Bow before this work of blood and violence and few commas

Blood Meridian
Cormac McCarthy

Ok, I have to say I LOVE Cormac McCarthy. LOVE LOVE LOVE him. In fact to do him honor I will try to write sparsely using commas as little as possible. This will be hard for I do love my commas but if you try writing like McCarthy you'll find it has its benefits.

In speaking of the author's great genius for the written word I have to be honest: if I were playing the role of Mr. McCarthy I would be a royal prick. The man who wrote Blood Meridian deserves a little step and fetch is all I’m saying. In other words: bow down, plebs. At least that’s how I would act had I his great talent. Hell if Paris fucking Hilton can pull a diva act despite the presence of any discernible talent other than the ability to flash her cootch and drive drunk, I’d say McCarthy can pull diva in spades. And yet after seeing McCarthy’s Oprah interview (his only television interview ever), I’m shocked by how down-to-earth -- nay humble -- the man is. More astonishingly the man who wrote of dead babies and scalped Indians is one of the gentlest men I’ve seen on TV. Now how’s that for irony?

Anyone who has read Blood Meridian cannot remain unaffected by it, regardless of how one feels about the book. Good lord what a book, what an amazing, unforgettable book, and I loathe Westerns so this is saying something. Of course, Blood Meridian is more than just your average Western -- it's history. The Glanton gang did exist, the events depicted in the novel are historically accurate, and many characters -- including the Judge -- were real.

But a warning for those who would attempt this one: Blood Meridian is not for the faint of heart. (Then again, I suppose neither was The Road.) It was interesting to read two of McCarthy’s most famous works at the same time; the two are quite similar and yet utterly different. The Road was easier to read even though it features all the hallmarks of McCarthy’s prose (which becomes easier as one reads him). However The Road affects one emotionally; Blood Meridian is intellectually speaking the greater masterpiece, and though I didn’t enjoy it at every turn it is a novel that will be with me for a long long time.

Blood Meridian follows “the kid,” a 14-year-old orphan who joins a group of scalp-hungry bounty hunters scouring the Texas-Mexico border for Indians. These killers, led by the powerful Judge Holden (more about him later), are cleansing the countryside of its natives and getting paid to do it, and as the novel progresses we see the havoc that bloodlust wreaks on those who wallow in it.

And while the Kid comes to condemn the violence that blazes all around him, one could almost say his moral growth is secondary to the novel for it is the Judge, an enigmatic figure who delights in slaughter and pedophilia, who dominates the work. The Kid is described in the vaguest of terms but of the Judge we know more: he is “a great shambling mutant,” huge, bald and utterly hairless, who seems to be everywhere at once. He is scalper and artist, dancer and fiddler, and is still probably dancing and fiddling to this day for he never appears to age. Is he even human? It is too simplistic to say that he is the devil but like the devil, the Judge seems to have no precursor:

In that sleep and in sleep to follow the judge did visit. Who would come other? A great shambling mutant, silent and serene. Whatever his antecedents, he was something wholly other than their sum, nor was there system by which to divide him back into his origins for he would not go. Whoever would seek out his history through what unraveling of loins and ledgerbooks must stand at last darkened and dumb at the shore of a void without terminus or origin and whatever science he might bring to bear upon the dusty primal matter blowing down out of the millennia will discover no trace of ultimate atavistic egg by which to reckon his commencing.

Such a passage is also an example of the greatness of McCarthy’s style, which is both sparse and dense at the same time. Because of his prose, meticulously researched background, and creation of the incomparable Judge, Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian is a masterpiece on several levels. If one can withstand the blazing sun of violence that burns at the novel's core there is much there to behold.

In a nutshell: Both grotesque and beautiful, Blood Meridian deserves its status as one of the most important works of American fiction. Read it before the 2009 movie release, which had better be good or else I'll choke a bitch. Not really but I will shake my fist in anger.

Bibliolatry Scale: 6 out of 6 stars

A post dedicated to THE BEST BAND EVER

10,000 Days, Tool (2006)
Lateralus, Tool (2001)
Aenima, Tool (1996)
Undertow, Tool (1993)
Opiate, Tool (1992)

In honor of my attending tonight's Tool show, I thought a post dedicated to THE BEST BAND EVER was in order.

Despite having seen Tool several times already, my excitement for tonight's show is unparalleled -- except for that time I won backstage passes to meet A Perfect Circle and I was so nervous I drank an entire bottle of wine so that I wouldn't make a fool of myself (interesting logic, I know). Unfortunately, my plan backfired on several points, since (1) I was unable to make it to the bathroom in time [rattling car + potholed city + 750 ml cabernet sauvignon = much physical pain], causing my personal humiliation when (2) my friends were forced to stand around me (for "privacy") in a parking lot (oh the horror) before racing several blocks to the venue in order to meet only 4/5 of the band, since to my utter chagrin and despair, (3) Maynard didn't appear (and who could blame him, if I were Maynard I wouldn't want to meet me either, even though I am pretty foxy) and so all my worry was for nought. Good times.

Now, I am older and wiser and drink my wine for snob value instead of nerves. See: that's growth.

Enjoy.

I swear Danny Carey's hiding four extra arms

Viva la revolucion! ... Except not so much viva here.

The Butterfly Revolution
William Butler

I have no idea how this book came into my possession, but there it sat on my shelf, glowering at me darkly until I dared approach it.

"Yes?" I inquired meekly.

"READ ME," it bellowed. "READ ME NOW."

"But you look kinda stupid," I said by way of apology. (I'm not good at apologizing, obviously. It's a pride thing.)

"SHUT UP AND READ ME," it demanded.

"But I don’t even know where you came from, and you look a little beat if you ask me," I replied weakly.

It’s true. My copy is obviously a used one, and it’s the worse for wear. And lately I've become a bit of a book snob -- only new books for me. Used? Ugh. Regardless of my feelings for broken spines and bent covers, I still do not know how this book ended up on my shelf.

Be that as it may, this is the summer* that I will read those lonely unread books in my library. I shall not purchase any new books** until the unread ones have been given a place in my heart and so I have read The Butterfly Revolution by William Butler.

Hailed as “in the tradition of Lord of the Flies,” this novel tells the story of a group of boys who take over a summer camp. Obviously, things go awry. Inner savagery comes out, and all that. It’s all a bit predictable, even if you haven’t read the immensely superior Lord of the Flies.

The novel is told through one boy’s diary, and he must have had a lot of time to write in it despite being quite involved with camp life. The Butterfly Revolution also features some obvious symbolism with the butterflies, but it's a bit heavy-handed. Or maybe I'm biased -- all in all I just wasn’t in to this book. Maybe it was just too damn pushy in getting me to read it. What's that saying? You catch more butterflies with honey....

Viva la revolucion!

In a nutshell: Boys move from a civilized life at camp to a totalitarian state run by fear.

Bibliolatry Scale: 2 out of 6 stars

*Yeah, I'm pretty sure I said the same thing last summer.

**This is a lie. I couldn’t help it. I had a gift certificate.

"Fiction should be a firestorm"

Such were the sage words that greeted my eyes upon my daily scouring of one of my favorite websites: Little Man, What Now?, a site that features witty and often scathing social commentary that runs the gamut from politics to mayonnaise (which, I agree, is an extremely unsettling substance. As an American, I slather everything in ketchup, a slightly less creepy compound).

Little Man is part of my morning ritual: email, myspace, Little Man. Usually I laugh over the latest humorous post, but imagine my surprise when this morning I found an article on me! ME!

Ok, it's not all about me. Edwin Hesselthwite writes about the state of modern publishing, that (and I'm paraphrasing here) much of the fiction being touted today is not very good (despite what the cover blurbs and popular reviews say). Unfortunately, the publishing world is subject to the same greed for the almighty dollar that has infected much of the artistic world at large - much to literature's loss.

A statement that bears repeating, fiction should be a firestorm. And really, how many "tales of people heroically struggling against their limitations and overcoming their hurdles" do we need? Amen.

I may not be photogenic, but my hair looks fierce

Head on over to Little Man and have a look around; while you're at it, you might want to read a review of 28 Weeks Later, a healthy dose of (completely justified, in my opinion) paranoia, a great article for the science fiction fan, and much much more.

Michael Crichton thinks we're all idiots

State of Fear
Michael Crichton

Let me say this up front: I don’t like Michael Crichton. Okay, Jurassic Park and The Andromeda Strain are exceptions, but those days are gone. Instead, we have a Crichton with an agenda — and it’s obvious. But, in the interest of full disclosure, I was given this book (and this one) by a friend, and I’m not not going to read a book without giving it a try, especially if it appears I can have some fun with it here.

Unlike my last Crichton read, this one actually has a plot, instead of “here’s some bad stuff caused by science.” This one provides Crichton’s agenda on global warming: namely, that it’s all a bunch of rubbish and anyone who believes in it is misinformed at best and an utter dunce at worst.

Ok so admittedly I’m no scientist. I fear global warming is true, in the same way I fear global thermonuclear war or a serial killer marking me for his prey, but when you get right down to it, I know no more than anyone else. Sure, I occasionally notice bizarre weather changes, but that doesn’t mean they are indicative of global warming. Sure, I try to recycle and do my part to help the planet, but good lord, I’m human, and yes I threw out a plastic water bottle last week cause I was too lazy to walk to the recycling bin and YES I FEEL BAD ABOUT IT but I’m working through it and doing just fine, if you please.

Back to State of Fear, which is meant to hammer home the point that global warming is a myth set forth by either dumb scientists or evil environmentalists with nothing better to do than save the earth. Page after page is dedicated to, very subtlely I might add, knocking down common assumptions about global warming. Oddly enough, at one point, Crichton becomes so wearied of asserting his point that he simply inserts a whole page of references. There! Let the reader do it! He claims all references contained in the novel are true, but I highly doubt that many readers would bother to double check.

A couple of pages later, Crichton gives us this gem:

“What about the trojans?” Kenner said. “How are they timed?” In computer slang, a trojan was an innocent-looking program installed in the system. It was designed to wake up at a later time and carry out some action. It derived its name from the way the Greeks won the Trojan war—by making a huge horse and presenting it to the Trojans as a gift. Once the horse was within the walls of Troy, the Greek soliders [sic] who had been hiding inside it came out and attacked the city.

Well, thanks, Mike. I’d never have known. You know, the American educational system certainly has its flaws, but I think we’ve got the Trojan horse covered. In fact, I’m pretty sure the meth head down the street has got the Trojan horse allusion down pat, and her last two brain cells are busy fighting for total supremacy. But really, thanks. I could have better done with a definition of “soliders,” because I don’t know what the hell they are.

Relax, buddy. Michael Crichton says you're cool.

Please note that I have quelled my desire to here insert a Gerard Butler 300 pic as evidence of a "solider soldier." This is will power, people.

In a nutshell: I'm done talking about this piece of rubbish.

Bibliolatry Scale 1 out of 6 stars

Insert obligatory "Hey Jude" reference here

Jude the Obscure
Thomas Hardy

I admit it: I have a soft spot for Thomas Hardy. I did my master’s project on Tess of the d'Urbervilles, and I don’t understand why some colleagues of mine roll their eyes upon hearing of my fondness for the tragic writer. Just look at him. Talented and adorable. Take that, naysayers!

Jude the Obscure was Hardy’s last book; the public outcry it provoked compelled Hardy to cease writing fiction for the rest of his life. Hardy, however, was ahead of his time, for Jude the Obscure gives us Jude Fawley and Sue Bridehead, two of the most unconventional characters I have encountered in a long, long time.

The novel follows Jude Fawley though his quest to become a learned man. An orphaned country boy with neither money nor status, Jude has little chance of going to university and making something of himself. These hindrances won’t stop Jude, though, and as a young boy he procures himself some Greek and Latin texts, slowly laboring through them until he can gain some understand of the words. As he grows, he keeps his goal firmly in mind and appears well on the way to achieving it when he meets the wanton Arabella, and, after she tricks him into marriage, life for Jude starts to go downhill. Anyone familiar with Hardy knows Jude won’t end well, but I’ll keep the rest as a surprise (I’ve only discussed the first two out of six books, and there are far, far greater shockers to come).

Jude the Obscure illustrates what happens when one refuses to conform to society’s norms and provides Hardy’s outlooks on marriage (an archaic, economic institution; a true marriage is in one’s heart, not the lawbooks), religion (hypocritical and outdated), and education (elitist and unavailable for those who most want and need it). Jude rarely becomes preachy, however (although some might disagree), and I tore through this over 500 page novel with the quickness.

In a nutshell: I’ve always loved Tess; unfortunately for her, she has been usurped by Jude.

Bibliolatry Scale: 6 out of 6 stars

Don't Believe the Hype: unSpun

unSpun
Brooks Jackson and Kathleen Hall Jamieson

Like manna from heaven, unSpun arrived at my doorstep, unordered and unexpected. Who sent me an unsolicited book? The package contained neither return address nor receipt. Believe it or not, such a phenomenon has occurred before, when I unexpectedly received a short-story collection in the mail. To this day, both mysteries remain unsolved, but far be it from me to look a gift horse in the mouth and all that.

unSpun discusses the wealth of disinformation available in today’s media. The authors, the founders of FactCheck.org, point out how both Republicans and Democrats (and especially major corporations) all use disinformation to their advantage; they also explain the psychology of spin, or the tendency to believe those “facts” that coincide with pre-formed beliefs and to reject that which does not. Finally, the authors show us how to recognize spin and find correct information.

Manna, apparently

In a nutshell: unSpun is quite informative; everyone can benefit from having read it. Not a "fun" read, though.

Bibliolatry Scale: 3 out of 6 stars

I say we all carry swords

Zodiac
Robert Graysmith

When I was a young child I used to lie awake at night fearing that some cold-blooded psychopath would come crawling in my bedroom, rope and knife in hand, to torture me to death. This fear haunted me night after night, not letting up until I was nearly in college. (Perhaps reading Red Dragon at ten years old was a bit unwise; it has become the source of both my die-before-I’m-eighteen fear [which has now become the die-before-I’m-thirty fear] and my eyeball fear. Don’t ask. Or perhaps it was The Deliberate Stranger, with Mark Harmon as Ted Bundy. Damn but that movie just sucks you in!) But whatever it was my fascination with serial killers continues to this day, when just last week I happened upon Zodiac and gave it a try.

Zodiac is Robert Graysmith’s account of the so-named serial killer who terrorized California for nearly twenty years. Graysmith was working as cartoonist for the San Francisco Chronicle when the murders began, and he has followed the Zodiac’s steps though what might be as many as fifty murders (nine were official; the Zodiac himself claimed thirty-seven). The Chronicle became a favorite of the Zodiac, who would routinely communicate with through letters sent to the editor. The Zodiac’s use of cryptic codes (some of which have never been decoded) and taunting messages make the Zodiac an interesting study. But what is the Zodiac’s true identity?? And where is he now?

Zodiac?

Graysmith takes a fairly objective stance as he seeks to answer these questions, relating the facts as they became known. One problem with this structure is that relating facts as they became known does not mean events are described chronologically, which causes some confusion. For example, what is considered to be the Zodiac’s first murder was not recognized as such until he had killed a few more times, but this information became confusing when discussed nearly at the end of the events.

While the facts of the case are quite interesting, there were other flaws as well. The author is not without his own biases and some of his theories seem to be at odds with one another. However, if you enjoy abnormal psychology, you will probably enjoy Zodiac.

In a nutshell: Flawed but quite interesting.

Bibliolatry Scale: 3 out of 6 stars

Depressing, yet salacious: Heinrich von Kleist

The Marquise of O-- and Other Stories
Heinrich von Kleist

Although I didn't enjoy Francine Prose’s Reading Like a Writer as much as others, one good thing did come from my reading it: through it, I found Heinrich von Kleist, a German writer-philosopher of the late-eighteenth/early-nineteenth century whose despair ultimately culminated in his suicide in 1811. In a kind move, he took out Henriette Vogel, dying of cancer, first. Now THAT’S thoughtfulness.

The eight texts (some novellas, some short stories) contained in this collection illustrate several of Kleist’s philosophical ideas: primarily, his distrust in appearances; for him, reality is never as it seems. Kleist’s reality is ambiguous and unpredictable — just when you think you’re safe is right about when the rug will be pulled from beneath your feet. Furthermore, true happiness is impossible to attain — unless, of course, you are either insane or dead. I cannot tell from these stories whether he ultimately believed in God; at best, his is a capricious and whimsical one who enjoys watching his subjects suffer. Far worse than God, however, is his church, which Kleist presents as hypocritical and untrustworthy. Perhaps worst of all is society as a whole, which is harshly judgmental: even in the face of one’s innocence, society remains cold and unmoving, preferring to believe a lie if it means punishing a sin. No wonder the man killed himself.

Cheer up, dog

That’s not to say there is no enjoyment to be gained from reading Kleist. On the contrary, his stories are a testament against complacency, for we never know when the next disaster will strike. More importantly, his stories are fun and even scandalous. The Marquise of O-- (my favorite of the collection) tells of the plight of said Marquise, who, oddly enough, happens to find herself pregnant, despite the fact that she cannot remember doing the deed with anyone. Even better: she ADVERTISES IN THE NEWSPAPER to find the father! Slut!

Better than advertising, and someone gets to dance

In a nutshell: Well written, philosophical, and scandalous.

Bibliolatry Scale: 5.5 out of 6 stars

If This Book Doesn't Make You Cry, Your Heart is an Utter Abyss of Blackest Despair

The Time Traveler's Wife
Audrey Niffenegger

Damn you Audrey Niffenegger!!

Damn you for making me cry! Damn you for writing an excellent first novel! Damn you for having a last name I’m afraid to pronounce for fear of sounding like a bigoted asshole!! Damn you for writing an excellent book that deserves every ounce of the praise it's received! Damn you for writing an amazing book that should have been mine! Nevermind I didn't think of it!

Damn you, damn you, damn you!!!

I coulda been somebody

Ok, I'm done now.

I’ve heard a lot about The Time Traveler's Wife. A lot. But when I hear a lot of “Oh my god, you, like, HAVE to read The Time Traveler's Wife, it is SO GOOD” over and over again, it usually means I’ll hate it. Ditto when the cover blurbs proclaim the novel is "a soaring celebration," "beautifully crafted," and "dazzlingly imaginative." So I began The Time Traveler's Wife with some trepidation.

I needn't have worried. The Time Traveler's Wife is intelligent, well written, and beautiful. Yeah, I cried, and what? That doesn't tell you much, though; I've been known to cry at a McDonald's commercial (the one in which an elderly man proves he is still a productive member of society by working the cash register as customers and fellow employees alike smile fondly upon him). Don't judge me.

Back to the novel. Henry DeTamble is a time traveler. It's a genetic condition, one over which he has no control. Stressful situations cause him to lose his grip on the current time. While he has been known to visit his future, he mostly visits (and revisits) moments from his past. When traveling through time, he can take nothing with him, and as a consequence, he finds himself naked and exposed in some unknown where and when.

Such is his condition when his wife, Clare, meets him for the first time, when she is six (although Henry himself is much older and won't meet her himself for over a decade). Sound confusing? It would be, in less-capable hands. Thankfully Niffenegger is quite adept at preventing the logistics of Henry's time travel from becoming a difficult distraction.

Despite all the interest generated by Henry's time traveling, this is ultimately Clare's book, Clare who is defined by her waiting for Henry: as a child, she waits for his next visit; as an adult, she waits for his return. While the novel has its flaws (I'd like more of Clare at the end of the book, and I found some sex scenes a bit unnecessary), I really can't complain about much.

In a nutshell: Well written, funny, thought-provoking.

Bibliolatry Scale: 5.5 out of 6 stars

More Fiction for the Attention Impaired

New Sudden Fiction
Robert Shapard and James Thomas, editors

New Sudden Fiction is a collection of short-short stories by various authors from all over the world, some of whom are well known (such as Joyce Carol Oates, Yann Martel, and David Foster Wallace) and some of whom are not (such as Robin Hemley and Peter Orner). Although these stories are not as short as those contained in the flash fiction collection, they are still quite short (short enough to be called “sudden”). There are 60 stories in all, and although it isn’t possible for me to discuss all of them, or even all the ones I really liked (there were simply too many of those), I will briefly touch on my favorites.


My favorite story of them all was David Foster Wallace's (whose Infinite Jest I've just begun, despite the fear the large tome inspires in me) "Incarnations of Burned Children," which provides a glimpse into every parent's nightmare: an overturned pot of boiling water, a crying infant, helpless parents. The story's prose, composed of long, breathless sentences, forces the reader to feel the situation's urgency. This story also contains my favorite line in the entire collection, the best line I've encountered in a while, in fact: "If you've never wept and want to, have a child." See? That's what I've been saying.


A lesser known writer, Katherin Nolte, also explores how one fast action can forever change one's life (as well as the lives of others) in "Before the Train and After," which won the Writer's Digest Short Short Story Competition in 2004. In it, Nolte tells of a man forever altered by a rash decision to reach out and touch a moving train as it roars past. What is a seemingly harmless (though juvenile) act has life-long effects, especially since the train takes off his hand in the process. The loss of his hand causes more than the obvious physical limitations, as Nolte proves.


Further exploring the life-long effects of a rash action (albeit in a fun, humorous way) is Robin Hemley, who breaks from these more serious tales with his contribution to the collection. His "Reply All" is a story told through a chain of emails, one of which was inadvertently sent to a group of people instead of the sole recipient for which it was intended (I'm sure you can see where this is headed). Of course, some very personal secrets are exposed, secrets which cannot be ignored, and why should they be -- everyone else has a chance to reply as well. "Reply All" was the most fun to read and definitely stands as a reminder to always proof your emails before hitting send.

In a nutshell: A great collection for lovers of contemporary short fiction. With 60 stories to choose from, you probably won't like them all, but the majority are well worth the time.

Bibliolatry Scale: 5 out of 6 stars

CD SMACKDOWN 2007

I know this site is about books, but I have purchased some new music lately that I feel compelled to comment on. Who will be the victor of Bibliolatry's CD SMACKDOWN 2007?

In this corner: Maurizio Pollini and Chopin: Nocturnes

I recently purchased Chopin: Nocturnes performed by Maurizio Pollini. I purchased it on iTunes, where each of the 18 tracks was a dollar each. Pricey, I thought, but ultimately worth it, right? I went for the entirety because I love Nocturne No. 1 in B-Flat Minor (Op. 9 No. 1, duh) and I figured they'd all be just as good.

The problem is not with Chopin; rather, it's with Pollini and his HEAVY BREATHING hanging over EVERY song. I feel like I'm right on top of the guy. Did they hang the microphone from his nose? He sounds as though he's blowing and heaving like a horse who's just finished the Derby. Good lord, man. It's so bad I cannot NOT hear it. A good lesson for those who debate whether to first sample a track or just buy the whole damn thing at first. (By the way, he plays beautifully. Too bad I'm too entranced by the huffing and puffing.) Here is a link to Pollini playing Nocturne 8; his breathing is noticeably absent. Absent, or else the camera is too far removed.


In this corner: Tori Amos and American Doll Posse

I'm a big fan o' Tori. The woman can do no wrong. Well, there was Scarlet's Walk. But it's cool, girl - you came back with The Beekeeper! But now there's American Doll Posse. Gone are the days when every song on a Tori cd was amazing. Now there's only have a few. Sigh.

But, in truth, I'm sure she's in a better place now, happily married with a child and all. So that's good. At least when Tori gets all breathy it isn't freaky and distracting. Still, it's hard for me to take this, especially when I still have a brain to remember this. Double sigh.


In this corner: Nine Inch Nails and Year Zero

Ok, so the 90s are over. But Trent Reznor is still a bad muthafucker. To anyone who didn't like With Teeth, I say you must be deaf. Um, hello, "Only"? "Sunspots"??? I rest my case. However, many are saying that Trent is "back" with Year Zero. Okay fine, but I maintain he never left.

Year Zero has everything you ever loved (if you ever did love) Nine Inch Nails. Fun sidenote: I almost died in a NIN moshpit in 2000. True story. Scary stuff. Big Tough NIN Fanguy helped me out. If not for him, I'd not be here today, instead a trampled mess beneath a heap of Doc Martens, heavy eyeliner, and seething angst and rage. So shoutout to Big Tough NIN Fanguy, wherever he may be.

Here's my favorite song off the album. (Yes, I still say album. Whatever.) It's not the video, but you can still hear the song, and for added enjoyment, read the priceless comments at the bottom.

The victor: NIN for its lack of distracting breathing and crappy songs.

Street's like a jungle....Misfortune, by Wesley Stace

Misfortune
Wesley Stace

Misfortune has been described as a combination of Dickens’ Great Expectations (which I don’t mind) and Byatt’s Possession (which I abhor). Other reviews have utterly trashed Misfortune, and I don’t quite know why. I had such fun reading it and hardly noticed the length of about 550 pages. I tore through the book quickly and had a great time doing it. Thank heavens I hadn’t read that Possession comment before purchasing it, or else I might never have picked it up.

Misfortune tells the story of Lord Geoffroy Loveall and his son – no, his daughter. Well, both. Sort of. Lord Loveall, childless and effeminate, is facing the incursion of greedy family members upon his estate. With no heir to hold them at bay, Loveall is dismayed indeed. Thankfully, he happens upon an abandoned baby boy in a garbage heap. Score!

The only problem is that Loveall wants a girl. Never recovering from the death of his younger sister in childhood, Loveall plans to raise the infant in her image of his sister. That pesky sex/gender thing shouldn’t be too difficult to overcome. The infant’s true nature is hidden, and Rose is raised as a girl, believing herself that she is a girl, until, well, puberty. Then things REALLY get interesting. Meanwhile, those nasty relatives have been waiting all the while, ready to pounce to claim what they believe is rightfully theirs. Of course, the truth will out and all that. (And how it comes out is SO entertaining.)

Along the way, Misfortune explores the nature of sex and gender (although, in truth, it doesn’t break any new ground). The novel traces Rose’s entire life, and while a few have labeled some parts as unnecessary, I for one found it impossible to become bored with the tale.

Besides, who doesn’t love a man in drag?

30 days, 4 hours

In a nutshell: Fun, fun, fun!

Bibliolatry Scale: 5 out of 6 stars

Like wow! Authenticity! Remainder by Tom McCarthy!

Remainder
Tom McCarthy

I can’t quite put my finger on why exactly I didn’t like Remainder more. I’ve read several reviews praising its innovation, its “existential Everyman,” its modern assessment of happiness and gratification. And while I appreciate these aspects of the novel and applaud McCarthy’s vision, I simply could not connect with the novel on a meaningful level.

Remainder tells how our nameless narrator, a victim of a never-explained accident in which something fell from the sky and sent him into a coma, spends his settlement of 8 million pounds. How does one begin to spend such a vast sum? Wise investments? Real estate? Charitable causes? Gratification of the senses? Nah. Our narrator will do none of these.

Proving there is no limit to what one can do if only possessed of sufficient funds, he spends untold millions in search of “authenticity.” He seeks to recreate a situation gleaned from the fragments of his memory, of an apartment, a crack in the wall, the smell of liver cooking, a pianist practicing. The narrator feels that this memory is the only time he was ever truly authentic; inside that apartment, “all [his] movements had been fluent and unforced. Not awkward, acquired, second-hand, but natural…[he]’d been real—been without first understanding how to try to be…”

Ironically, our narrator wants to be as “authentic,” as effortless, as Robert DeNiro in Mean Streets, as if every move every actor makes isn’t already full of self-conscious awareness. The narrator, unaware of the stupidity of making an actor as a paragon of authenticity, sets forth on a quest to recreate the above conditions. Like an actor, he repeats scenes over and over again, each time practicing authenticity. His quest becomes an obsession and is finally taken past the point of return.

Remainder is far from perfect; for example, I could have done with a condensed version of the recreation scenes. They are admittedly integral to the novel, yet to me they felt too repetitive, and they weren’t all necessary to get the point across. And why does the only American speak like such a tool? To wit: upon learning of our narrator’s wealth, she responds with, “Like wow! It’s so much money!” After he orders champagne to celebrate, she exclaims, “Wow, champagne!” For real, b?

That’s not to say that the novel doesn’t have its strengths: the prose is well written and is rife with literary allusions, and McCarthy poses some valid philosophical questions as well. And yet, for all its literary play and philosophical posing, I was left ultimately unmoved.

In a nutshell: Intellectually interesting but emotionally cold.

Bibliolatry Scale: 3 out of 6 stars

Websites and such

My next post will be up soon, but in the meantime, you might be interested in some websites I've been visiting recently:

Bibliolatry is now on Myspace...I know I'm a little late to the Myspace party, but whatever. And there really isn't any benefit to my joining it, except that I have a hot profile song. I don't really like my layout, either, but I suppose that's life. Feel free to friend me so I don't feel like a tool. Oops. Too late.

Booktribes is a fun new book site that has recently gone online. As a new site, some bugs still exist, but it's a nice waste of time when one has lots of work to do but would rather not start yet.

Booksprice.com is kinda like Google for books. Only better. They find the best price on books (and dvds, cds, and games) from major online stores. They've just added a new feature called the "RSS Price Watcher" that allows one to track the price of a specific book using RSS feeds. Happy shopping!

New reviews will be up before you know it. I'm a bit behind, with the approaching summer upon me. New reviews will feature Misfortune by Wesley Stace, Remainder by Tom McCarthy, The Marquise of O-- and Other Stories by Heinrich von Kleist, and Cosmicomics by Italo Calvino. Whew.