Originally Published on my site HollYarns on March 27th, 2008
During the months of November and December, I felt rather brain-dead, tired but not sleepy, and found that I was only succored to sleep or into a state of relaxation by cheap, paperback spy/intrigue thrillers. At last, in January, roundabout the time I started The San Francisco Book and Brunch Club, my mind awakened from its winter stupor, decided it wanted stimulation, and so I started reading “literature” again.
Here are some of the books I have consumed since then with a 1-5 rating system (wherein 5=superb and 1=blargh-boring):
- The Passion of New Eve (my third reading)=4.90 for brilliance, quirkiness, and for being the inspiration for my masters thesis.
This book is enthralling in that it winds you around its metaphorical fingers like a master seductress. It is a mystery in the way that Bronte’s Jane Eyre and Dicken’s Bleak House are mysteries–stories that intrigue you as they lead you down a twisted path of discovery. It has hints of the literary Gothic (not the oftentimes cheesy mall gothic). It is a love letter to the novel in that it is a story of what makes a writer a writer, and through its adumbrating its literary forebearers–the Gothic, the 19th century British novelists–while staying firmly tied to the contemporary. The Thirteenth Tale is a perfect winter read. If only I had had a roaring fireplace to read it by…
- Lilith’s Brood (Trilogy collection of Dawn=4, Adulthood Rites=4, and Imago=3.5) by Octavia E. Butler
I generally don’t consider myself much of a fan of science fiction, but this one was suggested by Matt of the book club upon hearing that my thesis considers gender, the deconstruction and/or distortion of the binary gender system, and the construction of gender in both Western and non-Western cultures.
For me, one of the most striking scenes in this book was when the characters go to visit the giant Buddhas in Bamyan before their destruction. This scene was amazingly well-written and brought forth my memories of watching the video of these Buddhas being destroyed by the Taliban in 2001. I remember being struck by the complete inanity of such actions* and being imbued with a deep sense of sadness at the loss of such great historical landmarks (constructed in the sixth century CE).
*(Of course, not being a Muslim, I say “inanity” as I don’t believe that it should be forbidden to depict living beings [humans or animals] as Islam does.)
I was definitely expecting more from this book; more Orwellian, more Atwood at her dystopic best. Nevertheless, it was an OK read–compelling enough to pull me through to the end, but nothing spectacular.
Definitely a polemic as Nietzsche’s On the Genealogy of Morals was a polemic. It is hard to read too much at once because Hitchens’ is so blisteringly on attack. I suppose that is his point, but taking the attack level down a notch would make for a much more readable thesis.
Just delish!
At the point of reading this, I was thinking to myself, “Please no more texts that have women at the mercy of misogynistic males!*”–nevertheless, I still read it. This story is set in the last part of the period of footbinding in China and makes for an intense read in its graphic details of the cruel practice of foot mutilation alongside the general degradation and self-internalized-degradation of women in Chinese society.
*Recently read texts with women at the mercy of misogynistic males: The Blood of Flowers, The Passion of New Eve (only portions of it), A Thousand Splendid Suns, and Snow Flower and the Secret Fan.
I could only read so much of this story posed as an oral report on the takeover of the world by Zombies. Too gross, too creepy, just too much. It works well as an allegory for present political problems and unharnessed experimentation in biotechnology–but not well enough for me to read the whole thing. I recommend the first section.
I love the following quote from the book and see a possible connection being made to Walter Benjamin’s “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction” (This a note to myself for future reference, BTW!):
There was not only one photo in a negative, his father said; there were multitudes. A moment was not a single moment at all, but rather an infinite number of different moments, depending on who was seeing things and how. Paul listened to his father talk, feeling a pit open up inside him. If all this was true, his father was someone he could never really know, which scared him. Still, he liked being there amid the soft light and the smell of the chemicals. He like the series of precise steps from beginning to end, the sheet of exposed paper sliding into the developing fluid and the images rising out of nowhere, the timer going off and then the paper slipping into the fixer. The images drying, fixed in place, glossy and mysterious. (Edwards 214-5)
Started reading this before Arthur C. Clarke passed away in an attempt to better understand Kubrick’s film interpretation. Nyet–not so good of a book. Although I’ll give him some credit for sort of predicting the internet in 1968.
The SF Book and Brunch Club 