If you are looking for a new author, try Fforde and his fantastical worlds

There are few (modern) authors to whom I am truly devoted and will read anything they write. Geraldine Brooks is one [http://geraldinebrooks.com]; her newest book will be released in May and will probably be my next book club suggestion. She is a “historical fiction” novelist who weaves the most beautiful stories from overlooked moments and places in the past. Her book March tells the story of Mr. March--the father of the Little Women--and received the Pulitzer. My favorite, Year of Wonders, is about a small 16th century English town that quarantined itself after the citizens discovered the outbreak of the plague. Her stories are about the past and about people, and they explore how we deal with heartbreak and catastrophe.

My other favorite is Jasper Fforde [http://www.jasperfforde.com/]. Completely unique, his books are part fantasy, part comedy, part science fiction--basically, they are a clever and fun mix of all genres defying any sort of definition. I was first introduced to his brilliance in my masters program when we were assigned The Eyre Affair, the first in his Thursday Next series. Thursday is an agent of SpecOps 27--a whole group devoted to all things fiction, its fraud, its misuse, etc. These stories take place in a parallel world where people actually care about books, Swindon is a cool pace to live, and, if you have the ability, you can live in books and hang out with the greatest characters of fiction like Miss Havisham and Hamlet.  Besides his amazing creativity and imagination, what makes his books so enjoyable is that he writes for readers. He writes for and to those who are completely devoted to their identities as readers-to those who as nerdy and clever as he is. His books are fantastic lessons in word play and allusions.

His latest series, Shades of Grey, tells about a world wherein each person can only see one color. And, this color determines everything about his/her life: whom they marry, what job they will do, and even what social class they are part of. Though you must be prepared to suspend disbelief, the story is a fascinating reinvention of the dystopian genre. It never takes itself too seriously and remains as comic and creative as his other novels. But, despite the lightness of the story, Fforde still subtly explores the seeming inevitability of hierarchy and of people’s lust for power. The book calls us to question our own capacity to make change. Can one person really change anything? What are those sacrifices? Would you have the strength to overcome your own apathy?

In his newest novel--I had to order it from a used bookstore in the UK, Abebooks.com-- Dragonslayer, Fforde ventures into young adult fiction. Although all of his books are playful, and he writes for the youthful spirit in the adult, this book is for kids. But, you know how I feel about young adult fiction, so for me this was the best of both worlds. He didn’t “talk down” to his reader nor did he get caught up in the overly dramatic trend that seems to be invading the young adult genre. With his usual playful imagination, he creates a world where society is no longer amazed by magicians, and witches and wizards must resort to plumbing work in order to stay relevant. Hilarious and unique, the book narrates the coming of age of a young orphan girl, unsure of her role in the not so distant “big magic” that will change her world. The book is fast-paced, sometimes too fast, and at times seems to skip through some character development. The ending was a bit rushed--I’m not a fan of the end-of-book wrap-ups. But, overall, it was a fun, short entertaining read--a pleasant way to spend a snowy afternoon.

Ode to Mary

After viewing my life from another perspective—a view created by Daisy Hay’s Young Romantics—I have come to realize that I, Percy Bysshe Shelley, have left many things unsaid to my brilliant wife, Mary. Because my life ended so drastically and much too soon, I fear that Mary and I parted ways with many unresolved issues. In short, the deep connection with my wife that was essential to my well-being was momentarily bent when I left her. I want to take this opportunity to express what I should have expressed during my time on earth:

Dear Mary,

There is no doubt that my love for you is immersed in the depths of my soul; anyone who knows us would say the same. You are my one true love, my other half, more than my equal. Whether inspiring, supporting, or promoting my work, I am forever indebted to your intellect, imagination, and genuine devotion. I am certain that without you, my work would not have been so admired. I know I have reciprocated such affection and care to your spirit and work, but during the times when you needed me most, I was more concerned with my own self—my work, my friendships, other female attention, etc. For this, I am truly sorry; no amount of immaturity or false idealism can account for such selfish behavior, particularly when you, my wife and soul, were experiencing such despair at the loss of our three young children, one right after the other. Instead of patiently comforting you during your understandable melancholy, I sometimes believed you were wearing me away, and were being selfish yourself. Perhaps I was ill equipped to help you, but I still could have made you my main priority, as you did me. Upon reflection, you, as a mere teenager, handled yourself quite well, considering the awful pain you must have had to bear as a mother. It severely pains me that directly after my unfortunate death, you worried that you should have been a better wife or a more loyal champion of my work, as others have since suggested. I know now that you were grieving in your own way, and such behavior is only natural. Regardless, as your loving counterpart, please understand that you and all who you are, including your supposed coldness and melancholic ways, make me whole as an individual. We are the ultimate team, so when one claims Shelley, they claim Percy and Mary, not one or the other.

I am, forever yours,
Shelley

News getting you down? Let these stories lift you back up!

I, Herman Melville, am addicted to the news.  I read The New York Times, my local paper, and often check other news websites each day for the latest tidbits.  I post articles that truly intrigue me on Facebook and that’s nearly a daily occurrence.  I read Time Magazine every week and find myself watching the evening news, even when their top story consists of viewer submitted photos of the latest snow storm.  Although I can’t say I’ve read every front page article in the last year by any means, I am deeply attracted to what makes a story – what others find interesting or trendy or newsworthy.  Many of these human-interest stories often wind up in some form in my own writing – sometimes in obvious ways or even just in the mind-set I’ve adopted after reading a feature article. 

But I’ve found that lately, I’m burnt out on the news.  I don’t want to know who wore what to the Golden Globes or what new technology will change my life forever or the 50 places I need to go in 2011.  I especially don’t want to read the front page articles highlighting all the sorrow that’s happening in our world today.  Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s hugely important to stay informed, but I’ve reached information overload.  I don’t want to hear another stat or fact or expert telling us that the world is falling apart.  It’s not that I care any less; it’s that I care too much.  Sometimes I just need to read something good and without a thick layer of sarcasm or bias to break through.

I’ve found my antidote, however, in my recent pleasure reading.  (Note to self: Never read about environmental catastrophe again before going to bed!)  Two series in the last few months have been a soothing escape from the questions too large for us to answer in compartmentalized reporting.  When you need that time-out, here are the series for you:

-- The Penderwicks Series by Jeanne Birdsall.  While there are only two books in the series thus far, they are delightful.  The plot follows the adventures of four sisters, their friends, and their mischievous pets.  As a sort of update of Little Women, these four sisters slowly grow up under the not-so-careful watch of their absent-minded Professor/Father.  I was already charmed on page 1.  While you can see every plot development coming a mile away and the girls each embody their own “classic” female stereotype (the wanna-be writer, the dramatic/angsty one, the clever but young one, and the macho girl who finds her feminine side), I didn’t mind.  Instead, I was rooting on the happy ending and for the girls to continue to live in their world of rambunctious, innocent fun.

-- The Sisters Grimm by Michael Buckley.  I’ve recommended these books to just about everyone I’ve met over the last few weeks.  I got started on the series during my students’ finals and have already gotten through Book 7 (of 9 planned I believe).  The plot -- a fantasy world where fairy tale characters (and Shakespeare’s Puck) are real, immortal, and bent on committing petty crimes in the small town of Ferryport, New Jersey while being investigated by various members of the Grimm family -- is even loonier than it sounds.  Fast-paced, clever, and not afraid to tackle the real feelings of teens, I’ve literally laughed out loud at their capers.  It doesn’t hurt that Buckley takes none of those fairy tale plots too seriously and can mix them with aplomb for intriguing results.

Now, I’m not suggesting that these books will change your life forever, but they will certainly still please you for a few days after your reading.  In fact, the plots in their series can seem interchangeable and I had to confirm on Wikipedia to make sure I’m not checking out the same book again from the library.  Can I read these books forever?  Hardly.  But they are helpful when you need some perspective to realize that the sky isn’t quite going to fall today so you might as well enjoy a few quiet moments before entering back into the fray.

The Joys and Foolishness of Indulgence, and the Prosperity of Restraint in Shelley and Jane's Life

As my two fellow bloggers have emphasized in their recent posts, I (obviously) find literature to be absolutely rewarding, mostly because it’s such an amazing, engaging way for me to learn. After finally completing Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre, I’ve once again made many discoveries about culture, history, psychology, etc. One of the biggest discoveries I made directly has to do with my own life experience and truths; such a connection between story and reader is what makes many forms of literature appealing/successful, and, on many levels, I found this to be the case in this novel. For the sake of everyone’s time and interest, I’ll just focus on one aspect of Jane Eyre that helped me learn more about life, and particularly, more about my own life.


When in college and in my early twenties, I had a lot of freedom to experience life in a sort of indulgent, carefree way without the harsh judgment attached to such behavior. In other words, since I was still a teenager or in my early twenties, on some occasions, I was pretty much allowed to “find myself” without much consequence, or basically, to act like an idiot if no one got hurt in the process; it is natural to behave in such a way at such a time, and so, my actions weren’t taken too seriously, and were generally accepted. Since I was always a good student, responsible, and mostly sensible, my young age afforded moments of senselessness, which can also be considered moments of fun. I won’t go into detail, but most of these moments were pretty harmless, even though the very thought of them sometimes makes me cringe. As embarrassing, stupid, and crazy as some of these experiences were, I don’t regret them at all, mostly because they were fun, and a part of the process of maturation. If anything, I sometimes wonder what might have happened if I had acted MORE indulgent like some of my friends and peers did. Would I have experienced life in a deeper way? Would my life have changed in some positive, intriguing way? See, however carefree I was during this time in my life, upon reflection, I was never so carefree and indulgent to permanently plague my life (though there were some close calls; I’m not trying to be heroic or condescending here), which was definitely a conscious decision; I always had the big picture of my life in mind, and didn’t want one moment to have lasting negative effects.

Whenever I think I might have missed out on something because of my sensibility, I always remind myself of the horrible and humiliating consequences that might have resulted from extreme acts of impulsivity. In Bronte’s work, there are several times when Jane acts as such a reminder for me—she makes certain decisions that reassure the ones I’ve made in my own life. Such choices are determined by her propensity to consider the value and respect of her future; instead of being indulgent, which would be a much easier path to take, Jane restrains herself in a mature way that is extremely difficult to do during the moment of her decision-making. Two of these instances directly involve her relationship with men, and more specifically, her choice of whether or not to accept their marriage proposals, and become a wife.

Because of the novel’s first-person narration, it’s clear that Jane’s initial inclination is to attach herself to both Rochester and then St. John, regardless of the dangers that come with such acceptances—dangers that Jane is fully aware of [a life of insubordination (financial and otherwise), lovelessness (in the case of St. John), etc.]. She considers staying with Rochester (the first go-around) and being his mistress even though he has lied to her and is still married because of their strong connection—because they are soul mates. With St. John, Jane considers a loveless marriage and rough life as a missionary’s wife in India because she deeply respects St. John’s abilities, and views him with much awe. Instead of bowing to such desires, Jane is able to control her initial impulses because she contemplates the repercussions of such actions, and keeps in mind the big picture of her life. After St. John nearly persuades her to be his wife for Christ’s work, Jane reveals how her future is always at the forefront of her thoughts. She knows that a previous disagreement with St. John will eventually come back to haunt her, even if he is presently showing her much gentleness and kindness “Yet I knew all the time, if I yielded now, I should not the less be made to repent, some day, of my former rebellion. His nature was not changed by one hour of solemn prayer: it was only elevated” (357). However difficult in the moment, and despite the frustration and disappointment her refusals create in these two men, Jane’s restraint eventually pays off in the end (I won’t spoil it for readers who have not read the novel).

So, after reading this work of literature (which I mostly enjoyed and did not find depressing at all, counter to its dominant reputation) and considering this particular subject, I am more reassured about aspects of my own life. Don’t get me wrong: thankfully, my life contains many moments of indulgence and fun, but like Jane, I am careful about the degree of such indulgence, and make sure they don’t negatively scar my future. Some may think such a life is ultimately dull, but I don’t think so; I think if people generally considered the impact of extreme bouts of impulsive pleasure, and instead showed more restraint by considering the big picture, they could avoid much strife and harm in their lives.

What a blessing it is to love books as I love them, to be able to converse with the dead, and to live amidst the unreal

When I got married, I, like most brides, had a bridal shower (mostly because my mom threw it for me). However, I think it’s weird and a little self-indulgent (aren’t all weddings these days?) to invite everyone to throw you a party and bring you presents to celebrate another party you will have where they will have to bring you another present. So--here is where I reveal my great nerdiness at which my mom still continues to laugh when she tells the story--I told my friends instead to bring a book that meant something to them with a little note explaining why they wanted to give me this book. In this exchange, I learned more about each of my friends as well as what she thought about our friendship and me. One friend, who thought I needed to take a break from my “school” reading, bought me a mystery novel (much appreciated on the honeymoon); one of my non-English major but still literary friends gave me Snow Falling on Cedars (the best part was her thoughtful note explaining why she chose the book); Shelley bought me a beautiful edition of To Kill a Mockingbird, which I couldn’t stop myself from marking up while reading it (only evidence it is well-loved); and Melville (here is the point of this anecdote) gave me two collections of Anne Fadiman’s amazing essays.

[Needless to say, I've lost touch with the person who bought me Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus].

This morning, while grasping for a topic to write about--I didn’t think anyone wanted to read about my application adventure that seized my time for the last two months--I picked up my well-thumbed copy of Ex Libris, Anne Fadiman’s “Confessions of a Common Reader.” Whenever I read the collection, I intend to read and perfectly digest one essay at a time--each essay deserving of its own written reflection. However, drawn in by her easy storytelling and the feeling that we are kindred spirits, I inevitably read the whole collection in a sitting.

If you love books or love books about books, then you too will probably be captivated by her personal essays. A self-proclaimed bibliophile, she more than loves books--they are indeed part of her very being. And, in this culture that seems to be proud of its illiteracy and its impatience for reading, as Melville described in her previous post, or that seems to ignore its failing bookstores and libraries, Fadiman’s voice and passion instill hope that there will always be us crazy nerds, instinctively correcting other people’s bad grammar and preferring to buy books instead of food.

Every essay is about reading or books in some capacity, but each essay is also always about something else--because books are always more than books.  When you read, the story becomes part of you, it has revealed something to you, it has uncovered that little bit more about the world, it has built another connection. Her essays demonstrate how a book or a poem or a story can become so much more than something written on the page. For instance, In “Scorn not the Sonnet” she begins by discussing why she tends to favor the sonnet, telling about her own failed attempt at poetry and also relating why she cherishes the form: “You could fit the whole world in there if you shoved hard enough.” At the end of the essay, however, she narrates her father’s descent into blindness. He--as another bibliophile and writer--could not see a life without reading. Blindness was his death. Then, she reminds her father that Milton wrote Paradise Lost blind. Together they read Milton’s sonnet “On His Blindness” (posted in my previous post), and his hope is restored just enough to help him continue: “Milton’s sonnet provided the first glimmer of the persistent intellectual curiosity that was to prove his saving grace.”  The essay is not one of my favorites because she discusses Milton but because it shows how powerful words are--they can have an impact on our imagination and our selves if we just give ourselves the time and space to let them. 

[My other favorites include an essay comparing reading to eating and another playful essay on plagiarism and the many great kleptomaniac writers (like Shakespeare).]

[The quote in the title of this blog is not Fadiman’s but Macaulay’s] 

New Year -- New Post

[Reading in our world is] an act of resistance in a landscape of distraction, a matter of engagement in a society that seems to want nothing more than for us to disengage. It connects us at the deepest levels; it is slow, rather than fast. That is its beauty and its challenge: in a culture of instant information, it requires us to pace ourselves. What does it mean, this notion of slow reading? Most fundamentally, it returns us to a reckoning with time. In the midst of a book, we have no choice but to be patient, to take each thing in its moment, to let the narrative prevail. Even more, we are reminded of all we need to savor – this instant, this scene, this line. We regain the world by withdrawing from it just a little, by stepping back from the noise, the tumult, to discover our reflections in another mind. As we do, we join a broader conversation, by which we both transcend ourselves and are enlarged.

-- David Ulin

I haven’t read David Ulin’s new book yet, but this excerpt on one of my favorite blogs caught my eye.

As I write these words, I am deep in the heart of the Santa Cruz Mountains on a two day faculty retreat.  It’s the perfect time to reflect on the meaning of reading/teaching and how it has become a form of resistance against the constant social desire to keep up by throwing out the old “iThis” in favor of the new “iThat.” 

It also seems that just as Ulin is thinking about a need to slow down and rebel against the prevailing culture, this movement has been going on for quite some time.  This morning a woman spoke who spent the last forty years in missionary work around the world.  She was not afraid of the conditions she lived in but was truly frightened (her word) by the extreme culture shock she encountered when returning back home to the U.S.  She argued that we move so quickly now that something as simple as a daily greeting has become a mere formality and not the most basic form of human connection.  So I ask, do we really want to know how anyone is doing, much less take the time to learn about the lives of imaginary people?  While this woman’s reaction may seem like an exaggeration, no matter where one lives, “progress” and all the extra stuff that comes with that slippery concept invariably creeps in.  How much time do we save in new methods of productivity?  Where does our time go?

I think that’s why the concept of this blog and the responses we’ve gotten are such a comfort and support to we three bookers.  I am not a seasoned teaching veteran, by any means, but even I see a marked difference between my reading habits as a teenager and that of my students.  These students may never have the attention span for a Trollope novel, much less Dickens at his most verbose.  What’s the point?  Why should I care about it when you can’t even explain it in less than a paragraph?  Can’t you summarize it for me?  I hear those complaints all the time.  Now, I could go on all day about their need to focus or the broken state of the educational system, but I wouldn’t be adding anything new to the white noise of ideas that fall in and out of fashion like waves.  Instead of discussing more ways to test their deficiencies, I think my most effective “weapon” against a lack of motivation is my own passion for the subject, exhibited each and every day in the classroom.  Ultimately, my students know that my deepest frustration is not out born out of anger at my seemingly futile task but because I want so desperately for them to see the beauty or the concept despite their own blinders.

Therefore, my goal this semester (and beyond) is much simpler:  I will teach every student that I love to read because I want to learn about the world.  My soul is refreshed when I realize that I am not the center of the universe.  I can learn from the characters populating my favorite novels that I can be nobler, more caring, and more thoughtful if only I take the time to consider their positive (or negative) examples.  I am hopeful about humans when I realize that we can connect across time, across cultures, and across political lines by celebrating the same breath-taking, life-changing, wondrous piece of art.  The joy of reading for me is not necessarily about the overall story line anymore, but it is about the discoveries along the way. 

As Thoreau once said in Walden, “We should come home from adventures, and perils, and discoveries every day with new experience and character.”  While Thoreau was waxing poetic about these large grandiose changes we can make to our lives, I’ve taken his lesson to a much smaller place in mine.  A beautiful sentence can make me pause for days.  A great final paragraph can change my life forever.  Opening oneself up to the thought that a book or a writer can transform you brings so many different possibilities to one’s own life.  After all, as William Carlos Williams so quietly pointed out in his poetry, “so much depends / upon / a red wheel / barrow / glazed with rain / water / beside the white / chickens.”  Simple adventures in reading equal simple adventures in living.

So, why go in greater depth than what Ulin so beautifully expressed? 

New years are a time of great reflection.  It is the only time of the year when every person, no matter if they read or not, takes a quiet moment to think about their goals for the next year or next phase of life.

For me, I am going to continue to look at those little stitches in time and instead of despairing about the big picture, focus on those quiet flashes of joy.  Besides trying to feed my reading habit as much as humanly possible, I’m going to start using some of my favorite quotes as springboards for my yoga meditations this year. 

For all of us at Thrice Booked, we’ve been so grateful for the chance to share our own experiences and thoughts with a larger audience.  We’ve been forced to sit down and really think about what we are reading and why it has mattered to us.  And while we may not have been the most faithful bloggers during our most frenzied teaching times, you have our firm reassurance that we aren’t going anywhere.  We’re still reading and we’re still contemplating what is important to us, one book at a time.

So, you fellow rebels out there, won’t you join us for another great year here at Thrice Booked?