The Book Thief

Currently reading The Book Thief by Markus Zusak, and I’m enjoying every bit of it.

Sometimes you’ve got to pick up a YA novel: not only to appreciate the “simplicity” of childhood, but to revel in its frankness, its honesty.

Protest with Books

Protest in Istanbul. Had to post this photograph. Awe inspiring. This is why I love booklover’s site! You must check it out.

Books are Weapons in the War of Ideas

One in a million reasons to keep reading and to keep the libraries open.

Book Sculptures – One More Cool Thing In Our World

 

 

 

 

Book Sculptures 

“Book mania,” she said affectionately.

On Tumblr, I follow someone who posts under the simple name “Booklover.” Lover of books indeed. Not only does she post excerpts and quotes, but paintings of books and people reading them, pictures of famous libraries, hole in the wall book stores, a book sitting next to a cup of coffee. The list truly does go on. 

I love when her posts pop up on my dashboard because it reminds me how much I love to read. The sheer pleasure I get from searching for a book, reading it and enjoying it so much that I don’t want it to end. The way a conclusion can make me throw the book across the room or sigh with content.

All of this I feel when looking at her blog Every moment I’ve picked up a book and started to read it is as different as the moment I first started high school as when when I graduated college. I enter each story a different person changed by life and by the books that entered into it. 

I won’t continue beyond that because then it will just turn into a love letter about books…

…so I’ll post these instead

 

 

It was one of those humid days when the atmosphere gets confused. Sitting on the porch, you could feel it: the air wishing it was water.

– Jeffrey Eugenides; Middlesex

 

 

 

“The thing about a story is that you dream it as you tell it, hoping that others might then dream along with you, and in this way memory and imagination and language combine to make spirits in the head. There is the illusion of aliveness.

– Tim O’Brien; The Things They Carried

I may have a problem, but I don’t mind it so much.

http://booklover.tumblr.com/

 

 

 

The Namesake: “There’s no such thing as a perfect name.”

I love the feeling of losing myself in a well told story: one that I can not only become intimately acquainted with the characters, their desires, their demons, their quirks, but also the writing itself. The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri succeeded in giving me all of this and more, especially after being so disappointed with Her Fearful Symmetry.

Lahiri beautifully narrates the journey of Gogol Ganguli who is constantly plagued by the name his parents gave him. In the novel, Lahiri emphasizes that in Bengali culture a person receives two names: a pet name (daknam) and a “good” name (bhalonam). The pet name is only used by family and close friends, defined by its intimacy as much as its informality. The good name Lahiri describes as being used for “identification in the outside world” appearing on “envelopes, on diplomas, in telephone directories, and in all other public places.”

Before Gogol is born, his parents anxiously await a letter from his grandmother that contains what his name shall be. As literary luck will have it, the letter is never received. Shorty after Gogol is born, the grandmother suffers a stroke and doesn’t remember family member’s faces much less names that she wrote in a letter.

To even leave the hospital with their son, they must name him. So forced by law, the pet name Gogol is made a legal name with the intention that when a good name comes to them they will rename their child while still referring to him at home as Gogol. Being the first struggle with idenity in the novel, one that Gogol undergoes without even being conscious of it, Lahiri beautifully sets up the overall tone of the novel.

Gogol’s life is a constant search for and often failure to compromise, trying to find neutral ground between obligation and desire, internal and external identity. Does he observe the Bengali holiday at home with his parents or does he go to the bowling arcade with his friends? When he starts school, does he have his teachers and classmates address him by Nikhil, his late established “good” name or assert himself as Gogol, the only name he’s ever known? Does he date the white girl his parents will disapprove of or the Indian girl who is a child close family friends and therefore a non-threatening and trusted individual?

My introduction to the novel does not do it any justice. I haven’t even scratched the surface of the complexities of the origin of Gogol’s name or the identity struggle that his character goes through.

For example, having initially rejected the good name, Nikhil, when he first started school, Gogol decides to legally name himself by the same name at the age of eighteen when he’s getting ready to go to college. However, this naming has taken on a whole new meaning. Rather than acknowledging the importance in Bengali culture to have a pet name and a good name, he uses the name Nikhil to white-out his self as “Gogol.” This includes his parents, his identity as a Bengali, and everything he associates with being an “outsider.” The name that was intended to solidify his heritage has now been used to shatter and erase it.

I would love to dedicate an entire post soley to Lahiri’s writing: it truly is beautifully and expertly done. Lahiri flawlessly weaves the theme of naming and self-idenitification throughout the novel. It’s constantly present in every chapter, every page, every sentence, but it’s not overwhelming.

She reminds the reader of Gogol’s namesake and the importance it yields in the progression of the story without becoming repetitive or redundant. It is books like this that make me love to read in the first place.

Her description of what it is like to be a foreigner in a strange country is simple metaphor, yet powerful in its implications:

“For being a foreigner…is a sort of lifelong pregnancy—a perpetual wait, a constant burden, a continuous feeling out of sorts…Like pregnancy, being a foreigner…is something that elicits the same curiosity from strangers, the same combination of pity and respect.”

Being a foreigner also means trying to hold onto traditions and rituals that may seem odd or be mocked by the majority. Gogol’s parents attempt to negotiate their own upbringing with their children’s knowing that they are pushing against an unseen yet overwhelming force:

“…to a casual observer, the Gangulis, apart from the name on their mailbox, apart from the issue of India Abroad and Sangbad Bichitra that are delivered there, appear no different from their neighbors…they learn to roast turkeys, albeit rubbed with garlic and cumin and cayenne, at Thanksgiving, to nail a wreath to their door in December, to wrap woolen scarves around snowmen…Still, they do what they can. They make a point of driving into Cambridge with the children when the Apu Trilogy plays at the Orsen Welles, or when there is a Kathakali dance performance or a sitar recital at Memorial Hall. When Gogol is in the third grade, they send him to Bengali language and culture lessons every Saturday…for when Ashima and Ashoke close their eyes it never fails to unsettle them, that their chidlren sound just like Americans…”

Gogol grows up resenting his parents for forcing him to recognize Indian holidays and traditions. As he gets older, he begins to resent his friends and lovers that fail to understand certain obligations he has that are rooted in his Bengali heritage. He is always caught, always between, and never wholly one or the other.

He constantly rejects his heritage (or what he sees as his parent’s heritage and not his), opting for hamburgers rather than his mother’s chicken curry, Christmas rather than ceremonies to honor Durga and Saraswati. It isn’t until the closing of the novel that he truly realizes the importance of acknowleging and accepting this part of himself not as foreign but intimate and familiar. That he cannot be defined by one thing because he is not one thing. It the same process by which he learns to understand and accept the name Gogol.

As a bi-racial child, I constantly warred with myself about my identity. What made it more confusing was the fact that most don’t even view me as bi-racial. My mom is black and my father is Dominican. I don’t look like a “typical” mixed child: my skin, my eyes, my hair all lending to a “black” look. However, my father’s first language is Spanish, he never became an American citizen and never will be, and when he’s not in the sun 24/7 the man has freckles. However, even I am subject to my own definitions of what is “black” and what is not.

It’s funny when people learn that my last name is Perez. They give me an odd look, ask me if I know how to speak any Spanish and when I say that I don’t, they look oddly relieved.  I felt this same type of tension when Gogol would be mistaken for Italian or Spanish and the disbelief when he states that he’s Indian. Does your identity mostly consist of how you perceive yourself or how others perceive you? Do we even have a choice?

While I don’t think that my racial identity is as complex or as conflict filled as Gogol’s struggle to negotiate his American (public) and Bengali (private) identity, I did relate to his desire and deeply seated need to constantly define and re-define himself to his parents, friends, co-workers, and lovers. The story is real: heart-warming, funny, wry, devastating. It consists of enough ups and downs that mirror the unpredictability of life so well that upon its end, I wanted to continue with Gogol, learn what happened next.

I highly recommend this novel to anyone who enjoys a good read. I found myself going through the story so fast that I had to consciously slow down. I didn’t want to stop reading such a good book. It’s definitely going on my list of favorites.

“There’s no such thing as a perfect name. I think that human beings should be allowed to name themselves when they turn eighteen,” he adds. “Until then, pronouns.”

Her Fearful Symmetry

Her Fearful Symmetry  had all the potential to be a fairly enjoyable book; it was primarily set in London, my favorite city in the world, and was written by the same author that wrote The Time Travelers Wife, a love story that I remember enjoying infinitely even though I’ve watched the movie enough times that the details of the book and the film seem to blur together.  I entered the story with somewhat high expectations and found myself upon it’s ending infinitely disappointed.

The story follows twins, Julia and Valentina, who have spent their entire twenty years of life together; they sleep in the same bed, dress alike, go to the same schools, and drop out of them, all together. Life apart from each other does not seem fathomable until their estranged Aunt Elspeth whom they have never met dies and leaves them her flat in London under two conditions: 1) they must live in the flat for a year and 2) their parents can’t set foot in it. Throughout their year in London, the usually submissive twin, Valentina, grows tired of her more dominant half, Julia, dictating their life and begins to fight (sometimes physically) her other half.

Honestly, I know very little about the relationship between twins and if Niffenegger’s portrayal is fairly accurate or a gross exaggeration, but I found myself hating the dynamic between the two young women and hoping Julia would fall down some stairs or Valentina would grow a bigger pair of cajones.

Between the doppleganger drama, the nature of death is explored throughout the story. The novel opens with Elspeth’s perspective in the moments before and after her death; we are with her as she slips out of her body and watch through her eyes as her lover, Robert, begins to grieve over the loss. A reoccurring point of view in the novel is of Elspeth’s ghost who is trapped in her old flat watching Julia and Valentina explore the world she once occupied and interacting with the people she once loved. Also, the flat that the twins move into is right next door to a cemetery, a place that is explored by all characters in the novel at least once.

Highgate Cemetery – London

When I was nineteen, my boyfriend passed away and I constantly go between believing that there is no semblance of his existence in this world to thinking that maybe he’s hiding in my bookshelf because he loved to read as much as I do. This aspect of the novel was intriguing, but evolves in such a way that I don’t quite understand where Niffenegger was going with it.

Valentina comes to the conclusion that the only way to escape her sister is to die. At this point, her and her sister have become aware of Elspeth’s presence in the flat and have begun to interact with her. Valentina can even see her at times. Valentina has realized that Elspeth has the ability to “hook” someone’s soul and bring it out of one’s body and decides that she’ll feign her death long enough that when Elspeth reinserts her soul she can go on living without her twin in peace. It’s safe to say that the plan fails miserably, Elspeth ends up in Valentina’s body and the novel ends with Elspeth and her lover temporarily reunited with a baby, but him leaving after he finishes his thesis on the cemetery they lived next to:

” ‘Robert?’ [Elspeth] called, careful to keep her voice low. She went into the front room. No one there. On Robert’s desk was a neat pile of paper. A History of Highgate Cemetery. All the files and notes had been cleared away. There was a look of finality about the scene. Elspeth smiled. “Robert?”
He was not in the house. He did not come back that night. Days went by, and at last she understood that he would not return at all.’

I didn’t even know when the story was over. I literally flipped to the next page expecting to see another chapter because to me it ended so abruptly. Maybe I’m too dense too see the overall meaning, but I found something lacking.

I honestly think that my obsession with London and all things English got me from page one to the end and maybe I was too busy getting excited over the constant references to Sainsbury’s, Piccadilly Circus, and Kings Cross that I just missed the point of the novel entirely…

Oh well. You can’t love them all. No regrets.

My love for London runs so deep that it’s borderline psychotic

“Selecting A Reader” – Ted Kooser

First, I would have her be beautiful,
and walking carefully up on my poetry
at the loneliest moment of an afternoon,
her hair still damp at the neck
from washing it. She should be wearing
a raincoat, an old one, dirty
from not having money enough for the cleaners.
She will take out her glasses, and there
in the bookstore, she will thumb
over my poems, then put the book back
up on its shelf. She will say to herself,
“For that kind of money, I can get
my raincoat cleaned.” And she will.

A special thanks to Word Wabbit for bringing this poem to my attention. To be introduced to what we haven’t before is such a great pleasure in life.

 

Shelf Life by Gary Paulsen

“Why do I read?
I just can’t help myself.
I read to learn and to grow, to laugh
and to be motivated.
I read to understand things I’ve never
been exposed to.
I read when I’m crabby, when I’ve just
said monumentally dumb things to the
people I love.
I read for strength to help me when I
feel broken, discouraged, and afraid.
I read when I’m angry at the whole
world.
I read when everything is going right.
I read to find hope.
I read because I’m made up not just of
skin and bones, of sights, feelings,
and a deep need for chocolate, but I’m
also made up of words.
Words describe my thoughts and what’s
hidden in my heart.
Words are alive–when I’ve found a
story that I love, I read it again and
again, like playing a favorite song
over and over.
Reading isn’t passive–I enter the
story with the characters, breathe
their air, feel their frustrations,
scream at them to stop when they’re
about to do something stupid, cry with
them, laugh with them.
Reading for me, is spending time with a friend.
A book is a friend.
You can never have too many.”

50 Shades of Psycho: An Identity Crisis to Say the Least

So, most of us at least know of Fifty Shades of Grey where one Miss Anastasia Steele falls for Christian Grey: a controlling, BDSM loving, tycoon who demands that to have a “relationship” with him is to sign a contract that pretty much states “I say ‘Jump’ and you say ‘How high’.” Ever since the book came out and reached terrifying heights of popularity, I’d been avoiding it like the plague.

When I learned the book was Twilight fan fiction, I have to admit I became curious. As much as I like to deny it now, I was once Team Edward. My excuse is that I started reading it when I was fifteen and it weirdly influenced my crazy, adolescent views of love and romance. As much as I hate it now, it stuck with me. So, after about a year or so of fighting it, I finally started reading Fifty Shades. They say curiosity killed the cat, but I’m not dead…just angry at my adolescent self.

I didn’t love it. I didn’t even like it. On the contrary, I was constantly yelling and wildly gesturing at Anastasia like I often do during a movie. “Oh come on! Really? You’re really contemplating doing this? He spanks you as punishment and you don’t even like it. You went to Georgia to visit your mother and he FOLLOWED YOU. Nothing about that is sweet or sexy! These characters are unbelievable!” Reading the book was a struggle to say the least and I’m proud to say that I completed it with my sanity intact and no desire to read 50 Shades of F***ed up Part Two.

However, I found one aspect of Fifty Shades that caught my interest: the similarities between Christian Grey and Patrick Bateman. Both Bateman and Grey are both well-off, white, attractive males whose dichotomies of their public and private spheres are severe and complexly constructed. Throughout both books, we see how these two spheres threaten to and eventually interact and collide.

Bateman increasingly exhibits erratic, reckless behavior  throughout American Psycho until it culminates in Bateman splitting from reality. At lunch with friends, he deliberately alludes to serial killers smoothly introducing them to the normal conversation. Yet, the reactions usually incite an awkward silence or complete disregard for any deeper meaning to what can be seen as “outbursts.” He whispers vicious threats under his breath to deaf crowds. He stores dead bodies in an apartment of a man he killed letting the rot inside grow to disturbing proportions. At the climax of the novel, he begins a public killing spree that ends in a confession that turns out to be meaningless.

Granted, Grey is not nearly as complexly written as Bateman nor does his character make sense most of the time: a grown man who is supposedly refined and has taste would not say “Laters” in an email. He’s a BDSM fiend, not a twelve year old girl.

Despite the flaws in Grey’s character, the nature of his crisis is the same as Bateman’s. Until Grey meets Anastasia, he has never let a woman sleep in his bed, meet his family, fly in his plane, or not sign one of his freaky dominate/submissive contracts. Sex and women are the private part of his life because he likes it with whips and chains in a creepy playroom in his house. In true Twilight style, forgettable Anastasia makes him break all of his rules and she quickly becomes as much a part of his private life as his public life creating a not too riveting crisis for Mr. Fifty Shades.

And he’s in “murders and executions”…I mean “mergers and acquisitions.

Bateman and Grey’s similarities bother me for one simple reason: if all the people who were were besotted with Christian Grey were to read about Bateman, they wouldn’t fantasize about him coming into their house and teaching them a lesson…they probably wouldn’t survive the experience. Yet, Christian Grey is hot and everyone is waiting to see who will play his character in the film. It’s scary and yet not surprising that both characters and both books have elicited powerful yet opposing reactions from the public. Makes me wonder where the line is between desire and fear…

That may be a discussion for another day. This post is already way too long.

 A special thanks to kepagewriter and her comment for giving me another way to look at things.