A Foray into Y/A (Part II): The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie by Alan Bradley

Like my other "foray into Y/A," The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie by Alan Bradley is a mystery, and a delightful one at that.

(Note: I hesitate to call it Y/A because it is quite intricate and very adult-friendly, but when I was working at a bookshop, we were to always put it there so let's run with that.)

When I first picked this up in the Mysterious Bookshop on a lunch break from the NYU Summer Publishing Institute, I was rather unimpressed by the blurb but absolutely captivated by the cover. It had no jacket and that brilliantly beautiful (while also disturbing) illustration of a dead bird with a stamp on its beak.

And thank the mystery gods for that one... Bradley's Flavia de Luce is a most unlikely heroine (and similar to Larsson's Lisbeth Salander in that unlikeliness only). She is merely 11, the youngest of three daughters (like moi), and has an obsessive penchant for chemistry (which leads her into pranks on items like her sister's lipstick).

In The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie, the first installment of this now series, Flavia (and her trusted bike Gladys) zoom around Bishop's Lacey (a blissfully British sounding town) in order to solve two mysteries. First, a man dies in her backyard, gasping out his very last words to Flavia herself. This mystery and the caricatured clues that surround it (a Norwegian bird, a rare stamp, a pie) lead her to poke the murder of her father's old professor at Greyminster, which dear old Mr. de Luce may be involved with himself. Naturally, in true mystery fashion, the two are connected and will be neatly sorted out.

Admittedly, the mystery is a bit contrived, but aren't all great mysteries so? It is the classic elements of this story that liken Flavia far more to the impeccable Sherlock Holmes than to the now-kitschy (but formerly wonderful) Nancy Drew. The mystery is precisely laid out, and is almost more realistic in its oft-criticized predictability. The reader is given the same clues Flavia is so that the reader can solve it at the same speed that Flavia does. Refreshing to be sure in an era of mysteries where absurd twists come out of just about nowhere.

I can't wait to meet up with Miss Flavia yet again in The Weed That Strings the Hangman's Bag, due out March 8, 2010. (She even has her own fan club after just one novel!)

The Girl Who Played With Fire by Stieg Larsson

My posting history for the past month has been absymal. I'll chock it up to all of the craziness that decided to settle into my life for now, but enough about that. Back to books.

Truth be told, my reading has severely decreased because of my internships but I've managed to squeeze in some gems here and there. I'm going to keep these next few posts brief, partly because I read the books a bit ago and partly because I simply want to.

Stieg Larsson's The Girl Who Played With Fire, is, for those of you who live under a rock, his follow-up to The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo.

I admittedly had a lot of qualms with Dragon Tattoo, mainly with its rattling on and on about the economic scandal, which I frankly did not care about. A chapter or so would have been enough, but nevertheless I still enjoyed it greatly.

The Girl Who Played With Fire (thankfully) does not delve into economics and rather explores more deeply the fascinating character of Lisbeth Salander. Her background is (almost) fully divulged in the course of a murder investigation.

The parts that I did love about Dragon Tattoo stayed around for Played With Fire, but not in the boring way that Carlos Ruiz Zafon did with The Angel's Game. Lisbeth Salander, Mikael Blomkvist, and all the other main players stuck around for round 2. At the center of the novel was still an expose executed by Millenium magazine and a book counterpart to boot (which a publishing nut like myself has got to love).

Instead of the mystery taking Blomkvist & Co. to the depths of snowy Sweden, this murder investigation takes place in Stockholm itself with only a brief (but powerful) hiatus to the familiar countryside we came to know in the first installment. Also, instead of the mystery centering on one psychopath, it concentrates on the rather large exploitation of human trafficking which does share one thing with original mystery: Eastern European immigrant girls as victims.

But of course, despite any differences, there were still men who hate women and the woman who hates men who hate women. Larsson's chilling look into how the sexes have yet to become equal and how women still have much to overcome is like a blast of frigid cold into our cozy ideas of Sweden as a socialist safe haven for all. (Don't worry, there are plenty of men who love/respect women to ensure that it isn't just a man-bashing mystery.)

While The Girl Who Played With Fire is hardly polemical and not likely to change much in the way of how things are, it still is worth reading not only for the entertainment value of an SVU episode on steroids but also for its (disturbingly) deep questions it raises.

A Foray into Y/A (Part I): The Mysterious Benedict Society by Trenton Lee Stewart

I am a very difficult person to buy a book for. I'm very picky, I have strong opinions, and I'm also just plain old stubborn and independent. All of this has remained true since I first started reading. I determined that the covers had to be beautiful, the protagonist had to be a girl, and a mystery had to be involved.

Trenton Lee Stewart's The Mysterious Benedict Society fits two of these criteria (fantastic cover and a mystery) while downright disregarding the other two (my mother bought it for me for Christmas and the lead is a boy). Nevertheless, this novel about 11-year-olds far surpassed most of the books I read as an 11-year-old, and I dare say I enjoyed it more as a 22-year-old than I would have at half that age.

So why should an adult bother picking it up? Well, the best way to put it is if you happen to watch Fringe, you will surely enjoy it. Mr. Benedict (whose namesake is in the title) is quite like our dear Walter, plus he has a comedic case of narcolepsy and only wears green plaid. Kate, one of the society members, resembles our fearless Olivia Dunham. And Mr. Curtain (yes, a lovely allusion to the man behind the curtain from Oz) is an evil genius intent on mind control who'd I'd imagine could be quite chummy with William Bell.

It does, admittedly, have the trappings of a young adult novel, as it well should. The names of the characters are quite colorful: Number Two, Reynard "Reynie" Muldoon, Kate Wetherall, George "Sticky" Washington, and Constance Contraire (my personal favorite). All are in some way estranged from their parents or orphaned (as in any good Disney movie) and all in some way are geniuses.

It also has the quintessential hallmark of a kids' book: pictures. Carson Ellis, who drew the cover image, also draws images for each and every short chapter's first page, making the reading experience even more delightful.

Unlike its adult counterparts, this mystery does not get bogged down in sex scandals, financial schemes, or sensationalism. Rather, it stays true to the mystery form as would a Sherlock Holmes story (can't wait for the film!) or a Nancy Drew book. Which, of course, leaves its reader feeling quite refreshed. And its secret society aspect brings to mind The Secret History, minus the creepy parts.

And in true young adult fashion, there is a happy ending you wouldn't get from most mysteries or thrillers or even adult books in general. All is well in the world when you close the back cover after the quickest 500 pages you've ever read.

The Invention of Lying

To be honest, I absolutely love dirty, obnoxious, sarcastic comedies. Case in point, JAB and I watch Superbad or Forgetting Sarah Marshall nearly every time we pop in a DVD. Our day's communications often include some reference to said movies, with "No, Jeremy, I can't sell you any weed because I am at my place of work. You would know that because you called me at my place of work... MAHALO" as our favorite.

But every once in awhile, some good, clean (well, cleaner) fun is just what you needed. Enter The Invention of Lying. Written, directed, and starring Ricky Gervais, this comedy has his fingerprint all over it. Its comedy is wholly honest and everyday, just like The Office.

In The Invention of Lying, Gervais imagines a world where no one has ever lied. You would think, initially, that this would equate to a utopia of sorts, but no such luck. People are crude and just too honest. I would like to think that if we really couldn't lie, we would have a couple nicer of things to say. Nonetheless, the negativity works well against the earnestness of Gervais' character, Mark Bellison.

Mark, a screenplay writer of 1300s historical event films, first "invents" the lie when he is evicted from his home, and desperately needs money, which he easily swindles out of the teller. He tests his new found talent over and over, until he decides to uses it on Anna (Jennifer Garner), with whom he is hopelessly in love.

But the true pinnacle of the lie comes when he comforts his mother, who is dying and desperately afraid. He makes up a story about the afterlife so captivating that by the next afternoon the entire world awaits his insights. Mark then concocts a worldwide phenomenon of a pseudo-religion involving commandments on pizza boxes and "A Quiet Place to Think About the Man in the Sky." This aspect of the film lightly glosses over tough religious questions just enough to spark your interest but not enough to bog you down.

The lies catch up to Mark eventually, but not in a way that is as catastrophic as I imagined and not before he amasses fortune and fame. Along the way, hilarious guest stars make the movie even better: Jonah Hill is a depressed neighbor of Mark's who becomes his buddy, Edward Norton is a cop who gets off on getting people in trouble (literally). Jason Bateman is an aloof doctor who cares most about the cafeteria's special, and Rob Lowe is a narcissistic rival screenplay writer.

The only thing that bothered me a little bit was how shallow Anna was. Mark, a considerate, caring man, pines away for Anna, who proves herself to be consistently shallow. I wish she was more likable and perhaps less actress-pretty and more normal-pretty (a la Pam from The Office).

Bottom line? You'll laugh (and maybe cry a little), and it will make you remember why you love going to the movies in the first place.

People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks

Like a lot of the books I've read recently, People of the Book grabbed my attention because of the possibility of finding a story like The Shadow of the Wind. Some disappointed (351 Books of Irma Arcuri) and some provided similar entertainment, like People of the Book.

The premise of the story is nothing short of amazing, especially when you consider that it is based on a true story. A Jewish haggadah--a religious book that sets the order of the Seder--makes its way from Spain to Italy to Bosnia to Israel, with mishaps and large chunks of its history missing. It is illuminated--that is, it has illustrations--which is unheard of for Jewish texts. Also, it is saved multiple times not only by its Jewish owners but also by Muslims who recognize its beauty and importance.

Brooks tells it in a reverse order, with the Bosnia scene first and then working back to Spain. Interspersed in all of these histories is the story of Hanna Heath, an Australian book conservator who is called to Sarajevo to restore the newly rediscovered text. Five trace clues (a butterfly wing, a white hair, wine stains, silver clasps, and salt crystals) drive Hanna's multicontintenal investigation into the history aspect of the book. For Hanna, what ensues is a pretty predictable, rather unimaginative love story and finding of herself.

All in all, People of the Book is a good story that had great possibility. The telling of the story and the language used in that telling just fall short. Hanna's voice is just fine; it is straight and to the point, much how you would imagine Brooks' own journalistic voice. Unfortunately, that voice carries over to all of the historical parts too so that a story that is supposed to be told in the 1500s sounds like it is told today. Thus it loses a lot of the magic it could have held. That voice worked when Brooks was writing her article for the New Yorker on this very subject, but it doesn't work for the novel. While I don't expect her to change language or change her writing style, some sort of differential writing would have made the book a lot stronger.

Books I've Forgotten to Read

The statement every English major will inevitably encounter:

You must have read [insert so-called classic here]!

Well, I hate to disappoint you folks, but there is a good chance that I have never read that one for two reasons:

1. Let's do the math. Even though I have a degree in it, my schooling still stopped at 22 (so far). So let's say I read 10 required books per year in middle school and high school. Add to that those I've read in college. I probably took an average of two English classes a semester, averaging about 7 books per class. That's 112. Plus 40 is 152, and I have a feeling that's a generous number. Regardless, there are hundreds upon hundreds of classics I have yet to have the pleasure of enjoying.

2. And now for that word classic. Some classics are undisputed: Shakespeare's works, Paradise Lost, The Divine Comedy, and so on. But as you get to later time periods, you encounter more and more discord among the (intellectual) masses. Besides, English profs love to make an academic name for themselves by developing some theory on some completely unknown author. They then proceed to teach this author to students, thinking they are teaching something new when half of the time students haven't encountered the old.

That being said, I put together a little list of books I probably should have read (and probably should get around to reading):

- 1984, George Orwell
- Wuthering Heights, Emily Bronte
- Catcher in the Rye, J. D. Salinger
- Absalom, Absalom!, William Faulkner
- For Whom the Bell Tolls, Ernest Hemingway
- The Grapes of Wrath, John Steinbeck
- Brave New World, Aldous Huxley
- Ulysses, James Joyce
- Sula, Toni Morrison
- Moby Dick, Herman Melville
- Cat's Cradle, Kurt Vonnegut

The Convalescent, by Jessica Anthony

To be quite honest, my recent foray into the book publishing world via social networks (mainly Twitter) has left me disillusioned. Every book I pick up I seem to have heard 1001 things about, leaving my judgment altered. I enjoy a little glory every once in awhile: I like to be the one who finds the gem.

And finally, I have. The Convalescent, by Jessica Anthony.

When I scooped it up in Barnes & Noble (don’t judge me), I was drawn mostly to the cover. The book is a brilliant golden yellow. Its undersized jacket has the most arresting cover, simulating a woman of sorts within a web of multi-colored veins. The cover in itself was well worth the purchase, but it was admittedly quite deceiving.

What I would have guessed to be a twisted self-discovery story of some quirkily beautiful girl turned out to be the story (and history) of a deformed, diseased, and all together unpleasant little butcher named Mr. Rovar Pfliegman.

Rovar is a mute midget. He sells (stolen) meat from his inoperable school bus in the middle of a field in Virginia and falls victim to his own “benevolent erections.” His skin peels off and he can’t quite shake a hacking cough.

But despite these shortcomings, Rovar proves quite endearing through the skilled pen of Jessica Anthony. While he may defecate in a bucket, a portion of his bus is set aside for his “Reading Center.” Though he grunts instead of speaks, he eloquently writes the secondary narrative of The Convalescent as a letter to the object of his affection.

In fact, in regard to his love of reading and keen assessment of the absurd social world, Rovar is not dissimilar to another character with whom I’ve recently fallen in love: Madame Michel of The Elegance of the Hedgehog (though she is arguably lovelier and, frankly, cleaner).

Those around Rovar prove equally as intriguing. Marjorie taps his window each morning just to say hi and slices those who threaten Rovar. (She is a tall blade of grass.) Mrs. Kipner will never leave his bus. (She is a beetle who grew fat from eating a can of tomatoes and then grew too fat from said tomatoes. Thus, she is stuck in the can.)

Beneath this odd telling of Rovar's world, Ms. Anthony weaves an intricate history of Rovar's ancestors in eastern Europe. It may be more aptly described as a mythology, with its fantastical details, sordid twists, and stunning nature imagery. Case in point: Ms. Anthony manipulates the motif of the river so that it strays from the Disney/Pochahantas convention and rather becomes a powerful force of magical birth coupled with fantastical destruction.

She transforms the cliché image of the butterfly into something wholly new and imaginative, even stretching it to include the beetle, Mrs. Kipner. This butterly image, along with others such as that of the bird, is used to pull together otherwise unconnected events into a fate that is both firmly planted and frustratingly elusive.

Thus the teeniest things in this world (the butterfly, the bird and Rovar among them) get reinvented and exalted in Ms. Anthony’s work. She writes, “Only the gravitational force, by far the weakest force of all, guides the destinies of the universe” (116). Which is of course just an imaginative way of saying, “Good things come in small packages.”

In addition to this use of common motifs, she openly pulls from some of the most established traditions in literature (namely, Kafka). However, Ms. Anthony does so in a way that is not only skillfully executed but is also entirely her own.

Keep a lookout for this author… I’m expecting (and hoping for) further greatness from her in the near future.

The Fourth Kind

Now, let’s not kid ourselves here when talking about aliens. One of the great unanswered questions of all time (besides the whole “how many licks to the center of a Tootsie pop” thing) is whether or not we are alone in the universe. Drive anywhere near the infamous Roswell, New Mexico and you’ll be sure to find evidence that there is hope – or fear, whichever way you prefer to look at it. Mix up this extraterrestrial quest with a camera, some lighting, and CGI effects and you have a bona-fide “alien movie.”

For the record, I completely disagree with Wikipedia’s “list of films featuring extraterrestrials.” Case in point: Wall-E is not an alien movie, it’s a love story and no one can convince me otherwise. But in relation to numerous other movie genres, alien movies are relatively unheralded – and for good reason. Long gone are the good old days of Sigourney Weaver battling seven foot monsters in space, or the young boy Elliot learning to love his friend E.T. (according to my mother, the only time she’s ever seen my dad cry).

Instead, we are forced to sit through films where the aliens are simply shown to us, leaving nothing to the imagination. And for the record remakes like Tom Cruise’sWar of the Worlds are not getting the job done. Besides, isn’t the point of alien movies to scare us and make us wonder?

While the film has yet to be released, The Fourth Kind looks as if it will make me wonder, and possibly scare me into sleeping with the lights on. Set in the town of Nome, Alaska, the film claims to be based on actual events. Specifically, the town itself is known for having a high number of missing people and reported alien abductions over the past several decades. These abductions are purportedly supported by archival footage. Milla Jovovich stars as psychotherapist Abigail Tyler – the supposed true life character who videotaped interviews with those that have been abducted.

So at this point I’m sure the skepticism is flying through the roof about this film. I mean, who actually believes in alien abductions? But that’s not the point. Although the trailer might be relatively surreptitious and unrevealing, it looks scary as hell. The majority of the trailer involves videotaped therapy sessions where the patients have “episodes” in which they relive their abductions in horrifically vivid detail. Seemingly harmless – but it was enough to have me running for cover.

Long story short, this has all the makings of an alien movie that makes you wonder. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not saying this is an Academy Award winner. But if you’re looking for a good thrill, or just a reason to re-ignite that quest for a higher life form, The Fourth Kind looks like it might be your cup of tea.

If you’re still not convinced, check out the trailer for yourself. Just don’t call me when you wet the bed.

The Angel's Game, by Carlos Ruiz Zafon

As promised, I've finally read The Angel's Game, the sequel/prequel to The Shadow of the Wind. I frankly couldn't stop raving about The Shadow of the Wind, but I don't have too much to say about The Angel's Game.

It's not that I didn't enjoy the book. On the contrary, I enjoyed it nearly as much as The Shadow of the Wind. However, had I not known it was written by Ruiz Zafon also, I might have just written it off as a (very good) imitation.

For the most part, it follows the same general outline of Shadow. A poor young man from Barcelona without a mother stumbles into a literary career through the benevolence of a rich man. This poor young man then falls in love with a beautiful but tragic woman, and such romance creates tension with the rich man. Angst and pain follow with a bittersweet ending and a touch of supernatural.

In The Angel's Game's case, this young man's name is David Martin and he writes bestselling crime novels, though he longs to write a magnus opus far different from his CV. Enter Andreas Corelli, a man (who may or may not be Lucifer) who commissions Martin to write a book creating an entirely new religion complete with a slew of myths. This deal between Martin and Corelli requires past promises to be cut, and people start being mysteriously murdered for that very purpose.

While this dark devil/religion/murder plot unfolds, so does one that is more personal to David. After moving into a decrepit yet beautiful old home, he uncovers a new tantalizing mystery involving the old typewriter that resides in his study as well a mysterious locked room with a false wall. As he begins to investigate, he finds himself pulled into a dark history that leads him right back to the business with Corelli.

And amidst all of this hullaballoo, David faces two female problems: The love of his life, Cristina, marries his benefactor and proceeds to lose her mind, and a pesky but bright aspiring writer named Isabella hires herself to be his assistant.

All in all, these elements add up to be a far more internal drama than the plot-driven Shadow of the Wind. So while I still contend that the two are quite similar, The Angel’s Game holds its own as a more other worldly drama.

For enthusiasts of The Shadow of the Wind, the role of the Sempere & Sons bookshop within The Angel’s Game is enough reason in itself to read, as well as the reappearance of the beloved Cemetery of Forgotten Books. Oh how I long to go there...

Top 5 Books of My Most Awkward Years (aka Middle School)

I'll be honest. Sometimes I just don't have time to read 5 books a week. So in lieu of a review (yup, that's poetry right there), I decided to spice it up with a little list of books that I just so happened to love in the middle school era.


1. The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas
If you have yet to read this little masterpiece by Dumas, I suggest you run to the book store immediately. Its combination of affairs, murders, and the revenge it incurs makes it a 19th century France soap opera. I have no idea why my conservative evangelical school let us read it but I'm not complaining.



2. To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
Yet another book of contention. But after reading it, you know why there's such a buzz around it. And you can even almost understand Demi Moore naming her daughter after the main character, Scout. A deftly told tale that's not only about race but about humanity, it must find a place on everyone's book shelf.


3. The Pearl by John Steinbeck
This is a deceptively small novella that ends up packing an unbelievable punch of morality. Kino starts out trying to save his son and ends up greedy and disappointed. Steinbeck skillfully wrote a fable that is probably more applicable to someone with a couple decades under their belt than someone who is 12.


4. "The Raven" by Edgar Allen Poe
Well this wasn't exactly assigned reading and it isn't technically a book... but when each student in the entire student body had to declaim a different 5 minute piece of literature I immediately went to this one on the recommendation of my mother. I think that my classmates suspected me of being a bit goth, but oh well, I'll just keep on quoting nevermore.


5. The Aeneid by Virgil
I can honestly remember staring at the cover of this book in 7th grade with not a clue about how to go about pronouncing "Aeneid." I have a feeling it came out "a-EHN-id." But pronunciation aside, this ancient (literally) text proved to be enthralling even when taught by my sort of ancient (figuratively) 7th grade teacher. Ever since I cannot help but have a soft spot for my girl Dido.

The 19th Wife, David Ebershoff

Ask anyone who knows me what my odd obsession is and the answer will come rapid fire: Mormons.

Naturally, that led me to the mecca of Mormon literature: Under the Banner of Heaven, by Jon Krakauer. Krakauer intertwines three threads: the tale of a contemporary murder mystery involving fundamentalist Mormons, a comprehensive history of the Mormon religion, and a look at the different extremist sects that are flourishing in North America. The book is phenomenal, and I still can't stop recommending it.

So when I heard about David Ebershoff's The 19th Wife, I knew I had to get my hands on it. Mormon lit in general isn't the easiest to come by, and Mormon fiction is even harder.

But, to my disappointment, the book read exactly like Under the Banner of Heaven.

There are two storylines in the book. One is a contemporary murder mystery. (Sound familiar?) The 19th wife of a murdered man in a fundamentalist sect is accused of his murder. Her son, Jordan, is a "lost boy" excommunicated from the sect, and he is determined to prove his mother innocent.

The other storyline follows the 19th wife of Brigham Young, a major figure in the Mormon church. This wife, Ann Eliza Young, rebelled against the practice of plural (or "celestial") marriage. She is an actual historical figure though Ebershoff fictionalizes her tale. Peppered in are bits of accurate history of the church. (Again, sound familiar?)

So while this book was well worth reading, I can't help but ask why Ebershoff didn't take a more original approach to this subject. Surely he consulted Krakauer's work for research... Hm.

But if you are looking to learn more about Mormons and want to do so with something less dense than Krakauer but more serious than Big Love, definitely pick this one up.

A Mercy, Toni Morrison

It’s easy to come to these two conclusions: Toni Morrison hates men. Toni Morrison hates white people. If you read her work with a certain slant, you could probably even support these two rather simplistic hypotheses. (And if you fit into either category, you may even slump away from the text feeling impossibly but inexplicably guilt-ridden.)

But Morrison is simply not that simple. Her works, to be cliché, are like onions. Maybe the world’s biggest onion. Peel one layer away, and then there’s another. And another, and another, and another. Pretty soon you are cringing with every meticulously chosen dagger of a word, but you just can’t stop reading.

I’ll make a little confession before I go on: I listened to this book on CD during my brief stint as a commuting bookseller. But I don’t think it counts as cheating since Morrison’s voice is far more powerful and haunting than the mousy one in my head. Her voice rolls over what can better be described as lyrics than words, singing the parts that are sweet (few) and drumming in the parts that are harrowing (many).

I still contend that Paradise is Morrison's best, but A Mercy is a close contender. (NYT disagrees.) It is told in the Paradise-like fashion, with chapters alternating perspectives in a tightly wound story. Unlike most of her works, which take place in the twentieth century, this one takes place in the early colonial years. Morrison, I think, seems more suited to the 1960s than the 1690s.

But what is most impressive in her rendering of the 1690s is what she does not do. It is a historical era that could easily lend itself to stereotypes and caricatures, and Morrison deftly and masterfully avoids them. Lena, an unfree Native American, is tragically beautiful yet commits deplorable acts. Sorrow, a red-headed floozy, proves a dedicated mother. Jacob Vaark, the man in charge of them all, despises the slave-trade but benefits from it. Florens, the black slave-girl whose story brings them all together, has a dreaming soul and yet is capable of bloody and frivolous sins.

With this cast of complicated characters, Morrison creates a masterpiece and maintains her place as one of America's greatest writers. A Mercy will surely join the ranks of the revered (though probably hotly contested) contemporary classics.

DVDs Have Chapters Too?

It is hard to argue against the fact that the average (and literate) person loves a good book. You would be hard pressed to find a more engaging and accessible source of entertainment to spark the imagination and get those neurons firing on all cylinders.

Imagine this scenario: Trudging through the front door after a long and cold day, grabbing your warm drink of choice (I prefer Irish coffee myself), and settling down by the fire to dive headfirst into that new crime thriller/ambiguously romantic novel you just picked up from Barnes and Noble. Sounds phenomenal, right?

Well, perhaps–unless you’re so brain-dead from the day’s activities that the words on the page look like Wingdings on acid. This is more akin to my scenario: After sifting through supply and demand curves and activity based costing systems (oh yes, those) for business school, the last thing I want to do is pick up a book of any sort.

What’s my alternative? Movies. While some head straight for the bookshelf, I click my way through the Internet to look for the next great cinematic adventure (or bust). Some need the comforting feeling of ink-laden paper in hands; my comfort comes via remote and DVD player. And while written literature will forever be the staple of storytelling throughout the world, let’s be honest – Dickens, Hemingway and Tolstoy don’t come in high definition.

So from time to time I’ll be checking out trailers and reviews for upcoming flicks, as well as those that have come and gone. But don’t worry–if I decide to dim the lights, fire up the popcorn and take the plunge, you’ll be the first to know.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, Stieg Larsson

I bet that if you are in a social circle that even looks askance at books, you’ve heard a thousand times over that you must, must, must read Stieg Larsson’s The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.

This (deserved) international success is somewhat bittersweet for on Larsson's Millenium trilogy, of which this is the first. Larsson, a sci-fi fanatic, wrote just these three crime thrillers before he died in 2004 at the age of 50. The entire trilogy was published posthumously to a flurry of legal battles stemming from his will. But thank goodness most of the bitterness is gone... The last in the trilogy is arriving on American shores on Halloween.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First, we’ve got to tackle The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. The “heroine” is unlike any other. In fact, the illicit drug homonym of heroine would probably describe Lisbeth Salander a bit better. She is all sorts of screwy but has just enough humanity to make the reader love her.

Before Lisbeth is introduced, the reader is drawn into a web of financial intrigue, which I could have done without. In fact, the first 100 pages and the last 100 pages could have been deleted, but I suppose some people like finance.

The real meat of the novel takes place in the (ice cold) heart of Sweden. It follows Mikael Blomkvist, a journalist reeling from a disgraced image from that whole financial problem. He takes on a freelance mission to write a biography of a corporate powerhouse of a family. Surreptitiously, at one member’s behest, he investigates the disappearance and presume murder of the patriarch's niece. Naturally, he encounters a whole bunch of crazies in that family.

What ensues is a perfect mixture of detective work, illicit romance, and violent intrigue with a perfect amount of Criminal Minds and Law and Order: SVU tossed in. And it doesn't deliver a solution that comes out of left field. If you pay close attention, you can probably fit most of the pieces together as Blomkvist simultaneously does so. The full truth, however, is absolutely startling when revealed.

Is The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo great literature? Nope, definitely not. But it’s smart, it’s original, and it’s one hell of a read. I’ll be getting my hands on the sequel pretty quickly.

The Glass Castle, Jeannette Walls

(Sorry to start your Monday off with dense subjects but here goes...)

Usually the nonfiction table of a bookshop is like the negative charge to my positive charge. I steer clear without even glancing at the table.  I especially always wonder why people read those blood-curdling memoirs of people like Dave Pelzer (A Boy Called It, A Man Named Dave).  A chronology of an awful childhood? I'll take a raincheck... It's the stuff of nightmares, not of literature. 

But after reading Jeannette Walls' The Glass Castle, I think I might be starting to understand why.

If it hadn’t been out since 2005, I would be trying to alert the masses about this one. Dreaming but drunk father.  Storybook move to New York.  Absurd success story. And on the flip side? Endless fires. Despicable adults. Pernicious predators. 

Jeannette Walls' chronicle of her family's peculiar life reverses what most see as an American journey of dreams, westward ho!  Normally, one begins in the claustrophobic East Coast city laden with expectations and suffocating normalcy. One then deserts all social norms for the promise and dream of the West, of the other.  

But the Walls family all but embodies that otherness of the West, and the reality is both gruesomely horrifying and grippingly beautiful.  Mr. Walls steals from his children while instilling them with endless imagination.  The children often go hungry yet grow up with every kid's fantasy of full freedom.  But such a life is not what Jeannette and her siblings crave, and each ends up in the city of all cities: New York. 

Perhaps the most interesting aspect of the Walls' lifestyle I somewhat glossed over is that they would hate the word you'd probably use to describe them: poor.  It implies there was no choice in their lifetstyle, and it implies there is pity to be poured upon them.  Au contraire. The Walls family, as is duly noted throughout the The Glass Castle, chooses this lifestyle, and the parents maintain it until their dying day.

So you may think I am now a convert to nonfiction, but to be honest, I don’t think that anything is going to live up to this little gem. The only two who are getting a chance are Julie Andrew (who I prefer to call Fraulein Maria) and Joan Didion (because I want to be her).  (Recommendations encouraged here.)

And my last concern? That after this fine work of art Jeannette Walls will have nothing else to write about. I guess we shall see with her upcoming fall release, Half Broke Horses. It's a "true life novel," whatever that means.

Sag Harbor, Colson Whitehead

I haven’t read any of Colson Whitehead’s other works (unless of course you count his Twitter feed).  But I would be willing to gander that Sag Harbor is quite unlike his other works from hearsay alone. There's no elevators involved for one.  

Instead, Sag Harbor is a quirky story of an unusual kid growing up in the '80s and trying to make his way from childhood into full-fledged teenager-hood. And while the premise is alluring, the cover is beautiful too… I was pretty happy every time I pulled it out of my purse.  Reading Sag Harbor while in Sag Harbor was sort of (dorkily) cool too, and it even got me an appearance on PlumTV (which I have yet to see).

For you pop culture junkies, the '80s references abound. If I had been born just a decade earlier, I probably would have loved it even more.  But that aside, I loved it nonetheless.  

The story goes like this: Benji, a well-to-do black kid from Manhattan, summers in Sag Harbor and spends most of his time with his brothers while his parents work in the city during the week. Benji charms his reader instantly into loving and rooting for him, especially when he gets a BB pellet lodged in his eye socket.  Seeing as this story line of rich-black-kid-from-Manhattan-in-Sag-Harbor sounds suspiciously like the life of Colson Whitehead, there could be a bit of critique of the work walking the fine line between memoir and novel.  But at least he chose the right side of that line and called it fiction, unlike our dear friend James Frey. I'd bet some of the events are a bit more interesting because of it.

Though this book does (apparently) mark a change in the tone of our dear Mr. Whitehead, it maintains some serious tones with which he has made a name for himself , like abundant racial commentary and the pangs of reality that accompany life.

And don’t worry.  I’ve got The Intuitionist and John Henry Days on the shelf. Reviews to follow, hopefully soon.

351 Books of Irma Arcuri, David Bajo

There are very few books I truly dislike. (I’ll avoid “hate.” My mother taught me better than that.)  Every novel reflects, for the most part, the hard work and imagination of the author, and thus usually possesses many redeeming novels. But this is one of those few. 

So first, how I came to it in the first place.  I was coming off the high of The Shadow of the Wind.  Having already read most of Arturo Perez-Reverte and Matthew Pearl, I was in dire need of some sort of dark and ominous mystery with some crazy book(s) at the center. 

Enter bookstore coworkers who assure me that David Bajo’s 351 Books of Irma Arcuri is the perfect prescription.  I in turn blindly recommend it because of their recommendation to fellow Shadow of the Wind-loving customers.  Then I crack it open...

...and it is just awful.  I make it a rule to always finish books (with the exception of Bolano's 2666) so I stuck it out.  Bottom line? It reads like a grocery list of sex scenes. Now, I am no prude but if Bajo wanted to write a romance novel, he just should have called it what it was. There was almost no concentration on the actual books of Irma, except how they were made (which was the one redeeming aspect of this novel).

The basic premise is that this man’s on-again, off-again lover disappears and leaves her books to him.  The story lineshould then follow him on some literary journey as he finds more clues in all of the books, following the penciled-in clues alluded to in the narrative. There is some of that, but not enough.  Or there should be extensive, lit-based travels to find this elusive beauty.  Again, some but not enough.  There is just a lot of running, having sex, and filling space.

Like Umberto Eco’s The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana, it is based on a novel concept (pun intended) but it falls short of its potential.

The Lost Symbol, Dan Brown

If I had to write an equation for Dan Brown’s Robert Langdon books, it would go as such:

(Langdon + DramaticEntry) x SecretSociety + (AttractiveYetSmartWoman) + (IntriguingClues x Puzzle) – (TroublesomeLawEnforcement / HiddenConnection) / (CreepyPsychoticMan + Artifact) + Murder x (BizarreScience + ObscureReligion) + Global Threat^2 = Novel

And you have to admit, for a mass-market thriller, it is relatively complicated.  But when the same equation is used not once, not twice, but three times, it is pretty darn easy to recognize. So I’m not throwing any points Brown’s way for that.

Nonetheless, The Lost Symbol is undeniably entertaining. Brown leaves behind the Catholic Church, which played an enormous role in both The Da Vinci Code and Angels and Demons.  Instead he takes the bits of conspiracy theory and symbology from those two and adds in the intriguing science characteristics of his other two (Digital Fortress, Deception Point) to combine them in Langdon’s first Washington D.C. adventure. And, for that matter, his first American adventure.

The Lost Symbol has at its core the mystery of the Masons, who permeate American history more than most would imagine. It swirls through the intriguing underground labyrinth of D.C. as Langdon attempts to save a friend and preserve the secrets of the Masons, all while fleeing from authority and the villain… obviously.

So does it deliver? For what it is, I’d expect a resounding yes from most who’ve read it.  I stayed up til 5 a.m. reading it and never even glanced at the clock.  It’s smart, it’s thought-provoking, and it proves the worth of this genre.

However, those who love the Langdon novels for their mind-blowing conspiracy theories, this one may disappoint slightly.  The scientific side of the equation is far more prevalent and far more intriguing in The Lost Symbol than any of the conspiracy talk.  The Masons just seem like a really smart, really nice group of wealthy men (unlike Opus Dei, the Illuminati, the Priory of Sion, etc.).  

But noetic science? Now there’s something to talk—well, think—about (and that’s coming from an English major).

The Shadow of the Wind, Carlos Ruiz-Zafon

I hesitate to even write this review. I just don’t think my ramblings could possibly do any justice to Carlos Ruiz Zafón's The Shadow of the Wind.

But I suppose I’ll start with my reluctance to read it. About a year ago my best friend’s dad Twoey recommended it, but I just brushed him off and figured we wouldn’t have the same literary tastes. But when I started as a bookseller at BookHampton, people (and most importantly, co-workers) were still talking about it. So I made the leap and committed… to the paperback.

At about page 10, I was completely and utterly hooked. It came with me in the Long Island Sound and basically everywhere else short of the driver's seat of my car (when I was listening to A Mercy) until I finally stayed up ‘til 3 a.m. to finish it up. (Confession: I had a related nightmare that night.)

Ruiz Zafón winds his reader through the dark and windy roads of Barcelona, weaving together a plot that is as intricate and interesting as the arhictecture of the city itself. Its parallel love stories and mysteries between two sets of characters in two different times could have entered to the realm of cheesy, but Ruiz Zafón keeps them on the right side of literature. Not a detail spared and not a beat missed.

I’m going to stop there. Just read it. And (inevitably) fall in love. With Spain. With Julian Carax. With the Cemetary of Forgotten Books. With Daniel. But if I told you any more, I’d be robbing you of the chance to experience it in all its gothic glory.

And now I can’t wait to read the prequel/sequel Angel’s Game. Keep an eye out for the review!

Inglourious Basterds

I like a little violence with my hangover. Nothing like it to jolt you out of your self loathing than some good old-fashioned scalping, Tarantino style, in Inglourious Basterds.

He does with violence what fellow Michael Haneke, the Austrian director also known for his penchant for gore, does not. While Haneke makes you squirm and wince at his violence in movies like Funny Games, Tarantino makes you outright laugh at it, which may actually make you squirm just a bit more.

Not only does this violence uphold the Tarantino trademark but so do the overdone and overdramatic characters. In short, they are awesome. But before we go any further, the only thing you must know about the loosely constructed, multi-narrative plot is that it occurs in World War II and follows a few different groups attempting to bring down the führer himself.

Back to the characters... First, Lt. Aldo Raine (Brad Pitt) and his band of avenging Jews. I truly want to hate Brad Pitt but he’s just too damn good, even with a ridiculous Tennesee accent.

I would say that Diane Kruger’s German accent for her character, actress Bridget von Hammersmark, was impeccable but of course a quick Wikipedia-ing of her would let you (well, me) know that she is indeed German. So it was nice to see her in her native tongue.

The other female lead is simply stunning. Shoshanna Dreyfus is the sole surviving member of her family who is hellbent on avenging their deaths, much like Lt. Raine's men. Mélanie Laurent, the French actress who plays Shosanna, is quirkily yet mesmorizingly beautiful in her role as femme fatale.

And now for who they are all talking about: Colonel Linda (Christoph Waltz). He’s suave, he’s slimy, he’s slightly gay. Basically everything I’d imagine in a Nazi commander. (Especially after watching all those History channel specials about their superstitions.) Worth his hype.

The only tempered character is the dairy farmer from the opening scene. I'd like to see some more of this Liev Schreiber-esque gentleman, Denis Menochet.

But characters and violence aside, what I found most intriguing about Inglorious Basterds is the liberty that Tarantino took with history. I won’t ruin the ending for all of you, but suffice to say I’d be more than intrigued to see what he would do with a sequel. Or the prequel. Or with the John Brown biopic. It’s making my head spin…

The Elegance of the Hedgehog, Muriel Barbery

During my brief (but wonderful) stint as a bookseller, I grilled my customers about what they were reading. The Elegance of the Hedgehog (an arguably bizarre title yet still a summer favorite) fared as such: About 75% of the people I talked to just couldn’t get over it and came in asking for Gourmet Rhapsody, pre-release date.

BUT about 25% just couldn’t get through it at all. Unfortunately (now fortunately) I had already bought it when the naysayers came in, so I stuck it out. And this Parisian rendezvous proved a delight although, quite frankly, heart-wrenching as well.

It fulfills the best French stereotypes while acknowledging (mockingly) the worst. It is indulgent but not frivolous. It is intelligent but not pompous. It is philosophical but not condescending. It’s 300+ pages go as quickly and smoothly as a 3-hour lunch with your very best friend over wine and madelines (with a lovely bouquet of Madame Michel's camellias to boot).

Admittedly there is a lot of philosophy that could bog down the book. But press on through it. It works best as a way into the topsy-turvy brains of the duo of narrators rather than the ramblings of dear Ms. Barbery.

And finally, it features three characters whom I just do not want to let go: Madame Michel, a stout, lit-and-film loving concierge; Paloma, a 13-year-old in the most extreme teenage angst I have ever read; and finally, Kakuro Ozu, the new Japanese tenant who introduces much needed zen into both their lives while also learning from them. In fact, I have so enjoyed their company that I’m holding off a bit before I start my next literary endeavor so that they can linger in my imagination just a little longer, unfettered and unbothered.

(P.S. What, you ask, is this so-called "elegance of the hedgehog'? Relax, dear reader. It is answered for you: "Madame Michel has the elegance of the hedgehog: on the outside, she's covered in quills, a real fortress, but my gut feeling is that on the inside, she has the same simple refinement as the hedgehog: a deceptively indolent little creature, fiercely solitary - and terribly elegant.")

[Jillian]

Julie & Julia

If I were to describe Julie and Julia in one word, it would be precious.  There isn’t anything particularly riveting about it; nothing about it will change your world.  But it is a pleasant two hours that will at the very least make you want to cook up some boeuf bourguignon. Or perhaps, start a blog, which is precisely how it left me.

As for the pulp (food pun intended) of the movie itself, well, it was mostly great. It's basically a parade of things you probably have never cooked: beef jello (which has a fancier name in actuality), poached eggs, and of course, boeuf bourguignon.

Stanley Tucci and Meryl Streep were absolutely perfect together in The Devil Wears Prada.  In Julie & Julia, Stanley Tucci gave a subtly wonderful performance as Paul Child, and Meryl Streep delivered a spot-on performance as Julia Child.  However, I just didn’t buy them as a couple together.  The lovey, romantic scenes were as awkward as imagining your parents in such scenarios. No such problems with the chemistry between Julie Powell (Amy Adams) and Eric Powell (Chris Messina), who, despite their usual marital problems, make you want to be in an adorable Queens-living couple yourself. (Okay, maybe not the Queens part...)

Personally, that chemistry was the only real bone I had to pick with the film, though my mother said her ears were ringing from Julia Child's nagging voice.  A valid complaint indeed.

Oh, and one last thing: I wish they had left out the part where you learn that Julia Child didn't approve of Julie Powell's blog.  It put a bit of a wet blanket over the whole thing, but, oh well, I guess that's just how the (French) cookie crumbles.

[Jillian]

Let the Great World Spin, Colum McCann

When you think about anything that's about the World Trade Center or 9/11, dramatic and upsetting works come to mind, like United 93 or some political commentary about the events of the day. And they always seem to fall just a little short. Colum McCann’s Let the Great World Spin is not like these.

In fact, Let the Great World Spin takes place (for the most part) some 27 years before when Philippe Petit walked a tightrope between those ill-fated buildings.

But even Petit is not the main focus. Rather, the book concentrates on how this fantastic event impacted the lives of New Yorkers that day, from an Irish immigrant to a Bronx prostitute to a Park Avenue grieving mother.

Through this narrative, McCann endows the twin towers with such a beautiful mythology that seems incomprehensible nowadays. Just as the events of September 11, 2001 at the WTC provoke feelings of horror, dread and heartache, the events of August 7, 1974 at the WTC, as written by McCann, provoke feelings of hope, amazement and wonder.

McCann does not stop there. While Let the Great World Spin is arguably about the twin towers, it is also about the city itself. Its very New York cast of about 10 characters (of whom Lara, an artist’s wife wrenching with guilt, is my favorite) span the Atlantic divide, the racial divide, the gender divide, the economic divide, and any other divide you can imagine. And while that many characters seem daunting to follow, McCann paints them with passionate precision so that each maintains the perfect amount of limelight.

The irony of these amazing literary feat is that McCann himself is not from New York. Nor is he American. And he was only 9 in 1974. So I suppose the old adage that you write what you know has gone to the dogs. And in reality, it is probably this distance from the place and the event that allows McCann to write as powerfully as he does.

I’ll leave you with what the late Frank McCourt, a fellow Irish writer, had to say about our dear McCann because I couldn’t have said it better myself.

“Now I worry about Colum McCann. What is he going to do after this blockbuster groundbreaking heartbreaking symphony of a novel? No novelist writing of New York has climbed higher, dived deeper.” (amazon.com)

(And as a sidenote… After I read this, I sought some more McCann but I was completely thrown off by Dancer. Is it worth reading? I embarrassingly judge books harshly by their cover, and a man's hairy foot is far less desirable than a delicate tightrope walker.)

[Jillian]

Greetings!

Hello everyone! Jordan and I are pumped to get started on this little project of ours... Check us out starting Monday, 9/14, for our very first day going live! 

Jillian