4 posts tagged “fiction”
Books: Show us a great children's book.
Well, really more for teens than children, per se - the heroine is turning 14. But would be fine for adventurous readers around sixth grade age. I read this a few months ago, when I was 30, and loved it a lot... it's very near to Diana Wynne Jones's work. (Which I've also been reading a lot of lately, and meaning to post about.)
Have you ever been at a bar or a party, stuck talking to some dude who's clearly a depressed wreck, visibly down on his luck, but who wants to tell you his life story anyway? You know how it's going to end... he keeps referring to things like, "But that was before I lost my job and the house." He's drunk and his breath doesn't smell so good and he's somewhat interesting and you feel bad for him, but ultimately you'd rather be talking to your buddy Jane about her work for Doctors Without Borders, or your cousin Ed about the novel he just sold.
I almost didn't finish Firmin: Adventures of a Metropolitan Lowlife, and you may be able to discern why: for me, the experience of reading it was very much like being buttonholed by that poor schmo who just needs someone, anyone, to listen to him for a few hours. This is something that maybe you'd do when the schmo is a person in need, but when the schmo is a rat narrating a short novel, you may find yourself wanting to back... away... slowly.
But it's only 150pp, and I found myself continually just curious enough to keep on reading. Is a rat's life destined to be anything more than a sad-sack story?
Firmin is born in the basement of a bookstore in Boston's Scollay Square in the late 1950s or early 1960s. He's the runt of a large litter, and only survives by filling his half-empty stomach with paper from the books around him. Somehow, he develops the ability to read, and soon reads his way through the store. Scollay Square is a seedy flop-house area full of peep shows and other adult entertainment, Firmin's source of food and non-literary entertainment. Eventually, it's slated for demolition. Before everything he knows changes, Firmin will leave the bookstore to live elsewhere in the building with an alcoholic bohemian science fiction writer who becomes the only true friend he ever has. Even so, as Firmin repeatedly warns the reader, the story doesn't have a happy ending. Lowlife is the watchword.
Sam Savage is in his mid-60s, but this is his first published novel. The relatively unique subject matter and the finesse with which Savage writes got this book a lot of attention on last year's lists. But it seems like everyone talking about the book overplays the titular rat's literary nature... he makes a handful of literary references, it's true, but is just as likely to imagine himself into one of the several dozen movies he's seen. It's well-written, but the much-vaunted wittiness never goes past "mordant" or "wistful." I can't say it's bad at all - it's one of those books that might wind up being assigned to high school and college students when they're studying voice and character, in a novel. But I can say that I didn't really "enjoy" reading it... it's neither light nor intellectually challenging. It's a novel that's "serious" by virtue of the utter lack of triumphs in the lives of its characters. And Firmin is only a likable character in spite of the hard work he does to make himself sound unlikable... readers will like him, if they like him, not because he's a philosophically-inclined literary rat, but because he is, ironically enough, infused with humanity.
My favorite passage, from p57, discusses the specifics of the projected destruction of Scollay Square:
Destroying that much of the city was going to be a big job. The buildings were old and had deep roots and did not want to go. So the mayor and the city council went looking for the right man, someone who understood the difficulties of applying heavy machinery to very old buildings and narrow streets, and they found Edward Logue. He was nicknamed the Bombardier, because that was what he had been during World War II. In a B-24. So he had had firsthand experience with the largest urban renewal project in human history. He sent the mayor and city council pictures of Stuttgart and Dresden and told them, "I can make Scollay Square look like that."
He got the job.
See? Mordant wit.
I disliked Michael Mikolowski's pen-and-ink-wash illustrations, which seem influenced by Gahan Wilson. They are sometimes difficult to make out at the size at which they're printed, and to me, do not seem to jibe exactly with the mood of the story. (If a major point of the story is that Firmin is a real rat with an extensive interior life, not one that is cartoon-cute or cartoon-repulsive, why accompany it with exaggeratedly grotesque illustrations that seem like they could be Fritz the Cat outtakes? They make Firmin seem like a drunken lecher, when in reality he's bookish and his carnal appetites are dreamy and idealized, almost sublimated.)
So I have to throw my hands up in the air and say that this is the sort of thing that you will like if you like this sort of thing. It's too much of a downer for me, and while I think the character of Jerry Magoon, the writer, is well and affectionately drawn, I found Firmin otherwise pretty monotonous. The writing is, on a textual level, certainly better than 99% of first novels. Thus, if you don't mind depressing books, and anything I've said about this one appeals to you, you may enjoy it. I think I would have appreciated it more when I was in my "sad books are more truthful about the human condition!" phase, but at this point, I think I need a viewing of Flushed Away to cleanse my palate. ;)
Have you ever been at a bar or a party, stuck talking to some dude who's clearly a depressed wreck, visibly down on his luck, but who wants to tell you his life story anyway? You know how it's going to end... he keeps referring to things like, "But that was before I lost my job and the house." He's drunk and his breath doesn't smell so good and he's somewhat interesting and you feel bad for him, but ultimately you'd rather be talking to your buddy Jane about her work for Doctors Without Borders, or your cousin Ed about the novel he just sold.
I almost didn't finish Firmin: Adventures of a Metropolitan Lowlife, and you may be able to discern why: for me, the experience of reading it was very much like being buttonholed by that poor schmo who just needs someone, anyone, to listen to him for a few hours. This is something that maybe you'd do when the schmo is a person in need, but when the schmo is a rat narrating a short novel, you may find yourself wanting to back... away... slowly.
But it's only 150pp, and I found myself continually just curious enough to keep on reading. Is a rat's life destined to be anything more than a sad-sack story?
Firmin is born in the basement of a bookstore in Boston's Scollay Square in the late 1950s or early 1960s. He's the runt of a large litter, and only survives by filling his half-empty stomach with paper from the books around him. Somehow, he develops the ability to read, and soon reads his way through the store. Scollay Square is a seedy flop-house area full of peep shows and other adult entertainment, Firmin's source of food and non-literary entertainment. Eventually, it's slated for demolition. Before everything he knows changes, Firmin will leave the bookstore to live elsewhere in the building with an alcoholic bohemian science fiction writer who becomes the only true friend he ever has. Even so, as Firmin repeatedly warns the reader, the story doesn't have a happy ending. Lowlife is the watchword.
Sam Savage is in his mid-60s, but this is his first published novel. The relatively unique subject matter and the finesse with which Savage writes got this book a lot of attention on last year's lists. But it seems like everyone talking about the book overplays the titular rat's literary nature... he makes a handful of literary references, it's true, but is just as likely to imagine himself into one of the several dozen movies he's seen. It's well-written, but the much-vaunted wittiness never goes past "mordant" or "wistful." I can't say it's bad at all - it's one of those books that might wind up being assigned to high school and college students when they're studying voice and character, in a novel. But I can say that I didn't really "enjoy" reading it... it's neither light nor intellectually challenging. It's a novel that's "serious" by virtue of the utter lack of triumphs in the lives of its characters. And Firmin is only a likable character in spite of the hard work he does to make himself sound unlikable... readers will like him, if they like him, not because he's a philosophically-inclined literary rat, but because he is, ironically enough, infused with humanity.
My favorite passage, from p57, discusses the specifics of the projected destruction of Scollay Square:
Destroying that much of the city was going to be a big job. The buildings were old and had deep roots and did not want to go. So the mayor and the city council went looking for the right man, someone who understood the difficulties of applying heavy machinery to very old buildings and narrow streets, and they found Edward Logue. He was nicknamed the Bombardier, because that was what he had been during World War II. In a B-24. So he had had firsthand experience with the largest urban renewal project in human history. He sent the mayor and city council pictures of Stuttgart and Dresden and told them, "I can make Scollay Square look like that."
He got the job.
See? Mordant wit.
I disliked Michael Mikolowski's pen-and-ink-wash illustrations, which seem influenced by Gahan Wilson. They are sometimes difficult to make out at the size at which they're printed, and to me, do not seem to jibe exactly with the mood of the story. (If a major point of the story is that Firmin is a real rat with an extensive interior life, not one that is cartoon-cute or cartoon-repulsive, why accompany it with exaggeratedly grotesque illustrations that seem like they could be Fritz the Cat outtakes? They make Firmin seem like a drunken lecher, when in reality he's bookish and his carnal appetites are dreamy and idealized, almost sublimated.)
So I have to throw my hands up in the air and say that this is the sort of thing that you will like if you like this sort of thing. It's too much of a downer for me, and while I think the character of Jerry Magoon, the writer, is well and affectionately drawn, I found Firmin otherwise pretty monotonous. The writing is, on a textual level, certainly better than 99% of first novels. Thus, if you don't mind depressing books, and anything I've said about this one appeals to you, you may enjoy it. I think I would have appreciated it more when I was in my "sad books are more truthful about the human condition!" phase, but at this point, I think I need a viewing of Flushed Away to cleanse my palate. ;)
I always tell people that Murakami is one of my favorite authors, but to be honest, I find his work hit-and-miss. The thing is, when it hits, it hits hard.
The last of his books that I finished was Sputnik Sweetheart, and I thought it was one of his worst, nearly incomprehensible. (I own Kafka on the Shore, but haven't read it yet; it seems decent. Everything else in the interim has been short stories, I think.) Sputnik Sweetheart is pertinent to After Dark because they deal with similar themes, and because After Dark may help illuminate what's actually going on in its predecessor.
After Dark takes place over the course of a single night in Tokyo. The book centers on two sisters: nineteen-year-old Mari Asai, a student, and her beautiful older sister Eri, a model/actress. A young man, Takahashi, sees Mari in a Denny's, late at night, and decides to talk to her based on the fact that they'd gone on a double date several years earlier. When his friend Kaoru, who runs a love hotel, needs the assistance of someone who speaks Chinese, Takahashi points her in Mari's direction. One of the love hotel's customers has brutally beaten a Chinese prostitute, and Mari's help is needed to converse with the girl and get her back on her feet.
The rest of the evening - the rest of the book - mostly centers on Mari and Takahashi making a connection, which gives her someone to talk to, for the first time, about her feelings towards her sister. Meanwhile, something mysterious is happening to Eri, the meaning of which becomes clear to anyone who pays attention to the conversations that Mari has with the people she meets. Finally, we get a glimpse into the life of the guy who beat up the prostitute, and an idea of why he might have done such a thing.
At its core, I think After Dark is about people who feel isolated and how isolation affects them. One seems to both seek and resent isolation, reaching out for connection in inappropriate and ineffective ways, while rejecting connections that are more healthy. Another is isolated by their position in life and by a variety of health problems. A third is isolated, maybe, by issues of personality and self-esteem. For some of the characters, isolation is not just a feeling, but also a place*... a world that exists on the other side of mirrors, or inside a television, or in a dark office.
I liked this and would recommend it.
* The relatively straightforward explanation of what's probably happening to Eri is what I think has the most relation to the mysteries of Sputnik Sweetheart. It's been about four years since I read that one, though, so I'd have to read it again to be sure.
Other stuff:
Trial of Flowers by Jay Lake - Lake is supposedly making a name for himself in the fantasy/horror field (this book is a little of each).
I read the first few chapters of this and skimmed the rest. I am not qualified to review a book I didn't read. I can say that in the first few chapters, there was way too much telling and not enough showing; I'm not impressed with Lake as a writer, but I've seen plenty who are worse. On top of that, none of the protagonists is particularly engaging... everything here is grotesque. One protagonist is a politician's aide and a sexual sadist; another is the dwarf who raised him; a third is an unreliable loser from a dishonored family who scrabbles to recover some position.
In the City Imperishable (motto: The City Is), dwarfs are made much more commonly than born - remember the Bonsai Kitten joke from a few years ago? The Sewn faction of the City's dwarfs (Lake's preferred plural) is a group of highly educated (captive audience) people whose growth was intentionally stunted by raising them in boxes. The sides of their mouths were sewn shut, leaving a small opening and tiny pursed lips. There is a revolutionary rival faction of dwarfs, the Slashed, whose mouths are not sewn shut.
Lots of politics, plus plenty of bodily fluids, eventually including sand. This will appeal to some, but I am not personally interested in this sort of thing right now... it's a shame Lake didn't write it ten years ago. There's nothing wrong with his imagination, but I prefer my fantasy novels with less torture and degradation, thanks. Contrast this book to something that I liked, like Scott Lynch's The Lies of Locke Lamora, and you may understand why I didn't go on with it.
I've been hearing about Alison Bechdel for years, because I read what used to be called alternative comics, but I never read anything of hers until Fun Home came out last year. It was almost certainly the best graphic novel of 2006, so I wanted to read more of her work.
This involves admitting something embarrassing about myself, something that a lot of straight people do until they call themselves on it: a tendency to shy away from queer-identified material, particularly reading material, both because we think that it's primarily aimed at queer people (and thus not "for" us) and because we don't want people who see us toting it around to think that we're queer. (And not just because of physical safety issues - fear of being gay-bashed - either.) How can I say that I don't think there is any shame in being gay when I was acting ashamed that someone might think I was gay? When I realized that I really don't care if someone, particularly some random person in the library, thinks I might be a lesbian, that opened my reading up a lot.
Dykes to Watch Out For is sort of a queer-identified, politically liberal-to-radical take on For Better or For Worse or something similar. The characters age, date, break up, have children, and so on. Some of the characters live in a communal house; at this point in the story, which has been running for around 20 years, there are male characters, straight characters, bi characters, a young transgendered girl, and a young conservative Evangelical Christian lesbian trying to come to terms with how her sexuality impacts her position in her own community.
This book is fairly recent, with comics from 2003 to early 2005. There are a number of earlier books in the series. It's my first, but it won't be my last. Anything that you like about any ongoing comic about the lives of a small group of friends and family is probably true of this one, and it's definitely worth a look if that kind of story appeals to you. So as far as who it's "for," I would say, "Anyone looking for a good slice-of-life comic." (If, on the other hand, lesbian sex offends you, or you're really conservative yourself, you probably won't like this. But if you really are that conservative, I don't know why you're reading my blog, unless we're related.)
