Bad Stuff that Science Does: Next, by Michael Crichton

Next
Michael Crichton

Next is best described not as a novel, but as a series of events that illustrate the negative consequences of playing with genetics. Crichton offers up a multitude of characters and scenarios who all point to different ways that science can go wrong. Admittedly, I’m no scientist, so I can neither agree nor disagree with those who have accused Crichton of poor science, but I can recognize poor writing when I see it and methinks I see it here.

First, let me attempt to explain “the plot.” We have a family with a genetically modified bird who considers himself an individual and is capable of completing math problems. Some ethical ambiguity arises. We have a lot of random scientists who get in trouble for various testing snafus that have not been fully explored by the legal system. Some legal ambiguity arises. We have a man-chimp, illegally created, that is very intelligent and human, but who is still quite capable of savagery. Some moral ambiguity arises. See where this is going? Add about 10 more of these situations, give or take a few, and you have the book.

My problem with Next is not that it involved so many different plots, but rather that the entire novel seemed like a presentation of different scenarios despite its efforts. It attempted to be a unified whole, but it still seems like Crichton is constantly saying, “Here’s something bad that can happen when we play with genetics. Got that? Good, now here’s something else.”

Crichton attempts to resolve the multitude of plot lines into a single story at the end, but this attempt seems weak and half-hearted. He contrivedly manages to bring a few storylines together, but he also doesn’t bother with quite a few of them. That’s not to say that Next was altogether awful; in fact, it is remarkable simply because, as far as shoddy plots go, the different plotlines were pretty interesting (at least to someone who doesn’t know much about the subject matter). Maybe I would have liked it more if he hadn’t tried to unite the plotlines at all, in favor of just letting them stand as unique entities. Doing so would also help better integrate the two-dozen or so non-fiction articles that pepper the novel, ostensibly to ground the text in fact. But, again, I really don’t know enough about genetics to know how biased is his view, as suggested by other reviews I’ve read.

In a nutshell: Enjoyable, so long as you aren’t expecting too much from it.

Bibliolatry Scale: 2 out of 6 stars

Don't want to read? Then read Fluke!

Fluke
Christopher Moore

“You’re not allowed to read away our entire honeymoon!” my now-husband warned me a few weeks ago. Yeah, right. There’s no way I can go a whole week without reading, honeymoon or not, so I compromised. Instead of bringing five books, I only brought one. My choice? Fluke, by Christopher Moore. Staring at the lone book in my bag, I wondered how quickly I would finish it. Would I face endless days of nothing to read? Would I—I shudder to type it—be forced to go out…in the sun? On a beach?? Dear God, anything but that. (I’m very pale and the sun is my arch-nemesis. That, and carbs. Oh, sweet carbs. Sweet, sweet carbs. Anyway.)

I needn’t have worried. I learned that it’s actually quite easy to go for long stretches of time without reading, so long as the only book available sucks major balls. Problem solved!

(Thankfully, it was too cold to worry much about beaches and sun, thus wasting the $200 I spent on bikinis. However, one day was nice enough to enable me to “lay out” once—in the shade, wearing sunscreen. I still got burnt. Mothereffer!)

I’m not sure when exactly I started hating Fluke, although it’s true that I never really got into it at all. The beginning was boring, and the second half was just stupid. I guess it’s another case of over-hype. Remember: cover blurbs can be deadly.

Fluke is about a group of researchers studying the song of the whale. Why do male whales sing? Nate Quinn’s life quest is to find meaning in the song. And find meaning he does…it’s just kinda dumb, is all. Based on the blurb, I thought it was going to feature some sort of deeper, philosophical insight. Sigh.

I’d go into more detail, but I’m several reviews behind and I really don’t want to waste any more time on something that I only finished out of sheer desperation for something to read.

In a nutshell: If you care, the rest of the book involves fake whales, creatures called Whaley Boys (don’t ask), and a giant underwater organism creatively called “the Goo.” And the Goo had sex with Amelia Earhart. Or something. On a positive note, Moore seems like a really nice guy. For what that’s worth. Oh, yeah, save the whales.

Bibliolatry Scale: 1 out of 6 stars

Slainte!

May your mornings bring joy
and your evenings bring peace...
May your troubles grow less
as your blessings increase!

While Irish and non-Irish alike are celebrating St. Patty's Day with a pint of their favorite ale, I will be celebrating my Irish heritage by getting married! (And, of course, by drinking a pint or two... or three...) May the luck of the Irish be with you all!

Normal posting will resume at the end of March.

"Don't Mate with Fish" and Other Life Lessons, by H.P. Lovecraft

H.P. Lovecraft: Tales

Seventy years have passed since the death of H.P. Lovecraft, and the good fellows at Little Man, What Now? are celebrating in style. If you happened here through them, welcome; if not, take a stroll over there and feast on the rest of the Lovecraft goodness.

For those unfamiliar with Lovecraft (for shame!), he is firmly established as a master of horror fiction, yet the debate over his literary importance rages on. This debate was renewed upon the publication of the Library of America's 2005 edition of Lovecraft's Tales.

Some people went rabid over the inclusion of Lovecraft to this "American canon" -- but I side with Lovecraft supporters (like S.T. Joshi, noted Lovecraft scholar), who maintain he was a tormented genius characterized by his meticulous narrative technique and penchant for squid-like creatures. The opposing team, including late literary critic Edmund Wilson, is quite vocal in their hatred of Lovecraft, claiming he is a twisted hack characterized by his verbosity and melodramatic penchant for squid-like creatures. Stephen Schwartz, another nay-sayer, writes that “Subtle Lovecraft was not; he never used one word when a score suggested themselves.” His verbosity is undeniable, and yet Lovecraft remains one of the most important writers of twentieth-century horror fiction. Perhaps subtlety is overrated; any fan of the Saw franchise will surely agree, and no one can seriously deny modern horror's debt to Lovecraft.

Years ago, I would have sided with Wilson and Schwartz after reading Lovecraft’s “Dagon.” I remember it was exceedingly boring and quite wordy, and to the best of my memory, seemed to involve fish, and mating with fish, and fishy-type creatures. Peter Straub is quite right in omitting it from Library of America’s 2005 edition of Lovecraft’s collected tales. Thankfully, I did not ignore the collection when I saw it in the bookstore, instead deciding to give Lovecraft another go. And it’s a good thing I did! For while part of me has trouble acknowledging Lovecraft’s genius (causing me to snicker when I wrote the above words “noted Lovecraft scholar”), my inner Cthulhu cannot help but love his work.

Quite simply, Lovecraft is just too much fun to read.

For his own part, Lovecraft never professed to be a master; he once wrote: “No one is more acutely conscious than I of the inadequacy of my work. I am a self-confessed amateur and bungler, and have not much hope of improvement.” This self-described “bungler” has, however accidentally, created a collection of horror stories that readers still love today--partly due to Lovecraft's memorable freaks, oddities, and creepy-crawlies. In fact, many first encounter Lovecraft through his creations, often without knowing the source.

He is perhaps best known for what is called the Cthulhu Mythos, a pantheon of ancient, alien deities, but I first (unknowingly) encountered Lovecraft through the Necronomicon; Lovecraft wrote so convincingly of the non-existent text (purportedly written by the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred) that many believed it to be real, and fake copies have been published. I am ashamed to admit that, happening once upon a copy in the deepest depths of Walden books—a repository of esoterica if ever there was—I bought a copy of this “book of secrets.” Clearly, I knew no better. I was in college. The Craft was all the rage. I later threw away the tome, breaking an old “book vow” (to cherish forever each dearly bought volume) in the process.

Oh, the shame.

But let’s get back to Lovecraft. The Library of America’s collection includes what I consider to be his best stories, including “Herbert West—Reanimator”, “Cool Air”, “The Thing on the Doorstep”, “The Colour Out of Space”, and “At the Mountains of Madness.” While each represents the hallmarks of Lovecraftian literature, each story is sufficiently unique; Lovecraft’s precise narrative technique and, yes, even his wordiness compel the reader to piece together each new mystery along with the protagonist.

“The Thing on the Doorstep” is my favorite of them all, as it best exemplifies Lovecraft's superb narrative technique and pacing--we never know what "the thing" is until the final moment, but each successive page is so compelling that you soon forget "the thing" alluded to in the first paragraph. The story also illustrates some of Lovecraft's most favored themes, like that of forbidden knowledge, discussed at length below. Finally, “The Thing on the Doorstep” is also a perfect illustration of Lovecraft's narrative formula. But, plain and simple, “The Thing on the Doorstep” is just a great story.

Most of Lovecraft's stories follow the same narrative formula (and yet they manage to remain entirely distinct and unique from the rest--take that, nay-sayers!). In a story that reads like a scientific report, a protagonist leaves some record of his horrifying secret, which he often discovers from questioning “natives” or reading ancient texts or conducting some other sort of investigation. This “horrifying secret” is generally alluded to in only the vaguest of terms, at least during the story’s onset. The story proceeds by recounting the course of the protagonist’s investigation, culminating in the complete destruction of everything the protagonist has previously accepted as true and rational about the world, illustrating Lovecraft’s belief that human laws are completely insignificant when applied to the universe as a whole.

In fact, Lovecraft argues in favor of a world without order, a world whose supernatural beings are either malevolent or simply uninterested in us. It seems to be the latter possibility (illustrated best by "The Call of Cthulhu") that troubles Lovecraft more: supernatural beings who take no notice or care that we are here at all. And so our life here on earth is a freak of nature, a science experiment gone awry. There is no Master Plan. I wonder what Brian Weiss would say about that?

But the most important of all Lovecraft’s themes (present in both “The Thing on the Doorstep” and "The Call of Cthulhu") might be that of forbidden knowledge (versus the "false" truth believed by the ignorant masses). In an age obsessed with information and technology, one cannot help but think that Lovecraft is timelier than ever. Forbidden knowledge is always destructive in Lovecraft; his protagonists are either destroyed or driven insane by the knowledge they have so doggedly pursued. Those who try to use this knowledge for their own ends (as in “Herbert West — Reanimator”) are usually destroyed by their own creations. Real truth is dangerous, but what the dumb masses believe to be truth is really a tale told by an idiot, signifying nothing.

So, while many complain that Lovecraft is antiquated, verbose, and just plain stupid, let his work remind the “post-modern world” (or whatever it is we’re now in) that increased technology and knowledge will inevitably lead to destruction. Some secrets are best kept secret; perhaps ignorance is, in many ways, bliss after all. And I cannot omit the most important lesson in all of Lovecraft: do not mate with fish. Really, it's just unpleasant.

Bibliolatry Scale: 5.5 out of 6 (Where's his poetry? His letters? More Lovecraft, please!)

The Meaning of Life Revealed! Many Lives, Many Masters, by Brian Weiss, M.D.

Many Lives, Many Masters
Brian Weiss, M.D.

As I have said before, I want to believe. Such desire should quickly lead one down faith’s path, but it has had the opposite effect on me. My need to believe makes me more skeptical than ever, and I am wary of believing foolishly or dogmatically.

Life of Pi said that even atheism is better than agnosticism; the hazy non-belief of the agnostic is a sort of indecisiveness, I know, and indecisiveness is one of my flaws. And yet, I can no more not believe than believe. So I read on. Maybe one day, I’ll find something that clicks.

Enter Many Lives, Many Masters, a book which supports many beliefs I would have if I could commit to them. I feel many of its “tenets” to be true, but I stubbornly resist them. Why? Let’s see, shall we?

In the book’s favor, the author is a pretty educated guy. He graduated magna cum laude from Columbia and attended the Yale University School of Medicine. He has worked at several prestigious schools and is well published in his field of psychiatry. So he should have a good idea of what he’s talking about, right? Right?

Many Lives, Many Masters chronicles Dr. Weiss’s work with one patient, Catherine. This troubled woman came to him with many phobias and neuroses. After working with her as he would normally, he decided to try hypnosis to rid her of her deep-seated problems. Upon regression, he realized he was dealing with something far greater than the issues of a troubled woman—he was dealing with her past lives. (He knew schizophrenia or other illness was not at work here.) So their treatment continued for months, and Weiss got to hear about many of her lives. He also spoke through her, to the “masters,” or spirits who guide us from the other side.

Through the course of his therapy, Weiss learned that reincarnation is a fact, as is the immortality of the soul. The purpose of life is to learn, grow, and evolve. During life, we are supposed to solve certain issues. Either we do or don’t—but if we don’t, we carry those unsolved issues into our next life in addition to the new ones we must solve. We choose when we are born and when and how we die. All life is a classroom, every time. The ultimate goal is to perfect ourselves so that reincarnating is no longer necessary.

The purpose of this book is ostensibly to inform the public, so that we might lose our fear of death and make better decisions as we navigate our lives. But I’m troubled by—and this prevents me from believing more in his ideas—seeing how many books the author has published on this subject. You can even get your own cd to help you regress into your past lives! It just seems to me that if the doctor is in earnest, he wouldn’t be capitalizing so much on this profound truth. (Visit his website to see more.) But I’m probably just being judgmental. That’s another of my flaws.

At any rate, the premise of Many Lives, Many Masters seems true to me, that the purpose of life is to learn and love. But it just seems too easy. The “void” – the nothingness of death -- seems rationally correct, if ultimately disheartening. So this got me thinking: presuming (although this is unlikely) that I am able to intuit what to improve during my lifetime, what do I need to work on? Here’s the results of a quick brainstorming session:

I need to learn patience. I need to learn acceptance. I need to learn faith. I need to learn self-discipline. I need to give of myself. I need to not hold myself back. I need to be more social. I need to -- Jesus. I’m going to come back as a slug, aren’t I? Aren’t I????

Bibliolatrist in 100 years

In a nutshell: Comforting, although not entirely believable. Or maybe I want to believe too much. At any rate, it reminds you of what is important in life and directs you to live better.

Bibliolatry Scale: 2 (for style of writing) + 6 (for the potential it has to positively affect your life) = 4 out of 6 stars

Frog King: How not to treat the one you love

Frog King
Adam Davies

Question: What do you do when you find the woman of your dreams?

Answer: Sleep with everyone else in sight. Then cry when she stops speaking to you. Duh.

Well, that’s what you’d do if you were Harry Driscoll, anyway.

Harry is unfulfilled. He has a girlfriend, but a disease keeps her from having sex. He has a job, but his own apathy keeps him from being promoted to a better position. He has an apartment, but his lack of substantial income keeps him from a place that's larger than a closet.

Any normal person would either look beyond the sex or move on entirely, work hard or get a new job, and save up or get out of the city. If you can’t take the heat, get outta the kitchen, you could say. Or: shit or get off the pot. But he can’t seem to do this, either.

And so we have Frog King, the story of Driscoll’s discontent. In an interesting twist, Davies manages to make the reader like an utterly unlikable character. Driscoll is self-absorbed, apathetic, whiny, and dishonest. The reader watches him perform deed after awful deed, and yet, I rooted for him the entire time. In fact—


SPOILER ALERT


—when Evie, Driscoll’s girlfriend, finally wises up and leaves him, I got pissed. Seriously PISSED. She’s coming back, right? I mean, like, in the sequel? Ef her anyway, man. You don’t need that bitch! And yet, Driscoll deserves everything he got.


END SPOILER ALERT


Sidenote: I just have to say how much I love the name Evie. Just say it: EEEEVIEEE. (Evie was also the name of Rachel Weisz’s character in The Mummy, one of my guilty cinematic pleasures. Whatever, the Mummy was hot. Don’t make fun of me.)

Apparently, liking a shaved head is "Freudian"

Mmmmmm, Imhotep. What? Sorry. Back to Frog King.

Overall I liked Frog King; it was well written and nicely paced. The main character was a sleaze, but I liked him too. I do have to say, however, that it makes New York City seem like the most awful place on earth. Not liking most people or tight spaces, I’m already inclined to agree, but Davies paints his city using all of my most hated things: cramped but expensive apartments, the rat race of office work, pretentiousness and snobbery. There were others, but I’ve blissfully forgotten them.

In a nutshell: A fun read that made me root for the main character at the same time I wanted to kill him.

Bibliolatry Scale: 4.5 out of 6 stars

All mail is love (or some other nonsense): Mailman, by J. Robert Lennon

Mailman
J. Robert Lennon

Are you like me, suspecting your wily mail carrier of all sorts of pernicious deeds? I know mine reads my catalogs, my magazines, all sorts of interesting things I receive. Sometimes packages are “poorly sealed.” Sender laxity or carrier curiosity? I beg the latter. I know that several important pieces of mail accidentally “damaged” by “sorting machinery” were really due to some over-zealous mail carrier eager to massage himself to my credit card bill. Is this because I don’t tip at Christmas? It is, isn’t it? But why the hell should I? Aren’t mail carriers just doing their jobs? So if my not tipping means you get to read my mail, go for it, mailman. Anything really important is done over the internet anyway, and we all know that the internet makes spying on another absolutely impossible. Well unless you’re a terrorist, which I’m not, so I can rest assured in the knowledge that my online privacy is guaranteed! Awesome!

My already high-paranoia level was increased by reading Mailman. I was put on alert upon reading the cover, which gushed, “‘Masterpiece’ would be an exaggeration, but only a small one.” Here we go again, I thought. Have the over-hypers struck again? Or would I for once agree with a cover blurb? Surprisingly, I agreed with it! Double awesome!

Well, I agreed that the word “masterpiece” is an exaggeration. Gotcha!

Actually, the middle was pretty good. As long as you skip the beginning and the end, it is a masterpiece indeed.

Mailman centers on Albert Lippincott, our titular Mailman. In fact, he’s referred to mostly by this title and only rarely by his name. Mailman is truly defined by his job, so much so that he often takes his work home with him. Literally. To read other people’s mail in private. In fact, he’s got an entire lab set up at home: he has lots of supplies to perfectly reseal each letter to avoid detection—but only after photocopying each piece of pilfered mail to save for posterity. That’s right, his lab features its own photocopier.

He’s dysfunctional in other ways as well. He can’t maintain a normal relationship. He is alienated from society. He is friend to neither human nor animal, especially felines. He seems to be in love with his sister. And Albert is by no means a young man. For someone closer to retirement than to college, Albert should know better.

Despite these quirks, Mailman was not immediately engrossing, and it took me quite awhile to get into the story. The beginning just seemed to drag on, and I had to force myself just to get through the opening chapters. But somewhere along the way, Lennon’s hilarious prose just caught me. I rarely laugh out loud at a book-—it has to be really funny to elicit genuine laughter from me—-but Lennon’s Mailman (the middle of it, anyway) made me laugh many times. Some passages just begged to be reread because they were so hilarious.

Well, if the book is so darn funny why didn’t I rate it higher, you ask? As I said, the beginning was god-awful boring, but even that could be forgiven if the rest of the novel made up for it. Unfortunately, it didn’t. Mailman’s major flaw, in my oh-so humble opinion, is its ending. Quite frankly, it sucked.

At the end, Mailman’s snarky, hilarious tone derails into a hippie New-Age love fest, which would be fine (not really) if you’re a hippie (which Mailman is most decidedly not) but not if the entire tone of the novel is decidedly not so happy-happy-love-joy. In fact, it is so far from peace and love that it is quite unbelievable that Mailman can attain such growth in such a short span of time. Can he truly learn to accept and love in 400 pages? Is love truly all we need?

Even worse, the novel’s final pages are filled with bland philosophizing about how “everything” is “mail” and all mail is “love.”

Wait.

Huh?

So my car payment, that's love? And my student loan payment? And my insurance? Phone bill? Cable? All love?? I don't need that much love, really. I have dogs. And a cat. I have love to spare. Anyone want some love?

And do such “realizations” redeem Lippincott, cat abandoner, mail thief, eyeball biter? A few minutes of superficial self-reflection about the nature of mail and love? Again, I ask: huh? Lennon would have been better off withholding what seems like a false epiphany in favor of an ending more in keeping with the novel.

In a nutshell: Pretty funny there for a bit. Until it got all silly.

Bibliolatry Scale: 3 out of 6 stars

You can thank these jerks for this cold ass weather

Fallen
David Maine

Is it possible to retell one of the world’s oldest stories and still keep it interesting? I had my doubts, but this is exactly what David Maine does with Fallen, his retelling of Genesis.

We are all at least familiar with the story, regardless of our religion: one man + one woman + a garden + a snake. Typical dumb woman cannot control her urges and does the one thing forbidden to her. As a result, we have to work and suffer and die. Thanks a lot, whore.

Oh right, like you're so perfect

Regardless of our familiarity with the story, Maine adds some spice to what could easily have become a trite retelling by adding depth and insight that is lacking in the original. His ability to maintain the reader’s interest is even more praiseworthy when one considers that Maine structures the novel backwards, removing (one would assume) the potential for surprises. The novel opens as Cain, now an old man, prepares to die, and the novel ends with the expulsion from the garden. Although the reader always knows what will happen at the end, Maine inserts surprising elements along the way. We are able to see how Cain’s act was the result of numerous actions which came long before he decided to murder Abel. We are reminded how even the most inconsequential of actions can have powerful effects.

One surprising element is the depth he adds to the novel’s stars, who are little more than flat characters in the Bible. Each of the novel’s four sections is narrated by a different main character, allowing for greater insight into the actions and decisions of each: first, there is Cain (an alienated and inquisitive boy who does not except the facile answers given to him by his father), then Abel (a bossy momma’s boy who knows everything), then Adam (an indecisive individual who must painfully accumulate experience in order to learn even the most basic of truths), and finally, Eve (a demanding woman soon sapped by age and constant childbearing).

Maine uses his characters philosophical musings to ponder the obvious questions provoked by Genesis. For example, if God is all knowing and all powerful, why would he allow evil into his perfect world? And why would he allow Eve to fall for it? Are we, then, innately flawed? And if so, whose fault is that? The characters themselves arrive at no clear answers; as time passes, God speaks to them less and less frequently until they are completely alone.

For his part, Maine seems to assert that the Fall was all part of the plan. We were meant to fall in order to find our way in the world, to move from caves to huts to cities. We were meant to grow and learn. Spiral out, muthafuckas! Before, we just had a Garden. But now look at us! We have the internet, and celebrity magazines, and SUVs, and fundamentalists, and we make good things with God's creation, like meth and trans fats. See? God always provides. Except, of course, when he doesn’t. But then you can just eat some bugs and think of the first people as they started out in the world. Crazy cave dwellers.

Back off, bitch

In a nutshell: Maine takes a well-known story and adds a depth—and a humanity—that I, at least, have never encountered. Beautifully written and engrossing.

Bibliolatry Scale: 4.5 out of 6 stars

Freakonomics: A Whole Lotta Facts that Don't Really Matter

Freakonomics
Steven D. Levitt and Stephen J. Dubner

How does one get a lazy eye? More importantly, how do I not get one? And how long can I continue to avoid glaucoma testing before my sight is compromised? How do I rid myself of my eye phobia? Why do I think so much about eyes? (Answer: Red Dragon at 9 years old.) Why can't we send someone into a black hole to see what happens upon reaching the singularity? (I nominate Paris Hilton. That will get rid of Paris AND her lazy eye, all in the interests of scientific knowledge. Three cool things for the price of one. Did I mention lazy eyes freak me out?)

Anyway, back to my questions. How many lashes does it take to atone for liking Fall Out Boy? Why do I suck at formatting my posts on Blogger?* Why don't more people recognize the greatness of Peewee's Big Adventure?

Comedy at its greatest

As you can see, I have lots of questions. Unfortunately, Freakonomics answered none of them. Instead, it answered questions on crack and sumo wrestling, two things I don't really care about. So I have stupid questions, they have stupid questions. The main difference between their questions and mine? They answered theirs. And made a lot of money doing it. Suckers. And by suckers I mean fuckers.

The authors ponder everything from crack to sumo to whatever else they can get data on. While some people criticize the book for not having a "unifying theme," I like its randomness. When it comes to math, random = not boring. Let's keep things crackling, I always say.** The authors study how teachers, sumo wrestlers, and white-collar bagel buyers all cheat, how crack dealers remain poor, how a baby's name affects its life, and even how abortion lowers the crime rate. Some parts seem more logical than others, but I wasn't too distracted by what seemed like a stretched conclusion in places -- I like Freakonomics because it involves math and I can still understand it. Woot woot.

In a nutshell: If you name your daughter Heaven, she'll probably end up a stripper. Well, shit, I could have told you that.

Bibliolatry Scale: 4 out of 6 stars

*As my past few posts have illustrated, my formatting skills are coming along MARVELOUSLY. Last week I posted a picture WITH a caption. Today I posted a video. Take that, computer geeks. Here I come!

**I don't actually say this.

Earth Abides, or a study in boredom

Earth Abides
George Stewart

When I was an angst-ridden teen, I took delight in wallowing in the pathetic smarm of my tortured soul by engaging in mildly destructive activities like the application of heavy eyeliner and awful hair dye (semi-permanent, thank you), half-hearted attempts at self-mutilation (considering I still have a panic attack every time I visit the dentist, I obviously didn't get very far), and recreational drug use (and I am not condoning such behavior; I think it's fairly clear that I was a tool during this time). Oh, I had the world on my shoulders indeed. What an awful life I lead, living rent free and in relative ease with no worries or any real problems. At least my Trent understood. Downward Spiral forever!

Today, I am slightly older and clearly much wiser. My appearance is poser-free and I look and feel fabulous. More importantly, I no longer need to occupy my time with the hallmarks of the immature and emotionally stunted. Instead, I stoke the embers of my pain by reading novels like Earth Abides.

"Life is pain"

Let me say right away that Earth Abides is scarily realistic; after reading it, I have no doubt that whenever the end comes, whether it be the machines that rise against us, or the icebergs, or some bird-killing superflu, much will happen exactly as Stewart predicted. (Okay, maybe not if there’s a war against the machines; we'll be too busy hiding in foxholes while a cast of assorted robots traipse across a battlefield of human bones.) At any rate, I am eternally grateful for having read this book, since I now realize that in the event I survive the destruction of humanity, I must immediately cut off my head with the nearest implement capable of doing the job. Survival be damned.

Am I being a bit melodramatic? Perhaps. Perhaps not. And even though discussing an author's picture branded me silly* I will say that he looks like a nice enough guy:

"Hey, sonny! I'm only trying to warn humanity!"

And because he is cute in a grandfatherly sort of way, I feel really bad about trashing his book. So instead of doing that, I'll just give you a sampling of the novel by pretending I'm a survivor in Stewart's futuristic funhouse:

I'm alone. Let's explore!

Hey hey! Fruit in a can! Nice!

Oooh, there's a dog. I hope it doesn't bite me! Where's my hammer?

Uh-oh, what's that smell? That can't be good....

Huh, the street has flooded. Should I unclog the drain? Nah, let it be...the earth will reclaim it.

The fence fell down. Ah, nature.

Found a survivor! Crap! He's an alcoholic! Too bad he isn't tough like me!

Hey! A goat's eating my lawn! Oh well.

Uh-oh, my clock stopped. Who needs time, anyway?

Look at all these ants!

I'll go to the library! Nothing better to do!

Found a lady friend! Let's mate!

Where did all the ants go? Ah, Darwin!

Let's have some canned peaches for dinner!

Whoa, look at all the rats!

Let’s travel the country before the earth reclaims the roads and bridges!

New York is depressing.

What happened to all the rats?

Uh-oh. Fire.

Oh well.

Repeat the above 290 times, and you've just read Earth Abides!

In a nutshell: Very realistic, but if this is life after the end of the world, count me out. Maybe I would have liked it more if it were a short story.

Bibliolatry Scale: 1 out of 6 stars

*a euphemism for "idiot", not that I'm bitter or anything

The Big Secret Done Right: The Thirteenth Tale

The Thirteenth Tale
Diane Setterfield

I've been burned by misleading book reviews, so when a book is as hyped as Setterfield's Thirteenth Tale, I am more than a bit skeptical. I've read many reviews raving about the novel's unexpected secrets and unforeseen twists and turns. We'll see, thought I.

The novel begins as Margaret spends her time among the books in her father's bookstore. She has not much time for people, and she likes it that way. Her endless span of days spent reading and cataloguing is interrupted by a letter from the legendary Vida Winter, the nation's most beloved -- not to mention secretive -- writer.

Vida is old and ill and understandably desperate to tell the world the true story of her life, which she has successfully kept hidden for decades. The crux of Vida's story involves a lost twin, a situation Margaret understands. As Vida's complex past unravels, it soon becomes clear that her story is quickly rushing headlong toward the unveiling of a Really Big Secret. In fact, it seems that adding a Really Big Secret to your under-appreciated novel will guarantee it all sorts of attention and acclaim (c.f. The Keep by Jennifer Egan for a good example of a bad novel getting excellent press due to a "surprise." Brilliant use of the technique, really.)

In fact, these two novels have a lot in common. Besides their mysteriousness, both novels feature Gothic elements, ghost-like characters, a writer seeking to uncover the truth, and, of course, a Really Big Secret. The main difference, however, is that Egan's secret is like a fart in an elevator: all up in your face and impossible to conceal. In a nice contrast, Setterfield's secret is deftly obscured until the very end; while I kept trying to guess it, I never once came close.

In a nutshell: Pretty good for a hyped bestseller. Thankfully the first chapter is the only one in which she begins every other sentence with the word "for." For I could never forgive an entire novel of such overwrought, melodramatic rubbish.

Bibliolatry Scale: 4 out of 6 stars

Revenge, by Stephen Fry

Revenge
Stephen Fry

Finally, a good book!

In a contemporary Count of Monte Cristo, Stephen Fry explores what happens when revenge becomes one's entire purpose for living. We follow the super-fortunate Ned Maddstone, who has it all--until, that is, a silly prank takes it all from him. Locked away for twenty years, Maddstone has plenty of time to plan his revenge, which he executes with relentless fury until none of the guilty parties remain standing.

After finishing Revenge days ago, I have postponed my review because I have nothing to say about this book. It was really good--gripping and well-told. Literary allusions (and not just to Dumas) abound. And, although you knew Maddstone would have his revenge, the manner in which it was achieved was never predictable.

Sigh.

My fears have been confirmed. Only shitty books prompt good stuff from me. Have no fear, though; I'm currently reading a bestseller in which every other sentence begins with "for." For she knew that it wouldn't be enough... Ugh.

I'm sure I'll have some better material next time.

In a nutshell: I haven't read Monte Cristo (gasp! Coupled with my lack of knowledge re: Pat Conroy, I truly must be "nigh on to an idiot"), but neither has Fry. I'm still going to say that Revenge is better. Why? Because I want to, and this is MY blog. That makes me win.

Bibliolatry Scale: 5 out of 6 stars

White Apples, by Jonathan Carroll

White Apples
Jonathan Carroll

A character I often fondly remember is Ellsworth Toohey from Ayn Rand's Fountainhead. As a literary critic, he delighted in championing utter shit and passing it off as literature, knowing the dumb public would eat it up like the sheep they are. The public can't tell a turd from a diamond, isn't that so? Apparently, according to those who've championed Carroll's latest literary bowel movement, White Apples.

Now, I don't know who Pat Conroy is (I have since been informed that he wrote The Prince of Tides...alllllllrighty then), nor do I know who writes book reviews for The Washington Post, but I have a sneaking suspicion they are Ellsworth in disguise. Pat Conroy had the balls to compare Jonathan Carroll to Dostoevski. DOSTOEVSKI? The man who gave us Raskolnikov? Prince Myshkin? I know--he also compared him to Calvino. I am so amazed that I have nothing funny to write about this. After sitting here endlessly thinking of a humorous analogy, I can only feel dismay that a work of such poor quality has received such glowing reviews. Maybe Conroy wants to know if anyone will call his bluff. Apparently not, as this book has received 3.5 stars on Amazon.com and an almost perfect score on Barnesandnoble.com.

Well played, Mr. Conroy. Well played, indeed.

The Washington Post, double-dog dared by Pat Conroy to take the joke still further, wrote that we should -- and I quote directly here -- "fete him." Fete him??

Damn they have balls.

Anyway, a word or two about the book. Vincent Ettrich has died and come back to life. Why did he come back? He soon finds out he was brought back by his pregnant girlfriend, because their offspring will save the world and it needs Vincent's help to do it. Along the way, they encounter crazy creatures like the spirits of dead animals and the "Eef," which is -- and I am not making this up -- A BEING CREATED OUT OF THEIR ORGASM.

Simply put, this was the lamest book I ever read. In fact, his is the lamest author picture I've ever seen. I would hope he's about to cover his face in shame, but I somehow doubt he feels at all bad about writing White Apples.

In a nutshell: Utter garbage disguised to look like a book. Don't be a sucker.

Bibliolatry Scale: 0 out of 6 stars

Divided Kingdom, by Rupert Thomson

Divided Kingdom
Rupert Thomson

In the middle of the night, a child named Matthew Micklewright is taken from his home by the police, and sent to be educated about the reformation of their country. Matthew becomes Thomas Parry, and is sent to live with a new family, the so-called others of his kind, as the country seeks the kind of stability that had been lacking before its reorganization.

Once the United Kingdom, the country has been divided into four sections based on the natures of the inhabitants. The Divided Kingdom's citizens are now classified as either Sanguine (nice and pleasant), Melancholic (depressed and emo), Phlegmatic (spiritual and laid-back), or Choleric (angry bastards). The borders of these four areas are tightly controlled and no travel is allowed among them.

Now let's thicken the plot. I'm sure you can see where this is going: our boy Thomas will transgress these rules, become a man against society, and seek his own identity in a world that wants conformity.

And there you have Divided Kingdom. The book was okay, as far as dystopian novels (which I generally love) go. The story was interesting, and I really got into it once I had finished the first half. However (and there's always a however, isn't there?), the book had quite a few drawbacks. For one, a society based on the four humors?? Really? That doesn't seem practical at all. And is all that description necessary? Allow me to try my hand at it:

I looked down. To the left of my foot stood a toad. He looked at me, mouth gaping. I walked on, intent on finding the doorway. The walls of the hall were grimy with handprints. I remembered I hadn't brushed my teeth yet today. There was a tiny hole at the very bottom of the left wall. I wondered if some rat hadn't gnawed its way through, trying to escape, feeling trapped in the prison of these tiny, choleric rooms...

You get the point. The above passage is, if you couldn't tell, mine. I was just trying it on for size. Thankfully, whenever I enter the Bog of Eternal Description (much like the Bog of Eternal Stench, if you can catch that clever allusion), I just use my handy-dandy skimminator which I purchased at Ye Olde Skimme Shoppe. Thus I finished half the book in just under a day's time, and I have a feeling I didn't miss out on anything important. Thomas is lost. Thomas suffers. Thomas is healed. Campbell would be proud.

The biggest drawback to the book is the ending. I won't give anything away, but you know the end of How the Grinch Stole Christmas? How every one has joined hands, all friends now, singing merrily? It's kinda like that. Doesn't that defeat the purpose of a dystopia?

In a nutshell: Not the most believable book-of-the-future, but mildly entertaining. Some very cool scenes.

Bibliolatry Scale: 3 out of 6 stars

The Secret History, by Donna Tartt

The Secret History
Donna Tartt

You know what's annoying? You read the blurb on back of a novel, and yet, unbeknownst to you...it's not quite accurate. So you spend the entire book not really focusing on the book itself, but rather wondering when the information found in the blurb will come into play. Such was my experience reading Donna Tartt's Secret History. Allow me to repeat it here, if you don't mind:

Under the influence of their charismatic classics professor, a group of clever, eccentric misfits at an elite New England college discover a way of thinking and living that is a world away from the humdrum existence of their contemporaries. But when they go beyond the boundaries of normal morality they slip gradually from obsession to corruption and betrayal, and at last--inexorably--into evil.

So, okay. Now, I won't spoil anything for the would-be reader, but not all of the above information is accurate. Yes, there is a charismatic classics professor. There is even a group of eccentric misfits. New England college? Check. And I might be arguing over semantics, but the rest of the blurb leaves a lot to be desired.

That isn't to say that I didn't enjoy The Secret History, for I did. True, it was a bit long-winded in places, and I was expecting (goaded on by the blurb on the back, no doubt) an ending that was a bit more..."diabolical," I suppose you could say. Overall, however, I found the book to be engrossing and enjoyable. The book is filled with literary allusions that any literature fan can appreciate, and the plot is quite suspenseful, especially as you anticipate how the "evil" will finally be resolved.

Besides, take a look at Ms. Tartt. She looks like she will fuck a bitch up (and I chose one of her more flattering pictures). So in the interest of pacifism, the book was excellent.

In a nutshell: Suspenseful and entertaining, The Secret History was a fun read but was not quite what I was led to expect.

Bibliolatry Scale: 4.5 out of 6 stars