To Finish or Not to Finish?

By on June 27, 2011 ·
Books

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At what point is it okay not to finish reading a book? Ten pages in? Fifty? This is a quandary I have been facing this week as I’ve worked my way through the opening chapters of a novel that, by all accounts, I should like. It has been well-received by critics. The topic is one that I generally find interesting. The characters are believable. And the writing style, while not as artful as others I’ve encountered, is sufficiently engaging to keep my interest. Yet there have been a several moments as the story has unfolded (specifically, uncanny “coincidences” in the plotline) that have given me the urge to chuck the book into the trashcan and move on to the something else.

You see, I’m one of those readers who tends to see a book through to the end no matter what. Maybe it’s my Midwestern upbringing or my Protestant work ethic, but somewhere deep in my psyche is the conviction that, once a chosen task is begun, I have a moral obligation to complete it. Over the years, I’ve wasted an enormous amount of time reading all sorts of books that, in retrospect, were not particularly good and really weren’t worth the effort. But I finished them, dang it!

Recently, however, something has changed. Maybe it’s because I’m getting older and I realize that life is short, or perhaps it’s the result of reading hundreds of really bad student essays during my decade and a half teaching high school English. For whatever the reason, I no longer want to read books I don’t like.

Yet does this reflect a growing shallowness on my part? Have I fallen victim to the same social and cultural forces that have conditioned my students to retreat from anything that is not immediately engaging or may require some sort of sustained effort on their part to fully reap its rewards? I can think of plenty of books (particularly some of the “classics” that were assigned by my teachers in high school and college) which were not particularly riveting at first, but they turned out to be some of the most memorable books I’ve experienced. At the same time, how many books have I blazed through that I found delightfully entertaining while I was reading them but have long since forgotten?

As C.S. Lewis notes, good readers can learn something valuable from even the worst books. The question is, at what point is it fair to say that a book is simply not worth the trouble? Personally, I’ve going to give my current novel another twenty pages or so. Okay, maybe thirty. We’ll see how it goes.

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Crash Course in Literacy: Part 5

By on April 18, 2011 ·
No Country for Old Men (film)

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When I started this list, I mentioned that I had a reading order in mind for the books. It’s an order based on very subjective (and very arguable, I’m sure) feelings of ‘hard’ versus ‘easy’. Fahrenheit 451 is a great book but I consider it an ‘easy’ book. It’s fast paced, kind of fun, and a quick read. That’s not a knock either. The idea was to snare the young man who doesn’t read and you’re not going to do that with War and Peace or Moby Dick or really anything with a decent movie version out. The tones of the books (also very subjective) seem to get darker and more intense as they go along. And that brings us to the graduate course in this super-truncated literary education.

Cormac McCarthy is less subjective, less arguable. His books are not ‘easy’; the man doesn’t use quotation marks! The tone is bleak, desolate, relentless, dark…yeah all of those coupled with rape, incest, murder and other cheerful bits of violence. That cheerful was sarcasm. Somehow, though, his prose manages to be beautiful, his characters compelling, and his storytelling is imaginative and gripping.

No Country for Old Men is McCarthy at his best. It takes place in the West. Texas to be exact apparently circa the early eighties. It is at the same time the Mythic West of America but he subverts the reader’s expectation of that Mythos to explore things like the meaning (if any) of bravery, the meaning (if any) of right and wrong, the meaning (or existence) of morality, and the true depth of darkness one (apparently) human being is capable of. If that all sounds heavy, it is, but I don’t think it’s on purpose. McCarthy doesn’t appear to be subversive for its own sake. I think he just really sees things this way and those are the stories he tells.

No Country is simple enough. A blue collar kind of guy finds a bag full of money. The manner of the finding leaves no doubt that this is blood money from across the border. He takes the money and the cartel is after him. He makes a run of it and he seems to be doing well but it’s not just gun thugs after him. Also after him is a truly remorseless killer who doesn’t like to get blood on his clothes. Also a sheriff named Ed Tom.

Okay maybe it’s not that simple and if you haven’t read it that little synopsis will probably just confuse you. If it’s not simple in subject matter it is brutally simple in style. This story has been taken down to bare metal. Then had an edge put on that metal. Then that edge is honed and stropped until you can shave with it. No word is wasted or out of place and despite that kind of work from the writer, the book still expects a lot from the reader. McCarthy never once tells us, as narrator, who’s a good guy and who’s a bad guy or what motivates a character or even what they look like. Everything we think or feel about a character is something we have to take based on what they do or what someone else in the book says about them. That takes a certain something from a writer…balls? insanity? reckless endangerment? Most of us as writers are concerned (read terrified) that we won’t get what we are thinking across to the reader. So we modify and explain and ramble on. Whether McCarthy has faith in his writing, faith in his reader, or just doesn’t give a shit, I don’t know. But it makes a hell of a good read and an affecting read. I would hope the experience of having a writer expect something from you and finding you are up to it would hook you on reading forever.

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Crash Course in Literacy: Part 4

By on April 6, 2011 ·
Eberkopfterrine (boar head tureen), Modell: Go...

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When my high school English teacher (shout out to Mr. Ted Eriksen) passed out copies of Lord of the Flies he told us it was “Probably the most carefully constructed novel in the English language.” That being a bold intellectual statement and me and my classmates being smart ass teenagers, we immediately and mockingly started referring to the book in that manner or by the initials TMCCNITEL. Yes, we thought that was pretty funny.

Of course, we had to eat a little crow when it became obvious Mr. Eriksen was dead serious and dead right. Mind you, the structure wasn’t the first thing I noticed. The story was the first thing I noticed. It’s a great story that looks like a Robinson Crusoe adventure at first blush. The tone indicates rather quickly that it’s not going to be that. Something is weird about these kids and this island but we’re not sure what. If you haven’t read it, shame on you, but if you want the same feel and tone it’s very close to the first five or six episodes of Lost. In fact I doubt Lost could have been written without Lord of the Flies.  But I digress.

The reason this book is on my literacy list is because of those two things in harmony: a really great story told in a carefully constructed manner. The book is tailor made to be taught. An English teacher’s wet dream of symbols: the conch shell, Piggy’s spectacles, the signal fire, the Beast, the titular Lord of the Flies. The characters fit into allegorical roles that make the book easy to classify as allegory. But it’s told so damn well that it doesn’t have any of the heavy handedness of allegory. It was the first book that I wasn’t assigned but taught. There were real discussions between Mr. Eriksen and us smart ass kids. For me this leap was when we were discussing Roger (that little shit) throwing rocks at the littleuns but not quite hitting them. It’s not the most intense scene in the book by a long shot but it’s when I was invested in learning a book, even anxious to learn it. And of course it deftly foreshadows what Roger will eventually do to Piggy.

This wasn’t the overwrought obviousness of The Scarlet Letter (sorry Mrs. Leavens but that book has all the subtlety of a wrecking ball in mid swing). We’re not told that Simon is an intuitive and spiritual boy, it comes out in the story and it happens in a natural and compelling way. The book draws you in with a slow build, maintaining the simple adventure of a desert island while constantly cranking up the creepy descent into savagery. The power of primal tribalism gets so strong that the boys’ fate feels inescapable. That gripping story and masterful structure make it perfect for the classroom but it’s just as good for a less formal setting like my quick and dirty top five here. If you can read this and not want to talk about it then I guess there truly is no hope for you to develop a love of books. But I don’t think that will happen.

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Modern Female Archetypes: The Succubus

By on March 2, 2011 ·
Yoko Ono

Cover of Yoko Ono

 

We’ve seen it plenty of times. A group of guys who’ve been friends for years suddenly find their world disrupted by the arrival of a new female. She typically enters the scene on the arm of one of the fellows, and the others tolerate her because of their loyalty to their buddy. But before long, things begin to change. The guys start to see less of their friend, or if he does come around, the girl is always with him. In subtle (or sometimes not so subtle) ways, she manages drive a wedge between her man and his old comrades until finally, she comes to dominate every aspect of his life. Their pal’s fun-loving personality gradually drains away, and he becomes a mere shadow of his former self. Things soon fall apart: the band breaks up, friendships are jeopardized—all because of a manipulative, soul-sucking female.

Yoko Ono’s infiltration of the Beatles is the most obvious modern example of this phenomenon. (In fact, the Urban Dictionary defines the “Yoko Effect” as: “The aftermath of an individual in a group of friends dating a nut-case girlfriend or boyfriend. The significant other will intentionally or unintentionally control the group member’s entire life and eventually stomp out anyone he or she sees as ‘unfit’ based on arbitrary criteria.”)

In the realm of storytelling, the roots of this archetype run deep. For instance, the goddess Circe turns Odysseus’ warriors into swine in order to keep her man by her side. It’s not until Odysseus recognizes Circe’s ploys that they are finally able to break free and resume their journey. Likewise, medieval folk legends surrounding the character of Lilith reflect the notion that certain females (succubi) will use their sexuality to corrupt men and drain them of life. The temptress in John Keats’ “La Belle Dame Sans Merci” fits this model, as does King Arthur’s faithless wife, Genevieve, whose actions are instrumental in destroying Camelot.

In modern cinema, examples of the succubus archetype abound. Who can forget David St. Hubbins’ girlfriend, Jeanine Pettibone, in the “rockumentary” This Is Spinal Tap? Or what about Judith (Amanda Peet’s character) from the movie Saving Silverman? Of course, there is also the girlfriend of Jack Black’s roommate, Patty DiMarco (played by Sarah Silverman), in The School of Rock. Vinnie Chase (the movie star heartthrob on HBO’s Entourage) has a run-in with a vegan yoga fanatic (Fiona) whose behavior is eerily reminiscent of Yoko’s. And let’s not forget Stu’s passive-aggressive wife, Melissa, from recent hit film, The Hangover.

The methods of these soul-suckers range from manipulative puppet-masters at one end of the shrewish spectrum to selfish, emasculating harpies at the other. Yet all of these gals have one goal in mind: to separate their men from the group. For awhile, the women are successful. However in the end, it’s the men’s buddies who rescue them from these girls’ conniving feminine clutches. If only Paul, George, and Ringo could have been so lucky. But then again, maybe we can all learn a thing or two from their example as well.

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Crash Course in Literacy: Part 3

By on January 19, 2011 ·
Self made image of Eastern Cottontail
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My previous book to brainwash convince my young illiterate that reading was fun was Call of The Wild.  Call of The Wild is about a dog.  Everybody loves dogs and so even someone who’s new to reading should be able to get into the story.  Who doesn’t like stories about animals?

Watership Down is about a bunch of rabbits.  The first time I heard about the book was when I was reading The Stand.  Stu Redman of Texas is not much of a reader but buys Watership Down as a gift, for a niece if memory serves.  Stu supposed from the title the book was about some kind of shipwreck but he reads the first page and finds out it’s about a bunch of rabbits.  He can’t put it down and reads the whole thing in about two days. 

It was years later when I saw a copy laying around my house (still don’t know how it got there but I don’t question the book faeries) and had a similar experience to ol’ Stu’s.  I remembered Stephen King’s brief description and there was a rabbit on the cover so I wasn’t quite as surprised; but I was captivated.  By the middle of the first page I was totally in the world of these rabbits and the more I read the more immersive that world became.  Unlike Buck, these rabbits talk.  They in fact have their own language, myths and legends, and the world we see is wholly theirs. 

Some people label it allegory but that misses the mark.  Certainly there are political themes; each warren runs on a recognizable ‘political’ system.  Fiver and his small band’s search for freedom and sovereignty while respecting the individual should appeal to any red blooded American despite the quite English flavor of the book.  But these aren’t representations of people.  The characters are rabbits and this is an heroic tale about rabbits. 

Because the characters are bunnies (though not all of them are cute) the book is often considered children’s lit.  It is children’s lit and Adams started by telling the stories to his daughters.  But they made him write it down and we owe them because it’s damn good children’s lit.  The kind of book that if you read it when you’re nine you can read it over and over again and love it more each time. 

That makes it a perfect book to get someone like my poorly read protege to love reading.  So perfect that I debated putting this one before Fahrenheit 451.  If you haven’t read it, I insist you do so as soon as possible.  If it’s been a few years, like it has for me, then I suggest you give it another read.  In fact I think I’m gonna put that in my new Kindle right now.   

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