Julia
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Eh. Jake made endless fun of me for reading this, and I can't say I blame him. Picked it up at the yoga studio one day...although it's pretty interesting to hear her claims about the “instantaneous healings” she's done (also–tests the limits of plausibility), it's totally maddening to hear someone assert that breast cancer is most often caused by women who are excellent caretakers but unable to care for themselves. Really? That's it? Eu-fucking-reka. However, I am totally on board with the idea that how people perceive their health (and/or illness) greatly affects medical outcomes. Anyway...interesting if you're ever feeling a little woo-woo.
What can I say...weakness for historical fiction. Anyway, this one was certainly a page-turner. But, apparently Gregory's interpretations of the confirmable history of Anne Boleyn are occasionally a little wild, and I figured that out (thanks, Wikipedia!) after feeling like some of the plot twists were just flat out implausible. However, adultery, incest, homosexuality–you want it, this book has it.
A beach read, for sure. I'm normally a big fan of chick lit, but [spoiler alert...although it wouldn't totally ruin a reading] the protagonist's anorexia is handled a little sloppily for my taste. Maxted has the symptoms of anorexia down to a tee, which is exactly my problem. I think the fewer “how to” manuals we give young women about disordered eating (someone with a problem could gloss over Natalie's protein-deficiency-induced hair loss and start imitating her workout regimen), the better. I'd be curious to see if other books by her were better, because that was my only (albeit major) problem.
I liked this a lot better than the other Philippa Gregory one I've read, “The Other Boleyn Girl.” I can't tell if it was because my little feminist heart appreciated reading about a woman in Tudor England whose life wasn't totally at the mercy of the men around her, or the protagonist's love interests were more appealing. Either way, consider me entertained. And pleased by the slightly cheesy happy ending.
There's something to be said for a book that'll take a day or two to read. A lot of the essays were poignant, but overall, this anthology made me feel like I should be having a quarterlife crisis like every single neurotic contributor to the collection. Which maybe I should be, but I think crises are best when they arise organically, as opposed to literary-induced.
It's hard to compare to my totally sublime experience reading Smith's first novel, “White Teeth,” for a fabulous class taught by a fabulous professor that elicited fabulous discussion. I hesitate to say that “On Beauty” is gloomier than “White Teeth.” Instead, I think “White Teeth” beautifully straddled the line between tragedy & comedy (often being both at once), and I either (quite possibly) need a class on “On Beauty” to appreciate it fully, or it was more plodding than Smith's first effort.
I know, I know, it won the Pulitzer. And there were parts of the book I absolutely adored. HOWEVER, I think it could have been a hundred pages shorter with some incisive editing, and that would have kept me turning pages like mad, instead of what actually happened, which was that I'd get really into it for a couple chapters, and then get lost in a comic book tangent. But that's just me. Overall, entertaining.
I think Elizabeth Gilbert's main strength lies in reflecting upon things without making the reader feel like she's trying to impart knowledge. She's very aware of her own shortcomings, but, at certain points, her self-awareness becomes plodding and whiny. Nonetheless, she's had an interesting life. I would give this book more stars except [SEMI-SPOILER ALERT HERE, FOR GODSSAKE LOOK AWAY IF YOU HAVEN'T READ IT YOU SICK END-OF-BOOK-READING FUCK!:] I realized rather late in the book that I strongly suspected she had cheated on her husband with the codependent boyfriend, and that sort of tarnished my sense of camaraderie with her.
While not the hottest collection of erotica ever, I give Aqua four stars for a good effort. There are some traditionally steamy stories, but also some interesting, if not entirely successful, departures from that formula. So: if you're looking for pure smut, look elsewhere, but if you wouldn't mind a little less kink for better fiction, read away. Plus, waterproof books are cool.
