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3.21 AVERAGE
3.21 AVERAGE
The only thing I can think of that I hate more than this book is myself for wasting a week and a half of my life reading it. Maybe it's me - I prefer a more straightforward writing style. I just can't get into a book where there's supposedly incredible romance between two characters but you never even get to hear a single conversation they have. I just don't get it. And I don't get why every man who crosses the path of this incredibly unappealing girl falls madly in love with her. I just found it all mind-bogglingly unbelievable and tedious.
Anthropology of an American Girl is a red flag to anyone considering self-publishing. It’s not a dreadful book but I can almost hear the author talking to herself, convinced that this is the ONLY work she will ever publish and therefore, every single thought/emotion/interaction of her protagonist must be recorded to a navel-gazing degree that makes Holden Caulfield and Harry “Rabbit” Angstrom look distracted. In short, this book is exhausting to read. Overloaded, overwrought and overwritten, it’s clear that Hamann never met an adjective, adverb, simile, metaphor and descriptor she didn’t want to trample into submission. “Puerile lips”- really?
At 597 pages this book is 200 pages too long. A broken hearted anorexic teenager with low blood pressure simply does not warrant 597 pages when her strongest character trait is that she’s willing to be the trophy for a sexist, violent man who controls her. Evaline shows no propensity to live her own life (which, if you had any soul, you’d know is not possible because of the loss of the man who was her one true love) except for running away from any situation she finds uncomfortable.
What AOAAG needed was a vigorous editor with an active red pencil and the disposition to use it. Insightful prose loses its meaning when found on the same page as such nonsense like this: “I dressed in front of them because modesty seemed solemn and unnecessary, because sometimes a night has a natural drive, and you are transported past the conceit of your despair.” Or “It was like being hungry for blood and smelling it everywhere around, hearing it drive, and you do not mind it touching you when you are it and it is you.” Neither of these make sense much less contribute to the story. As poetry? OK. But not in the midst of action and definitely not on every page.
This book slogs through Evaline’s trials and tribulations until the last forty pages when Hamann finally gets a sense of pacing and cuts the excessive, leaden prose to reveal a scene of real humanity. Unfortunately, she obliterates that with her closing line, something so trite I was reminded of my high school journal. I had the common sense to burn it. Bottom line: this unending saga of nothing is not a mark of greatness but merely supreme self-indulgence.
At 597 pages this book is 200 pages too long. A broken hearted anorexic teenager with low blood pressure simply does not warrant 597 pages when her strongest character trait is that she’s willing to be the trophy for a sexist, violent man who controls her. Evaline shows no propensity to live her own life (which, if you had any soul, you’d know is not possible because of the loss of the man who was her one true love) except for running away from any situation she finds uncomfortable.
What AOAAG needed was a vigorous editor with an active red pencil and the disposition to use it. Insightful prose loses its meaning when found on the same page as such nonsense like this: “I dressed in front of them because modesty seemed solemn and unnecessary, because sometimes a night has a natural drive, and you are transported past the conceit of your despair.” Or “It was like being hungry for blood and smelling it everywhere around, hearing it drive, and you do not mind it touching you when you are it and it is you.” Neither of these make sense much less contribute to the story. As poetry? OK. But not in the midst of action and definitely not on every page.
This book slogs through Evaline’s trials and tribulations until the last forty pages when Hamann finally gets a sense of pacing and cuts the excessive, leaden prose to reveal a scene of real humanity. Unfortunately, she obliterates that with her closing line, something so trite I was reminded of my high school journal. I had the common sense to burn it. Bottom line: this unending saga of nothing is not a mark of greatness but merely supreme self-indulgence.
"Anthropology" is quite long and meandering. But I felt like the book was well lived-in. There was a greater reward at the end when you were able to see the full scale of Eveline's growth because of the length and amount of time it took her to get there. This is a coming of age novel that perfectly described what it is to be seventeen and in love. There are some really gorgeous quotes scattered throughout the novel and I often found Eveline's revelations about life throughout the novel were especially poignant. Overall, I would highly recommend "Anthropology". You won't regret reading a book with such depth of character and such a beautiful love story.
Some favorite quotes of mine include:
"I only had to decide where my foot was going to go before I lifted it. I only had to imagine the next step. I stepped again, and life moved to greet me" (Page 8).
"Our eyes resisted communion; they scanned the new jet sky, contemplating black, wondering whether heavens, whether angels" (Page 10).
"It's better to keep grief inside. Grief inside works like bees or ants, building curious and perfect structures, complicating you. Grief outside means you want something from someone, and chances are good you won't get it" (Page 40).
"Being in love is like leaning on a broken reed. It is to be precariously balanced, to teeter between the vertical and the horizontal. It's like war: it's to demand of one's sensibilities the impossible- to expect paranoia to coexist with faith, chance with design, to enlist suspicion insensibly in certain regards and suppress it blindly in others" (Page 288).
"Certain conditions are not meant to be tolerated, certain states are so deprived of tenderness that you discover the meaning of hell. Hell is only loneliness, a place without play for the soul, a place without God. How could there be God in loneliness when God is presence" (Page 348).
"And men make fun of the way women taste and smell. If only women had voices" (Page 460)
"That we had gone as far as chance would take us. That nothing is more sacred then youth or more hopeful that turning yourself over to someone and saying, 'I have this time, it is not a long time, but it is my best time and my best gift, and I give it to you. When I revisit my youth, I revisit you" (463).
"I told myself maybe love can be love regardless of the absence of its object- and devotion, devotion- as long as you are willing to be captive to it, and you stow it secretly, like a mad relative in the attic. Maybe there was an invisible way to love him, like a radio frequency. Maybe if listened at night, I could draw it" (Page 492).
"I cannot say that I loved him- it wouldn't be enough. I can say that I've watched myself die, and that I've seen my lips form his name with my final breath" (517).
Some favorite quotes of mine include:
"I only had to decide where my foot was going to go before I lifted it. I only had to imagine the next step. I stepped again, and life moved to greet me" (Page 8).
"Our eyes resisted communion; they scanned the new jet sky, contemplating black, wondering whether heavens, whether angels" (Page 10).
"It's better to keep grief inside. Grief inside works like bees or ants, building curious and perfect structures, complicating you. Grief outside means you want something from someone, and chances are good you won't get it" (Page 40).
"Being in love is like leaning on a broken reed. It is to be precariously balanced, to teeter between the vertical and the horizontal. It's like war: it's to demand of one's sensibilities the impossible- to expect paranoia to coexist with faith, chance with design, to enlist suspicion insensibly in certain regards and suppress it blindly in others" (Page 288).
"Certain conditions are not meant to be tolerated, certain states are so deprived of tenderness that you discover the meaning of hell. Hell is only loneliness, a place without play for the soul, a place without God. How could there be God in loneliness when God is presence" (Page 348).
"And men make fun of the way women taste and smell. If only women had voices" (Page 460)
"That we had gone as far as chance would take us. That nothing is more sacred then youth or more hopeful that turning yourself over to someone and saying, 'I have this time, it is not a long time, but it is my best time and my best gift, and I give it to you. When I revisit my youth, I revisit you" (463).
"I told myself maybe love can be love regardless of the absence of its object- and devotion, devotion- as long as you are willing to be captive to it, and you stow it secretly, like a mad relative in the attic. Maybe there was an invisible way to love him, like a radio frequency. Maybe if listened at night, I could draw it" (Page 492).
"I cannot say that I loved him- it wouldn't be enough. I can say that I've watched myself die, and that I've seen my lips form his name with my final breath" (517).
I could not finish this mammoth book. I commend the author for her ability to write in an intellectual way, but I don't believe every single thought needs to be delved into at great length. The overuse of similes and minute descriptions of things that do nothing to push the plot forward was exhausting. Nobody should live this much inside their own head. Without any likeable characters or compelling story, there's no reason to keep forcing myself to read this.
The only thing I can think of that I hate more than this book is myself for wasting a week and a half of my life reading it. Maybe it's me - I prefer a more straightforward writing style. I just can't get into a book where there's supposedly incredible romance between two characters but you never even get to hear a single conversation they have. I just don't get it. And I don't get why every man who crosses the path of this incredibly unappealing girl falls madly in love with her. I just found it all mind-bogglingly unbelievable and tedious.
Amazing book. Sometimes a little wordy, but it didn't take long for me to be completely hooked. Often with a good book i don't want it to end. the end of this book is extremely satisfying.
I'm still feeling the after-glow of this book...enchanted by the stirring language and evocative power of it. Its effect on me was like a drug or something. I feel it shows how writing can be a fine art--this writing is so fine. A coming-of-age, written in the first person, taking place 1979-1984, in the East Hampton area. Evie is a senior in high-school, "slightly better than average at schoolwork," which she says is depressing because it's "like being a good soldier or a talented receptionist." (That's all she says about it. If you get it, keep reading).
I loved the matching of minds between Evie and Jack; the physical chemistry in Evie and Roarke's relationship; the descriptions of train whistles; the observation of time; the balance of flashbacks and present voice; the soul-touching portrayals of desire and heartbreak; the realness!
I felt like I was there. There are cultural references and song quotes that enrich the setting without being over-done. There is depth to every scene. For example, there are two religious men that make appearances; a pastor towards the beginning and a priest at the end. Both of them have intelligent and observant things to say. (This is remarkable considering how most writers write religious people as either pure saint or hypocritical creep).
At the center of the book are Evie's romantic relationships: the brilliant, the sexy, the opportunistic. I don't want to give too much away. Suffice it to say all the characters are well-written.
This book isn't perfect (like people, no one is). Some of the cultural observations sting a little bit; some are forgiving, most are sentimental. The last section—I believe there are 7—ran a little too long. Until that point I enjoyed savoring the book slowly but in the last section when Evie kept wandering around I was anxious to know: how is it going to end? And about the troubled character Jack,—his portrayal strayed from a candid understanding to an overly-sentimental view at the end.
Although this book was independently published in 2003, it was re-edited and released commericially in 2010; therefore, I declare this the best book of 2010! (my opinion).
I loved the matching of minds between Evie and Jack; the physical chemistry in Evie and Roarke's relationship; the descriptions of train whistles; the observation of time; the balance of flashbacks and present voice; the soul-touching portrayals of desire and heartbreak; the realness!
I felt like I was there. There are cultural references and song quotes that enrich the setting without being over-done. There is depth to every scene. For example, there are two religious men that make appearances; a pastor towards the beginning and a priest at the end. Both of them have intelligent and observant things to say. (This is remarkable considering how most writers write religious people as either pure saint or hypocritical creep).
At the center of the book are Evie's romantic relationships: the brilliant, the sexy, the opportunistic. I don't want to give too much away. Suffice it to say all the characters are well-written.
This book isn't perfect (like people, no one is). Some of the cultural observations sting a little bit; some are forgiving, most are sentimental. The last section—I believe there are 7—ran a little too long. Until that point I enjoyed savoring the book slowly but in the last section when Evie kept wandering around I was anxious to know: how is it going to end? And about the troubled character Jack,—his portrayal strayed from a candid understanding to an overly-sentimental view at the end.
Although this book was independently published in 2003, it was re-edited and released commericially in 2010; therefore, I declare this the best book of 2010! (my opinion).
The first part of this book was enjoyable with its view of the 80's and some interesting characters. However, the last half dragged and I found myself totally frustrated with the inertia of the main character.