Julia
Useful for things other than the “Hidden Cancun.” Fodor's does a good job with normal guide book type stuff (prices, hours, blah de blah), and I definitely used the maps in here the most, but I much prefer the cultural sections of other guide books. If you never read those, this would be a fine all-purpose resource. Good index.
Do you ever read a book and spend the whole time wishing you had written it? Yeah, hot damn do I wish I was Ariel Levy. This book is a funny, smart, nuanced, and culturally aware look at how “girl power” has gone very, very wrong. This book is everything a sex-positive feminist (which is certainly how I identify) could want for help responding to people who want to know why the Pussycat Dolls aren't a good example of female empowerment. As Levy so eloquently says, “Raunch culture isn't about opening our minds to the possibilities and mysteries of sexuality. It's about endlessly reiterating one particular–and particularly commercial–shorthand for sexiness.” The only point where I felt she needed to tread more carefully was her discussion of porn stars. I don't think trotting out the old speculation that many of them may have suffered from sexual abuse is doing anyone any good. On that, she should have stuck with confirmable facts, like the disturbing one that although Jenna Jameson considers herself powerful, she still can't watch any of her own scenes. I finished this in two days, and would recommend it to anyone interested in a more in-depth analysis of the pop culture we ingest daily.
So I'm going to have to check out more from Hidden Travel guides...if this book was any example, they're fantastic. Not only did Harris write far and away the best (and one of the few series of) walking tours of the major Mayan ruin sites (like, we're talking good enough that you can skip the tour guides), but he really sought out the unusual in everything from restaurants to beaches. Very, very useful. My one complaint is that the index isn't as extensive as a big brand (Fodor's, Frommer's, etc) index.
Let me be clear, ya'll: I am reviewing this so that you will use it when you COME VISIT ME IN SALT LAKE CITY. PLEASE. And because they called my neighborhood in SLC (Sugarhouse) up-and-coming and hip. La la la.
But seriously, while I'm not crazy about Fodor's for foreign countries, this certainly does the trick for stateside travel–I've been brushing up on my Mormon knowledge (no, not to BECOME one, just to be better informed), and now that I feel like I'm slightly more knowledgeable than the average bear, I was pleased to learn even more in the section on Mormonism in this guide, and appreciated the writers' light touch and sense of humor. Also, Fodor's does have good restaurant reviews.
COME VISIT ME.
I'm not sure I adore this quite as much as Beloved or Sula, but am so glad to have read it. Coming back to [b:Toni Morrison 6149 Beloved Toni Morrison http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1165555299s/6149.jpg 736076] after a couple years since my last read of hers, I was just blown away by a lot of this book. Reading this really made me wish I'd taken a course in college on black masculinity (did UVa offer such a thing?)...I think all feminists interested in the intersectionality of race, class, and gender (which has been coming up again and again on feministing, lately, as it should) would benefit from reading this. At times Morrison's portraits of decay in rural America throughout the novel reminded me of the best parts of Faulkner's Absalom, Absalom: slow, slightly mystical, and walking the fine line between chilling and uplifting.
Dirty girl that I am, I almost wish this book had been condensed into the chapters on the sex organs (preciously named “Madonna del Latte” and “Privy Members”). Which were excellent. There were certainly gems in other sections of the book–informative tidbits on why we have back pain, attitudes towards hair, the bogusness of palmistry–and I LOVED how snarky he was about Freud, with other good jabs at the occasionally absurd attitude of patriarchy towards various elements of the female body, but once in a while his quirky sense of humor got a little too quirky. While in general it's fascinating to hear the skips and stops a quick mind makes (he's a positive genius with selecting funny quotes), once in a while it was a little disjointed. Don't spend too much time on it, and you'll remember some good cocktail factoids and let the rest slide.
Funnily enough, I don't particularly care for several of the poems that Boland is most famous for. However, this is one of those rare cases where the quotes on the outside of the book from reviewers are spot on...in particular, the one that mentioned “its serpentine strategy of memoir lifted into epiphany.” How true! Take the care poets give to each word in a poem, and multiply that into a novel. Some of the prose is just fantastically beautiful. Of course, Boland's struggles with reconciling her gender's history as the object of Irish poetry with her own attempts to create new poetic objects is also incredibly interesting from a feminist standpoint. It always makes me hopeful to read about intelligent women who truly own their feminisms.
Less stars because, sometimes, it is a little slow. I wished the parts where I felt absolutely engrossed in the beauty of her musings were closer together via some careful editing. Still, if you have any interest in feminism, poetry, or Ireland, a thought-provoking read.
Hmf. I mean, the basics are alright, but I don't need so many goddamn pictures. I'm going to SEE the country, alright? I would rather they expand the “about the region” section and shrink the silly colorful maps. I borrowed this from a friend, and usually get guide books from the library instead of buying, but yeah...either way, I think different companies do a much better job (Lonely Planet is still my reigning fave, although I'm eager to try another Hidden Planet guide after my experience with their Yucatan edition).
Is it bad that my fave part of this book was the ridiculous sparkly font on the cover? Really, though, despite the ostentatious and fun-loving cover, I liked the book, too. I would place it in the category of “definitely a first novel,” for its faults, but it had strong points, too. Las Vegas figures as a character in this book–at times shimmering in the evening sun, at times grimy and dust-covered–which was one of the things I liked best. Bock covers the dissolution of a marriage the best, I think, and although all the character's narratives are skillfully woven together, you end up caring more about some than about others, and not intentionally on his part, I believe. Still, overall enjoyable, and interesting to read to compare to ALLLL the hype he's gotten.
Best. Art. Coffee. Table. Book. Ever.
My dear dear dear friend Meredith gave me this book as a Christmas present, and I've been savoring it bit by bit since then. I wish desperately I could have seen the exhibit the book is based upon at the Brooklyn Museum. As a former art history minor, I was always frustrated on how you can get a really good background in art before 1990, but learning about truly contemporary art (let alone contemporary feminist art!) is rarely done through coursework. This book did wonders to fill that void in my understanding.
Linda Nochlin and Maura Reilly both wrote totally hot intros about the necessity of the plurality of feminisms–at a time when it feels like most older feminists are complaining about the younger Obama-supporting ingrates, it's especially refreshing to hear Nochlin reflect on her changing understanding of feminism(s). The global part is addressed comprehensively: seven different women from seven different regions of the world were invited to discuss the work of female artists their localities have produced, and how feminism has interacted with cultural values and historical events in those parts of the world. REALLY interesting stuff, and many gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous color plates to complete the book.
My one minor complaint (hence, four stars, not five) is while I generally really enjoyed what the individual essayists had to say, a few of them (I won't mention names) slipped into what I like to call Butlerism–the belief that you can write like Judith Butler. Only Butler can write like Butler, and god bless her for it, but if you attempt it, you'll probably sound like a bit of an asshole, and would have been more effective getting your point across in less complicated sentences.
Nonetheless, overall, tra la la for women artists!
Well, I have to say, I liked this book a lot more than I thought I would, plus Martin writes for feministing, my fave feminist blog of all time. (And, since this is going to be wordy, I would recommend it to any female friend, just because the subject matter is SO important and Martin writes well.). I first read an excerpt of it in an issue of Bitch from last summer, and got extremely annoyed when Martin lumped in “hot yoga” as one of the things this new generation of crazily perfectionist girls do as manifestations of their not-quite-full-blown-but-certainly-borderline-disordered-eating. Being a hot yoga teacher, I know from my own experience and those from other women I practice with that, if the owners of the studio and the teachers in it are committed to the authentic practice of yoga (accepting all things, your body included, as they are), then yoga works against the culture of thinness achieved at any cost.
That specific example aside, overall the book was an interesting analysis of body-loathing as our generation (meaning slightly younger than Generation X and Y, I suppose) experiences it. There are some tangents I think she should have skipped; for example, race is not adequately explored in her musings on hip-hop culture, although it is in her discussions of socioeconomic status. On the other hand, I think her exploration of what it meant to have a generation of supermoms raising us who STILL had to do a majority of the housework is incisive and fresh. The father chapter is particularly interesting.
God, this is a long-ass review. My final point, I guess, is not really a criticism per se, because although I wish the book had gone into this in more depth, that it didn't gave me more of a chance to think about my own ideas...maybe it's the yoga, but Martin introduces the idea very early that this drive for perfectionism leaves many talented, smart, motivated young women with emptiness at their core. I immediately thought, “That's because we're lacking in spiritual experiences!”, but Martin didn't address that until near the end of the book. I think a lot of what yoga has to offer, as does much of Eastern thinking, practice, and philosophy, is what we lack. At one point Martin talks about a therapist telling her weight-obsessed friend that “you are not your body,” but that misses the entire point. Women are a multiplicity of things, certainly, many of which are not visible in the mirror. To say, “I feel fat,” however, with the obvious implication that fat = bad, is in fact tantamount to saying, “I feel bad about myself,” an ugly sentiment indeed. The parsing and disassociation (“It's not me, it's just my body”) makes it even easier for women to mentally segregate, loathe, surgically alter, abuse, and occasionally starve the bodies upon which our earthly existence depends. Instead of denying our critical need to unify mind and body (tellingly, yoga means union in Sanskrit–specifically between the body and mind), the solution lies in compassion, starting first with ourselves. We ARE our bodies, as much as we our brilliant minds, and we need to love our bodies and minds as that–our own precious, impermanent resources in this lonely world.
I'll get off my soapbox now. Read the book.
Seriously, fuck Catherine MacKinnon. McElroy, a former president of Feminists for Free Expression, does a fantastic job picking apart the messy and ultimately failing argument that pornography is bad for women. Censorship and attempts to externally regulate (through governmental regulation or morality campaigns) sexuality is what is bad for women. This would be an easy book to navigate even if you're not familiar with the tensions in feminism regarding what to “do” about pornography, and even though I am familiar with the old debates, McElroy does an excellent job bringing a historical perspective that really draws out her point that when feminists and religious conservatives make friends, it's never a happy ending. My one dislike is that the book is now over 10 years old, and so doesn't cover internet porn. I wish she'd do a re-write.
Wow. Really enjoyed it. I feel like Gilbert hit her stride with this book much more so than with “[b:Eat, Pray, Love 19501 Eat, Pray, Love Elizabeth Gilbert http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1269870432s/19501.jpg 3352398].” It is such a talent to be able to capture someone sensitively, warts and all, but that is exactly what Gilbert did for the obviously complex (although I suppose we're all complex) Eustace Conway, not to mention provide some interesting and unique insight into the idea of American masculinity. Conway is endearing and infuriating in equal amounts, and I finished the book wanting desperately to know what he is up to this very minute. My one complaint is a small one–given Conway's evident desire for privacy and peace of mind, it seems curious that Gilbert, even though she and Conway are obviously close friends (I think Gilbert dated one of Conway's brothers?), would allow her completely unfettered access to his diary and personal letters. I think this truly excellent work of non-fiction would have been even more excellent had Gilbert examined how Conway's motivation to allow her to explore his life is another–at times conflictual (is that a word?)–facet of his personality.
It's possible I love this book because a small (perhaps larger than small?) part of me loves the restaurant industry. I might gripe, but it's fast-paced, sometimes scandalous, and always a sure-fire way to meet interesting people. Bourdain's book is a testament to that, and more. He's had quite a life, and is quite a writer. It's a quick, dirty, and entertaining read, plus I have a feeling if you're in New York and can figure out his thinly-veiled references, super-juicy biz gossip as well.
This is another book I read at my restaurant. I'd like to think I'm able to distinguish between chick lit that is also relatively good “reg lit,” and the chick lit that's the epitome of the whole genre. This is just plain chick lit. Although I was entertained during several late nights when the bar was slow, and finished recovering from the intensity of “The Kindness of Strangers,” I don't really have much to recommend. Bloom's protagonist does this weird internal dialogue in a different typeface than the rest of the novel, which I HATE aesthetically, and find sloppy in the literary sense as well, and then there's the total prudish approach to sex. At least in romance novels they don't beat around the bush (hah–n.p.i.). Finally, her attempts to make the heroine sympathetic sometimes just fall flat. Like a particularly weird scene involving a Lilith Fair-and-ectasy-induced epiphany. Lilith Fair, whatev. It's chick lit. Ecstasy? Really?? Weirddddddd.
Fantastic! Tiefer is as formidable a feminist theorist as she is a psychologist, plus funny to boot. This is a fascinating book exploring how sexuality is socially constructed in contemporary American culture and how medicalization and the pharmaceutical industry are doggedly at work to erase the contexts that make sexuality as complicated and nuanced as it really is. This would be an easy and accessible read even if you have no background in sex research or feminist theory, but incredibly insightful nonetheless. Tiefer is who I want to be when I grow up, combined with Sue Johanson from “Talk Sex.” I wish I could make everyone read this book.
Although the back of the book attempts to summarize without hinting at content, my friend Cecily actually recommended this to me specifically because it was about childhood sexual abuse. If that is something you prefer not to spend free time thinking about, then don't read this. After working at a sexual assault crisis hotline for 3+ years, however, I'm sort of inclined to think that because silence surrounding child victims is almost as significant a form of oppression as the abuse itself, that we'd all do well to make ourselves feel nauseated by this reality sometimes (and truly–you will feel ill). In that respect, this is a great book. Kittle has obviously done boatloads of research, and the perps in this book are not old men driving big white vans; they are, like real pedophiles, the people you would least expect, and when the horror is revealed, everyone is ready to be angry, but no one is ready to acknowledge that for every child whose story is told, countless others are silent. Her treatment of how one small community is affected by the abuse is spot-on, and she is tremendously sensitive to all the nuanced types of havoc this can wreak, especially on children not directly involved, but still having to comprehend the abuse. As a novel, it's not the best, simply good. So, expect a quick read–there is a happy ending, and I found myself racing towards it desperately (the whole read took probably 6 hours). And I do applaud Kittle for creating a work of fiction that does some consciousness-raising to boot.
A really fun book. One of my pet grievances is when serious psychopathology is misrepresented in literature, but perhaps because of Haddon's experience working with autistic youth, or maybe just because he is a caring person and careful researcher, the portrait he paints of high-functioning autism is spot-on...nuanced, and without condescension. I was totally attached to the imperfect but still well-intentioned characters by the end, and had been thoroughly amused by Haddon's light, easy writing and quirky creation.
Okay, the amount of Philippa Gregory I read is officially embarrassing. I have nothing to say in my defense except that a friend got two copies for Christmas, and gave her extra to me. This might actually be my favorite so far. Gregory always does a great job with multiple narrators, and here, two of the three narrators are the wives of Henry VIII whom the least is known about: Anne of Cleves and Katherine Howard. It being the Tudor court, there's plenty of dirt, and it's a quick, easy read. I tore through it on during the flights to and from my interview at Kansas, continually telling myself that people in airports weren't giving me skeptical looks about my literary leanings.
This book took me FOREVER to read. I feel guilty giving it two stars, because I feel that in large part, my experience with it was me being an inattentive reader. Which begs the question...is that a failing of the book, or me just attempting to read it at a place where I wasn't truly ready or willing to absorb it? There are certainly many beautiful and moving parts–Hong Kingston does not shy away from the often disturbing, shaming, and hurtful parts of being a young female Chinese-American. I'd venture a guess that a more patient reader than I would truly enjoy its unfolding.
Huh. I don't know that I have much to compare this book to...I don't usually read memoirs of a life spent having group sex combined with contemporary art criticism.
On the one hand, Millet failed to convince me that she has a healthy amount of self-esteem. On the other hand, who does, and who am I to judge? So, despite being skeeved out by some of the more graphic images (what a t-shirt that would make...this is your snatch after twenty guys who didn't use condoms...YUCK), she held my attention with some of her musings on masturbation, how childhood affects adult sexuality, and how our feelings of corporeality (is that a word?) relate to sex.
I'd only recommend it if you're feeling adventurous.
Perhaps this is silly, but because someone who I really love and admire lent me her copy, I wanted to really love this book. And then...didn't. It was good, at times very good, but also at times not very interesting, or even all that insightful. The problem was this: while the author obviously gained a tremendous amount from her year+ in India, she was not always as compelling a communicator of her experience as, say, the author of “[b:Eat Pray Love 19501 Eat, Pray, Love Elizabeth Gilbert http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1269870432s/19501.jpg 3352398].” Chalk it up to writing skills? I dunno. At any rate, this would be a good vacation read, and only furthered my feeling that I need to get my ass to the Indian subcontinent in my lifetime.
I suspect that I wouldn't be a huge fan of Didion's fiction, since she seems to be the type of woman to pride herself on not being a “typical woman” (you know, lots of slightly misogynistic male friends, blah blah blah), which drives me bonkers. However, I guess everyone is made a little more vulnerable by grief, and I found much of her memoir to be deeply moving. Well-written without ever slipping into cliches, which is a pretty formidable accomplishment given the subject matter. Strangely uplifting at the end.
Robinson achieves something fairly rare in this novel–although her second effort, Gilead is an even more stunning example of it–each character, both large and small, is treated with the utmost compassion. Things move slowly, this being the Midwest, but everything is beautiful. Really, quite a treat.
