oskar; not because he was a bad person but because I wasn’t sure how to interpret his character. On the first page of the novel, he admits he is “an inmate of a mental hospital,” an admission that of course casts a shadow of doubt over the entire narrative. Oskar, who has been sentient and alert since birth, decides to stunt his growth at two years old and remain the same size. He does not speak but instead pounds away on a tin drum, which has to be replaced every so often because he wears them out quickly. Oh, and his voice can break glass if he so wills it. Is this all the delusion of a madman? Should we take him seriously? If so, is his refusal to grow metaphorical? I found no easy answers to these questions.

Despite my difficulty with his confusing behavior, I have to say that I really liked Oskar as a character. He is not someone I fully understood as a person, but it was easy to sympathize with him. After reading the novel, I do not think he is crazy, despite his bizarre behavior. Rather, I think Grass is saying that it is the world that has gone mad, and Oskar is an innocent bystander caught in the melee.

Although this book was frustrating at times, at others it was so beautiful that I had to reread passages over and over again. Ralph Manheim, the novel’s translator, has performed his task beautifully, and I found myself wishing I knew German so that I could read these words in their original form so that I might appreciate them as Grass had written them.

My favorite scene in the book occurs toward the end of the novel, in a chapter entitled “The Onion Cellar.” It is this chapter that best illustrates the beauty of this book. The Onion Cellar is a nightclub of sorts, where people go to peel onions and shed the tears that they are unable to shed in their daily lives. It is a powerful commentary on a society that prefers detachment and impassiveness in its people. Of all the nightclubs, the Onion Cellar is the most popular. I hate to quote at length, but this piece is so moving that it illustrates for me the beauty of the entire book:

Schmuh’s guests had stopped looking, they could see nothing more, because their eyes were running over and not because their hearts were so full; for it is not true that when the heart is full the eyes necessarily overflow, some people can never manage it, especially in our century, which in spite of all the suffering and sorrow will surely be known to posterity as the tearless century. It was this drought, this tearlessness that brought those who could afford it to Schmuh’s Onion Cellar, where the host handed them a little chopping board—pig or fish—a paring knife for eighty pfennigs, and for twelve marks an ordinary […] onion, and induced them to cut their onions smaller and smaller until the juice—what did the onion juice do? It did what the world and the sorrows of the world could not do: it brought forth a round, human tear. It made them cry. At last they were able to cry again. To cry properly, without restraint, to cry like mad. The tears flowed and washed everything away.

It is passages like this that ultimately made this book worthwhile; while some parts were hazy and I was unsure of what was “real,” the beauty found in passages like the one above made me rate the novel highly.

In a nutshell: This is not a quick read, but after finishing the novel, I felt a sense of accomplishment that I do not often feel with easier books. I won’t want to reread it again any time soon, but The Tin Drum was well worth the effort.

Bibliolatry Scale: 5 out of 6 (content); 4 out of 6 (readability)

Cloud Atlas, by David Mitchell

Cloud Atlas
David Mitchell

Even though I’ve heard this book touted by numerous critics, David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas really surprised me. When I first read about the book’s concept, I was interested enough to read it, but dubious enough to fear it might seemed too contrived (actually, I thought so only to dislike the very idea I considered myself too inept to ever write; being too lazy to sit and write myself, I have allowed David Mitchell to beat me to the punch. Actually, there are a dozen authors who have beaten me; I’ll probably be writing about all of them instead of something more worthwhile).

I was intrigued by the book’s unique concept: six connected characters that span both time and space. The connection that links the characters, beginning with Adam Ewing in 1850 and continuing to Zachry in a postapocalyptic world, is not clear until later in the book. Structurally, the book tantalizes the reader by interrupting each character’s narrative midway through the tale. The reader is forced to leave scenes of increasing tension to meet the next character, whose own story soon becomes so compelling that it hurts when the reader is again thwarted the next time. These stories are so disparate, and yet, at the risk of sounding hokey, the whole is a beautiful unity.

I have to admit the book started off slowly, and I was not immediately sucked in to the tale. I am being picky here, I know, because I technically like to be sucked in by the first paragraph. Well, if I’m going to be totally honest, the first line. And, of course, that’s easier said than done. It’s really rare that I’ve been taken in by the very first line; Lolita comes to mind, but not much else. Cloud Atlas had me by about the twentieth page (give or take), so I can’t complain too much.

This book is easily “literary fiction” (a.k.a. “highbrow” fiction), yet it is such a quick read. I love when I have a hard time putting a book down and am forced to bring the book into work for a few, quick, stolen moments to get in a few pages. Cloud Atlas was just such a book. I found myself reading it early in the morning, during my lunch, and at night, and when I was finished, I felt a little breathless. There is so much to take in; I feel that I should reread it to hunt for all those myriad threads that tie the stories together. This book felt good to read. The stories are each taut and the reader feels impelled to read more, read faster to reach the conclusion and end the suspense. This desire is frustrated by the poetry of the prose, which is so haunting, I was prompted to reread a paragraph to enjoy the writing before moving on to enjoy the story.

One of my favorite aspects of the book was its unique characters. Each character is so complete that each felt like someone I knew, which is such a cliché that I feel like a jerk typing these words. And, since I’m using such trite descriptions, I’ll also describe these characters with the oft-bestowed “utterly inhabited” (another phrase I hate, but the only one that seems to do the job here). In fact, despite dedicating only about 70 pages dedicated to each character, Mitchell has been able to create characters that are psychologically complex persons.

Robert Frobisher is by far my favorite character. He was the most alive for me of all the characters. I feel the same pity for Frobisher as I do for Heathcliff, though I’m not sure why, as they have very little in common. He’s the type of character that I want to know in real life, and help him in some way (although, again, if I’m going to be honest, I probably wouldn’t actually help such a person; I’d probably just gossip about him and say things like, “Robert Frobisher? Oh, my god, I know, what a mess. Did you hear what he’s gotten himself into now? God, like, get it together, man, you know? He’s like, how old?” And then, to make myself feel better, I’d send an email that would read, “Hey, how are you? It’s been *so long* since I’ve seen you—we have to get together soon!!! Write back and let me know how you are!” only then I’d forget to write back to his reply, letting months pass until I really felt like a jerk.).

Finally, the worlds Mitchell creates are entirely believable and are as complete as the characters. His description of a not-too-future, capitalist society strikes too close to home and all too possible for us to reach. But I’ve only finished this book a day or two ago, so there’s entirely too much I could write about many aspects of the book, and if I say any more, I will give away something important. This

In a nutshell: Cloud Atlas was a quick but substantial read that lived up to its hype. It may not be the best book you ever read, but you won’t regret it.

Bibliolatry Scale: 5 out of 6

Mission

I created this site out of a desire to share those works that have possessed me. I believe to read is divine, and a healthy person exercises both the body and the mind. My purpose here is to be a fitness trainer for the mind by recommending a variety of books and by providing a forum to discuss them.

I hope to inspire others to read these incredible books and add their own thoughts here. I’ll go one step further in this humanitarian effort to even write about those books to avoid. Feel free to warn me about any of your disastrous encounters so I’ll know to steer clear of them.

I plan to discuss a variety of books; I tend to read a lot of mostly literary fiction (it is a term I hate: the term is pretentious; why not just write plain old fiction?), although I also plan to write on poetry, memoirs, philosophy, and whatever else passes through my grubby little fingers.

Let’s begin!