Bookshop Bumblings

Oh, shutup. It was good.

Really, it was.

Elsewhere, I related how this blog, and the project behind it had caused me to realize that there are definite patterns to my reading. Right now, I’ve just started my “Books I Have Been Meaning To Read But Have Put Off Due To Fear Of Violent Hand Cramps” phase. These are the books towering by my bed on my nightstand which threaten to crush me in the night if ever knocked over. The foundation of this pile was “Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell” (red cover edition) which I bought on my father’s account at the bookshop on christmas eve, wrapped, and then opened it on Christmas Day after gleefully saying, “Thanks Dad! It’s exactly what I wanted!” to my slightly bewildered father.

It was good… ish. If I had to read it all over again for the first time, I would. I just wouldn’t do it any time soon. I thought the editor was too light-handed but it wasn’t to a detrimental amount like Neil Gaiman’s ‘American Gods’, which I couldn’t even finish. And as far as causing my hands to cramp, that devil caused my hand to go numb and FALL ASLEEP while holding it. I guess it’s better my hand than me.

“It was at these times that he began to understand, after all those years of study and performance, of feats and wonders and surprises, the nature of magic. The magician seemed to promise that something torn to bits might be mended without a seam, that what had vanished might reappear, that a scattered handful of doves or dust might be reunited by a word, that a paper rose consumed by fire could be made to bloom from a pile of ash. But everyone knew that it was only an illusion. The true magic of this broken world lay in the ability of the things it contained to vanish, to become so thoroughly lost, that they might never have existed in the first place.”

Magical, indeed.

I picked up a copy of “My Friend Leonard” in eager hopes that it would be very reminiscent of the wonder that is Frey’s first novel, “A Million Little Pieces.” It was so endearing in its unorthdox style with its raw characters. Sure, it was fouler than the bathroom at the 40 watt but, overall, it was lovely.

I was a little disappointed in Frey’s follow-up novel which continues his story of after he leaves rehab and deepens his relationship with, Leonard, a mobster who has also kicked his drug habit while at the center. It just isn’t anywhere near as gripping, or as emotional. It is still told in the same manner, and I did have trouble putting it down. However, if I had never read his first work, I doubt I would have really felt any need to finish the second. Yet, when I think about it in conjuction with the first dynamic and enthralling tale, I definitely see it as worth the read, especially if you like detailed and lengthy epilogues.

Snow Flower and The Secret Fan made me physically ill, and I loved every incredible moment of it.

There were several topics covered in this novel which I wasn’t very aware of. The first was footbinding which I, naturally, had heard of but wasn’t well versed in the details. My stomach is too weak for it so I have no idea how those women’s feet handle it. Although, the maxim of the women during this time period in China was that pain tempers people into who they should become, and into beauty itself.

Nu Shu, the secret written language of the women in China, is another subject which I am woefully ignorant in. The story centered on the lives of two girls who seal into a contract to be lifelong best friends in rural China. It touches on the universal trials which trouble most close relationships between women, as the characters suffer through plagues, rebellions, children, and marriage. (Although I suppose the first two are the same as the last two, heh).

In the end, it was one of the most enchanting recent novels I have read in a very long time. It is not a happy story, and consequently, there is not a happy ending. But the substance of it by far exceeds any need for it.

You didn’t think I could go back to work without having read Harry Potter and the Mulatto, did you? I have standards!

Also, I realized that the only reason I cared about Professor Snape’s actions in this book is because Alan Rickman* plays him in the movies. But otherwise, guess how little I would care?

*Ok, so I was sadder about Sirius Black/Gary Oldham. Thanks to Carrie for the correction.

So, I’ve had four speeding tickets and the only thing I’ve learned is that the police don’t appreciate poetry which rhymes “ticket” with exactly where they can “stick it.”

This book wasn’t exactly helpful, but that might be because I didn’t need it very much. I was able to get things where I wanted them without having to go on trial. Whew.

This is one of my rare forays into non-fiction, but it came highly recommended by a friend so I decided to venture boldly into it. It’s the heartwrenching story of 26 Mexican men who walked into the US illegally, and became lost on their way causing the death of over half of them. More than just their story, and the plight of many hardworking people who are taken advantage of by the coyotes who exploit their desire to have a better life, it is also about how the men who work in the sothern counties of the border states work to keep these wanderers alive. Their job is focused more on the people’s survival than on the legalities.

I guess it was a subject that I had not thought much on but the book caused me to have two new resolves:
1. I’m never ever ever going out into the desert again. I don’t care how many indie rock bands you throw into Indio. IT’S NOT HAPPENING.
2. I have a lot more respect for certain people now, and a lot more loathing for others.

“All that false exuberance. All those lists of things boiled in one pudding-cloth! No, no! I don’t want all those things inside me, thank you.” — D.H. Lawrence on Walt Whitman

Lately, the bookstore has been receiving incredible amounts of damaged books from publishers due to poor packing. When these books come in, we call the publisher to report the damage and have them send out replacement copies. They then tell us to donate or destroy the books. In our last VHPS shippment, ‘Specimen Days’ came in damaged, and we kindly donated it to a very underpaid overworked bookshop girl to read until the book’s more permanent home of a library could be arranged.

As in Cunningham’s ‘The Hours’, his latest novel is also told in three novellas centered around an author. Instead of Virginia Woolf, it is Walt Whitman. All are set in New York. One a ghost story during the industrial revolution, the second a detective story in modern day post 9/11, and the third a science-fiction tale in the future many years after the earth had to be evacuated due to nuclear fallout. All of the stories center around three characters named Simon, Luke/Lucas, and Catherine/Cat/Catareena. They don’t build on each other as much as one will story will reveal a fact about the first.

Though the similarities between this and The Hours are apparent, they really are not similar books. The authors in which the stories are centered around play completely different roles in each of their respective novels. Whitman verses here are used by the odd, and abnormal, the abused and half-human. His lines are said in uncontrollable bursts with the quoter not fully realizing their meaning or even really wanting to have quoted him in the first place. And although I did not really enjoy this literary device I still quite adored the book. I love Cunningham’s abaility to juxtapose different stories to advance the plot in all of the tales. Even though the three stories have the same themes and motifs, the kind of writing they were differed so drastically that it made them each enjoyable to read.

Never tell me that a reviewer left you feeling vindicated for disliking a well-liked book, and then admit that the esteemed critic was JANET MASLIN.

Well, at least don’t tell me that and not expect me to laugh heartily at you.