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janetlun's review against another edition
It's possible that I only bought this book because it's so pretty. It has three (3!) bellybands.[return]http://boingboing.net/2008/04/12/jordan-cranes-amazin.html
jamiereadthis's review against another edition
4.0
In the essay “Kids’ Stuff,” Chabon gives the following entreaty to those who think the younger generation is too modern, too sophisticated for the traditional rites of good old fashioned storytelling:
He’s mourning the fact that we’ve forgotten how to write for kids, that comic books are no longer the collective language of childhood, but by the standards he sets forth we’ve largely forgotten how to write for anyone. Hell, by those standards, we’ve forgotten how to live. “Anybody who thinks that kids get bored by hearing the same story over and over again has never spent time telling stories to kids.” And anybody who discounts the power of the same old “kids’ stuff,” the elemental magic, the basic human need to lay claim to the same old stories with their endless variations and derivations, has forgotten what it’s like when the impossible turns out to be true.
In the earlier essay “Fan Fictions”— making the wildly lovable assertion that all literature, highbrow or low, from The Aeneid onward, is fan fiction— Chabon notes the particular joy and pleasure of the “magical gaps,” the blank spaces on the map. “All enduring popular literature,” he writes, “has this open-ended quality, and extends this invitation to the reader to continue, on his or her own, with the adventure.” It’s the infinite horizon of play, he says, the endless game board, that spawns, without trying, that contemporary fandom that has become indistinguishable from contemporary popular art.
And this theory I love, because— seriously, try me sometime in my defense of plot holes, I’ll have to write an essay elsewhere before I write one here— it could digress right into my argument that any entertainment worth enduring devotion or of lasting value has to, at least to one degree or another, collapse under its own weight enough to write you into the story.* Leave gaps, leave coughs and hiccoughs and messes— like Chabon notes of Arthur Conan Doyle, whether by artlessness or by design— and you’ve left instead the secret passageways, the keys and clues and sanction to endlessly tell and retell a thousand-fold stories. It’s nothing less than the personal invitation to that lucky realm where to love something is to never let it go.
So yes, this is one great collection of essays, by someone who gets that to love a story is to live in it. Also, to anyone looking for added inducements, I should mention that the McSweeney’s hardcover edition of this book may very well be one of the most beautiful books on my shelf.
*An argument that inevitably and happily devolves into me citing The X-Files at length. But then again (and to further underscore all points being made here) any argument pretty much devolves into me happily citing The X-Files.
“Let’s blow their little minds. A mind is not blown, in spite of whatever Hollywood seems to teach, merely by action sequences, things exploding, thrilling planetscapes, wild bursts of speed. Those are all good things; but a mind is blown when something that you always feared but knew to be impossible turns out to be true; when the world turns out to be far vaster, far more marvelous or malevolent than you ever dreamed; when you get proof that everything is connected to everything else, that everything you know is wrong, that you are both the center of the universe and a tiny speck sailing off its nethermost edge.”
He’s mourning the fact that we’ve forgotten how to write for kids, that comic books are no longer the collective language of childhood, but by the standards he sets forth we’ve largely forgotten how to write for anyone. Hell, by those standards, we’ve forgotten how to live. “Anybody who thinks that kids get bored by hearing the same story over and over again has never spent time telling stories to kids.” And anybody who discounts the power of the same old “kids’ stuff,” the elemental magic, the basic human need to lay claim to the same old stories with their endless variations and derivations, has forgotten what it’s like when the impossible turns out to be true.
In the earlier essay “Fan Fictions”— making the wildly lovable assertion that all literature, highbrow or low, from The Aeneid onward, is fan fiction— Chabon notes the particular joy and pleasure of the “magical gaps,” the blank spaces on the map. “All enduring popular literature,” he writes, “has this open-ended quality, and extends this invitation to the reader to continue, on his or her own, with the adventure.” It’s the infinite horizon of play, he says, the endless game board, that spawns, without trying, that contemporary fandom that has become indistinguishable from contemporary popular art.
And this theory I love, because— seriously, try me sometime in my defense of plot holes, I’ll have to write an essay elsewhere before I write one here— it could digress right into my argument that any entertainment worth enduring devotion or of lasting value has to, at least to one degree or another, collapse under its own weight enough to write you into the story.* Leave gaps, leave coughs and hiccoughs and messes— like Chabon notes of Arthur Conan Doyle, whether by artlessness or by design— and you’ve left instead the secret passageways, the keys and clues and sanction to endlessly tell and retell a thousand-fold stories. It’s nothing less than the personal invitation to that lucky realm where to love something is to never let it go.
So yes, this is one great collection of essays, by someone who gets that to love a story is to live in it. Also, to anyone looking for added inducements, I should mention that the McSweeney’s hardcover edition of this book may very well be one of the most beautiful books on my shelf.
*An argument that inevitably and happily devolves into me citing The X-Files at length. But then again (and to further underscore all points being made here) any argument pretty much devolves into me happily citing The X-Files.
jayme's review against another edition
3.0
A book of essays. The first half of them are about literature. Chabon gives his opinions on famous books from Conan Doyle, Pullman, McCarthy, and a few more obscure works as well as his thoughts on comics. I particularly enjoyed the essay on Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials. I was totally ignorant of its Dante origins and I loved reading Chabon's thoughts on the series.
The second half of the essays are more autobiographical. My favourite was My Back Pages. I don't know why but I really love reading all about how author's first started writing and why. Anyway, this book was fun to read, I think Chabon fans would get a kick out of reading about how his brain ticks.
P.S. This might have the most awesome dust jacket I've ever seen...well three dust jackets. They layer together to make the pretty picture that you can see up at the top corner of the page!
The second half of the essays are more autobiographical. My favourite was My Back Pages. I don't know why but I really love reading all about how author's first started writing and why. Anyway, this book was fun to read, I think Chabon fans would get a kick out of reading about how his brain ticks.
P.S. This might have the most awesome dust jacket I've ever seen...well three dust jackets. They layer together to make the pretty picture that you can see up at the top corner of the page!
bookmagpie's review against another edition
4.0
Chabon is pretentious, but way less pretentious than I expected. I really enjoyed his essays - his voice is so conversational and easy-going that I raced through them. He occasionally veers a little into "kids-these-days" territory, in the sense that I think there is far more of the kind of literature/comics out there that he wants, if he just looks for it. But I agreed with a lot of his sentiments, and I was really interested in the exploration into his Judaism and the interplay between culture/story at the end.
pearwaldorf's review against another edition
4.0
Michael Chabon geeks out intelligently over books I know and love? Fuck yes.
tachyondecay's review against another edition
3.0
I began this book as a sometime reader of Michael Chabon. I klepped The Yiddish Policemen's Union from my dad's shelf, and I've also read [b:Wonder Boys|16707|Wonder Boys|Michael Chabon|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1166740697s/16707.jpg|2045395] and [b:Summerland|16705|Summerland|Michael Chabon|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1166740696s/16705.jpg|2741007] at some point. (I actually liked the movie of the former better than Cabon's book, oddly enough.) Chabon is one of those writers who is at the periphery of my awareness, someone whose books I respect even though I only accord them a lukewarm enthusiasm when it comes to the prospect of reading one. He has a way with words, a talent for tone and diction, that I much admire.
This skill is apparent in Maps and Legends. The book itself is something of a cipher at first—as a product of McSweeney's, it is bound in a format simultaneously advertising and obscuring the content of the book. The jacket of this edition is alone worth a paragraph. Although the multiple layers can be annoying to handle, they create a beautiful effect that shows a love for the physical form of a book itself, parallel Chabon's tribute to literature and storytelling found between the covers.
Often collections of essays make me ambivalent, and Chabon's is no exception. My praise of Chabon's style holds true. He has mastered that heavy, didactic, descriptive method of discourse that makes me unabashedly jealous. Such writing can also be pedantic and quickly outstay its welcome, of course, and Chabon is guilty at times of overindulging his allusive abilities. If his passion for this subject were not so evident from his essays, I pass harsher judgement. As it is, I think it is a matter of taste. Some will endure—and even enjoy—the book; others will cast it aside with a vague sense of distaste or a definite feeling of dismay. Chabon's writing is not for everyone, and this book is no exception.
For those who choose to remain, all of Chabon's essays are interesting, but not all are created equal. In particular, I enjoyed: "Trickster in a Suit of Lights: Thoughts on the Modern Short Story", "Fan Fictions: On Sherlock Holmes", "Ragnarok Boy", "My Back Pages," and "Diving into the Wreck". In the first essay, Chabon discusses his fascination with transgressing the boundaries defined by genre, likening himself and other authors to the Trickster gods of many mythologies. Likewise, "Ragnarok Boy," celebrates the richness of Norse mythology, a subject on which I have been ruminating since reading Norse Code.
I loved "Fan Fictions: On Sherlock Holmes" for its exploration of Conan Doyle's motives behind writing Holmes stories—money—and the enduring effect of Holmesian mysteries on the "genre" of mystery and on literature in general. This essay is a true gem of the collection. It sparked in me a desire to re-read Holmes, something that any analysis of a work should do. More than passion, Chabon's sense of wonder is infectious and amplifying. He feels like I do: that we are ridiculously, wonderfully gifted with this ability to preserve stories in written form; that a well-stocked library or a cozy, stuffed bookshelf is a treasure trove of adventures just waiting to be read. When I buy or borrow books, I feel like I'm getting away with a crime—this amazing experience cannot be legal! But it is, and I love nothing more.
As a reader, Maps and Legends affirmed my feeling that stories are magical. As a writer, it reminded me of the responsibilities I have as a practitioner of this magic. An unwritten story is something with infinite potential; a writer must craft it carefully, honing every plane and edge with only the mind's glimpse of an end product as a guide. The journey is non-trivial, but when done right, the rewards for both the reader and the writer are proportionally spectacular.
Chabon claims to loathe the phrase "guilty pleasures", and while I understand his reasoning, I have to disagree. It is true that "guilty pleasure" can refer to something one fears censure over enjoying (much as I enjoy reading young adult fiction targeted toward socially-obsessed adolescent girls). But a "guilty pleasure" can also be something like that extra scoop of ice cream, something so flagrantly self-indulgent that we look both ways before allowing ourselves the moment.
Maps and Legends is the latter type of guilty pleasure. At least it was for me, and I think it was for Michael Chabon as well, no matter how much he protests. Sometimes he lays it on thick, but I'm inclined to forgive his exuberance as the self-conscious fanaticism of his inner boy, who can't quite believe he actually achieved his dream. Maps and Legends a self-referential, meta-aware celebration of literature and its role in one's life, from formative childhood through rocky adolescence all the way to adulthood. Because some of us, though we grow taller, do not grow up. Our sense of wonder remains firmly intact, persistently in place, ever guiding us to explore those uncharted places.
This skill is apparent in Maps and Legends. The book itself is something of a cipher at first—as a product of McSweeney's, it is bound in a format simultaneously advertising and obscuring the content of the book. The jacket of this edition is alone worth a paragraph. Although the multiple layers can be annoying to handle, they create a beautiful effect that shows a love for the physical form of a book itself, parallel Chabon's tribute to literature and storytelling found between the covers.
Often collections of essays make me ambivalent, and Chabon's is no exception. My praise of Chabon's style holds true. He has mastered that heavy, didactic, descriptive method of discourse that makes me unabashedly jealous. Such writing can also be pedantic and quickly outstay its welcome, of course, and Chabon is guilty at times of overindulging his allusive abilities. If his passion for this subject were not so evident from his essays, I pass harsher judgement. As it is, I think it is a matter of taste. Some will endure—and even enjoy—the book; others will cast it aside with a vague sense of distaste or a definite feeling of dismay. Chabon's writing is not for everyone, and this book is no exception.
For those who choose to remain, all of Chabon's essays are interesting, but not all are created equal. In particular, I enjoyed: "Trickster in a Suit of Lights: Thoughts on the Modern Short Story", "Fan Fictions: On Sherlock Holmes", "Ragnarok Boy", "My Back Pages," and "Diving into the Wreck". In the first essay, Chabon discusses his fascination with transgressing the boundaries defined by genre, likening himself and other authors to the Trickster gods of many mythologies. Likewise, "Ragnarok Boy," celebrates the richness of Norse mythology, a subject on which I have been ruminating since reading Norse Code.
I loved "Fan Fictions: On Sherlock Holmes" for its exploration of Conan Doyle's motives behind writing Holmes stories—money—and the enduring effect of Holmesian mysteries on the "genre" of mystery and on literature in general. This essay is a true gem of the collection. It sparked in me a desire to re-read Holmes, something that any analysis of a work should do. More than passion, Chabon's sense of wonder is infectious and amplifying. He feels like I do: that we are ridiculously, wonderfully gifted with this ability to preserve stories in written form; that a well-stocked library or a cozy, stuffed bookshelf is a treasure trove of adventures just waiting to be read. When I buy or borrow books, I feel like I'm getting away with a crime—this amazing experience cannot be legal! But it is, and I love nothing more.
As a reader, Maps and Legends affirmed my feeling that stories are magical. As a writer, it reminded me of the responsibilities I have as a practitioner of this magic. An unwritten story is something with infinite potential; a writer must craft it carefully, honing every plane and edge with only the mind's glimpse of an end product as a guide. The journey is non-trivial, but when done right, the rewards for both the reader and the writer are proportionally spectacular.
Chabon claims to loathe the phrase "guilty pleasures", and while I understand his reasoning, I have to disagree. It is true that "guilty pleasure" can refer to something one fears censure over enjoying (much as I enjoy reading young adult fiction targeted toward socially-obsessed adolescent girls). But a "guilty pleasure" can also be something like that extra scoop of ice cream, something so flagrantly self-indulgent that we look both ways before allowing ourselves the moment.
Maps and Legends is the latter type of guilty pleasure. At least it was for me, and I think it was for Michael Chabon as well, no matter how much he protests. Sometimes he lays it on thick, but I'm inclined to forgive his exuberance as the self-conscious fanaticism of his inner boy, who can't quite believe he actually achieved his dream. Maps and Legends a self-referential, meta-aware celebration of literature and its role in one's life, from formative childhood through rocky adolescence all the way to adulthood. Because some of us, though we grow taller, do not grow up. Our sense of wonder remains firmly intact, persistently in place, ever guiding us to explore those uncharted places.
celli's review against another edition
5.0
I love serendipitious books--sometimes I'll go to the library after work and just wander the shelves, even though I have a few dozen unread books at home and a roommate who looks at me like I'm crazy. Sometimes it's terrible; you get three pages in and have to put it down because you're frightening the people on the train with your reaction. Sometimes it's okay, and at least passes the time. And sometimes it's sheer brilliance. It's a new Regency author with a fifty-book backlist you can jump into. It's new narrative nonfiction that pulls you into another world.
It's a collection of Michael Chabon essays that reminds you all over again why you love reading and writing.
Chabon puts into words why I'm deepy suspicious of the modern short story, calling his own work in that area "plotless and sparking with epiphanic dew." He defends genre fiction and mocks the people who think that once a genre book becomes critically acclaimed, it's not really genre anymore. He makes me wish I read comic books; he tells the world his first story was a Sherlock Holmes fanfic; and in an essay called "My Back Pages," he describes writing the beginning of his first novel in a way that had me sniffling back tears and even more determined to write my own first novel ASAP.
Sometimes the patron saints of libraries (St. Catherine, St. Jerome, and St. Lawrence) drop the perfect book onto the shelves at the perfect time for me to read it. That was this book for me.
It's a collection of Michael Chabon essays that reminds you all over again why you love reading and writing.
Chabon puts into words why I'm deepy suspicious of the modern short story, calling his own work in that area "plotless and sparking with epiphanic dew." He defends genre fiction and mocks the people who think that once a genre book becomes critically acclaimed, it's not really genre anymore. He makes me wish I read comic books; he tells the world his first story was a Sherlock Holmes fanfic; and in an essay called "My Back Pages," he describes writing the beginning of his first novel in a way that had me sniffling back tears and even more determined to write my own first novel ASAP.
Sometimes the patron saints of libraries (St. Catherine, St. Jerome, and St. Lawrence) drop the perfect book onto the shelves at the perfect time for me to read it. That was this book for me.
latlansky's review against another edition
3.0
I enjoyed this - some sections more than others. Some made my eyes glaze over as I read them. I skipped the chapter on Cormac McCarthy's The Road, because I am just about to read it and didn't want to get spoiled.
I wholeheartedly agreed with his thoughts on comics today, and the lack of comics for kids, but not necessarily "kid comics". I go to the comic book store once a month or so, and I am hard pressed to find something for a 6 year old to read that isn't too lame or simple, but the next step up seems to be anything weird, dark, and violent. Too adult in language and content. It is frustrating.
I wholeheartedly agreed with his thoughts on comics today, and the lack of comics for kids, but not necessarily "kid comics". I go to the comic book store once a month or so, and I am hard pressed to find something for a 6 year old to read that isn't too lame or simple, but the next step up seems to be anything weird, dark, and violent. Too adult in language and content. It is frustrating.
gengelcox's review against another edition
4.0
Pulitzer-prize winning Michael Chabon speaks to me and for me in this book of essays on writing. Chabon believes that fiction, specifically short fiction, has lost its power because of the limitations placed upon it by critics and other literary types, who turn up their noses at anything that smells like genre, unless it's written by an author who has an uncommon style. Direct prose that uses plot as much as character is anathema to these people, to which Chabon says, "get over it." Chabon, an unabashed fan of genre work (science fiction, fantasy, comics), provides a needed counterpoint to the New Yorker style where nothing ever happens in a story.
Other essays in this slim volume cover some of Chabon's influences. I especially enjoyed his memoir of Will Eisner as well as the critical commentary on one of my favorite comics, Howard Chaykin's American Flagg! But even the essays on things I was more unfamiliar with, such as the use of the golem and Yiddish, were fascinating. Chabon's easy style and obvious enthusiasm for his subjects help make this volume fly by. In the end, you really do want more--although if it takes Chabon away from his fiction writing, perhaps we are better off with just this little bit.
Other essays in this slim volume cover some of Chabon's influences. I especially enjoyed his memoir of Will Eisner as well as the critical commentary on one of my favorite comics, Howard Chaykin's American Flagg! But even the essays on things I was more unfamiliar with, such as the use of the golem and Yiddish, were fascinating. Chabon's easy style and obvious enthusiasm for his subjects help make this volume fly by. In the end, you really do want more--although if it takes Chabon away from his fiction writing, perhaps we are better off with just this little bit.