two umbrellas

I spend a lot of time reading. I love to read. In fact, when I was thinking about a career for myself, I would think, “What job could I have that would allow me to read all of the time?” Often, some sort of night-watchman would always seem dangerously appealing for a little, bookish lady. So, I thought again, and decided a high-school English teacher could work. And did – for a few years, at least. Then, I went into publishing, where, sadly, I had little time for actual reading – though, in its defense, I was working with words. When I became a full-time mama, I had some free time to read and thought, “There must be something I could do with that.” So I decided that I would review books. Fortunately, someone was willing to let me.

It was a nice (albeit non-paying) gig. I could review any new or recent fiction or non-fiction that I wanted. What a great idea! I could read whatever I wanted, write about it, someone would publish it, and possibly someone would read it. Amazing. I started scouring my wonderful S Philly branch of the FLP. I tried keeping up with blogs and new titles. I even received a free review copy. I had made it! I was a reviewer. But something just didn’t feel right about it. (Not receiving the free book – that was great and I loved the book and tried to write as glowing of a review as possible for it because everyone should read What We Were Doing and Where We Were Going by Damion Searls.)

First, I started reading books differently. I started reading them analytically. I began to seek out specifics in the books: reasons for people to like or dislike it, good quotes, etc. rather than letting myself experience the book as a whole. My reading experience was getting so lost in my concerns for the article that I was starting to resent reading. Even though I could have read just about anything I wanted to, I felt paradoxically constrained by the obligation to review. Since my reading time has been limited with the Parasol running around, that time has become more and more valuable. Somehow, now, I felt pressure to read certain books and felt I couldn’t read what I wanted. Though I could. I know – a bit neurotic.

Second, I found writing reviews to be hard. That sounds like an excuse – and maybe it is – but it was challenging. I would think about the reviews I liked to read and found that that was part of the problem. When I do read book reviews, I often read the ones for books that I probably won’t read. Often, if I read reviews for books that I actually want to read then I learn too much about the book (usually there’s too much plot synopsis), so much so that it takes something away from my reading experience. That experience, for me, is something personal, a discovery, of sorts, of how I react to the words on the page. If I know too much beforehand that sense of discovery is tainted. For example, I just picked up Colum McCann’s new novel, Let The Great World Spin, from the library. NYTBR had a review, which I started to read. The first paragraph was okay: a little plot summary that I already knew. And then out of nowhere the author writes (and I’m paraphrasing) that this was one of the best books he’d read. Great! Thanks a lot! I stopped reading. I don’t remember who the reviewer was so I don’t remember if I trusted him or not. But I knew that the review would be biased and tell me way too much, considering there was a whole page left. I already had high expectations for the book since I like Colum McCann; but, I didn’t want a one page version of the novel or a one page sales pitch. Let me decide.

So if I didn’t want too much plot or too much opinion from a book review, what, then, was I supposed to give my audience? I don’t know. I still don’t know. How is it different writing this blog than writing for a publication? The main reason is voice. On twoumbrellas, I don’t have to develop a voice – I already have one. I write this blog for me. It started because I have a terrible memory. I write about books so I can remember them: remember how I felt, remember what they were about, and use it as a guide – for myself – of the narrative of my reading (and sometimes writing) life. I post about other things, too, but mostly what I read and what I think about it. Why then couldn’t I transfer it to this other publication? Most likely a personal hang-up of my own but I think that has to do with the editorial slant of the magazine. I just didn’t fit in. I thought I could fake it but I couldn’t keep that up. It just wasn’t me. It didn’t feel right.

So I stopped writing reviews (officially). I still write them here because this is my little space to do it and I still have a terrible memory, in fact, it’s getting worse.

But as I write this, I am trying to figure out why I read book reviews? What do I want to get out of them: recommendations? book choice affirmation? Probably a little of both. Often, I read reviews after I’ve read a book to get a different perspective. I think I read them just because I like to hear/read/discuss about books. Not sure. But, I will continue to read them but more often than not I won’t finish them.

A while back I was doing some book reviewing* and I had heard some buzz about Jesse Ball’s The Way Through Doors (who knows from where at this point) and so I thought I’d put it on the list of books to review. A friend of mine happened to have it so I moved it way up the list and borrowed it. Truthfully, I didn’t know much about it other than the word ’storyteller’ had been used often and positively. I usually prefer my books to be written by a good storyteller so I was certainly excited.

From the start, I was pulled in. Yes, they were right, he is a storyteller. This is different, I thought; something new from what I have been reading, refreshing, but only at first. In short, it felt a little like this: Did you ever have a dream that seemed to last all night? Each moment something new, somehow related to the previous moment, yet almost painfully familiar. You then wake up trying to remember all of the details – how was it all connected? Then, after a few minutes of trying to remember, you then wonder what you were doing wasting all that time trying to remember those details. They don’t matter! And really, in the end, you’re glad that the dream is finally over.

The premise is intriguing and seemingly simple enough: a young pamphleteer gets a job at the request of his uncle at the office of the Seventh Ministry as a Municipal Inspector, who’s “authority is both unlimited and nonexistent”; meaning, he can do whatever he wants, which becomes quite convenient. Things are going well for Selah. Then he witnesses a woman being hit by a taxi and takes her to the hospital. She has amnesia and Selah spends the rest of the novel trying to help her discover who she is. Simple, right? Sort of. Ball throws the reader into the story, swiftly and deftly; it isn’t necessary to understand why Selah helps this woman and why he goes through so much trouble to do so. However, it is important to know that most of the events happening in the novel are actually stories that Selah is telling this mystery woman to help discover her identity and help her regain her memory. A clever trick that is not easily deduced (unless, of course, you read the synopsis on the back of the book).

These stories’ plot twists and turns pull the reader along through a maze of tall tales and yarns. At first, I went willingly: I gladly closed my eyes and let Ball lead me through. But it didn’t take long for that trick to get tiring. I felt like each page was another way for me to be shown that Ball is a great storyteller – what could he think of next! Something new is added: another ancient tale, another door, another thinly veiled postmodern attempt at being a traditional story. It gets even more gimmicky: there are no page numbers, just line numbers but they don’t correspond, e.g. lines 560 through 570 could have been 30 lines. Why should any boundaries exist in Ball’s storytelling? Unfortunately, he created his own boundaries by the limits of his storytelling abilities. Each new tale had hints of the previous to the point where, shall I dare say, it became formulaic.

My dislike for The Way Through Doors may seem like traditionalism but I was willing to follow Ball through his doors. I was just more interested in where the doors would lead than who my guide was.

*more on that later…

It’s been awhile since I’ve read some non-fiction until I recently read Mary Roach’s Bonk. Well, I shouldn’t say ‘read’ because I didn’t finish it. This was a recent find at my local library and I thought, “What the hell. I’ve heard of Mary Roach. I like sex. This could be interesting.” I realized three library renewals into it that I was then saying, “What the hell was I thinking?!?” After the ‘Penis’ chapter, I called it quits.

This book has so much potential: “The Curious Coupling of Science and Sex” reads the subtitle. I am a curious person. I enjoy sex. Maybe I could enjoy it on another, possibly objective, level. Not that I had any great expectations – I wasn’t expecting Anais Nin or anything – there would be science involved after all. However, I was not expecting to be grossed out (and I do not consider myself a prude). Nor was I expecting to feel like Roach was at my bedside.

I think it was the aforementioned ‘Penis’ chapter that did me in. I wish I had quotes (I’ve long since returned the book to the library) but, really, on second thought it’s probably better that I didn’t. Let’s just say she witnesses a penile implant and let’s also just say I’m so glad I don’t have a penis. (To be fair, I didn’t read the ‘Vagina’ chapter so maybe I wouldn’t want to have one of those either.) I now know too much how penile implants work and the how much physical agony those guys have to go through to get one.

I’ll admit there were some interesting bits. There is still a stigma attached to doing sex research, even in this Cialis-in-the-tub age. There are often lots of euphemisms used in presenting research topics for grant moneys and to universities. I guess there can be a fine line between objective and perverted (think Kinsey – also very interesting). However, these few gems were intruded by footnotes and asides that constantly took me away from the original topic – usually something tangentially related to the main text. This happened so often that I felt I was reading two books: the one Roach was writing and the one with random factoids that Roach wanted to write. 

Needless to say that science plus sex should not be disappointing. Roach’s voice is jovial, like a friend is telling you something funny that she read in the tabloids in the grocery line. But I don’t want to constantly read about the boy who was born a bat. I don’t need to be shocked to be entertained – even only mildly. Roach started out with a great topic but didn’t realize that you can have too much of a good thing.

If you’ve never read Infinite Jest but always wanted to, now’s your chance – it’s an Infinite Summer (and you’ll have a support group!). I wish this was going on when I read it. Once and done for me (for now) I’ve still got Cervantes and Proust to tackle. (via)

Speaking of DFW, hipsterbookclub has an essay by the woman who designed some of his books. From my experience in publishing, it can be an intimate relationship. A touching essay.

The Seven Types of Customer: After working full-time at a Borders in Philly, this made me laugh, and laugh, and laugh…

Happy Bloomsday! Colum McCann has an essay on reading Ulysses.

The messy layers of human experience get pulled together, and sometimes ordered, by words.

I recently finished Damion Searls’ What We Were Doing and Where We Were Going**, which I loved. Amazon’s book blog, Omnivoracious, has an interview in two parts. I highly recommend it.

**Update: Here’s my review over at WFTC.

I’ve got another review up at WFTC. It’s Mary Gaitskill’s Don’t Cry. Here’s a bit:

I’ve only ever read two of Mary Gaitskill’s story collections: Bad Behavior, her first (published in 1988), and Don’t Cry, her latest. Both are highly charged works of fiction — strong, full of sexuality, intensity, and intelligence. After reading both of these collections, I have come to the conclusion that if I ever had the chance to meet Mary Gaitskill I would be quite intimidated. Her writing is tough and confident, somehow masculine and feminine at the same time, which doesn’t make it feminist — it makes it authentic.

The NYT has a fun essay by Geoff Nicholson about food and eating in literature.

I’ve realized that the moments of literary eating I like best are the ones in which the characters suffer because of their food. In “Gravity’s Rainbow,” for instance, there’s an early scene in which the wartime inhabitants of a London maisonette enjoy bananas served in myriad forms, including mashed bananas “molded in the shape of a British lion rampant.” This is good stuff, but the truly magnificent scene in the book has Tyrone Slothrop sampling various hideous English candies, flavored with the likes of quinine, pepsin, eucalyptus, tapioca, until, choking, he’s offered a Meggezone, “the least believable of English coughdrops.” This is a real product, a nasty little black lozenge, still available, and if my childhood memory is reliable, Pynchon’s description of its effects — “Polar bears seek toenail-holds up the freezing frosty-grape alveolar clusters in his lungs” — gets it about right.

The article led me to Nicholson’s blog, Psycho-Gourmet. Very funny, indeed. But I read my blogs with Google Reader – now stylishly updated by mr. twoumbrellas with Helvetireader. I have a folder for food blogs and a folder for literary blogs. Where, oh, where should I file this one? I think I’ll put it with the food blogs; but I love when literature and food collide.

I know it’s a bit late, but I went to the Free Library Festival a few weeks back. I have to say I was a bit disappointed in the size this year. Usually the vendors stretch all around the library but only one block had vendors:



There was still a good offering of local university presses and bookshops. Harvest Books was giving away free books (which means you couldn’t get anywhere near the stand). I had never heard of Harvest Books before and didn’t realize they were in the Philly area. I’ll definitely have to check out their warehouse someday or order online: Hooray, local booksellers!! There were also some magazine stands: N+1 and McSweeney’s made appearances. Here’s another shot:



I didn’t make it to see any of the authors this year. A disappointment, I’m sure, but I was suffering from an allergic reaction to an Rx which made me look and feel like a poorly copied Seurat – there’s always next year. Although with the small size of this year, I am hoping there will be a next year…So, don’t forget to support your local library!!

Mark your calendars: Colson Whitehead will be reading at the FLP on 05 May 2009 at 7.30 (FREE at the Central branch). While I wasn’t too thrilled about Apex Hides the Hurt I’ve heard good things about John Henry Days and others…so, don’t take my word for it.