I own a lot of books. I enjoy spending time in used bookstores almost as much as I enjoy reading. And in spite of believing I know my home library invI own a lot of books. I enjoy spending time in used bookstores almost as much as I enjoy reading. And in spite of believing I know my home library inventory fairly well, a few days ago I looked up from my favorite reading chair and saw, within arm's length, a first-edition copy of The Big Rape by James Wakefield Burke. The cover is preserved in a cello-cover so obviously at some point somebody thought it was worth preserving. I would guess my copy would be judged as "near-fine" by used book standards. Where did it come from? I have no idea. Here it is in my hand. I give it a read. It is a genuinely awful book. And yet, fascinating. German women suffered terrible, retributive violence following the fall of Berlin, but this near-contemporaneous book is definitely not the way to find out about it.
Keeping an eye on the guard, Herr Markgraf place in the hand of each of the women a safety razor blade. "It's a terrible thing," he whispered in a raw voice. "But it gives each of you a chance to choose for yourself. Wait until there seems to be no escape. Then if you decide to use it, plunge it quick and deep, under the large muscle in your neck. It won't be painful. Be sure it's the right place and it won't be messy.
hmm. I am just not so sure about this advice, Herr Markgraf.
This novella is stretched artificially to 202 pages by using a small-book format and near-double spacing, and the story itself feels artificially streThis novella is stretched artificially to 202 pages by using a small-book format and near-double spacing, and the story itself feels artificially stretched, as well, like an outline of something that might have been good, with a little more of literally -anything- added to the pages: more event, more dialogue, more passion, more differentiation between characters, more of an idea of who these people are and why I should care about them.
It needed more editing, too. There is a lovely soft rhythm to the narrative, but the register never changes. The dialog, when it comes, is in a strange author-speak. People say things like "perhaps" and "a bit." Is their way of speaking being affected by "The Seep?" Or just evidence of a writer still looking for her voice? The characters feel somnambulant, which maybe in part can be explained by the premise of the novel, I suppose, of an alien invasion where the aliens seep into human minds and thoughts via the water and via "bodily fluids" (a phrase that reminded me of Dr. Strangelove, of course, but I don't think the author meant it that way). The characters came across as if they're stoned, and maybe this is also meant to be part of "The Seep" effect but it was hard to say for sure.
There is a very good premise here, which made me excited to read the novel, but the actual experience of reading felt more like reading a synopsis of a novel that is still waiting to be written. This is a pretty harsh review because I was really looking forward to a novel where trans-ness becomes effortless, not just along a gender spectrum but in many other ways, and where people are able to express themselves outwardly with any physical shape that makes them feel most themselves. I love that idea and I'm still looking for that novel....more
To me Konrad Lorenz's essay "The Taming of the Shrew" in his collection King Solomon's Ring is a wondrous example of great field biology writing. In iTo me Konrad Lorenz's essay "The Taming of the Shrew" in his collection King Solomon's Ring is a wondrous example of great field biology writing. In it, Lorenz delights in describing the behavior of the water shrew, and he does so with meticulous, loving detail, and through this tiny lens, focused on one tiny animal, I can't help but be struck with wonder about how beautiful and complicated the natural world is.
In contrast, Coyote America is filled with breathless anecdote and extends in every direction, introducing topics only tangentially related to coyotes. As a result it felt shallow to me. It felt like the author assumed I would need to be constantly entertained and distracted by interesting anecdotes or I'd lose interest.
It seems to be a style of science writing that has become pervasive, and maybe it reflects accurately the distractions of modern media on our reading attention, but I don't like it. By the end I was very much yearning for a re-read of Voyage of the Beagle, a book whose author knew that animals in themselves are worthy of being studied closely, and need no distraction or amplification to hold a reader's interest...what current science writers no longer seem to believe....more
Reading this book felt exactly like turning the crank on one of those souvenir flatten-your-penny machines--you turn it over and over and over and oveReading this book felt exactly like turning the crank on one of those souvenir flatten-your-penny machines--you turn it over and over and over and over, with very little resistance, imagining all the time that it's what you wanted to be doing, and it feels like you're making no progress whatsoever, but you keep doing it anyway for what seems like forever and then, clunk, you're done--you just paid 26c and got back a penny that is no longer worth anything at all....more
This short book felt way too long. Here is yet more evidence that genre writers should be considered artists of a different kind, and that literary wrThis short book felt way too long. Here is yet more evidence that genre writers should be considered artists of a different kind, and that literary writers don't understand how to write a genre plot. There is a good enough set up here of a dystopian society, but the most interesting thing that happens in this novel, and only after much blah-blah, is a spontaneous uprising where the working class throws crackers etc to feed the fish in a pond. No one gets hauled off and shot for illegal fish feeding, though--still other nameless workers appear and clean out the pond and life goes on. Why?...more
A novel about a historic trans person that feels dated and stilted to me, even though it was published in 2000. In a way I appreciate this novel for sA novel about a historic trans person that feels dated and stilted to me, even though it was published in 2000. In a way I appreciate this novel for showing me how far and how fast we've come. Even the NY Times review of this novel from 2000 egregiously confuses sexuality with gender, whereas just the week I'm writing this thanks to Diane Sawyer's interview with Bruce Jenner a few more people understand the difference between the two. Let's hope the film of this novel coming out in fall 2015 also updates perceptions, and reflects a better understanding of the humanity of trans people. I don't blame the author--he did his best for 15 years ago, I'm sure--but a lot of this just feels clunky and voyeuristic to me now....more
I didn't enjoy spending time with this narrator, who is deliberately hurtful to everyone he speaks with, and deliberately going out of his way to say I didn't enjoy spending time with this narrator, who is deliberately hurtful to everyone he speaks with, and deliberately going out of his way to say the precise hateful thing that will devastate the other character. Since the narrator is a writer and therefore supposedly good with words, he is able to deliver these hate bombs in exactly the way that the other characters will think him blameless. Except I'm not sure how good he IS with words, actually, because his novel, this one that is, is a morass of self-pitying blather about how hate is love and love is hate.
I also just didn't buy the love relationship that was supposed to be the tragic core of this story. Maurice and Sarah have no apparent love for one another when they are together and yet pine on for one another long after they are separated. Given that the narrator is hateful and the love story unconvincing, the whole theological argument, supposedly the core of this novel, becomes a meaningless semantic debate about whether a promise to a nonexistent God should be honored or not...who cares?...more
I keep thinking about Salzman sitting at a laptop to write this book, and as he typed the words of other authors--the young men who were his students,I keep thinking about Salzman sitting at a laptop to write this book, and as he typed the words of other authors--the young men who were his students, in juvenile hall--into his memoir. The young men's writing is the real story here. Not all of what Salzman republished of his students' words in this memoir are great, but much of it is sad, insightful, and wrenching, and by definition these works are "publishable" since they are in the book. Why aren't their names listed as co-authors? As the original creators, they own the copyright to these words, unless Salzman persuaded them to sign a release, in which case he exploited them. The copyright page at the front of the book lists only the estate of Loren Eiseley as having given permission--Salzman quotes Eiseley's work in the book. The book discounts the authorship of the students entirely. It gives no representation of their rights on the copyright page. All of these things seemed at odds with Salzman's claim that he wants to champion these young men's "coming to terms with their crime-ridden pasts and searching for a reason to believe in their future selves."...more
This book appalled me, even though the premise is wonderful: a reminder to enjoy work that changes the world in a tangible way--work that uses tools aThis book appalled me, even though the premise is wonderful: a reminder to enjoy work that changes the world in a tangible way--work that uses tools and is done with your hands instead of your mind. Great!
But almost every reference in the book has to do with Men Finding Meaning. About the only reference to a woman at work is a single paragraph where the omnipresent "he" in this book turns to a "she," and "she" is baking with a Betty Crocker cake mix. "She" never gets to do electrical work, or motorcycle repair, or any of the other trades in this book. Just faux-baking. It feels as if the author has never actually thought about the possibility of a woman picking up a socket wrench.
A worse sin to me, however, is that Crawford never acknowledges that women (mostly it's women in these roles) are physically changing the world all the time with their hands. I have to wonder why the work many women do on top of their regular jobs, of cooking, cleaning, and caring for family, and of fixing things at home to be more pleasant and/or just to function, doesn't register at all with Crawford as "soulcraft." Traditional women's work doesn't make the grade in this book as meaningful labor whereas it seems to me to be deeply meaningful.
Indeed, in a half-assed way the author inadvertently allowed me to reclaim physical labor I do with my hands every day as meaningful labor. I am reminded that I should take more pleasure in this work than I have done in the past. Rather than resent the cooking and cleaning and caring--the things that my education has taught me to disparage and resent--I have come to a realization that since these things must be done, I should do them well. All these thoughts came about in spite of the author rather than because of him, though.
So even though the message of the book had none of this in it, I'm glad to have read it, because I have begun to value this labor of mine more than I did before. My guess is Crawford's wife is doing all the housework for him and that's possibly the reason he doesn't know about its value. Let's hope she gets to write a book about her work experiences, too....more
I was swept away with the first chapter, which was full of lovely, patient writing and reminded me of Wallace Stegner at his best. But soon the prose I was swept away with the first chapter, which was full of lovely, patient writing and reminded me of Wallace Stegner at his best. But soon the prose and story both became hopelessly precious, and they never recovered. The meaning of the story is supposed to be carried in scenes filled with small portentous gestures. Instead, the whole thing collapses on itself, in a run-on mush of blathering sentimentality. The book is self-consciously happy with its sentences, but empty of greater meaning. The stylistic choices of that delight in the first chapter become a tedious hum of the same old rhythms. I'm not sure whether to blame the author or the translator for the highly tedious use of ..and...and...and...in run-on sentences. Hemingway could do that and it meant something. Here it is just another stylistic tic, used in every other sentence, it seemed.
I really wanted to like this book--great title! great cover! great reviews!--and I really didn't....more
A classic! A classic! And one of the most godawful boring books I've ever forced myself through! I felt in need of clockwork-orange-style eyelid openeA classic! A classic! And one of the most godawful boring books I've ever forced myself through! I felt in need of clockwork-orange-style eyelid openers for most of the book. This novel is a great example of exactly why high school students learn to hate reading 'classics.'...more
I was really put off by its misogyny, its bullheaded masculinity, its eurocentrism. Like much science fiction, it simply can't escape the stale assumpI was really put off by its misogyny, its bullheaded masculinity, its eurocentrism. Like much science fiction, it simply can't escape the stale assumptions of its time. These problems do make the book an interesting read on another level. At least I can see how far we've come. But I also wish someone would write an alternative vision, a book that would have the same kind of wonderful, playful, pan-historical mish-mosh of characters, but that would not have the same unpleasant philosophical limitations of Farmer's Riverworld.
Here is an small example from the book of the kind of thing that made me do a double-take on nearly every page, even though these probably didn't bother me at all when I read the book in high school:
"Know a man's faith, and you knew at least half the man. Know his wife, and you knew the other half."
Farmer is not interested in knowing anything about women or non-white-males at all--these characters are important in the book only in terms of explaining the european man. In particular, the female characters in this book are convenient props for sex, quickly abandoned by the story and never thought of again by the overwhelmingly male cast of characters.
I don't think it's much of a spoiler to say the book contains famous historical characters...and not one of these is female, either. The book jacket promises you'll meet Richard Burton, Mark Twain, Odysseus, Cyrano de Bergerac...there are many others in the book and all of them white men.
Sometimes I mourn the loss of those times when I could delude myself and pretend that I was part of the mass of readers being addressed in phrases like "know the man...know his wife." Sometimes I'm glad to be able to read without the blinders. It's worth contemplating such things, just as it's worth reading this book, however maddening an experience it may be to some of us readers who don't fit the mold....more
Loading...
