Posts Tagged ‘books’
A “Baned” book would be in much worse shape than a banned book.
Last week I saw a student open a paperback in that painful way that so many people do; the pages he’d already read were folded all the way around so that the front cover touched the back cover.
As he started reading, I said, “Dude, that book’s Batman and you’re pulling a Bane on him!” The student immediately got the reference and let the book go from this contorted death grip.
Scroll down for an explanation of the joke!
Great truth from the movie Good Will Hunting. A bit of language at the very beginning and end, but from 3:26-3:32 in this clip, there’s a ton of wisdom.
I’ve started this year reading Ann Voskamp’s One Thousand Gifts. The style is poetic, sometimes intrusively so, but the thesis is wonderful, and wonderfully elaborated. We all need this.
This bit of analysis from chapter 2 summarizes it:
“And he took bread, gave thanks and brake it, and gave it to them…” (Luke 22:19 NIV).
….I thumb, run my finger across the pages of the heavy and thick books bound. I read it slowly. In the original language, “he gave thanks” reads “eucharisteo.”
I underline it on the page. Can it lay a sure foundation under a life? Offer the fullest life?
The root word of eucharisteo is charis, meaning “grace.” Jesus took the bread and saw it as grace and gave thanks. He took the bread and knew it to be gift and gave thanks.
But there is more, and I read it. Eucharisteo, thanksgiving, envelopes the Greek word for grace, charis. But it also holds its derivative, the Greek word chara, meaning “joy.” Joy…..
Deep chara joy is found only at the table of the euCHARisteo–the table of thanksgiving. I sit there long…wondering…is it that simple?
Is the height of my chara joy dependent on the depths of my eucharisteo thanks?
So then as long as thanks is possible…I think this through. As long as thanks is possible, then joy is always possible. Joy is always possible. Whenever, meaning–now; wherever, meaning–here. The holy grail of joy is not in some exotic location or some emotional mountain peak experience. The joy wonder could be here! Here, in the messy, piercing ache of now, joy might be–unbelievably–possible! The only place we need to see before we die is this place of seeing God, here and now.
Some stray thoughts as I was reading:
“There were too many brilliant amateurs, and the changed economic conditions had made the old system obsolete.” ch. 10. After superior alien saviors come to Earth and create a paradise, humanity uses its free time to get awesome at everything, thus the changed economy. Are we seeing something similar now with blog reporting and YouTube videos? I think we are.
I love prescient science fiction predictions, but Clarke says that humanity’s vastly increased leisure has the dystopian result of us starting to watch TV for up to…wait for it…3 hours a day! This was written in the 50′s. Isn’t that cute?
“In this galaxy of ours,” murmured Karellen, “there are eighty-seven thousand million suns. Even that figure gives only a faint idea of the immensity of space. In challenging it, you would be like ants attempting to label and classify all the grains of sand in all the desserts of the world.” ch. 14. This is why I love good sci-fi. It intelligently inculcates a healthy, humble reverence for the universe.
It was the end of civilization, the end of all that men had striven for since the beginning of time. In the space of a few days, humanity had lost its future, for the heart of any race is destroyed, and its will to survive is utterly broken, when its children are taken from it. ch. 19. Alas, Clarke’s generation never could have imagined that civilization would voluntarily extinguish itself through epidemic demographic decline, and would celebrate it all the way to the collective nursing home. Like his naive TV watching warning, reality turned out far scarier than he prophesied. It’s always sad when tragic speculation turns out to be, if anything, too optimistic.
Last weekend, I attended the national convention of AP teachers at the Venetian here in Las Vegas. It should tell you something about the quality of most of the sessions that the best part of the weekend by far was finding a rare book seller.
During lunch, I wandered upstairs to the Venetian’s famous Grand Canal Shops, where my wife and I rode the gondolas and were serenaded the day we got married. It’s a pretty upscale mall, and great for window shopping.
But a new place caught my eye. Signs around the mall advertised a collection of Revolutionary War documents on display. Couldn’t pass that up!
Bauman Rare Books did indeed have about a dozen such items in a glass case: a copy of Common Sense from 1776, a 1st and a 2nd edition of The Federalist Papers, and some personal and official correspondence from the likes of Jefferson, Washington, and Franklin. The store also features a fascinating copy of the Declaration of Independence from the mid-19th century.
I was in love before I even walked in the store, though: in a window by the door was a collection of several Hemingway first editions, loving labeled and priced at what turned out to be average for the store, several thousand dollars. I should have picked up a few spare copies. Want me to grab a few for you, too?
Wolfe is our modern Mark Twain, our finest satirist and journalistic chronicler of our society as it really is. As such, it’s only fitting that my comments here take the form of an interview with myself:
Q: What did you think of the narration by Lou Diamond Phillips?
A: Amazing. I’ll never be able to read this book without hearing his voice now. It was perfect. Not only did he have to do characters of both genders and all ages, but several ethnicities, and even speaking fragments of four other languages! If there’s some kind of industry award for audio book performance, he should get the highest honor. Listening to him work was bliss from beginning to end.
Q: Didn’t all the sex scenes bother you? Didn’t you think they were poorly written?
A: Wolfe catches a lot of flak for these two almost contradictory criticisms, but I think they work together. (more…)
2012 was by far the worst year of my adult life for total number of books read: I only finished 17 books the whole year; my next worst year was 2001, when I finished 19. Clearly, I need to tackle my problem with distraction.
Or, in terms of quality over quantity, it wasn’t bad at all: I gave five books a perfect ten for enjoyment; my worst year for that was 2008, which only had 2 perfect tens.
Below is the list, with dates finished, my 1-10 score for much I liked reading it, and either a brief comment or link to my review.
1. Comstock Lode, Louis L’amour (1/18, Western)–7. Good, but no different from others of his I’ve read.
2. Cloak, James Goff (2/7, fantasy, young adult)–8.
3. Gilead, Marilynne Robinson (4/6, literature)–10. I can’t believe I never finished my review of this! I made some notes: I jotted down my two favorite quotes:
“I always imagine divine mercy giving us back to ourselves and letting us laugh at what we became, laugh at the preposterous disguises of crouch and squint and limp and lour we all do put on.”
“There are a thousand thousand reasons to live this life, every one of them sufficient.”
I also wrote down that I loved her usage of Numbers 6:24-26.
4. Mozart: His Life and Music, Jeremy Siepmann (4/14, biography)–9. Innovative biography mixed life story with music appreciation to the benefit of both.
5. Maphead, Ken Jennings (5/11, memoir, humor)–9.
The first volume in the cycle, Elric of Melniboné, introduces us to the melancholy emperor Elric, a skeletal albino whose keen mind makes him a poor fit for the ancient kingdom of superhuman savages he rules.
We follow him on a quest to thwart a usurpation of his throne and rescue a blood-relative damsel in distress (an influence on George R.R. Martin, perhaps), while growing in power so much that an expanding epic is practically demanded by the denouement.
Even more audacious than the stark story itself is the pervasively dour prose, an exercise in contorted anguish, a French philosopher scribbling in the gloom after watching Reservoir Dogs:
And Elric stepped into a shadow and found himself in a world of shadows. He turned, but the shadow through which he had entered now faded and was gone. Old Aubec’s sword was in Elric’s hand, the black helm and the black armour were upon his body and only these were familiar, for the land was dark and gloomy as if contained in a vast cave whose walls, though invisible, were oppressive and tangible. And Elric regretted the hysteria, the weariness of brain, which had given him the impulse to obey his patron demon Arioch and plunge through the Shade Gate. But regret was useless now, so he forgot it.
Last month I found this issue of The New York Review of Books (courtesy of my awesome department chair), featuring an article by hipster wunderkind Michael Chabon about the year he spent reading Joyce’s Finnegans Wake.
While not exactly a gloss, it is a piece where Chabon creates a clever framework for viewing the text. To wit:
Other than its simple unreadability (indeed its apparent hostility to being read), the principal knock against the Wake—what Seamus Deane in his introduction to the Penguin edition calls “the gravamen of the charge against Joyce”—is that, in Deane’s paraphrase, Joyce “surrendered the ‘ordinary’ world, the world as represented in the great tradition of the realistic novel, for a world of capricious fantasy and inexhaustible word-play.” Eliot, Pound, Stanislaus Joyce, Frank Budgen, and other early champions of Ulysses found disappointment in this apparent surrender, and the truth is that, for all the real, nutritious, and hard-won pleasure that can be wrested from the Wake—as from a bucket of lobsters, by a determined reader with a pick and a cracker—anyone who has first loved or admired Ulysses must, as Joyce himself anticipated, find disappointment in Finnegans Wake.
Seventeen years of tireless labor by a mind blessed with a profound understanding of human vanity, with unparalleled gifts of sensory perception and the figuration thereof, and with one of the greatest prose styles in the English language produced a work that all too often, and for long stretches, can remind the reader (when not recalling Yertle the Turtle) of the Spike-Milligan- meets-Edward-Lear prose tossed off by the Writing Beatle in five minutes between tokes and takes of “Norwegian Wood.” But to find disappointment in the Wake’s, and Joyce’s, supposed turn away from approved modernist procedure, derived from Flaubert, which subjects shifting states of consciousness to the same rigorous accounting as the bibelots furnishing a provincial lady’s sitting room, is to miss the point.
I also appreciate that he compares the Wake to Lovecraft’s Necronomicon. I did the same thing in my article on the Wake several years ago. =)
For years, I’ve subscribed to a pretty Spartan philosophy about buying books. A few weeks ago, as part of a larger effort to declutter, I decided to apply these rules to my existing library retrospectively.
Thus, I showed up to work one morning with a few cardboard boxes filled with about 150 books, which I gave away to my students. (God bless the little bookworms where I work; every last book was gone by the end of the day.)
I only buy a book if it meets one of these conditions: (more…)
It breaks every rule of modern teaching, but…
I’m reading John Milton’s epic Paradise Lost, and what impresses me most (besides how aggressively macho Milton makes every detail—perhaps how Ray Bradbury would write if he were on steroids) is how funny it can often be. Two scenes in Book 2 will demonstrate:
As the deposed demons discuss what to do about their infernal exile, Moloch (the John Wayne of the underworld) campaigns for another assault on heaven and an open war on God. The more pragmatic Belial worries that the risks of God’s further wrath outweigh the rewards in that course, and says:
What if the breath that kindl’d those grim fires [ 170 ]
Awak’d should blow them into sevenfold rage
And plunge us in the flames? or from above
Should intermitted vengeance arm again
His red right hand to plague us? what if all
Her stores were open’d, and this Firmament [ 175 ]
Of Hell should spout her Cataracts of Fire,
Impendent horrors, threatning hideous fall
One day upon our heads; while we perhaps
Designing or exhorting glorious warr,
Caught in a fierie Tempest shall be hurl’d [ 180 ]
Each on his rock transfixt, the sport and prey
Of racking whirlwinds, or for ever sunk
Under yon boyling Ocean, wrapt in Chains;
There to converse with everlasting groans,
Unrespited, unpitied, unrepreevd, [ 185 ]
Ages of hopeless end; this would be worse. [emphasis added]
That’s great—yes, infinite torture for eternity would be a mite bit worse than exile. Those last four words strike me as a supreme sort of understatement.
Later, they all agree to Satan’s plan to look into this new project God’s been working on—creating creatures called “humans” and settling them on a place called “Earth”—and see if there’s some way they can stick it to him by messing it up. (more…)
I have a secret. It’s James Gough’s young adult fantasy novel Cloak. It’s a terrific read and a solid entry in a trending genre but, thanks to Gough being a new author and Cloak being put out by a small press, you’ve never heard of it. It’s a secret I’d love to have more people in on.
Cloak is one of those stories that’s so simple that its value may go unnoticed at first. The novel’s main conceit—that many people among us throughout history are secretly human/animal hybrids, hiding the special abilities this gives them—is so clever that one wonders why it’s never been done before.
But of course it has been done before. What sets Cloak apart is how much Gough delights in exploring a world in depth that has only been dimly illuminated before. Animal-based fantasy novels often have mad doctors and super powers, but this is the only one I know of which has both. Cloak is The Island of Dr. Moreau meets the X-Men.
A few days ago, I noted that the plot for the movie Chronicle is very similar to the plot for Carrie. That reminded me of another similarity.
I read The Hunger Games a couple of years ago and really liked it. But the basic template was not new.
A tyrannical government in a future dystopia recruits teenagers to compete in a brutal game of elimination where only one person gets to survive. This was also the plot of Stephen King’s 1979 novel The Long Walk. This was originally published under a pseudonym, and was actually the first novel King ever wrote, drafting it in college, before he started Carrie. I haven’t read it since high school, but I remember liking it. Maybe I’ll give it another look some time.