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jonscott9's reviews
206 reviews
The Resurrection of the Body by Maggie Hamand
3.0
"He took from his pocket a photograph of the corpse. The face had that odd, disembodied look which even in a photograph tells you that the person is dead. This is the greatest argument in favour of the soul that I can think of. When people are alive, even if they are gravely ill and in a coma, there is still something in their faces, some tension, some spark. Probably a doctor could explain it to me, could give a reason, something to do with rigor mortis or the configuration of the muscles, I don't know, but a dead person is undoubtedly and unmistakably dead, even in a photograph."
This mannered supernatural thriller was originally conceived of and penned as part of a 1994 competition in London, to write a novel in 24 hours under exam conditions. (What fun, right? What a rush. The intense pressure. I want some!)
Maggie Hamand later expounded on it, not really changing or editing anything but adding to so as to make it, well, all of 200 pages -- my kind of book size. The original version was but 23,000 words.
The cover art and the length make it seem "young adult-y," as someone snidely told me upon seeing it, but it's not. And even if it was, well, The Book Thief was a YA read, and astonishing.
That's not to say this book is astonishing. It's certainly food for thought, and I enjoyed the read as the calendar ramped up to Easter. It's also decidedly British, in its proper way of going about the machinations of a thriller, in its dialogue and settings and ruminations.
It centers on Richard, a parish victor, and his doubts about belief and such in the wake of a murder just outside (or in the foyer of) his church on Good Friday. The victim staggered into the midst of the church service even -- of course horrifying everyone -- and his body later disappears from the morgue. Richard and some of his parishioners think they see the man in the days and weeks that follow, as a gardener in a local park. Is he a specter? Is Richard going insane? He is certainly in the process of losing his faith, and doesn't truly believe in the physical resurrection -- or miracles, period. He writes a letter in his parish magazine that the author includes as part of her text that is beautiful and honest.
I found myself identifying with Richard a lot. Also interesting that his wife Harriet was agnostic. Their exchanges and love were refreshing to read, made me think of what the marriages in Annie Dillard's The Living or The Maytrees must be like, if I could just finally get to those books too.
The locations in the book are real, and as Richard sets out to the park, or to a certain parish, to the morgue or St. Bart's hospital or London Fields, the action makes me think of all the scampering from place to place in G.K. Chesterton's supernatural chase thriller, The Man Who Was Thursday. This book comes without that one's genius baggage, surely, but it's fun, nonetheless. I would have liked it if Hitchcock could have filmed something like this, but the mind's eye is so often better than a book captured on (caged in?) film.
Recommended for anyone who digs thrillers and thoughts on the stuff of God, and who isn't offended by a little sex and choice words.
This mannered supernatural thriller was originally conceived of and penned as part of a 1994 competition in London, to write a novel in 24 hours under exam conditions. (What fun, right? What a rush. The intense pressure. I want some!)
Maggie Hamand later expounded on it, not really changing or editing anything but adding to so as to make it, well, all of 200 pages -- my kind of book size. The original version was but 23,000 words.
The cover art and the length make it seem "young adult-y," as someone snidely told me upon seeing it, but it's not. And even if it was, well, The Book Thief was a YA read, and astonishing.
That's not to say this book is astonishing. It's certainly food for thought, and I enjoyed the read as the calendar ramped up to Easter. It's also decidedly British, in its proper way of going about the machinations of a thriller, in its dialogue and settings and ruminations.
It centers on Richard, a parish victor, and his doubts about belief and such in the wake of a murder just outside (or in the foyer of) his church on Good Friday. The victim staggered into the midst of the church service even -- of course horrifying everyone -- and his body later disappears from the morgue. Richard and some of his parishioners think they see the man in the days and weeks that follow, as a gardener in a local park. Is he a specter? Is Richard going insane? He is certainly in the process of losing his faith, and doesn't truly believe in the physical resurrection -- or miracles, period. He writes a letter in his parish magazine that the author includes as part of her text that is beautiful and honest.
I found myself identifying with Richard a lot. Also interesting that his wife Harriet was agnostic. Their exchanges and love were refreshing to read, made me think of what the marriages in Annie Dillard's The Living or The Maytrees must be like, if I could just finally get to those books too.
The locations in the book are real, and as Richard sets out to the park, or to a certain parish, to the morgue or St. Bart's hospital or London Fields, the action makes me think of all the scampering from place to place in G.K. Chesterton's supernatural chase thriller, The Man Who Was Thursday. This book comes without that one's genius baggage, surely, but it's fun, nonetheless. I would have liked it if Hitchcock could have filmed something like this, but the mind's eye is so often better than a book captured on (caged in?) film.
Recommended for anyone who digs thrillers and thoughts on the stuff of God, and who isn't offended by a little sex and choice words.
The Book Thief by Markus Zusak
5.0
What's not to love about this tale of an illiterate 9-year-old girl Liesel stealing books in Nazi Germany, eventually learning with the aid of her foster father to read and write, and then to do both increasingly well?
Need I mention the narrator here is Death himself? Yes. He makes for a quip-tastic observer who alternately looks on fondly at these mere mortals, Jews and/or Germans, and on the same page is prone to whisk away their souls (light or heavy, depending on the person's goodness). Admittedly, a couple times in the middle here, the narrator's side notes and quips, Death's voice, yanked me up and out of the story and into the realization that this was but a bleak fiction, Liesel's life. I did not dig that. Distracting.
Heady, clever prose here from the boyish Aussie Zusak, himself the son of German immigrants. The story sings, and the book breezes by at 550 pages paperback. A notoriously slow reader, I pounded this one in a week and a half.
Some images will endure in my mind. Thank you, author. Thank you, words. Rudy Steiner is an anti-hero for the ages; the image is burned behind my eyes of him holding a retrieved book aloft, triumphantly, as he stands in the middle of a freezing river. Hans Hubermann ("Papa") is the German wartime version of Atticus Finch, seemingly perfect in every way. His wife Rosa ("Mama") and the street-soccer kids gave me quite a few Deutsch names and taunts ("Arschgrobbler" = ass scratcher) for future use. The still image of tough-as-nails Rosa snoring upright in a chair in the dark, her husband's beloved accordion strapped to her chest, made me want to weep.
Weird to see the Allied forces of WWII as makeshift bad guys as they relate to this tale. Strange also to find myself inserting my own maternal grandparents into the roles and faces of Hans and Rosa H. Makes sense, though: Their shack at 33 Himmel Street outside Munich reminded me of my grands' double-wide trailer in southern Indiana. Their personalities matched those of Paul (Hans) and Eileen (Rosa) to a T. My grandparents are Wagoners. Wagners. Germans. This made it all the harder -- dare I say, more emotional -- when I realized I may have to let go of the Hubermanns in this story.
Finishing a book feels like a breakup, like the end of a relationship. I sometimes hate it, thus I don't read quickly and read the last 10 pages and especially the last 10 lines at snail's pace. The epilogue ending seemed fitting. It was as it should be. Perhaps it was as it could only be.
As represented here, the Fuhrer himself (Hitler) reminded me of the Anton Chigurh character from the 2007 film No Country for Old Men for how, despite not appearing in every (any) scene, his awful presence is felt in every word and deed performed. What a small man. What an outsized story, a sprawling imagination in an author so young.
Need I mention the narrator here is Death himself? Yes. He makes for a quip-tastic observer who alternately looks on fondly at these mere mortals, Jews and/or Germans, and on the same page is prone to whisk away their souls (light or heavy, depending on the person's goodness). Admittedly, a couple times in the middle here, the narrator's side notes and quips, Death's voice, yanked me up and out of the story and into the realization that this was but a bleak fiction, Liesel's life. I did not dig that. Distracting.
Heady, clever prose here from the boyish Aussie Zusak, himself the son of German immigrants. The story sings, and the book breezes by at 550 pages paperback. A notoriously slow reader, I pounded this one in a week and a half.
Some images will endure in my mind. Thank you, author. Thank you, words. Rudy Steiner is an anti-hero for the ages; the image is burned behind my eyes of him holding a retrieved book aloft, triumphantly, as he stands in the middle of a freezing river. Hans Hubermann ("Papa") is the German wartime version of Atticus Finch, seemingly perfect in every way. His wife Rosa ("Mama") and the street-soccer kids gave me quite a few Deutsch names and taunts ("Arschgrobbler" = ass scratcher) for future use. The still image of tough-as-nails Rosa snoring upright in a chair in the dark, her husband's beloved accordion strapped to her chest, made me want to weep.
Weird to see the Allied forces of WWII as makeshift bad guys as they relate to this tale. Strange also to find myself inserting my own maternal grandparents into the roles and faces of Hans and Rosa H. Makes sense, though: Their shack at 33 Himmel Street outside Munich reminded me of my grands' double-wide trailer in southern Indiana. Their personalities matched those of Paul (Hans) and Eileen (Rosa) to a T. My grandparents are Wagoners. Wagners. Germans. This made it all the harder -- dare I say, more emotional -- when I realized I may have to let go of the Hubermanns in this story.
Finishing a book feels like a breakup, like the end of a relationship. I sometimes hate it, thus I don't read quickly and read the last 10 pages and especially the last 10 lines at snail's pace. The epilogue ending seemed fitting. It was as it should be. Perhaps it was as it could only be.
As represented here, the Fuhrer himself (Hitler) reminded me of the Anton Chigurh character from the 2007 film No Country for Old Men for how, despite not appearing in every (any) scene, his awful presence is felt in every word and deed performed. What a small man. What an outsized story, a sprawling imagination in an author so young.
Home by Marilynne Robinson
3.0
It's important to note that this novel is not a sequel (nor a prequel) to Robinson's glorious Gilead. It's rather a companion book, with a story that could have happened concurrently with that of Gilead.
More poetry masquerading as prose from Robinson, a master of letters. This one's not as taut top to bottom as Gilead, but it's beautiful, nonetheless, revolving this time around John Ames's friend Boughton, and his daughter Glory and some-kind-of-prodigal son Jack. It's mostly about Glory and Jack, in all their wounded sibling interplay.
Robinson is deft at writing and describing dialogue. Lengthy, believable, unadorned conversations. Convos that matter and that are striking for how simple they are.
This book is stirring. Flat-out stirring. It's not exactly plot-tastic, but that's common with her books. Like Gilead and Housekeeping, you have to drink these words slowly, although not quite like those two. This one can read more quickly.
The last 8-10 pages were especially poignant, and the story ended in the only way it probably could. Ah! So much sadness and pain and light and beauty!
More poetry masquerading as prose from Robinson, a master of letters. This one's not as taut top to bottom as Gilead, but it's beautiful, nonetheless, revolving this time around John Ames's friend Boughton, and his daughter Glory and some-kind-of-prodigal son Jack. It's mostly about Glory and Jack, in all their wounded sibling interplay.
Robinson is deft at writing and describing dialogue. Lengthy, believable, unadorned conversations. Convos that matter and that are striking for how simple they are.
This book is stirring. Flat-out stirring. It's not exactly plot-tastic, but that's common with her books. Like Gilead and Housekeeping, you have to drink these words slowly, although not quite like those two. This one can read more quickly.
The last 8-10 pages were especially poignant, and the story ended in the only way it probably could. Ah! So much sadness and pain and light and beauty!
Matilda by Roald Dahl
3.0
Memorable characters, a couple of them moving in their depictions.
A solid send-up of everyone's reliance on the "telly" for entertainment vs. reading a book in one's hands. Basically an indictment of TV.
The list of Matilda the wunderkind's books read by 1st-grade age had me depressed. I haven't read some of those yet (Austen, the tortured Russian novelists).
A couple funny quips early about teacher-student relations and homework.
A fun, easy read, as a children's book *better be* at this point(!).
I'd have liked it better, but I imagined a better ending than the completely satisfying and yet action-lacking denouement. I'd thought my 4th grade teacher read this to the class in the day, and that the ending involved Matilda, in typical morbid Dahl-esque fashion, ending the treacherous reign of her school's headmistress, Miss Trunchbull, thus saving herself, her beloved teacher Ms. Honey, and everyone else. I thought this even took place by Matilda, who has powers to make objects move, coordinating some knives to fly at the Trunchbull and end her. Maybe I misremember this or am thinking of another kids' read (although what would that be?). Maybe I just saw Stephen King's Carrie too much.
I honestly probably wouldn't have picked it up again had I known the ending.
Whatever. In the end, classic Dahl.
A solid send-up of everyone's reliance on the "telly" for entertainment vs. reading a book in one's hands. Basically an indictment of TV.
The list of Matilda the wunderkind's books read by 1st-grade age had me depressed. I haven't read some of those yet (Austen, the tortured Russian novelists).
A couple funny quips early about teacher-student relations and homework.
A fun, easy read, as a children's book *better be* at this point(!).
I'd have liked it better, but I imagined a better ending than the completely satisfying and yet action-lacking denouement. I'd thought my 4th grade teacher read this to the class in the day, and that the ending involved Matilda, in typical morbid Dahl-esque fashion, ending the treacherous reign of her school's headmistress, Miss Trunchbull, thus saving herself, her beloved teacher Ms. Honey, and everyone else. I thought this even took place by Matilda, who has powers to make objects move, coordinating some knives to fly at the Trunchbull and end her. Maybe I misremember this or am thinking of another kids' read (although what would that be?). Maybe I just saw Stephen King's Carrie too much.
I honestly probably wouldn't have picked it up again had I known the ending.
Whatever. In the end, classic Dahl.
This is Where I Leave You by Jonathan Tropper
4.0
Utterly enjoyable and fast novel about an effed-up family and all their hijinks as they sit shiva for seven days in honor of their deceased patriarch, who did and didn't love them as they wanted and needed.
This is absurd. This is no family on earth. And this is every family.
Some laugh-out-loud moments, much appreciated, and some touching, stirring, and poignant ones. Some truly pathetic or stupid or mean ones too. Mmm. Yep. Nailed it: the American family, for better or worse, 'til death do we part.
You can choose your friends. You can't choose your blood. That's the bulk of what this book's about. Pity poor Judd Foxman. His wife's pregnant with his child but is divorcing him after taking up with his boss, a prickly shock jock who no one likes save Judd's wife, inexplicably.
Tragic stuff embedded in this one. And yet. A shit-ton of screwball familial and romantic love. Nothing earth-shattering here, but some very well-put passages, a penchant for referencing cultural artifacts (music!) reminiscent of Nick Hornby, and a fresh, breezy voice. Glad for it.
This is absurd. This is no family on earth. And this is every family.
Some laugh-out-loud moments, much appreciated, and some touching, stirring, and poignant ones. Some truly pathetic or stupid or mean ones too. Mmm. Yep. Nailed it: the American family, for better or worse, 'til death do we part.
You can choose your friends. You can't choose your blood. That's the bulk of what this book's about. Pity poor Judd Foxman. His wife's pregnant with his child but is divorcing him after taking up with his boss, a prickly shock jock who no one likes save Judd's wife, inexplicably.
Tragic stuff embedded in this one. And yet. A shit-ton of screwball familial and romantic love. Nothing earth-shattering here, but some very well-put passages, a penchant for referencing cultural artifacts (music!) reminiscent of Nick Hornby, and a fresh, breezy voice. Glad for it.
Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk by David Sedaris
3.0
This piece got me into it:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2010/oct/11/david-sedaris-interview-hadley-freeman
Think of it as Aesop's Fables on acid. I was reminded of Watership Down too.
That'd be a good battle, the fiendish killer rabbits from that socialism allegory in a fight to the death with some of the villainous critters from this "modest bestiary." Not sure who'd win. I don't want to meet any of them in a dark forest.
My meandering mind aside, it's a collection of (very) short stories, anthropomorphic tales of greed, stupidity, gullibility, and cruelty. So, all too human, in truth. These bite-sized stories (most are 7-10 pages in length, which very much aids my ADD) are often darkly funny, sometimes cringe-inducing, and basically always end poorly for someone. Animals -- squirrels, chipmunks, birds of all kinds, bears, and more -- pay with their lives or their hearts.
The accompanying illustrations are fun and fretful at once. The coloration of them is black and white, plus red (of course). Very effective. Chilling in a couple places ... or maybe I just have a beating human heart yet.
This is new ground for Sedaris, and the article linked above is a good gateway to reading these grisly, macabre accounts of how living beings seek to hurt each other, physically and emotionally, to get what they want. A couple of these yarns feel incomplete, but some of the abruptness is surely intended. In the end, a slightly unnerving bag of amuse-bouches.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2010/oct/11/david-sedaris-interview-hadley-freeman
Think of it as Aesop's Fables on acid. I was reminded of Watership Down too.
That'd be a good battle, the fiendish killer rabbits from that socialism allegory in a fight to the death with some of the villainous critters from this "modest bestiary." Not sure who'd win. I don't want to meet any of them in a dark forest.
My meandering mind aside, it's a collection of (very) short stories, anthropomorphic tales of greed, stupidity, gullibility, and cruelty. So, all too human, in truth. These bite-sized stories (most are 7-10 pages in length, which very much aids my ADD) are often darkly funny, sometimes cringe-inducing, and basically always end poorly for someone. Animals -- squirrels, chipmunks, birds of all kinds, bears, and more -- pay with their lives or their hearts.
The accompanying illustrations are fun and fretful at once. The coloration of them is black and white, plus red (of course). Very effective. Chilling in a couple places ... or maybe I just have a beating human heart yet.
This is new ground for Sedaris, and the article linked above is a good gateway to reading these grisly, macabre accounts of how living beings seek to hurt each other, physically and emotionally, to get what they want. A couple of these yarns feel incomplete, but some of the abruptness is surely intended. In the end, a slightly unnerving bag of amuse-bouches.
Whiter Shades of Pale: The Stuff White People Like, Coast to Coast, from Seattle's Sweaters to Maine's Microbrews by Christian Lander
3.0
As with any good sendup, this book and author harbor a not-so-secret affinity for the subject of its spite/barbs.
I laughed a couple times, probably; I chuckled a few times; and I smiled a lot. I was never offended (well, duh).
A good format in starting chapters with drawings of (white) people from various cities in the U.S. and Canada, spotlighting key attire and possessions that those folks prefer. Right on in a lot of cases. What to say? People are predictable. A lot of stereotypes are flat-out true.
Some great illustrations and boxes too: Ideal TV Lineup for White People, Acceptable Reasons for a White Breakup (AOL/Hotmail email addy, finding Da Vinco Code on the shelf or Dave Matthews in CD collection), Stuff White People Think *You* Like (for African Americans, Latinos, et al), Perfect White Party Games, and a diagram of How to Win an Argument with a White Person
*ENTRIES THAT I FOUND SPOT ON OR THAT CRACKED ME UP: Conan O'Brien, Duke Basketball, Flea Markets, Sea Salt, Ugly Sweater Parties, Monty Python, Improv, Anthropologie, Trader Joe's, Roller Derby, Black Music That Black People Don't Listen To Anymore, Where The Wild Things Are, Expensive Versions of Cheap Food, Punctuality, Taking A Year Off, The Office (UK/US), Being Offended (but not for themselves), Portland Oregon, IKEA
*ITEMS THAT PINNED *ME* TO THE WALL: Unpaid Internships, Complaining About the Death of Print Media, British Slang, Messenger Bags, Promising to Learn a New Language, Berry Picking (in childhood), Self-Aware Hip-Hop References, Trivia, Whole Wheat, Short Stories, Alternative Newspapers, TOMS Shoes, Mad Men, Hating People Who Wear Ed Hardy, Facebook, The Winter Olympics
*WHAT I JUST DIDN'T/DON'T GET (YET?): Anthony Bourdain, Camping, Halloween, Frisbee Sports, Christopher Guest Movies, Not Vaccinating Children, Bob Marley, American Apparel, Huffington Post, Hummus, Olives, The Big Lebowski, Growing Their Own Food, Banksy, Whole Foods
And that is that. Hardly hugely important stuff, but stuff white folk like, nonetheless. Almost always amusing or funny, observant, sometimes quite insightful, and written in a deadpan or quietly sarcastic way that I appreciate.
Of course you don't ask too much of reads like these.
I laughed a couple times, probably; I chuckled a few times; and I smiled a lot. I was never offended (well, duh).
A good format in starting chapters with drawings of (white) people from various cities in the U.S. and Canada, spotlighting key attire and possessions that those folks prefer. Right on in a lot of cases. What to say? People are predictable. A lot of stereotypes are flat-out true.
Some great illustrations and boxes too: Ideal TV Lineup for White People, Acceptable Reasons for a White Breakup (AOL/Hotmail email addy, finding Da Vinco Code on the shelf or Dave Matthews in CD collection), Stuff White People Think *You* Like (for African Americans, Latinos, et al), Perfect White Party Games, and a diagram of How to Win an Argument with a White Person
*ENTRIES THAT I FOUND SPOT ON OR THAT CRACKED ME UP: Conan O'Brien, Duke Basketball, Flea Markets, Sea Salt, Ugly Sweater Parties, Monty Python, Improv, Anthropologie, Trader Joe's, Roller Derby, Black Music That Black People Don't Listen To Anymore, Where The Wild Things Are, Expensive Versions of Cheap Food, Punctuality, Taking A Year Off, The Office (UK/US), Being Offended (but not for themselves), Portland Oregon, IKEA
*ITEMS THAT PINNED *ME* TO THE WALL: Unpaid Internships, Complaining About the Death of Print Media, British Slang, Messenger Bags, Promising to Learn a New Language, Berry Picking (in childhood), Self-Aware Hip-Hop References, Trivia, Whole Wheat, Short Stories, Alternative Newspapers, TOMS Shoes, Mad Men, Hating People Who Wear Ed Hardy, Facebook, The Winter Olympics
*WHAT I JUST DIDN'T/DON'T GET (YET?): Anthony Bourdain, Camping, Halloween, Frisbee Sports, Christopher Guest Movies, Not Vaccinating Children, Bob Marley, American Apparel, Huffington Post, Hummus, Olives, The Big Lebowski, Growing Their Own Food, Banksy, Whole Foods
And that is that. Hardly hugely important stuff, but stuff white folk like, nonetheless. Almost always amusing or funny, observant, sometimes quite insightful, and written in a deadpan or quietly sarcastic way that I appreciate.
Of course you don't ask too much of reads like these.
The Lonely Polygamist by Brady Udall
2.0
(An interesting write-up, if you've read the book: http://www.ew.com/ew/article/0,,20366272,00.html)
The title might seem an oxymoron, but it's quite possible to be lonely without being alone.
Just ask Golden Richards. He's a Mormon who has four wives -- five before this novel is over -- and yet he's emotionally if not physically cheating on them all with Huila, the exotic wife of his construction-contract boss. Also, his project entails renovating a brothel in the desert. Never mind that he has nearly 30 offspring. Yes, talk about a messed-up life -- and quite the premise.
Which makes this book all the more disappointing. Considering the novel's breadth (600 pages!), it's quite sad that it doesn't roll along better. This is no The Book Thief, surely, not a cover-to-cover insomniac's lit dream. I did not tear through this read, as if one could considering the book's well-intended sprawl.
Maybe Udall (a very political Utah Mormon name, that) wanted an epic, cinematic length and feel to it all. That's not achieved, if so, though the book will likely be made into a movie soon enough. Honestly, I skipped chapters 23 through 36 (~200pgs) -- this because my bookclubbers told me I could do so without really missing anything -- and, aside from a couple notes given to me, I finished this gusty tome with nary a wonder about what had transpired outside of what I read.
I forget what the almost-poignant point was that I made at bookclub about this read, but so it goes. (Gail? Help?) In short ('cause I never am that, brief): The Lonely Plyg could've been much more sleek and with a greater impact were it 400 pages long instead.
There's both early and late-breaking tragedy here. The last go-round with familial loss is set up throughout the book fairly well but then still felt a bit cheap. Definitely a miss there on the author's part. If I'd stayed with this book continuously over the course of it, maybe the gravity of a few situations would have affected me more. As it is, no dice.
This is what I will take away from all these pages: One hilarious bedroom scene in which fourth and youngest wife Trish tries to seduce Golden. It involves chewing gum, and it made me laugh out loud twice.
The title might seem an oxymoron, but it's quite possible to be lonely without being alone.
Just ask Golden Richards. He's a Mormon who has four wives -- five before this novel is over -- and yet he's emotionally if not physically cheating on them all with Huila, the exotic wife of his construction-contract boss. Also, his project entails renovating a brothel in the desert. Never mind that he has nearly 30 offspring. Yes, talk about a messed-up life -- and quite the premise.
Which makes this book all the more disappointing. Considering the novel's breadth (600 pages!), it's quite sad that it doesn't roll along better. This is no The Book Thief, surely, not a cover-to-cover insomniac's lit dream. I did not tear through this read, as if one could considering the book's well-intended sprawl.
Maybe Udall (a very political Utah Mormon name, that) wanted an epic, cinematic length and feel to it all. That's not achieved, if so, though the book will likely be made into a movie soon enough. Honestly, I skipped chapters 23 through 36 (~200pgs) -- this because my bookclubbers told me I could do so without really missing anything -- and, aside from a couple notes given to me, I finished this gusty tome with nary a wonder about what had transpired outside of what I read.
I forget what the almost-poignant point was that I made at bookclub about this read, but so it goes. (Gail? Help?) In short ('cause I never am that, brief): The Lonely Plyg could've been much more sleek and with a greater impact were it 400 pages long instead.
There's both early and late-breaking tragedy here. The last go-round with familial loss is set up throughout the book fairly well but then still felt a bit cheap. Definitely a miss there on the author's part. If I'd stayed with this book continuously over the course of it, maybe the gravity of a few situations would have affected me more. As it is, no dice.
This is what I will take away from all these pages: One hilarious bedroom scene in which fourth and youngest wife Trish tries to seduce Golden. It involves chewing gum, and it made me laugh out loud twice.
Tuesdays with Morrie: An Old Man, a Young Man and Life's Greatest Lesson by Mitch Albom
3.0
Albom's first book will likely stand as his best by far.
This wee read about the author's aged, dying mentor and the perspectives he passed on to him will warm the coldest cynic out there. (Or not.) It contains some good thoughts and lessons. That's not to say that you'll remember them five years later, but they'll sound good at the time. It's a rather humanist point of view -- I'm not sure where the compass is exactly for Morrie types -- but the moral of the story is universal: Live well. Whatever that means for you, live well.
I wouldn't read anything else from this guy, though. I shudder to think of his following books. (He's Exhibit A for how one hit book scores an author a publishing deal in which he may forever bask in feel-good mediocrity.)
This is The Little Book That Could, and Can, and Will -- if you let it. Just don't expect way too much from it.
This wee read about the author's aged, dying mentor and the perspectives he passed on to him will warm the coldest cynic out there. (Or not.) It contains some good thoughts and lessons. That's not to say that you'll remember them five years later, but they'll sound good at the time. It's a rather humanist point of view -- I'm not sure where the compass is exactly for Morrie types -- but the moral of the story is universal: Live well. Whatever that means for you, live well.
I wouldn't read anything else from this guy, though. I shudder to think of his following books. (He's Exhibit A for how one hit book scores an author a publishing deal in which he may forever bask in feel-good mediocrity.)
This is The Little Book That Could, and Can, and Will -- if you let it. Just don't expect way too much from it.
And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie
3.0
A good entry point to Christie's stuff. Rousing fun with the murder mysteries, though the ending didn't quite have the punch or the twist that I expected and desired. (And I didn't/don't need a cheap Dan Brown-esque cliffhanger at the end of every three-page chapter.) I'm sure her other books are similar day-trip or vacation reads when one craves something light and jouncy and yet dark and slinky.
Also, I love this book's cover.
Also, I love this book's cover.