A Homemade Life — Molly Wizenberg

Molly Wizenberg's blog, Orangette, is my favorite on the internet. She is my favorite writer writing online today. She is also co-owner of one of my favorite restaurants. This is probably the dozenth time I've mentioned her over the last five years. All that said, I'm embarrassed to admit that I've only just this recently finished reading her first book, A Homemade Life: Stories and Recipes from My Kitchen Table.

I didn't even buy the book with my own money, you guys; I received it at Christmas from my dear friend, Kait, who devoured it on her trip to Belize in November. Despite two straight years of walking past its seemingly-permanent home on the pretty cookbook table at Elliott Bay Books  (near the café, in the back!) and thinking, It really would be cheaper for me to buy it on Amazon... I still never followed through. I really am a terrible fan. And I'm ashamed.

All my personal guilt aside, let me tell you just two things, followed (naturally) by many other things:

1. Read this book.
2. Don't be afraid to buy it, from that local bookstore you like, at full price.

I'm drinking wine now, and it's late in the evening. I wish that I had some chocolate Winning Hearts and Winning Minds cake—a recipe that Molly shares at the end of her heartwarming book—to round out my Wednesday night. In addition to craving multiple sweet and savory recipes, her personal stories continue to linger in my mind, weeks later. They're told so naturally, it feels as though this is your closest friend telling you the story of their life on your back porch over grassy-green tea and lemon-laced cookies. The sun is just starting to set and there's a cool breeze. The dogs smell like dirt and a cat jumps lithely onto your lap.

She's a vivid storyteller, and it's easy to imagine the city of Paris, where she studied as a junior in college and experienced an entirely new culture of food; the expanse of Oklahoma, where she grew up with a father, Burg, who loved to experiment in the kitchen; the rainy grayness of Seattle, where she now lives with her husband, Brandon. But it's her descriptions of food that leave your mouth watering as if you can see, smell, and taste it as you read. She makes cabbage sound delicious—on two occasions!—which is a true testament.

The stories flow well and progress naturally into a corresponding recipe. It doesn't rush, and never feels forced. She shares things that surprised me; I know that sharing heartbreak and weaknesses can be difficult and frightening, especially when you know strangers will read. But for Molly, she weaves through events in her life without ever falling into melodrama, yet you're kept wanting to know more. Maybe that's why she's the #1 food blog on the internet.

People initially click on the link to her site for personalized recipes, like how to tweak Marion Cunningham's fresh ginger muffins just right, but they stay for the honest stories, kind disposition (so much as writing can convey a disposition), and stunning amateur photography. With the exception of the photographs (Molly, won't you please include personal photos in your next book? Pretty please?), you'll find the same in A Homemade Life.

Much of the book centers on her father, who died when she was in her mid-twenties of cancer. (If you've read her blog, ever, you know this. I swear I'm not ruining anything.) He's complicated and a true character, and it was difficult to read about her personal account of watching him die. It's possibly one of the most honest things I've ever read. Conversely, the portion of the book which documents her starting her blog, meeting her now-husband through said blog, and getting married makes what might seem like a simple and common life into something of a fairy tale.

It was a pleasure to read, and it will be a pleasure to read again. Oh, and cook from, of course. A few favorites from the book, now on my to-make list:

• Banana Bread with Chocolate and Crystallized Ginger
• Hoosier Pie
• Coconut Macaroons with Chocolate Ganache
• Bread Salad with Cherries, Arugula, and Goat Cheese
• Cream-Braised Green Cabbage
• Slow-Roasted Tomatoes with Coriander
• Butternut Soup with Pear, Cider, and Vanilla Bean
• Chana Masala
• Pickled Grapes with Cinnamon and Black Pepper
• Little Corn Cakes with Bacon, Tomato, and Avocado

I know. I'm hungry, too.

****/*****

When You Are Engulfed in Books

There's a stack of books on my bedside table nearly one foot high. When I look at them, my heart quickens a little. It's been a long time... a long, long time since I tackled a stack of books like that. Two or three books would be a worthy starting point, but I decided to start big.

Three weeks ago, I finished reading my first book since the middle of October. Prior to that, I hadn’t finished a book in over a year.

One. Year. No books.

I can’t explain it. All I can say is that there have been other things on my mind. Even when I did finish a book in the last three years, they were few and far between. Compare that with this time four years ago, when I actually read a whopping 11 books in the month of January alone. There were even reviews that I wrote and posted like an organized, responsible writer! I was on top of my literary growth senior year of college, and then things went downhill. I’ll chock it up to my post-grad aimlessness and “near poverty” status. I just couldn't find the interest or energy to finish anything I started.

And that goes beyond books. 

From Kaitlin

So while finishing something has proved difficult, starting a book is a regular occurrence for me; I feel like I’m always beginning a new one. (Probably because I'm always buying a new one. Chronic Book Buying = actual sickness.) The feeling of diving into a brand new story is unrivaled for me. In a way, it's like starting a new diet: Things go so well at the beginning, and it feels wonderful to be motivated. It's great to feel like I'm doing something healthy for myself. But then something happens that derails me, and there are some days or weeks where I just don't eat healthy anymore. And the longer I stay away from those smart choices, the harder it is to pick it up again.

The Girl Who Played With Fire

Now, though, I am engulfed in books. I have friends who are constantly reading, and it inspires me. I feel good when I read, and I like feeling good. I like learning new things. I like feeling challenged.

And with a dad like mine, with his breadth of literary knowledge and library of enlightening classics and non-fiction masterpieces, I don't have an excuse.

My father's book with Doris Kearns Goodwin's autograph. A gift from my mother.

This is my promise to take advantage of every opportunity to let myself be engulfed, enraptured, and entranced by new stories and histories. I promise to spend less time watching "House Hunters International" and "Property Brothers" and "Diners, Drive-ins & Dives" and instead loose myself in Krakauer or Ishiguro or Larsson.

Variety is key.

Been sitting on my bedside table for far too long.

I think of books the way I think of movies: there are so few atrocious and unbearable ones—relative to the number of enjoyable ones, that is. And even when they are atrocious, they can still be fun and worth the read. There is no "right way" to write a story, which is why I love to read a little bit of everything. Biography, teen fiction, modern award winners, memoirs, classics, trashy romance... It keeps me on my toes. Life is too short to stick to one genre or style of writing, and I'm simply not smart enough to stick exclusively with Dickens, though I'm sure my dad would suggest I try my damnedest. 

Are any of you chronic book buyers like I am? Do you read books often and easily, or do you feel like you're always flaking on your own promise to read more? Oh, and because I think recommendations can't be beat...

What books top your list of favorites? Which ones are "must reads" for fun / enlightenment / knowledge / romance / whatever else you find awesome?

Simply put: I can't get enough right now. Help a girl out. I have an addiction to feed.


* Images property of People Just Float

The Host — Stephenie Meyer

Leave it to Stephenie Meyer to write something that forces me out of my book review slump. It's been months, and around ten books have gone uncriticized. Hopefully, with summer approaching, this will change.

But back to business. Meyer's first book outside of her unfathomably successful (and addicting) Twilight saga, as well as her first novel geared toward adults, has immediately found what I assume will be a lasting home on the New York Times bestseller list. People are unabashedly drawn to this Mormon housewife's thrilling narratives, and it's getting less and less embarrassing to admit it. Stephenie Meyer is taking over the world.

The Host branches away from mere fantasy fluff and into the more socially relevant realm of science fiction: aliens, space ships, a struggle for humans to survive. What sounds like regular, run-of-the-mill 60's Sci-Fi movie plot devices are actually a basis for one of the most interesting and emotional stories about love and loyalty that I've ever come across in modern fiction—fantasy or otherwise.

The plot is as such: An alien race known as Souls come to Earth and take over the human race, using the bodies as hosts. The human minds are extinguished while the Souls—an entirely "non-violent" race—live to rid the world of all violence and sickness. Wanderer, a Soul living her 9th life, but first one on Earth, finds that her host, Melanie Stryder, is unwilling to fade away; Melanie remains as a voice in Wanderer's head, reliving her memories and emotions, forcing Wanderer to develop passionate and unnerving feelings about a past that was never hers. She "remembers" Jamie, Melanie's younger brother, and Jared, the love of of Melanie's life. Wanderer and Melanie become unwilling allies, yearning for the same man, and inevitably Wanderer consents to allow Melanie to lead her in a search for the family she knows are still in hiding.

And that's just the first 100 pages or so. And that is a simplified explanation. The next 500 pages reveal more remarkable characters, along with painfully conflicting kinds of love and loss that make this an intensely thought-provoking book. The Host, essentially, is an ode to the complexity of the human condition. The power of emotions, the strength of family bonds, and the irony of a fight for peace.

The strength of Stephenie Meyer's writing, aside from her ability to tell damn good stories, is how she enables the reader to feel exactly how the narrator does, every step of the way. When Wanderer is in pain, in love, feeling sadness or joy, we are right there along with her, and the confusion in her heart is reflected in ours.

And if you are a woman and you can actually read the last line of page 605 without shedding a single tear, you may not be human. I'm just warning you. I cried, and in the best way possible.

The first part of the novel is a bit slow, as Wanderer and Melanie spend most of the time "alone." And if you're an obsessive fan of Twilight and Bella and Edward, you may be a little anxious for a devotion of that same magnitude to creep out of the pages. Rest assured, it will come, but in a much more profound and human way. The writing really is pretty spectacular throughout—far more advanced than her previous three books, which were clearly aimed towards young and new readers—so I urge you to barrel on through the exposition. As Meyer has said, she "can't tell a short story." This is evident here, but well worth the time. After 200 pages, you won't put it down.

I loved this book. It shows love in a different, more complicated, less black-and-white light than Twilight does (though Eclipse comes close). Read this book and, like me, you'll begin an eager wait for the sequels.

****/*****

Reservation Blues — Sherman Alexie

Picking up a new book can sometimes be a challenge, especially if it means acclimating yourself to a new author's voice, their style, their bad structural habits or overly detailed prose. The more you read, the easier it becomes to distinguish style, to discover the many varied echelons of being a Creator of Stories. Given this, in my opinion, there is probably no voice or style in contemporary fiction more poetic or easily identifiable than that of Sherman Alexie.

A Spokane Indian from eastern Washington (known most notably for his short story collection, The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven, which was later adapted into the film, Smoke Signals), Sherman Alexie has an uncanny ability to ignite words with such vivid tenacity towards imagery that opening up one of his books sometimes feels more like looking at a collection of paintings than reading words on a page. Plot is often simple—full of humanity and yet wrought with magical realism; there is nothing out of the realm of possibility for the characters of Alexie's world, whose dreams are merely extensions of day-to-day reality.

His novel, Reservation Blues, builds on to the lives of Thomas Builds-the-Fire and Victor Joseph, who are first presented in Tonto. Thomas is kind-hearted, but talks a little too much, and has stories for everything, which are sometimes true, sometimes not; Victor, along with his close friend Junior Polatkin, are usually drunk and/or causing some sort of havoc on the reservation or in Thomas' life.

But everything changes when Robert Johnson, a guitar player from the 20's who died in the late 30's, arrives on the rez with a magical guitar in hand, hoping to escape someone called 'The Gentleman' who has control of his soul and who once bestowed on him the power of Music. He passes his guitar to Thomas, who then gives it to Victor in exchange for his and Junior's help in starting up a band. This band is Coyote Springs, and despite the boys having close to no musical talent whatsoever, they hold nothing but the highest hopes of musical stardom, as well as a guarantee for drama.

Thus begins Alexie's tale of Indian dreams: some lost, some only just being discovered. With the help of two Flathead Indian sisters, Chess and Checkers Warm Water, the band takes a running leap across the States, free from the reservation but now facing the reality of the White Man's World.

Full of fantasy and dreams, imbued with wit and love, there is also an urgency in the sadness that lies within Alexie's story. The truth regarding the conditions of life on the rez, the place of religion in the saving of these Indian souls, the effect of alcohol on an Indian's sense of being, their families, their lovers... It all resonates with such power and honesty that Reservation Blues becomes so much more than a simple story of poetry, friendship and the desire for success. It is commentary on the American Dream and the limitations forced upon its earliest inhabitants, the pain that comes with accepting or transcending tradition, culture, Home and race.

Alexie uses all aspects of art in his writing: the music is there, between the lines and in the flow of his prose and poetry, and you soar when reading. The book is less about events than it is about art and language and cultural identity, so this read may not be for those who simply wish to be entertained. The humor is subtle and beautiful, but could easily go over some people's heads. The ending is a bit anti-climactic, but if your expectations for some sort of shocker are low, you'll probably handle the dramatic 'letdown' fairly well. Just take your time.

I'd recommend looking into one of Alexie's short stories to see if you enjoy is style. If you do, it is consistent throughout his work, so you're likely to enjoy Reservation Blues. If poetry and subtlety and a highly ethereal experience don't interest you and you just want some mindless action, skip this and go read The Da Vinci Code, again.

****/*****

Day — Elie Wiesel

Sometimes, when reading a book or watching a movie or experiencing any type of story art form, I find myself struggling between remaining objective and responding naturally to my personal feelings. If I say something is well done, that may naturally imply that I liked it; if I say that I didn’t like something, it may imply that I think it was badly done, or just plain awful. But reality is far more complicated.

Elie Wiesel’s Day (once entitled The Accident), the third and final book in his Night trilogy of memoirs, is causing some clenching in my brain. After reading Night some two years ago—which was by far the most resonating and heart-breaking of the three books—my entire mindset concerning the suffering and guilt associated with Holocaust survivors has shifted: witnessing that type of human destruction and atrocity on such an astonishing scale can rip the humanity right from a person’s core. Death becomes life.

Which leads us to The Question: “Is it ever possible for Holocaust survivors to create new lives for themselves without remembering their old ones?” In Day, Wiesel gives a brief glimpse of his life in New York City—many years after the war—and the struggles he faces connecting in love, feeling undeserving of life’s gifts and pleasures, being incapable of honesty to others, as well as himself… The list goes on and on. You cannot read two sentences without being reminded of the tragedy day-to-day life brings. Wiesel will remind you, constantly and unwaveringly, lest you forget.

The basic premise is this: Wiesel is struck by a cab and critically wounded. He welcomes death, but is refused it. Life is simply not worth living, but he can’t seem to stop doing it. As he remembers the events leading up to this moment and the time that follows—centered mainly on his “relationship” with Kathleen, a woman he in no way deserves—he philosophizes on the things in his past that make it impossible for him to move on with Life.

Simply put, I did not like this book. I did not enjoy it. I did not empathize. I did not have patience with it. But there was something that affected me. Good, bad, I don't know—essentially, it’s irrelevant, because I responded, and sometimes: That’s all that matters. It may not be enough, but it matters, nonetheless.

Although the book is well-written, his self-pity and self-loathing was too much for me to stand. I know this is unfair: I’ve read Night, I should know better. But I still couldn’t stop myself from despising him.

Then it hit me: This is his intention: To detach us from him, to push us away, to force us to look at him through eyes of judgment and hatred. It is how he looks at himself. It is how he believes others should look at him. And he does it unapologetically, which cannot have been easy.

The book is short, which is a relief; 109 pages of self-imposed suffering isn't so bad. The ending will leave you hanging, but at least it is wrought with symbolism. The best character in the book, arriving too late for my taste, is the voice of reason concerning Wiesel’s suffering. I would like to think that this person is none other than us—his irritated readers—having a chance to say what we’ve all been thinking for the last 106 pages. I’m paraphrasing here, but basically: Get over it.

I’m probably going to Hell, but my forced detachment will not let me escape the thought. I’m going to assume he got the message. I’ll also admit now that, in all likelihood, I’m probably not objective enough. Wiesel deserves far more credit than I’m giving him.

Not an enjoyable read, despite some enlightening moments, so it is not coming recommended. Do yourself a favor and read Night instead.

***/*****

The Perks of Being a Wallflower — Stephen Chbosky

There are some books that only get better the more you read them; each time it reaffirms the reasons you loved it to begin with, but also you'll find new reasons—things you may have missed the first, second, or third time. However, there is something lost with each new read, something that can only be experienced the first time. For me, The Perks of Being a Wallflower is that a book, with a simplicity and emotional resonance that each time crawls in and nestles against whatever remnants still remain of my teenage heart.

Stephen Chbosky’s first novel, The Perks of Being a Wallflower, is the stunning coming-of-age story for the 21st century. It leaves blistering metaphors about innocence lost and not-so-subtle references to the biblical behind and focuses instead on just the inner-struggles of a young boy named Charlie who tries with all of his might to find a place where he belongs.

I've heard people claim that Perks is "too full of it's own emotional importance" to be taken seriously as a great work of fiction, and I admit to understanding why someone would think that... at first. But I disagree that this is a hindrance to the story; on the contrary, what Charlie goes through is not merely unrelatable fiction designed to entertain adolescents. Sounds corny, perhaps, and certainly clichéd, but every step that Charlie takes in discovering how he fits in and what makes him different manages to grip onto you and pull you effortlessly along, because it's real. This self-referential, narrator-to-reader relationship is a rarity in modern novels written for teenagers.

Charlie tells his own story here, and he does so through a series of letters that he writes to an unknown person—unknown, essentially, even to him. He explains that he heard good things about this person from someone, and he wants to write to him/her with the hopes that they will simply listen. No strings attached. His voice is young and fragile; his understanding of the world and himself is sadly naive; his kindness and compassion towards even the most terrible of people is inspiring. Charlie is brave, but is often a coward. He’s incredibly smart, but doesn’t quite get it. He knows how to read others, but doesn’t really know himself. He wants nothing more than friendship, but struggles with knowing what it really means, and how to deal with the pain of falling in love.

This may sound all too familiar; what coming-of-age tale doesn’t cover these themes? But there is something unique about Charlie’s story. Perhaps it is his sweetness and innocent view of the world. Perhaps it is his variety of friends—most notably Patrick, who is gay (and written by Chbosky in such a way that draws attention away from stereotypes, yet is simultaneously not afraid to show a “dark side” to young gay life), and Sam, who is a voice of reason and understanding throughout Charlie’s journey, and yet struggles with her own dilemmas and mistakes. Perhaps it is the fact that Chbosky doesn't shy away from the topics that are relevant to modern teenagers: drugs, sex, music, loneliness, depression, abuse, homosexuality, and young love.

For me, what takes Perks from being just another decent novel to one that's "nearly perfect" is how exactly it reflects me on a personal level: struggles, fears, and insecurities. As the title implies, Charlie’s story is all about what happens when you don’t participate; what life is like for those who sit on the sidelines; the benefits and struggles of sitting and watching and understanding, but never really being part of the experience.

That is my life. This book is me.

Like Hector tells Posner in Alan Bennett’s play, The History Boys:

“The best moments in reading are when you come across something—a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things—which you had thought special and particular to you. Now here it is, set down by someone else, a person you have never met, someone even who is long dead. And it is as if a hand has come out and taken yours.”

That’s what The Perks of Being a Wallflower was to me when I was 16, and what it still is today. More than anything—more than the way Charlie is or how he views the world—it’s what people make him realize about himself; it’s finishing the book and realizing the mistake of living a life only for others… of never truly participating. Charlie learns, and to my surprise, I did too.

I recommend this book to anyone accepting of some melodrama (what teenager isn't an emotional mess who thinks no one understands them?) and personal self-reflection, though I feel there is something special about reading this book in high school—something that, otherwise, might be missed. If you are not in high school, you may not understand what it is that makes the story so great, though you would likely be touched in one way or another, if you are open to it. Every freshman high school student should read this book. Everyone should see the world through Charlie’s eyes.

*****/*****

Ishmael — Daniel Quinn

The plot is simple: Teacher seeks man. Man finds teacher. Teacher turns out to be a century-old gorilla (Ishmael), who can not only talk, but has deep and powerful insight into Man's destruction of the world and how change is possible.

To pinpoint each aspect of this book that gave me chills or (as Oprah would say) made my brain go "Aha!" or made me cry or anything else that is usually tied to revelation would be impossible. Quinn tells this story in the simplest fashion: a conversation between the two parties. Yet not for a moment is it boring. On the contrary, not only is the dialogue stirring and, oftentimes, quite humorous, the ideas that are presented literally have the power to change the thought-process of the reader's mind.

Our unknown narrator (we'll call him Daniel, as I assume the author sees himself in the protagonist's role) is quite skeptical, yet eager to learn from Ishmael. Though I did not feel as cynical about what was being said by our Teacher, I was oftentimes just as confused. Ishmael is brilliant in that the questions he asks really get you thinking; you have no choice but to play along... and usually, Daniel's confusion helps make Ishmael all the more inciteful — all the more capable of laying out the History of Man in such a way that turns the tables on our own popular, mythological conception of our "place" on Earth.

The progression of knowledge is slow and steady. It builds, and it does so beautifully. Starting with the story of 'civilized' man (whom Ishmael calls "the Takers"), he leads Daniel through "Mother Culture's" teachings that have led man to believe he was meant to rule the Earth. He attempts to illustrate how things came to be this way. And, later, by incorporating the beliefs of "the Leavers" who have learned to live in unison with the world, all that we have been taught to believe is turned upside down.

It may sound overwhelming, and I won't lie: It is. But it is not hard to understand. The ideas presented will seem familiar. You might say to yourself, "I know this already!" (as Daniel often does), but Ishmael forces us to see these well-known assumptions through an entirely different lens; there is no denying that what he says has the power to change the world.

This is revolutionary writing, and nothing I can say here will make that any clearer. This is a story that EVERYONE should read. This is a book I want to send to Oprah and she should have on her Book Club. This is a book that, were the entire world to read it, you would see positive change overnight. This book is not about writing style, it is not about plot, and it isn't even about character. It is about ideas, and ideas that have resonating power behind them. Not everyone will agree with everything that Quinn asserts here. But it will open people's eyes to a World and system of living that — though foreign and difficult, perhaps — is not entirely out of reach.

****½/*****

Three Junes — Julia Glass

When a book comes highly recommended, I am not one to turn away from it. I know what it feels like to push a certain book with all my heart and soul, hoping people will believe me when I say "This book is simply sensational." This was just such a book, from Carlin, and we chose to do something a little different this month: I would read this, and she would read my recommendation to her, The Time Traveler's Wife. (How many reviews can I mention that book in?!)

I'll start off by saying that Three Junes is no easy read. The writing style is not complicated — it's actually rather simple. But like many books that cover numerous characters and span many, many years, it can seem a little too detailed, covering more than enough of the person's life, until you all of a sudden have to ask, "OK, so... what's the point of this? Where is this story going?"

The book tells three separate stories, centering around (can you guess?) three different Junes for three specific characters. The years covered, however, are numerous, with each story going back and forth through different periods of each character's life. The first subject is Paul McLeod, an older Scotsman who is vacationing in Greece following his wife's death. He tells us about about his life, his wife and her breeding collies, and their sons, along with his search for something on this tour of Greece. The second character (providing the meat of the book and the bulk of the story) is Fenno McLeod, Paul's oldest son. Paul recounts his life in New York City, gay life of the 80's, along with a trip to Scotland for his father's funeral. The final story is the only one told in the third person, centering on Fern — a girl who met Paul during his trip to Greece and who is visiting a friend, Tony, outside New York City.

Yes, it sounds complicated. No, it isn't as complicated to read as it is to describe.

The characters are all connected, their stories overlap, but that is merely a fact of the story, not any sort of plot point. Essentially, their connections make no major difference to their own tales. Fenno's story is the fullest, the most detailed, and covers the most events. It is difficult to figure out just why Glass decided it was necessary to have the two bookends. They were interesting, and I enjoyed them very much (particularly Fern's story, and her own relationships), but Fenno's story could very much have stood on its own.

Even though a lot happens in the book, it becomes clear (not soon enough) that it is about relationships and life decisions and family, more so than any particular events or catastrophes. The best thing about the book is the character development, the unique and beautifully detailed lives of each and every character (and there are many — not just our main three). Among these are Fenno's twin brothers, David and Dennis, who are as individual and interesting as could be for minor characters. (Dennis, without a doubt, was my very favorite.) Also, there is Mal — Fenno's close friend who is slowly dying of AIDS. One of the most interesting aspects of the book is the way their friendship never becomes romantic, and the bonds that can develop in a relationship that doesn't enter into the realm of sex.

I understand what Carlin loved about this book; I enjoyed the same aspects. But I can't say I would recommend it. It didn't capture me the way I felt it should, and there were far too many moments that seemed to repeat itself. Fenno's story (and only Fenno's story) would make a fantastic film, condensing all the many, many details into something a little more streamlined.

Not a total strikeout, but not quite a standout.

**½/*****

The Coma — Alex Garland

Every once in a while, you will be faced with a book that holds what should be a recipe for success: it's short, it's structured and presented in an easy-to-read fashion, it's intriguing, and there are even little pictures scattered about, here and there. Yet, despite all this, it will take you ages to get through because there is just no reason to pick the book back up again once you've decided to put it down. It's books like these that I find particularly difficult to comment on. However, I will try.

The Coma, written by Alex Garland (the 'mastermind' behind the novel The Beach, as well as the films 28 Days Later and Sunshine) presents a straightforward story: a man finds himself trapped in a dreamworld after being put in a coma, and struggles to regain his memory in order to wake up.

This "man," whose true identity even he is unsure about, is Carl. His experience begins as a series of scenes in which he seems to awake, all of a sudden someplace new. For the reader, it is no mystery that he is dreaming, though it takes him a bit longer to figure this out. At least, long enough for us to start thinking "Is his dream-state supposed to shock us, too?" Well, there isn't much shock at all. Anywhere.

He discovers his situation soon enough, often philosophizing on the nature of being awake and what it means to be dead — probably the most interesting aspect of the book. Carl maneuvers through his dreams easy enough once he gets the hang of it, meeting people he either remembers vividly from his life or that appear only as blurry images. The most significant of these people is Christine, a woman he (ergo: we) believe to be his secretary, and who in his dreams he is having a passionate affair with. It is with her he realizes what is happening, and she helps him in his mission to trigger a memory that might prompt him to wake up.

And that is it. Carl and Christine continue on a short, fragmented journey through disjointed memories and images that Carl is able to unearth from the depths of his waste-bin of a brain. Carl never describes himself, and even though he doesn't know much (pst! amnesia) we still never find out much about him. It is for this reason I found it difficult to care much about where the book was taking me.

Where Garland's storytelling lacks in character and plot points, it somewhat makes up for with its structure, illustrating a breathtaking ability to capture — as much as can be — a written example of what it truly feels like to dream. Things aren't always obvious, people aren't always clear, places come and go, and time works in inconceivable ways.

Events move quickly, and though it took me longer than I care to admit to read this book (lack of interest, as opposed to inability to read), it is probably the easiest of any book I've ever picked up (that wasn't for children). Though it didn't particularly grab my interest, I do not feel it was necessarily Garland's fault. I feel as though a novel may not have been the artistic medium for this story. The entire time I was reading it, I tried to picture it as a movie (which was remarkably easy to do) and I found it far more enjoyable.

The writing is decent, the ideas are interesting and imaginative, but the novella seems to be written more as a fictional musing on the nature of dreams than a serious attempt at storytelling. I would say this is the perfect airplane book — something that is simple and reads like a movie on paper. It won't change your life, it isn't even that great, but you could finish it — no problem — if you've got an hour and a half to kill on a plane ride.

**½/*****

The Almond — Nedjma

Sometimes you will be walking through a bookstore and a book will just catch your eye. No matter what you do, you can't avoid it, because it just has one of those covers. And if you're lucky, it will actually be a good book. The Almond was this book for me, and I won't deny that the subject matter drew me in even more than the cover: "The sexual awakening of a Muslim woman." My curiosity was peaked.

I am not one to go into a bookstore and pick out erotica. That's not to say I don't like reading about sex in books — on the contrary, it has been known to make me like books I otherwise wouldn't (Atonement, anyone?), and no one can deny that Sex Sells. But books about it tend to turn me off, simply because they look cheap, dirty, without a shred of taste. And while The Almond is certainly graphic and unapologetically erotic in both language and detail, it managed to avoid triteness and contrivances, exploring a real woman's discovery of sex.

"Nedjma" is a nom de plume, designed to protect the identity of the author. She tells her story centered on Badra, a woman from Imchouk forced at the age of 18 into a marriage with a much older man. Some three years later — her sexuality destroyed, her understanding of love non-existent — she escapes to Tangiers to live with her aunt. There, after a few years of hiding, she meets Driss, a wealthy doctor who over the course of ten years teaches her the glory of sex and the body.

The author tells Badra's story, going back and forth between the present and the past. In the past, she remembers a childhood wrought with sexual curiosity, innocent and powerful, and the events that led to later understandings about sex. As she describes her relationship with Driss, it is extremely graphic, but written with a poetic lens that fills the book with color and extravagance.

Her experiences are empowering, and not just sexually. In the 24 years following her escape from Imchouk, she discovers her own sexual powers in a world ruled by men and an Islamic world that is attempting to immerse itself in Western cultures and ideas. She describes her struggles with love, jealousy, abuse and, of course, the delectable nature of sex.

I really enjoyed reading this book, for it's a memoir that could very easily have gone in a different direction. The simple idea that it deals with a Muslim world, and a woman who (during her marriage) looks like the stereotype that the Western world has adopted of oppressed women, drew me in — she illustrated how sexuality is natural to everyone. You can either oppress it, as most in her world do, or learn to understand and enjoy it.

Again, it's graphic, and not necessarily happy and positive. But it's her story. And I admire her desire to share it. It's a good read, poetic and beautiful, but it can drag at times, as well as get a little repetitive in some parts and not descriptive enough in others. I would have liked to know more about her later life, though the point is mainly about what gets her there.

A good read, but far from perfect.

***/*****

No Country For Old Men — Cormac McCarthy

It's interesting when a piece of artwork comes along that really makes you examine and understand the vast difference between liking something and thinking something is great. No Country For Old Men is just such a work of art.

Cormac McCarthy is unlike any other writer I've read, simply because he doesn't follow any basic rules of literary writing: He doesn't use punctuation (only occassionally, and as far as I can tell, there is no particular rule about its use), he writes about events as though he were reporting them and he writes dialogue as if it were a play. All of these aspects made me LOVE his writing. Despite the unorthodoxy of it, it flowed brilliantly. The pacing was steady as well as jolting, and McCarthy's dialogue, strewn with subtle wit, is some of the best, most realistic I have ever read in my life.

The story centers on three very different men — Ed Tom Bell, Llewelyn Moss and Anton Chigurh — and the part they play in the aftermath of a drug deal gone terribly wrong. Moss takes off with over $2 million in cash after stumbling across this crime scene, leaving his wife, Carla Jean, behind. Bell is the sheriff of the county, hoping to solve the case, and track down an unknown 'serial killer' — Chigurh, the ruthless assassin hot on Moss' path.

Chigurh is the most fascinating character for me. He is like a robot, hard and the epitome of evil. But he has principles. He lives by a set of rules and — though wrong, in most respects — he never deviates from those rules. Moss, on the other hand, is the opposite: a good man who, mistake after mistake, proves to have no principles at all.

This is where my thoughts on the book get complicated. Reading No Country was quite an experience — one I enjoyed immensely. It's rare that a book can be captivating, and the author does nothing to elicit much suspense; the way McCarthy writes, what is just is. No gloss. No hoopla. No pizazz. Just facts about events — brutal, gory, frightening and unapologetic. Sentimentality does not come within one hundred miles of this story. If it can be argued to be anywhere, it is with the "What has this country become?"-romantic mentality of part-time narrator, Sheriff Bell. It is through him that some great thoughts arise.

No Country is a book, were I to teach an English or creative writing class, I would no doubt have in the curriculum. It approaches drama and story-telling a completely different way, and encompasses themes on morality and human psychology that a 10-page analysis paper could only begin to explore.

However, as far as my personal taste goes, I did not like this story (the book, I liked), for no other reason than that I didn't care much about the characters, nor was I given a chance to build up any hope for them. It was somewhat Brechtian, in that I felt detached from them, but was still interested in them. That, by no means, is a bad thing. I'm certain it was McCarthy's intention. Thinking about the book is interesting, simply because I will never deny how amazing it really is — unique and riveting.

TASTE will play a big part in how the book resonates. To some, it will be everything they look for in a book. To others, it will be nothing more than a book of good writing. I recommend everyone reads it and figures it out for themselves.

***½/*****

[side note: The Coen Brothers' adaptation of this book, which I saw yesterday, was exactly the book. If someone had somehow fed the book through a funnel that immediately transcribed it to screen, you would basically have gotten that movie. Is that bad? Not necessarily. To some, it is fantastic! To others, it points to a lack of creativity.

The film was not so much an adaptation of the book as it was a transcription of the book. Therefore, my thoughts about it are the same: perfectly done, but lacking in heart.

While I enjoyed watching the movie, I get offended for the Coens when people say it's their best work to date. Everything in the movie, save for some characterization choices (Chigurh) and such, was Cormac McCarthy's creation — particularly the dialogue, funny lines and all. There was very little "Coen-ness" about it.]

The Kite Runner — Khaled Hosseini

In an age when war is raging in the Middle East, and our concept of Afghanistan consists mainly of terrorism, oppressed women, religious radicals, and oh, did I mention terrorism??, I can't imagine anything this country needs more than a book that transports its readers to a world we have been forced to fear and gain an entirely new perspective.

The Kite Runner is that book — for more reasons than its unique story using Kabul as a backdrop. The struggles faced in this story of friendship, fatherhood, guilt and atonement are universal, in the extremist sense of the word, and the ability to relate to it is not at all hindered by its placement in a world most of us will never, luckily, have to live in.

Our narrator, like most great narrators in literature, is human — imperfect, troubled and, at times, detestable. Amir, who narrates as an older man, telling the story of his youth in Kabul with his father, Baba, his best friend/servant, Hassan, and Hassan's father, Ali. Amir is an average boy, desperate for his father's love, and jealous over Baba's distribution of love between he and Hassan.

Hassan, without a single shred of doubt in my body and soul, is the kindest, most loyal, honest and brave character I have ever read or could ever hope to read in my lifetime. Reading about his "unrequited loyalty" to Amir will bring tears to your eyes, and will not cease as you read how Amir takes advantage of his best friend's love.

The story deals, early on, with the boys' relationship that is strained by their different Muslim heritages: Amir is Pashtun; Hassan is Hazara. The culture does not consider them equals... and neither does Amir. As Kabul and Afghanistan crumbles around them, so does Amir's friendship with the ever-loyal Hassan, and after many heart-wrenching betrayals, the two are separated. Amir and his father retreat to Fremont, California as war rages for over twenty years in their homeland. It is not until just before the September 11th attacks that Amir is called back to Kabul for one final test of his courage, and one final chance to atone for his sins.

The story is extensive, and come a few events near the end, it can become a bit predictable and a little too convenient. But it works. As a dramatic story, having the loose ends tied up, everything works. A dreadfully sad, yet hopeful story, The Kite Runner is the perfect blend of brilliant writing and mainstream appeal.

Do not miss out on reading this novel. Read it before the film comes out. Because the film is going to be good. But nothing can touch the endearment of this book.

*****/*****

Into the Wild — Jon Krakauer

The interesting thing about reading a book in which you already (kind of) know how it ends (since it is an actual researched text on the life and death of a real person) is discovering how it can capture your interest and your heart as though it were a work of fiction. That is what happens with this book, and it's strange to think that it is almost nothing more than a collection of essays, interviews and reports.

Jon Krakauer delves into the world of Christopher Johnson McCandless, who after graduating from college embarked on a 2-year-long journey, alone, across the United States and met a terrible end after attempting to live in the Alaskan wilderness during the summer of 1993. Krakauer is meticulous in his research, drawing from interviews he's conducted with many of the people that McCandless (who took on the nom de plume "Alexander Supertramp") came in contact with, and whose lives he touched.

One of the main things that makes Chris' story so harrowing is that it is impossible to deny how smart, kind and giving he was. He understood the world he lived in. He understood his own life. He knew what he wanted and he wouldn't let anyone or anything stop him from getting it. He was a true traveler — someone who genuinely lived off the land and kept moving. Though stubborn, in many respects, he never refused an opportunity to work hard and learn from people. And people, as a result, learned from him.

Krakauer attempts to discover the reasons behind his decision to leave his family, all this money, his life behind him and, subsequently, never look back. He poignantly addresses the connection Chris had with nature, the love he had for literature, and the aspirations he held for making his way to Alaska. And with heartbreaking clarity, he gives details concerning Chris' less-than-perfect family life, as well as a detailed description of his death.

Reading Into the Wild was certainly a different experience than seeing the newly-released movie by Sean Penn. The film is a worthy, beautiful and precise adaptation, but with the book comes (aside from more details about Chris' journey), analysis of other people's journeys into the wilderness that shed light on what Chris might have intended in embarking on such a dangerous journey. Krakauer covers all of his bases, never stopping short of giving as much information as is possible for him to give, making the book a brilliantly conceived page-turner.

In the end, even though Chris' 'story' seems unfinished considering the type of person he was and could have become, there is a sense of completeness; the reader is left with a sense that he truly discovered something worthwhile. Something that really has the power to resonate. Something that he was able to leave behind.

****½/*****

Love in the Time of Cholera — Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Taking on what Oprah was proud to call "the greatest love story" after she announced it as her recent book club book wasn't a particularly harrowing prospect. With the movie coming out this fall, I felt it would be in my best interest to read the book before seeing the movie. Granted, I was skeptical. My appreciation for love stories is vast (and a little sick), so after reading classics like Pride & Prejudice and what I consider to be the greatest modern love story, The Time Traveler's Wife, I took on this book with a sense of, "Oh yeah? We'll see."

First off, reading Garcia Marquez's work is not an easy task. His attention to detail is staggering and, at times, unnecessary. The omniscient narration covers everything, from every physical and historical fact of each character — namely Florentino Ariza and Fermina Daza (the unrequited lovers), and Fermina's husband, Juvenal Urbino — to the history of every building, every town and every random ocean liner. Luckily, it flows well. After getting through the first 50 pages, it becomes less of a challenge. How this is so, I couldn't tell you; I would make it through 30 pages and wonder HOW I could have managed it without falling asleep. It's engaging, but given the expanse of information, it's not that engaging. I just couldn't tell you.

The love story is unlike any I've read, mainly because the characters struggle with their own humanity: Florentino is painfully romantic and obsessive, almost to the point of it being frightening. Fermina is selfish and stubborn, and she doesn't deserve Florentino's adoration. And like James Joyce's Ulysses, Marquez unabashedly includes descriptions of Florentino's bodily ailments, including his need for annual enemas, his loss of teeth and hair. The characters are real, and in no way romanticized. As the years pass (over 50 of them) and the character's experience their lives without each other, you realize that this book is not about their relationship at all. On the contrary, it is about how love can endure through many other loves, and can — even in old age, approaching death — be rediscovered. Life happens, and afterwards, love is still possible.

I can't say I agree with Oprah that Love in the Time of Cholera is the greatest love story, but I can see what she is saying. Like Wuthering Heights, this story is not romantic in the traditional sense. It goes against the grain, exploring love in a world that works against it, with people who are anything but perfect. The read is not easy, but if you are a fan of great writing and great literature, and stories that really do — literally — withstand the test of time, you cannot surpass this book.

****/*****