On the nightstand

So, a while ago, I supposedly brought my book log over.

And then promptly forgot about it.

Today, I was all set to update on the comics front and decided that I should at the very least do a little write-up on the books I've read or am reading, so as not to seem like a complete geek girl. Hopefully, more detailed posts coming on a few of these. Don't hold your breath, though.

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Reservation Road: As mentioned before, this packed a punch, not just because of the topic, but the way the event and the subsequent characters' reactions were written. It was a stark, cold novel without actually being stark or cold in writing, if that makes sense. I keep going back and reading snippets that still wrench my gut unpleasantly, but I almost can't help it.

Revolutionary Road: Let me first get this out of the way: I loved this book. Not at all forgiving of its characters' flaws, it nevertheless made them sympathetic. The theme of frustrated hopes and aspirations, and of finding out that you not and never will be special, is an easy one to identify with, but this book does so much more with representing it; it lives it out in between those pages.

That said, the book ended in a way--or, specifically, had an event towards the end--that, put simply, infuriated me. Mind you, the actual last chapter or so did much to redeem that particular twist (I especially liked the tie-up with Shep Campbell's character). I've since calmed down, but the general sentiment I wrote in an e-mail still remains. I do think this something I want to write about, eventually.

(Oh, spoiler warning, if you have not read the book or seen the movie; it does give the ending away):

"Finished Revolutionary Road while waiting to pick up J__ from his indoor kiddie soccer class (excellent for wearing down a kid) and are you FUCKING KIDDING me, that is how he decides to end the novel? I am so pissed off right now--at the ending, I can still appreciate the wonderful, insightful writing up to then--because GAH, how typical. Why is that 3/4 of male authors writing about frustrated and emotionally/mentally/physically thwarted strong minded women think the right, 'real' ending is through a tragic act, preferably at the woman's hand, directed at herself? It was annoying when they did in the 19th century and doubly annoying now. You know what a real frustrated and thwarted woman does? She sucks it up and almost always plods miserably on, without breaking away spectacularly. And when she does,the very, very few times she does, it's not at that dramatic a cost. Men like to think it is, to soothe their wounded egos. If she moves on, believe me, she is going to do it with as little fuss as possible so as not to have any ripples dragging her back, and certainly not in a way that completely defeats her leaving, if and when she works up to it. What is this fascination with making the woman die?"

You can see that is is GREAT FUN to be on the receiving end of an e-mail from me. Doesn't that just make you want to be added to my e-mail contacts?!

The Reader: This was read at a bit of a breakneck speed during a recent dropoff at B&N store, while the boys ran errands, so I could sniff at new books and touch shiny, smooth covers and spines to cheer up (and if you think I am kidding, then you really don't know me). Oh, and read or buy (or both) some, too. It grabbed me and was--in spite of the underlying topic, which is always sobering--a page turner. I read up some more on the author and the book itself, the last day or so, and it turns out that Bernard Schlink, the author, was typically a writer of detecive novels, a style that clearly carried over to this one. There are also a number of nuances in language that are lost in translation, starting from the very title itself (Der Vorleser apparently translates to a reader who is does so out loud), as well as the use of chiasmus (isn't that a lovely word?) to mirror the parallel themes in the plot itself. I think I am going to read this one again.

Before the Chalet School - The Bettanys of Taverton High: I knew I was going to like this, because my other favorite 'fill-in' Chalet book was also written by Helen Barber. I enjoyed the balance of school and family life in this one, which was much more evocative of the earlier Chalet books by Brent-Dyer herself (which also explains why all but one of the fill-ins are from the earlier period of the series--the latter part became so tedious with the same, recurring school themes and very little in way of family or social events outside of the school). It's also nice to go back and read about the headstrong Madge of earlier times, before she faded into the background as the good wife, later on, and to be reminded of how Joey was precocious once without being insufferable. All in all, a very good addition and something I suspect EBD would have approved of, herself.

Le Petit Prince: Picked this up at the Friends of the Library shelf for 50 cents and was, admittedly, stoked to find that I could still easily read the French. There really is a different in reading it in its native language versus in English; I'm not French, obviously, but certain nuances (that's the word of the night, isn't it?) in the tone of the Prince talking to Saint-Exupery are lost in the translation. Interestingly, the Farsi translation, which I also read years ago, is much more attuned to those nuances.

(In general, Farsi translations of French classics have always seemed to me to be more accurate than English ones. I've always wanted to flesh out that theory a bit more, seeing what similarities in language structure? colloquialism? culture, even? would make it so. Some day, when I have time...)

Usual New Year's rereads: Worthy of a separate post, but over the years, I've started rereading a few books at the beginning of each year (well, usually starting a couple of days before Christmas Eve). I suppose it's a way of leading into the new year with the assurance of the old. Anyway, the books were, as usual, The Handmaid's Tale (Atwood), The Shell Seekers (Pilcher), The King Must Die (Renault), Shake Hands Forever (Rendell), Savushun (Daneshvar), the Janie Johnson series (Cooney), the entire Trebizon series (Digby), and the novella collection of Asya/First Love/Spring Torrents (Turgenev). In case it wasn't apparent, the last time this list was added to was a long, long time ago. But it's like comfort food for the soul, and just as you can't call it the same mac 'n' cheese comfort food if you switch out the bright yellow fake cheese with something all grown up and snooty, I can't switch out books and still have it have the same sense of warm, welcome familiarity.

With the exception of the YA stuff, which I know can't be everyone's cup of tea, and the Pilcher one, which seems to send almost all my male acquaintances, and some female ones, into convulsions--mostly, I suspect, because of their snottiness about supposed 'good reads' than anything else--I'd recommend the rest to anyone. They're all enjoyable reads.

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I didn't mention another book which I've been reading on and off, for about two months now, because the whole reason of why I am taking my time with it is something that I could write pages and pages about. In fact, I spend as much time writing notes about it as I do reading it, and am planning to transcribe them when I am done. It's one of those books that makes me, solitary reader that I am (and like being), miss having someone who would enjoy talking about it as much I as do, while I am reading it, very much.

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There, I think I've appeased the red-headed stepchild enough. Out to traffic to play again, it goes.