Embrace your Inner Thetan

Tom Cruise: An Unauthorized Biography
Andrew Morton

I remember being a wee lass and seeing commercials for L. Ron Hubbard’s Dianetics on tv. It was such a neat commercial – there was a volcano, and a loud, booming voice, and so it seemed to me like a really cool book. Then again, I was eight.

I begged my mom to get it for me. She refused. The voracity with which she denied my request astounded me, and I believed at the time that, when she said the book was “bad for me,” it had some kinda crazy sex in it. I quickly moved on to less damaging reads, such as Red Dragon, helping to create the neurotic being I am today -- which is, of course, far preferable to being a Scientologist.

With that in mind, I give you my latest review for Pajiba, on Andrew Morton's unauthorized biography of the joke that has become Tom Cruise. I really enjoyed it, if you can't tell by reading my review. It's all here.

In a nutshell: Fascinating, although I'm finding myself strangely attracted to David Miscavige. I know he's crazy, but if he tried to make out with me, I wouldn't push him away. I'm just saying.

Bibliolatry Scale: 5 out of 6 stars

An Open Letter to the Creators of Guitar Hero

Dear Evil Genuises who devised Guitar Hero III:

I'm not a very demonstrative person, being generally reserved as I am, but I must say: I love you.

Seriously.

I have never seen your faces, but I love you all.

Guitar Hero III has filled the void in my life, giving me a purpose I have never before experienced. Nevermind the hallucinations brought on by hours of game play. Nevermind the back and shoulder pain caused by hours of holding a fake guitar. I'm sure it's nothing serious. An artist must sacrifice for her craft.

If I can tear myself away from my television long enough to ever have a child, I will consider naming my firstborn after you. Unless, of course, you have some kinda lame Hollywood name like Stone Piper Megawatt Dixon IV.

In a nutshell: There is no better way to achieve world peace than Guitar Hero III. Hallelujah!

Bibliolatry Scale: 1 billion out of 6 stars

What would you do?

Via Three Percent, I came across this interesting article regarding Nabokov's last, unfinished work.

Nabokov expressly ordered that this unfinished work be burned. And yet, according to his son, charged with carrying out his father's orders, this last work "would have been a brilliant, original, and potentially totally radical book, in the literary sense very different from the rest of his oeuvre."

I'd never be able to burn it, no matter how much I can understand Nabokov's wishes. I'd set it loose upon the world, errors and inconsistencies be damned.

What would you do?

Oh, the shame

In "real life," I'm addicted to facebook. Why? For the life of me, I can't tell you. I'm a grown woman, dammit. I have like 10 friends on the stupid thing. And yet...I'm so addicted. Obviously, it was only a matter of time until I set one up for Bibliolatry.

Don't judge me.

Oh, and, while you're at it, feel free to friend me. Everyone knows that virtual friends are the best.

If dogs could talk

The Dogs of Babel
Carolyn Parkhurst

I have to say that I have an unhealthy love for my three dogs. (I also have a cat, but she’s a bitch so I don’t speak of her often. No, seriously, she is a ROYAL bitch. She actually had the balls to leave a turd on the floor because I didn’t say hello to her quickly enough. Asshole.)

But my dogs are like my children, and don’t you dare tell me that they are just dumb animals and that I anthropomorphize them into having human qualities. They are human, dammit. Humans with fur and an extra set of legs.

But I don’t kid myself: if I die alone and no one finds me for days, these bastards will totally eat my ass. I just know it. I just better be truly dead or someone’s getting a beating.

aw HELL no

That’s not quite what happens in Carolyn Parkhurst’s Dogs of Babel. When Lexi suddenly dies, her dog, Lorelei, doesn’t eat her; instead, Lorelei barks for attention until help arrives. Lexi’s death is an odd one, and it sends her husband, Paul, into a tailspin. Lexi, not known for being adventurous, has fallen from a tree in their backyard. Paul cannot help but wonder: did Lexi fall accidentally...or on purpose?

Plagued by the uncertainty surrounding his wife’s death, Paul does the only logical thing a man in his circumstances can do: he decides to teach his dog to speak. His rationale goes something like this: Lorelei is the sole witness to Lexi’s death; ergo, she must know what happened. One only needs to figure out how to get Lorelei to spill the beans.

The Dogs of Babel follows Paul’s quest to know what Lorelei saw on the day of his wife’s death. Parkhurst’s exploration of grief is mostly sound, although a few scenes, especially those in which Paul meets with people who perform experiments on dogs in an effort to get them to speak, were a bit silly and unnecessary.

Overall, I found The Dogs of Babel to be intriguing despite its flaws. True, many elements were very convenient and highly improbable, but it did make me wonder what, if anything, my own dogs would tell me if they could. It would probably be something along the lines of, "Put the book down and pet me."

In a nutshell: A quick read that often doesn’t make a whole lotta sense...but it kept me interested while I was reading. Ultimately, it doesn’t say anything new and is quickly forgotten.

Bibliolatry Scale: 3 out of 6 stars

pretty much whatever

King Dork
Frank Portman

Nothing defined my teenage years like depressing music and good books, and I know that nearly everyone can agree that music is never better than when you’re in high school. I spent my teens listening to Nine Inch Nails and Marilyn Manson and feeling as though these heroin-addicted men truly understood my adolescent female torment, as evidenced by such classic tunes like "Cake and Sodomy."

Meanwhile, as I was listening to music that made me want to crawl in a hole and die, I was busy reading crap like the Sweet Valley High series. That Lila Fowler was such a bitch!

Bitch will cut you

Another literary vice of mine – and I’m using the term “literary” very loosely – was Christopher Pike. That man could have shit on paper and I would have paid top dollar for the pleasure of reading it. Just kidding! I didn’t have money back then. I really mean I would have made my mom pay top dollar. Christopher Pike books were kinda like Sweet Valley High, only with monsters and murder. In an unfortunate sidenote, I recently spent some good money on a bunch of Pike books in hopes of finding myself as enraptured as I was in high school. Needless to say, some things are best left in the past.

Tom Henderson, the star of King Dork, feels the same way I do. This high-school nerd spends his time obsessing about music and trying to avoid reading The Catcher in the Rye for what seems like the billionth time. Things change, however, when he comes across his deceased father’s copy of the book. Tom finds more than just a well-known classic – he finds a mystery inside, a mystery that only he can unravel. Convinced that this book holds the secret to his father’s death, Tom is determined to learn exactly what happened that fateful night. In the process, he reads other good books, plans to make out with girls, and gets his band underway.

That’s right. Tom’s in a band, a fact that, in my humble opinion, prevents him from being much of a dork. I think anyone can argue that bands = cool. True, for much of the book he’s talks about being in a band more than he actually makes music, but still. Of course, Tom is subject to the ridicule and sometimes physical assaults of his peers (and even of his teachers). Still, I’m pretty sure that, barring disfiguring acne or nasty body odor, Tom is someone I would have dug in high school.

While reading King Dork, I was put off by something that I could not quite put my finger on. I enjoyed the book, but something prevented me from enjoying it more fully. After having finished it, I learned that King Dork is technically a book for “young adults.” Somehow this knowledge makes a big difference, and I like it all the more after knowing that King Dork is aimed at a younger audience.

In a nutshell: If King Dork taught me anything, it’s that you can name a band (and, by extension, a blog post) pretty much whatever. (See?) Light and fun, King Dork is a coming-of-age tale with a contemporary twist.

Bibliolatry Scale: 4 out of 6 stars

And, out of curiosity, what music got you through those rough teenage years? Post your teen favorites in the comments.

The Longest Title EVER

The Fall of the House of Bush: The Untold Story of How a Band of True Believers Seized the Executive Branch, Started the Iraq War, and Still Imperils America's Future
Craig Unger

My latest review for the good people over at Pajiba is up, for a book that is astounding for, among other things, its amazingly long title: The Fall of the House of Bush: The Untold Story of How a Band of True Believers Seized the Executive Branch, Started the Iraq War, and Still Imperils America's Future.

Spurred on by allusions to Poe, I was hoping for a little more incest (well, any incest), but Fall was all about politics. Shocking. So although it lacked an abundance of really juicy scandals, it was an interesting analysis of America's past, present, and future -- but I doubt it will earn any converts.

You can read my review here.

In a nutshell: Interesting, but not as interesting as I'd thought it would be. Felt like a reallly long research paper.

Bibliolatry Scale: 4 out of 6 stars

Do you read a poem a day?

180 More: Extraordinary Poems for Every Day
edited by Billy Collins

I've been dreading writing this review (even though I should have done so months ago) because I simply have nothing to say about this collection.

I loved it and thoroughly recommend it, but there is absolutely nothing to say about it, other than it's a must-read for poetry fans. But that's not really interesting.

To explain, 180 More is a collection of contemporary poetry edited by Billy Collins, American Poet Larueate from 2001-2003. A prime goal of his is to teach high-school students to love poetry, an aim of mine as well. To that end, Collins edited this collection (as well as its predecessor, which I will review later) so that students could read (and, more importantly, enjoy) a poem a day. As a high-school English teacher myself, I know this aim is admirable but often easier said than done. However anyone, student or not, will find something to love in this collection.

This collection helps achieve Collins goal by including poetry that is both "simple" (although such a word is misleading) and powerful. Furthermore, this is poetry that does not need scanning, counting, and dissecting. Such activities are not what poetry lovers do when they sit down to read poetry -- it's what they do when they show off.

However, don't believe that 180 More features only facile contemporary poetry that contributes to the mediocrity of thought and dumbing-down of education that is so frequently seen today. This collection provides both simplicity and depth -- a refreshing change for students (and non-students alike) who equate poetry with painful over-analysis. The poetry here is not overly difficult to read (at least at a surface level), but it frequently provides great insight, especially upon further reading.

In a nutshell: Everyone will find something to love here. A must for poetry lovers, and an even greater must for those looking to get more involved in contemporary poetry.

Bibliolatry Scale: 5 out of 6 stars

The First Annual Bibliolatry Awards

I've been dreading a recap of my year's readings, because I knew all the linking would be a pain in the ass. Not surprisingly, it was.

To follow is a list of all the books I've read this year. All links are internal and will take you to my review. At the end of this post, I'll give out some awards.


JANUARY

1. Divided Kingdom, by Rupert Thomson
2. White Apples, by Jonathan Carroll
3. Revenge, by Stephen Fry
4. The Thirteenth Tale, by Diane Setterfield
5. Earth Abides, by George Stewart
6. Freakonomics, by Steven D. Levitt and Stephen J. Dubner


FEBRUARY

7. Fallen, by David Maine
8. Mailman, by J. Robert Lennon
9. Frog King, by Adam Davies
10. Many Lives, Many Masters, by Brian Weiss, M.D.


MARCH

11. H.P. Lovecraft: Tales
12. Fluke, by Christopher Moore
13. Next, by Michael Crichton


APRIL

14. The Historian, by Elizabeth Kostova
15. The Road, by Cormac McCarthy
16. Reading Like a Writer, by Francine Prose
17. The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho
18. How I Became a Nun, by Cesar Aira
19. The Brief and Frightening Reign of Phil, by George Saunders
20. Bastard out of Carolina, by Dorothy Allison


MAY

21. Remainder, by Tom McCarthy
22. Misfortune, by Wesley Stace
23. New Sudden Fiction, edited by Robert Shapard and James Thomas
24. The Time Traveler's Wife, by Audrey Niffenegger
25. The Marquise of O-- and Other Stories, by Heinrich von Kleist
26. Zodiac, by Robert Graysmith


JUNE

27. Unspun, by Brooks Jackson and Kathleen Hall Jamieson
28. Jude the Obscure, by Thomas Hardy
29. State of Fear, by Michael Crichton
30. The Butterfly Revolution, by William Butler
31. Blood Meridian, by Cormac McCarthy
32. Cosmicomics, by Italo Calvino
33. On the Road, by Jack Kerouac
34. New British Poetry, edited by Don Paterson and Charles Simic
35. The Book of Nightmares, by Galway Kinnell
36. Grendel, by John Gardner
37. The Ghost Writer, by John Harwood
38. The Fortress of Solitude, by Jonathan Lethem
39. The Collector, by John Fowles


JULY

40. Eeeee Eee Eeee, by Tao Lin
41. Northanger Abbey, by Jane Austen
42. Everything's Eventual, by Stephen King
43. Year of Wonders, by Geraldine Brooks
44. Light of Day, by Jamie Saul
45. The Man in the High Castle, by Philip K. Dick
46. The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch, by Philip K. Dick
47. Philosophy in the Boudoir, by Marquis de Sade
48. Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, by Philip K. Dick
49. Ubik, by Philip K. Dick
50. Hell Hath No Fury: Women's Letters from the End of the Affair, edited by Anna Holmes


AUGUST
51. Klepto, by Jenny Pollack
52. Sharp Objects, by Gillian Flynn
53. Come Closer, by Sara Gran
54. We Need to Talk about Kevin, by Lionel Shriver
55. Bag of Bones, by Stephen King
56. More Than Human, by Theodore Sturgeon
57. The Voice at 3:00 A.M., by Charles Simic


SEPTEMBER

58. The Zombie Survival Guide, by Max Brooks
59. Life Before Man, by Margaret Atwood
60. The Kite Runner, by Khaled Hosseini
61. The Girl Next Door, by Jack Ketchum
62. Samedi the Deafness, by Jesse Ball
63. Men Like Bars, Women Don't Have a Penis, by Iron Balz
64. Who Stole the Funny?, by Robby Benson


OCTOBER

65. Deeper, by Jeff Long
66. A Spot of Bother, by Mark Haddon
67. The Fifth Child, by Doris Lessing
68. The Almost Moon, by Alice Sebold


NOVEMBER

69. The Haunting of Hill House, by Shirley Jackson
70. Atonement, by Ian McEwan
71. The Year of Living Biblically, by A.J. Jacobs
72. The Grass is Singing, by Doris Lessing


DECEMBER

73. Bee Balms & Burgundy, by Nelson Pahl
74. Saturday, by Ian McEwan
75. The Long Walk, by Stephen King
76. The Book of Dave, by Will Self
77. Hell House, by Richard Matheson

So, how'd I do? Well, for one, I'm pissed that I didn't even read more books, but for the record, I've read several more that I simply haven't had the time to review yet. If I count them, I'm at 82. Respectable, sure, but I can do better.

Now for the Bibliolatry Awards. Drumroll, please.


THE BEST
Winner: Atonement, by Ian McEwan
Runner up: The Road, by Cormac McCarthy

THE WORST
Winner: White Apples, by Jonathan Carroll
Winner: State of Fear, by Michael Crichton
Runner up: Fluke, by Christopher Moore

MOST DISAPPOINTING (A.K.A. COULDA BEEN SO MUCH BETTER)
Winner: The Historian, by Elizabeth Kostova
Runner up: The Zombie Survival Guide, by Max Brooks

MOST SURPRISING (IN A GOOD WAY)
Winner: Deeper, by Jeff Long
Winner: The Time Traveler's Wife, by Audrey Niffenegger
Runner up: Misfortune, by Wesley Stace

MOST TERRIFYING
Philosophy in the Boudoir, by Marquis de Sade

PAINFUL BUT AWE INSPIRING
Blood Meridian, by Cormac McCarthy

PAINFUL AND SHITTY
On the Road, by Jack Kerouac

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Happy New Year, everyone! Best wishes for a happy and healthy '08.

The Many Faces of the Book Scarf

You may remember that I blogged about what not to buy a book lover for Christmas. Although I pride myself on my keen sense of foreshadowing, I never even guessed that this post would result in the best Christmas gift of 2007.

Oh yes. I got a book scarf. In a black bag. Because, you know, death is ahead.

Hm.

Of course, my dear Uncle Chiron didn't expect me to actually wear it. Nevertheless, I am always up for a challenge. Why not? I thought, the wheels in my dingy little brain turning. Perhaps I can learn to love the book scarf and turn it into something that even a fashionista might wear.

With this, I bring you:

THE MANY FACES OF THE BOOK SCARF

I call this first one "Beleaguered Starlet." There she is, ladies and gentlemen, plagued by the paparazzi. Unable to escape, she tries her best at venturing forth incognito. Unfortunately, it is to no avail. At night, she drowns her sorrows in quaaludes and vodka.

Next stop: rehab

This next one is "The J-Lo." Don't let the small ass and pale skin fool you, people: I'm a dead ringer for J-Lo. To quote the diva from the Bronx, "It take hard work to cash checks," and those are words that I live by.

Staying grounded as the amounts roll in

I call this next one "Sultan of Fab." Do sultans even wear turbans? Who does? The only guy who comes to mind is Punjab from Annie, and that's definitely not the look I'm going for here. There is no arguing, however, that this look screams fabulous, so that's what I'm calling it.

Fabulous it is

Finally, we have The Bandit, which might be the most useful out of all of these looks. Here, the book scarf comes in handy for those times in which you need to, say, rob a Barnes and Noble or something. Notice my life-like weapon.

Don't shoot, coppers! It's fake!

And so, you see, the book scarf can be a fashionable thing enjoyed by young and old alike. If it weren't for my dear uncle, I'd never have known the wonders that the book scarf holds.

Thanks, Uncle Chiron.

Dumb People + Haunted House = Predictability

Hell House
Richard Matheson

I know I've said this before, but if I knew of a house with a reputation for killing those who venture there, I wouldn’t visit it. Sure, I’d be curious. I’d probably drive up, maybe even stand on the porch. But go in? And, worse, stay overnight?

Of course, if everyone were like me, there’d be no Hell House. I was curious to read another work of Richard Matheson’s; after having just “Long Distance Call,” a truly creepy story of his, I remembered that I needed to experience more of his work. Hell House is in the same vein as Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House, and there isn’t much difference between the two: basically, a group of people, each seeking either to prove or disprove the supernatural, spend some time in a house with a reputation for dangerous spirits.

Obviously, just as in Jackson’s work, Hell House has much to offer its tenants. Unlike Jackson, however, Matheson really ups the ante by revealing some really freaky shit about the house’s former inhabitants. In its heyday, Hell House was the scene of rampant debauchery that eventually ended in the most obscene and gruesome corruption. Now, it is a monument to evil, and the spirits trapped there act accordingly.

Unfortunately, I am so desensitized by today’s glut of All Things Shocking, Appalling, and Outrageous that Matheson’s attempt to horrify falls a little flat. Even the scene with the crucifix, arguably the most offensive incident in the book, did little more than make me wonder about the logistics of the scene.

Well, golly, how’d he manage THAT??

However, my desensitization is not Matheson’s fault, and I can’t knock the novel for that. I can, on the other hand, complain about the shitty explanation given to explain the haunting behind Hell House. I just found some of it a little silly, especially the part about the really evil guy not liking the fact that he was short.

Hm.

Wait -- what??

In a nutshell: Meh

Bibliolatry Scale: 3 out of 6 stars

Life: a small series of botched actions

The Book of Dave
Will Self

In the future, religious extremists rule. They are not, however, Christian or Muslim, but Davist.

Davists are pretty crazy. They don't blow things up, but they don't have to -- they're the only ones around. They have a monopoly on fanaticism, and if you disagree, you'll be broken on the Wheel. Davists believe, among other things, that moms and dads should be separated and that their children must divide their time equally among them. Under no circumstances should a child live with both parents. That’s just crazy, for Dave has forbidden it.

Who’s Dave, you ask? Not a fisherman or carpenter, not a mystic or son of God. No, Dave is a cabbie. A bitter, misogynistic, racist cabbie.

As The Book of Dave begins, we are taken 500 years into the future, to the Kingdom of Ingerland. This country is currently ruled by the PCO, formerly the Public Carriage Office, London's transit authority. So basically the country is ruled by Septa. No wonder they're in a world of shit.

a modern art masterpiece

In the future, instead of following the Bible or the Koran, people follow The Book of Dave. This tome was discovered after the MadeinChina, the creation that occurred after a flood destroyed the world as we currently know it.

The opening chapter of The Book of Dave introduces us to this future world, and to be fair, it’s a difficult chapter. The language is unfamiliar and the reader must frequently consult the glossary of terms at the end of the book. Their customs and creatures (the villagers breed a kind of weird, talking pig that helps to raise their children and is later slaughtered for its meat and oil) are also unfamiliar, which isn't too surprising since this society only rudimentally compares to our own. However, just as we begin to adjust to this bizarre world, we are returned to our own, where things seem much more understandable.

In our time, we meet Dave Rudman, the aforementioned cabbie who is filled with hatred after his wife leaves him and takes his son, Carl. The loss of his son puts Dave in a tailspin: his anger turns to depression, which soon turns to psychosis. Soon, he begins to type his knowledge of the city and his beliefs on how it should be run – and buries it in his son’s backyard, so that he might receive it when the time is right. Hey, he’s crazy. It probably made sense at the time.

Unfortunately, Carl never finds Dave’s book – the people of Ing do, 500 years in the future. Unfortunately, they take Dave’s bile as canon, and his book becomes the foundation for their way of life, influencing their harsh treatment of women and bizarre way of raising children. Even more bizarre is that their entire lifeview is built on Dave’s book – they believe the universe is viewed out of Dave’s windshield and that they are all his fares, which Dave sees in his rearview mirror.

The Book of Dave is not an easy read, but it is an intelligent one that prompts a lot of philosophical questions. Why do we view some things as sacred and not others? Can we be truly assured of the origin of our "divine" texts? For his part, Will Self has to be a genius. He creates a future world complete with its own religion, language, and cosmology just as he skewers the hypocritical world of today.

In fact, my only cavil with Self isn't with the book at all -- it's with his picture that graces the back cover, posted here. This has to be the most stereotypical author photo ever. Here sits our superintelligent author, pipe in hand, seriously glum expression on his face as though to say: My great intelligence, coupled with the general idiocy of the masses, wearies me. I need a smoke.

Now, check out these other photos of Self. How much better are these? He looks fun. He looks human. I’d much rather see these on the cover. This one is rather endearing. This one is odd, but intriguing. This one makes him seem confused, a beleagured genius. Highly likable. And finally, this one is authorly, but not overdone. Hence, it's the pipe that ruins it for me. HENCEFORTH, LET NO AUTHOR BE PHOTOGRAPHED WITH A PIPE. I have decreed it so.

Clearly, I am an expert in these matters. For this reason, I hereby dub myself the Official Approver of Author Photos. If you are an author and would like me to decide upon the picture that will grace the cover of your latest work, don’t hesitate to contact me. I will make sure you don’t look pompous. Don't be afraid; my rates are rather reasonable.*

In a nutshell: A challenging read, but one that is thought-provoking and brilliant. Makes you wonder who really wrote the texts that we revere as sacred. Ooh! I'm going to write my own. The Book of Bibliolatry. Can't wait for the future!

Bibliolatry Scale: 5 out of 6 stars



*Only if you're rich

Bibliolatrist & the Kurgan 4EVA

The Long Walk
Stephen King

Okay, let me get something out of the way. I do a lot of cardio. A LOT of cardio. I walk, run, whatever, at least five times a week. And I can say unequivocally, without a doubt, that I would be the first mothereffer issued a ticket if I were a contestant in Stephen King’s The Long Walk.

Here’s how it works. Every year, 100 “lucky” young boys are chosen to participate in the government-sponsored “long walk.” The rules are simple: walk at a pace of at least 4 mph or you get a warning. Three warnings and you get a ticket. It’s pretty simple. Oh, except a ticket means you get killed.

Four mph??? Without stopping? Not even to pee? Not even to sleep? Four mph is pretty damn fast. I’d like to hear an expert’s opinion on this, because I'm calling shenanigans. I don’t think it’s possible. The long walk goes on for days. I mean, I suppose with the power of the mind and all that, but still. I’d be dead in an hour. Okay maybe two hours, but beyond that I’m a dead man. Woman. Whatever.

I find it simply unbelievable that one can keep that pace going for days. DAYS. Regardless of the possibilities of such a feat, by the end of the walk only one will remain.

There can be only one!

Okay so this is off topic, but how hot is the Kurgan? Many people I know swing more towards MacLeod, but I’m 100% about the Kurgan. He’s so dreamy. Those pins. That bald pate.

hubba hubba

So anyway. As I was saying, at the end of the walk only one person remains. And, yeah, that person gets a pretty cool prize, I guess, but really. Is it worth it?

The Long Walk follows its protagonist, Maine's own Ray Garrity. We watch as the walk briskly begins, and we eagerly anticipate the first ticket. Who will it be? Who can hold out the longest? Who will remain standing?

And while the action of The Long Walk is gripping, it's the psychological aspect that really makes one think. Why did these young men agree to participate in this competition? What about any individual who volunteers to fight such dire odds? And, in the case of the long walkers, is the prize really worth it? Just how powerful is the mind? Can it propel a person to keep going, walking mile after mile for days on end, all the while knowing death is just a stumble away?

In a nutshell: A fast, engaging read that won't blow your socks off but will leave you racing to the end.

Bibliolatry Scale: 4 out of 6 stars

If I could start again, a million miles away

Saturday
Ian McEwan

Oh, shit. I've gone ahead and ruined a good book.

My biggest gripe with Saturday lies not with McEwan or his work, but rather with myself. It was my fault, you see, for reading Saturday immediately after reading Atonement, a novel which blew me away and knocked me senseless. In short, I was setting myself up for failure, for Saturday is no Atonement.

But that’s not to say Saturday isn’t good in its own right, and if I hadn’t still been under the spell of what many consider to be McEwan’s greatest novel I probably would have enjoyed Saturday more. At any rate, reading Saturday did clinch my view of McEwan as a great contemporary writer, and I again reaffirm my need to make my way through more of his work, pronto. Well, perhaps spaced out a little more; I rushed through Lessing, and now I kinda hate her.

Slow down, homie! No need to rush things!

Saturday is a day in the life of Henry Perowne, a gifted neurosurgeon who wakes early in the morning just in time to witness what may be an omen of momentous import – or what may mean nothing at all. He continues his Saturday as he has countless others, only differing by his involvement in a minor car accident. As many know, however, minor incidents can have major effects, and that’s exactly what happens in here.

I won’t give anything away, although you can pretty much tell where the novel’s headed from pretty early on. Nevertheless Saturday is still an interesting rumination on the unexpected turns one’s life can take, and it adds a new perspective on the debate over whether free will or destiny controls our lives. For the record, I'm betting that McEwan's a free will kinda man. I, however, enjoy the notion of destiny, even though I don't truly believe in such a thing.

In a nutshell: Not better than Atonement, but still interesting. If you’re already a fan of his, you’ll enjoy Saturday; if not, start somewhere else.

Bibliolatry Scale: 3.5 out of 6 stars