The 2012 Summer Reading Spectacular #9

Earlier this week I finished On, Off by Colleen McCullough.  It was one of those books about which I felt ambivalent in the early chapters, but to which I warmed considerably once the proverbial ball was rolling.  Unbeknown to me until after I finished reading, McCullough drew upon her own experience in the fields of medicine and medical research to some extent in crafting this novel about a series of murders linked to a neuroscience facility in Connecticut.

While reading I had some reservations about some things -- McCullough's use of inventory-styled description; timelines, interviews, and interrogations which sometimes called into question the thoroughness of the police department; and the apparent willingness of the protagonist to make assumptions about suspects -- I still found myself interested in the story and, about halfway through the book, felt my reading build momentum and motivation.

While the characters aren't as well developed, on the whole, as those in recent crime thriller reads from Stieg Larsson and Jo Nesbø, (perhaps surprising, since McCullough also wrote the character-driven Thorn Birds), they worked and sat suitably in the story.  There are shudderingly horrific revelations about the crimes, but they are handled with tact; there are sufficient clues to allow the reader to play along with the police (I managed to identify the guilty, though I was a bit frustrated that the Lieutenant took longer to grow suspicious than I, a lowly couch-detective).  In the end, my verdict is that it's a solid, if not spectacular, crime novel.

When I first heard of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, I was mildly amused and thought little more of it.  When it became a best-seller, I became more interested.  I'd read Jane Austen's novel many years ago and wondered how the added element of zombies might play out, particularly when set in the language of Austen's work among the plot which centres on nineteenth century manners, attractions, morality, and marriage.

And it was surprisingly entertaining, with the Bennet sisters well-versed in the "deadly arts" and acting as protectors of their beloved Hertfordshire community against the hoards of the living dead, or "unmentionables", even as they go about the business of calling upon neighbours and seeking out husbands.

That is to say it was surprisingly entertaining for a time.

The opening paragraph of Seth Grahame-Smith's ... let's call it an adaptation ... is quite a delightful spoof of Austin's opening.

Austen's:  "It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife."

Grahame-Smith's:  "It is a truth universally acknowledged that a zombie in possession of brains must be in want of more brains.  Never was this more plain than during the recent attacks at Netherfield Park, in which a household of eighteen was slaughtered and consumed by a horde of the living dead."

The problem is that once going, Grahame-Smith isn't quite sure to do with the zombies.  There are a few wonderful scenes that marry this concept with the material -- a dinner party interrupted by a necessary slaughter of the undead, though a few among the living meet a bloody end along the way -- but after a point, Grahame-Smith just doesn't know what to do with the idea that he has committed to (or, more accurately, been committed to, as he was approached by the publishers to create the adaptation in the first place).  The story is more about exploiting the idea that the Bennet sisters (and Elizabeth, in particular), are masterful killing machines than about the zombie threat.  Indeed, there is a shark, and it is jumped surprisingly early in the book (on page 132, to be precise).

What started as an amusing spoof and homage to the styles of language and manners in Austen's work simply becomes arduous.  By the final third of the book, I was wishing I was just reading the original again, as it would have been more purposeful and focused.  I have no need of reading the prequel nor the sequel which have since been created by other authors sucked in by the publisher.

Finally, and most upliftingly, I read Wonderstruck, the latest marriage of text and images by Brian Selznick, author of The Invention of Hugo Cabret.

Ben, in 1977, is mourning the death of his mother and, following an accident that leaves him deaf, becomes obsessed with finding the father about which he has known nothing.  Rose, in 1927, is fascinated by a silent film star about whom she keeps a scrapbook. The two stories, one told in words and one in images, are presented in tandem until, inevitably, they become interlaced.

Selznick's copious illustrations capture a cinematic style, making extensive and thoughtful use of framing and composition, and he's expert at storytelling with simple images.  If there is a criticism to be made, it's that he seems to have difficulty capturing movement of his human figures, and perhaps that his characters tend to be too consistently possess wide-eyed expressions, but the truth is that these are minor complaints when set within his visual storytelling.  His style is very different from that required by the usual graphic novel, where movement and activity in images take the place of most narrative text and therefore require the energy and punch to sustain the audience from cover-to-cover.

Wonderstruck is a worthy follow-up to Hugo Cabret and, while it may be a story told at a gentler pace, it breaks new ground for Selznick in structure.  It's a worthwhile read for a young audience, for certain.

The 2012 Summer Reading Spectacular #6

The Flint Heart is described as "freely abridged from the 1910 story by Eden Phillpotts" by Katherine and John Paterson.  I haven't been quite able to discover exactly how much abridgement and how much rewriting has been involved, and I haven't read the original story, either (though I guess that technically I could -- it is still out there), but regardless, the authors have impressively retained the flavour of children's stories from the opening of the 20th century.

In short, the novel deals with the creation and influence of a flint heart, which hardens the heart of its owner and causes them to become callous and greedy.  Fairies, animals, kind-hearted children, and a hot water bottle made in Germany all figure into the adventure.

It's interesting that what I like most about the book may also limit its audience.  This reworking, though published in 2011, has retained the feel and voice of children's stories a century ago (and according to reviews, it's retained much of the original text, as well).  I'm not sure how the average young reader (or parent of the average young reader) today will handle the vocabulary and rather elegant turns of phrase that are largely responsible for the book's charm.

Adults may find the episodic nature of the book tiresome, but I suspect that kids will be more accepting of it.  Word is it's being adapted into a film, so I'm interested in whether that adaptation will retain the tone of the storytelling.  I'm not sure how much a more contemporary style would help (sales) or hinder (the heart) of the story.

The 2012 Summer Reading Spectacular #3

Sometimes a book sits on the shelf for years waiting patiently to be read.  Beyond the Chocolate War was one such book.

The reason for the delay was simple, though unnecessary.  I didn't want to read it until I'd read The Chocolate War, and I didn't have that one sitting on my shelf.  The wait was ridiculous, of course, since of all Robert Cormier's books, The Chocolate War is one of his best known and has always been available.  But there it is.  I just hadn't gotten around to getting it.  Then I did, then I read it, then I could read Beyond the Chocolate War.  Simple.

Although the books together span a single year at Trinity High School, they were published over a decade apart.  If the first is an exploration of how conformity breeds corruption and the dangers of nonconformity (and it's an oversimplification to say it is), then the second could be seen as an exploration of the ways in which that conformity and corruption is perpetuated when individuals feel isolated and alone -- just like everyone else.

The problem here is that I don't really want to talk too much about the book's plot or characters, as to do so would necessarily constitute spoilers for the first of the two books.  Needless to say the books aren't simple or chock-full-of-sunshine -- The Chocolate War is one of the most challenged and banned young people's novels though measured against the movies teenagers watch, it's hard to understand why -- but they're worthwhile reads.  Though the situations themselves may seem extreme at first, there is also something uncomfortably familiar about them, too.

And you read an article about a senior citizen being cruelly harassed by grade seven kids on a bus in 2012 ...

"You could have said no anytime, anytime at all.  But you didn't ..."

A is for Adams

It's clear that I lack some sort of innate impetus for writing this lovely wee FOWLA*, and due to my already-well-established procrastinatious nature, I have decided to structure my entries alphabetically. That way, if I really have nothing to say, I can force myself to write something random on the letter of the day.

Today, as the observant among you will notice, the theme is A is for Adams, as in Richard Adams. I'm a bit of a fan of the author, and his most popular book, Watership Down, is among my favourites. I've read it a few times and still enjoy it thoroughly. Try telling people, though, "Yeah, it's a book about rabbits looking for a new warren" and they tend to cock one eyebrow, fight the urge to sneer, and say, "Rabbits?" Like The Little Prince, though, it is really an analogous story about human nature. And, like The Little Prince, it's often put into the children's section of bookstores, though I'm not sure it quite qualifies as such. No matter, though, I first read it when I was young and still enjoy it as an adult.

But I've spent far too much time on Watership Down and you, as a result, have spent too much time reading about it. Get the book. Read it. Enjoy it.

I haven't read all of Richard Adams's books, but I'm getting there. Next to the aforementioned book about rabbits, which is really about human nature, my next favourite would have to be The Plague Dogs which, while far from being a jolly little romp, was a satisfying read. I'm particularly thankful to The Plague Dogs for helping me get through a rather long traffic jam (read: two-and-a-half-hour stand-still) a few Christmas Eves ago when I was stuck with nothing but a book to read and a big tin of almond bark. (Thank you, Jenn P.!) Shardik, a curious and rather epic story about a bear believed to be a divine incarnation by some, was my laundromat reading for some time.

Then I came across The Girl in a Swing and was, at first, taken aback when it was described as "a novel of erotic beauty, terror and suspense". After a very long and detailed introductory section of the book -- I came to know more than is reasonable about the English pottery trade -- I came to quite enjoy it, much more than the movie (a bit ill-conceived, in my opinion, despite starring the delightful Meg Tilly). To quote from that book, "Yes, that's right."

So there you have it. A. Adams, Richard.

Now lay off, I've written in my FOWLO.

----------------

*Fount of Wisdom Located Online

New Leaves and all of that

I'm going to make some attempt to be a bit more ... um ... present in this ridiculous excuse for a weblog this month. Wish me well.

Go ahead.

Wish me well. Right now. Wish it! WISH IT!

*ahem*

In any case, things are massively hectic at work, but hey. Counting blessings and all, it's not so bad in the end.

On the briefly exciting front, I'm off to see Edward Scissorhands, the ballet, on stage this weekend. It looks incredible and I'm looking forward to it like crazycakes. I'll be sure to give my thoughts, brief as they're likely to be, next week sometime.

In the meantime, though, let's enjoy a brief passage from Hans Christian Andersen's The Conceited Apple Branch, shall we?

"It was the month of May."

I hope you've enjoyed this literary diversion.