Julia
Living outside of Virginia for the first time in my life, I get nostalgic for it (although I already know I'll miss Utah's mountains when I leave, and that's years away). So it's hard to separate my general love of Barbara Kingsolver's writing with my adoration of the rolling green hills of, for example, Nelson County in July. Which is pretty close to where Kingsolver's family's year of eating locally unfolds. But I'm not sure those feelings need to be separated; part of Kingsolver's point is that many of us have allowed ourselves to forget (or be ignorant of) where our food comes from, and that both eating and living thoughtfully include an awareness of place, and our relationships to it. It's not preachy, though, it's just plain beautiful.
I can imagine that a lot of people DO find the book preachy, but I guess what I would say to them is this: beautiful as this book is, thinking about industrial agriculture, a bottom-line-driven food industry, and our implicit (sometimes even enthusiastic) support of both is really, really challenging. It can be scary, and it can make you feel guilty about buying a bell pepper in February anywhere other than in California. Fear and guilt are okay–they are okay, if not desirable, because we have things to be scared and feel guilty about (plus, she's right...no February bell pepper from CA tastes quite the way a bell pepper from the farmer's market in the middle of summer does). That's where I think the real power of the book comes in–we open ourselves up to experience the joy of food when we allow ourselves to examine all the ways (some small, some big) that we can choose not to have anything to be scared or feel guilty about.
Animal, Vegetable, Miracle makes me excited about my farm share this summer, excited to cook, and excited to eat. Nothing quite like reading the writing of someone in touch with their own capacity for joy.
I vowed to finish this before the inauguration, and I did, but I definitely think my enjoyment was hampered by having started it at the end of fall semester...this is not necessarily a memoir that can be read in bits, and I think I didn't experience the full force of the narrative as a result of a haphazard reading schedule. Bits-and-pieces aside, obviously it was great. I can't pretend like there aren't things I think are indicative of someone's first book (first memoir, especially)...like at 400-ish pages, perhaps there was some streamlining to do? But it would be impossible for me to have read this without getting even more excited about a president I'm already ecstatic about. He is a complex, nuanced, and deep thinker, about to take office in a job that requires nothing less. Plus, he's a better orator than writer, I think (which is saying quite a lot), so I'm stoked for the next 4 years of speeches!
Hmm. It's funny to only give three stars to a book by someone who I think deserves 5+ stars for his actual work in the world...but I think I like Pema Chodron better, at least for easily accessible writings about embodying Buddhist ideals out in the messy real world. It's not that this wasn't easy to read–it was–but felt a little toooooo easy at points. Like, if you've never read anything about engaged Buddhism, here's a good starting point. I still found it a thoughtful and warm review/introduction, and it did make me excited to read more of what he has to say in the future.
White Teeth is one of my favorite books ever, and in comparison, On Beauty was good, but a little disappointing. The Autograph Man somehow manages to split the difference between the two, so I feel quite pleased at having had another opportunity to enjoy Zadie Smith's ongoing literary sparkle. Her writing style is a little hard to pin down, which I think is part of the fun; there's a sprinkling of magical realism, her obvious passion for historical detail (and I'm a sucker for Judaism), unusual plots than somehow avoid being twee, and her incisive ability to tap into the chaos and messiness of life. In sum, Ms. Smith is on my short list of people I'd love to have at a dinner party, and she'd better keep up the novel-writing game so I can continue to enjoy the fruits of her labor.
I first read Valencia for one of Susan Fraiman's brilliant seminars (I think Contemporary Women's Texts?) during the spring of my first year of college. Michelle Tea was my first introduction to real lesbian fiction, and she absolutely excels in channeling the frenetic pulse of the girl scene in San Francisco circa the early 90s. Her memoir/fiction (the lines are blurred) zings with the unbound energy of the idealistic, and when she's heartbroken, she's heartbroken to a degree I think only the young, fabulous, and broke are truly capable of. She was an epic, self-indulgent mess, but that's why it's good.
After a re-read (I was in San Francisco, and it seemed only appropriate to replace my lost copy), I have realized that, while I found it still fun and challenging and sexy and totally unique, the first time I read Valencia, it was exactly the right book at exactly the right time, you know? So I don't know that I can ever get back to my original obsession (chalk it up to diminishing idealism), but there's still plenty to really enjoy, and I'll always fondly remember how much I adored this book way back when.
Tea, on inner selves:
“I knew what I stood for, even if nobody else did. I knew the piece of me on the inside, truer than all the rest, that never comes out. Doesn't everyone have one? Some kind of grand inner princess waiting to toss her hair down, forever waiting at the tower window. Some jungle animal so noble and fierce you had to crawl on your belly through dangerous grasses just to get a glimpse.”
So I live in Utah now, right? I think I am beginning to have a pretty good grasp of Mormonism's pros (on average, they're really nice people, plus SLC Mormons provide way better support for local farmers than a whole bunch of self-righteous yuppies I know) and cons (um...patriarchy and homophobia?), and enjoy learning more the longer I live here. It's intriguing, and Jon Krakauer has come along and woven a fascinating, often terribly disturbing tale of Fundamentalist Latter Day Saints, and how such a sinister strain of fanaticism grew out of the mainstream Latter Day Saints. When you hear about crazy shit going down in the American southwest, it's FLDS, not LDS, that's at the bottom of it (Warren Jeffs and his polygamist compound being a prime example). LDS abhors the connection when it is made (which, in fairness, is mostly made by non-Mormons who don't understand that the LDS doesn't recognize FLDS as a valid offshoot of their faith), but historically speaking, the more colorful stories of Mormonism became the backbone of much of the FLDS theology and practice. Which Krakauer explores.
This book is gripping and well-written. And might give you nightmares based on the descriptions of more than a few murders, massacres, and rapes. I definitely had one or two. But the Mormon faith is one of the only homegrown American ones, I think for particularly American reasons, and it rivals (perhaps exceeds?) the conversion pace of Islam, so you'd best get reading now, because there are projected to be 265 million Mormons worldwide by 2080.
Holy shit. I can't, in all honesty, give this book 5 stars yet, because I feel like I've got at least two other re-readings ahead before the full force of Carson's work starts to really sink in. For now, though, all I can say is that I was slightly stunned...by the eloquence of her prose-poem form, the unpacking & reimagining & evolving of Greek myth that puts Eugenides to shame, and by her remarkable ability to surprise. Much gratitude to the friend who insisted I read it :)
You may or may not know this about me: I adore the national park system. Have been to many of them. Love nature, love hiking, love that we preserve nature for hiking, etc. And that is why I love Edward Abbey. The American west is a strange place. Southern Utah, in particular, looks almost martian in many regards. It is beautiful and hostile in equal parts, and to capture the sublimity of the desert in writing is, I think, an astonishing gift. This book is often straight from Abbey's diaries during his time as a renegade park ranger at Arches, when Arches was just a national monument instead of the park it is today, and HOT DAMN, does he do the area justice. He also mixes in a fair bit of anarchist get-the-fuck-out-of-your-godforsaken-cars-and-walk ranting that really resonates with me. It's sometimes a relief to know that things he strongly advocated for (disallowing camping in Arches, because of how easily sandstone erodes) have come to pass, and sometimes disheartening that other things have gotten worse (I've been stuck in a bona fide traffic jam in Yellowstone, for example). Regardless, southern Utah couldn't have asked for a more eloquent spokesperson. If you haven't seen any scenery so beautiful it stuns you silent, fly out here, I will drive your ass to Moab, and buy you your very own copy of this book.
I still suspect that if you think realllllly hard about Niffenegger's conceptualization of time travel, there would be some practical holes, but who wants to think too hard about a novel? I stole this off a friend's bookshelf on a weekend trip to Berkeley, and was done in time to return it to her. I enjoyed the prose style and the characters, flawed in all their glory, but I think the real triumph of the book is her exploration of how a few simple folds in our linear conception of time might result in life-altering wrinkles. Also, I'm a sucker for a messy love story, and for novelists who let their characters have great sex.
My first reaction to this frank and frequently painful memoir is a strong desire to pick Alexandra Fuller's brain. And ask things like, “Describe your changing perception of racial inequality in post-colonial Mozambique/Zambia/Zimbabwe. Go!” and “Have you ever been in therapy? If not, how have you survived?”. I imagine there are people in her life who read her account of a childhood filled with upheaval and felt pain and anger at what she has written. However, I think Fuller has managed, and written about, what so few of us are able to do: to understand that whatever our pasts hold, they are absolutely necessary in making us who we are today. That the acceptance is crucial to the moving on. If you are at all interested in post-colonial studies (which it is a veritable goldmine for), or would just like to read the memoir of a woman with a strong sense of self, I'd strongly recommend this book.
I'm not sure what quirk of personality has led me to find the most exquisite expressions of how I feel about people, life, the universe, and the meaning of everything in the poetry of ancient Sufi mystics, but time and again, I find myself turning to either Daniel Ladinsky's translations of Hafiz, or Coleman Barks' translations of Rumi for inspiration. The back cover of this book has a good quip on Barks' skill: “His ear for the truly divine madness in Rumi's poetry is remarkable.” Rumi's irreverent, sometimes beautifully meandering, often funny, always graceful love poems to his god (indeed, to the universe) are not to be missed. This collection took me nearly a year to get through, because so many little pieces of it jump out to be savored before moving on to the next poem, stanza, or even line, but I know I'll be returning to it again and again. In the words of Jelaluddin Chelabi, the living descendant of Rumi's lineage, “Love is the religion, and the universe is the book.”
Yeah, yeah. I know. But it's a series! I can't not finish a series! Besides, the tortured love plot that picked up in the second book continued here, and that, believe me, was a good thing. I think, although I'll probably re-read all of them at some I-need-a-break-from-grad-school point, this is the one I'd be most likely to come back to, and I've read the 4th one now as well. Review on that coming shortly.
Let me be clear: this is a teen vampire romance. Yup, and I'm standing by it as a good page-turner. In fact, since I'm already on book three of four, it appears that I'll stand by several thousand pages of teen vampire romance. I read most of this by camping lantern in the Needles section of Canyonlands, because I couldn't wait to get back to civilization to finish. It is fluff, but fast-moving, interesting fluff. My one complaint is that the teenage heroine, who is obviously beautiful, smart, compassionate, and mature, is very insecure. LAME! Give me Anne of Green Gables, give me Hermione, give me Alanna the knight from Tamora Pierce's “Song of the Lioness” quartet (Anyone? Anyone? They were awesome...and had sex in them!) I used to read in middle school, but self-conscious and second-guessing Bella? Barf. However, the female vampires are badass, and this writer is Utahan who has captivated the whole damn state with this series, and as new Utahan, I'm going to play along.
When you all (yes, you–my mostly East Coast friends reading this review) come visit me in Utah, and we traipse around the state finding great hikes and tasty restaurants, this is the guide I will likely use. So you might as well buy a copy now. Great state, and great guidebook publishing house. Love the descriptions, love the “hidden recommendations,” love the layout.
Given to me by a dear, dear friend who I now value even more for having opened my eyes to this wonderful resource! Emmons filled her book with amazing & inventive–yet not too complicated–recipes, has a great knowledge of world cuisine, and included tons of interesting sidebars to help illuminate the lesser known spices, veggies, grains, and little extras that make a vegetarian diet fantastic. LOVE it. Thanks, YB #1!
Well, gosh. In a lot of ways, I wish I'd known about this series so I could read it in bits and pieces, like Harry Potter. Because taken as a whole, read in less than a week, a lot of shit went down in these books. Crazy vampire shit. My reading pace, I will admit, may not have left me time to enjoy all the detail that was included given my fervor to figure out the plot. I stand by my opinion that the 3rd book is the most fun to read, but credit where credit is due, I never in five million years would have guessed the direction the 4th book took, so hats off to Meyer for that. All in all, if you need an airport read, a beach read, a read something that doesn't require a lot of thinking read, a moved across the country and broke up with your boyfriend read (who? me?), these books are your new best friends. Not quite Harry Potter (could anything be?), but close.
Bottom line: If you're still grieving that Harry Potter is over, this series has the backing of over 10 clinical psychology grad students at U of U, which is how I got hooked, and we're all supposed to be intelligent, right? I'd give it a try.
Right. Anyway. The teen vampire romance. Part Deux. This one goes up a star because it was captivating enough for me to finish in one night. While not exactly literature (well...not at all literature), anything that induces 540+ pages of reading in less than 12 hours should get some credit for being addictive. Plus, while Bella, the heroine, remains aggravatingly insecure, the love plot thickens! In ways that are spicier and way more fun than the first book. The author is Mormon, so I won't be getting the hot vampire sex I'd really like to be reading about, but I'm sure there's some fan fiction that's positively filthy.
As you might guess, my yoga practice has helped me become even more aware of how important I think a holistic approach to health is. And I think that, in a vast majority of respects, American attitudes (often including my own) about food, cuisine, nutrition, health, bodies, and the interactions between all those things are the antitheses of holistic. So, I'm obsessed with Michael Pollan because he presents a simple, logical, yet compassionate possible answer on how to allow food to make you both happy and well: Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants. It says that right on the cover, but like Omnivore's Dilemma, Pollan expands his guidelines in the book with humor, research, and an investigative journalist's eye. Don't read this book if you want to be told WHAT food to eat (or what food you should feel bad about eating). Read this book if you want to learn a kinder, gentler (dare I say exponentially healthier?) way HOW to eat food.
Jill Soloway, who wrote for Six Feet Under, is obviously very compelling when creating characters for HBO shows. Although at times she's VERY funny in her memoir, at other times her humor falls flat. Let me compare: I would have read a David Sedaris book of this length in an afternoon. “Tiny Ladies” took me a week. There wasn't anything that grabbed me enough to keep me hooked beyond my general feelings of “gotta finish a book once you start.” The reason this book is worth reading is that I have the suspicion that Soloway discussing her wacky and sometimes painful childhood, zany friends, and general life misadventures in person would be sidesplitting, she is undoubtedly a thoughtful and energetic feminist, and I would like to be her friend. Jill, are you on goodreads? You seem awesome!
This is a page-turner if there ever was one. So much going on in this book–a fascinating account of circus life in Depression-era America, for which a lot of really excellent research was done, and a sometimes deeply saddening account of aging in America as we do it now, in nursing homes and “assisted living.” The circus chapters really sparkle; they are action-packed yet still wholly believable. It's not the deepest book ever (some of the characters lack a little depth), but I'm totally willing to forgive that because after all the excitement, I wasn't hoping for a happy ending, but got one anyway :)
This was a very, very excellent first novel. But certainly a first novel. I can't say there are a ton of books with a more interesting premise; Truong takes a historical tidbit, that Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas had a Vietnamese cook while in Paris, and tells the story of his childhood, immigration, and struggle with his identity (he's gay) while caring for the two most famous lesbians of the decade. The best part of Truong's often sensuous writing is her ability to channel Binh's expressive love of food as a medium through which he can express his feelings, as he struggles to connect with other men (who don't share his native tongue) in first French, and then English. The only part I struggled with was Truong's sometimes confusing switches from one era of Binh's life to another. I'm generally pretty good at handling that in literature, and I don't know if the jumpiness was intended to convey both Binh's unease and nod to Stein's famous writing style, but it doesn't quite work with the overall fluidity of the novel. Still, I'd read more of her work, for sure. This is a good book for anyone who loves food, as well.
At least for me personally, this was a really, really important book to read. I've been thinking a lot lately about how I want to be in the world–what choices I want to make, where my priorities are. Pollan does a truly stellar job of exploring the complexities of the choices we are confronted with regarding food in this bountiful country, not to mention how to reconcile the industrial with the idealistic in a way that is practical yet honorable. The history of the evolution of humans and domesticated plants and animals was relatively new territory for me, but certainly much appreciated, his general conversational tone never allows the topic to be dumbed-down yet keeps it accessible, and his food writing is often sublime. I think it's rare to read a book and be conscious, after reading it, of having what you learned affect decisions in your day-to-day life. The Omnivore's Dilemma has certainly done that for me, and I would recommend it to anyone interested in thinking a little more deeply about food.
The entire time I was growing up, my feminist lawyer mother had a subscription to Vogue. I can't completely explain it myself, but woman does love her shoes. Anyway, I spent elementary school reading Steingarten articles for the mag, where he is still the food columnist. My conclusion for this book is that he is probably best in small doses. Like, monthly doses. But, if you've never read any of his stuff before, I'd check this out in one-essay-at-a-time stints. Steingarten is obviously brilliant (like, went to Harvard Law brilliant, got an order of French merit for his writing on French cuisine brilliant), and very funny (particularly when reporting on his wife's reactions to his crazy food experiments; when his quest for the perfect french fry left their NYC loft full of 100 pounds of potatoes and three deep-fryers, she muttered while walking past his mess, “Smile and the world smiles with you. Fry and you fry alone.”). And I think he's at his best when he convincingly argues that pretty much every dietitian and nutritionist ever wants to suck all the fun out of eating (he is side-splitting when talking about the toxic potential of salads), and champions instead for everything in moderation and that pleasure in the preparation and consumption of food is a critical part of true health. I think it's just that over a 300-page span, each individual essay gets lost, and the cleverness, which is definitely there in each stand-alone essay, starts to seem twee from over-crowding. If I could do it again, I'd use the index to make this the funniest reference book I've ever read–or hope to read–about food.
Given that Allende's style is magical realism, I'll be cheesy and chalk my five stars I can't completely explain to the whimsical (magical, if you will, haha) style of her prose. Of course I love a book with strong female characters, and Allende provides that in spades, but it's also a pretty interesting reminder of Chile's troubled 20th century history (los deseparecidos of the CIA-backed junta, anyone?). Allende makes you feel deeply for all the family members we meet of this multi-generational saga, and is also someone who seems always capable of capturing a sense of wonder about even the more mundane aspects of life. Tore through this LONG book in two days on a Mexican vacation, and if you're looking to be transported, I highly recommend it.