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 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.

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]