What I'm Reading: A Princess and Her Castle

Last weekend, I seriously needed a brain break, so I packed a bag and took the commuter rail up to Ipswich to spend time with my self-made family (not related, but may as well be). There, I stayed with my third set of grandparents, who spoiled me with dinners out and tons of conversation.

Mornings in Ipswich are notoriously laidback, and I knew that I would need a book to occupy my time. So I stopped by Barnes and Noble and picked up The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls. I figured that now was as good a time as any to read about dysfunctional families.

My older brother first recommended The Glass Castle, and it makes a lot of sense. We never slummed it or had an alcoholic-bordering-on-negligent father. But nonetheless, our family has had its problems.

Walls’ story is compelling and definition “gritty.” It’s incredible the hardship she faced.

Walls’ childhood was marked by “adventures,” when she and her family would pack their lives into whatever put-put car they happened to have at the time and drive someplace new. Her father was emotionally abusive and thoroughly “pickled,” as he put it. Her mother was an artist, more concerned with surviving than thriving.

"It wasn't just any tree. It was an ancient Joshua tree. It stood in a crease of land where the desert ended and the mountain began, forming a wind tunnel. From the time the Joshua tree was a tiny sapling, it had been so beaten down by the whipping wind that, rather than trying to grow skyward, it had grown in the direction that the wind pushed it. . . One time I saw a tiny Joshua tree sapling growing not to far from the old tree. I wanted to dig it up and replant it near our house. I told mom that I would protect it from the wind and water it every day so that it could grow nice and tall and straight. Mom frowned at me. 'You'd be destroying what makes it special,' she said. 'It's the Joshua tree's struggle that gives it its beauty,'" (35-38).

The beauty of Walls’ story is not necessarily in the story, despite its happy ending (she gets an Ivy League education, works in publishing in New York and marries well). The beauty is actually in the sadness, in the naïve, 7-year-old explanation of her childhood. There is little bitterness in Walls’ voice; she tells her stories as she experienced them.

I don’t know that her book deserves all the praise it received, but I’m not one to tell her that her childhood wasn’t story-worthy. It’s a little predictable, a little repetitive, a little heartbreaking. And easy to read. I devoured it pretty quickly, admittedly hungry for my own happy ending.

I think it was the Ivy League education that diminished the book’s relevancy. It’s difficult to listen to someone discuss growing up in sandstorms when I know they ended up in one of the top five schools and a posh career.

Nonetheless, it was still compelling.

The Glass Castle: A Memoir, by Jeannette Walls,  $9.

What I'm Reading: A Romance Novel

More than a year ago, I stopped in to my old school to say hi to my high school English teacher (one of the few people from home that I stay in touch with). I was hungry for a new book recommendation. After hearing me gush about how amazing Let the Great World Spin by Colum McCann was (we were actually reading the book at the same time), he handed over his copy of The History of Love: A Novel by Nicole Krauss.

I read over the back synopsis and wasn't all that thrilled. I mean, I'm not so big on the romantic stuff and this is a book with the word "love" in the title... by some chick named Nicole. It hardly sounded gritty or compelling. And after reading the mini synopsis, I thought I'd already figured out the ending.

But boy was I wrong.

I picked up The History of Love a couple weeks ago (I'm a bit behind on my book reviews) and started reading. It was on my summer Bucket List and I figured it was about time that I read it and return the book to its rightful owner. After reading The Help, I was really feeling the fiction vibe and wanted to be swept up in another fictitious life.

Ultimately, The History of Love is, yes, about love. But it's not a romance novel in the traditional, mushy meaning of the term. It's a story about love and life and the minute, seemingly insignificant, interactions between people. It's about love of self and love of words. It's about the endurance of emotion and the unconditional love of family. It's a twisting story that's fragmented at first... like a million different puzzle pieces. But by the end, everything fits together in the simplest and most beautiful stories I've read in a long time.

Explaining the story is pointless because it doesn't accurately capture the experience of reading it. Yes there are narrators and main characters and love. But the way Krauss fits it all together makes for a masterpiece of a novel. She communicates in such a way that is easy to digest and entirely understandable. And it's not predictable in the least.

"Holding hands," she writes, "...is a way to remember how it feels to say nothing together."

Krauss' words are like a Rothko painting; it's easy to look at and think Huh, I could have done that. But the fact of the matter is that you didn't. That's why she is the artist.

The History of Love by Nicole Krauss, $17.

"Why does one begin to write? Because she feels misunderstood, I guess. Because it never comes out clearly enough when she tries to speak. Because she wants to rephrase the world, to take it in and give it back again differently, so that everything is used and nothing is lost. Because it's something to do to pass the time until she is old enough to experience the things she writes about." 

-Nicole Krauss

What I'm Reading: A Timely Novel (I read fiction?!)

The Help by Kathryn Stockett, $15

Laura lent me her copy of The Help and I graciously accepted it because, well, I love getting suggestions from Laura. Also, Tolle—though enlightening—is a mentally exhausting read and I wanted something with a bit more flow.

What I got was a taped together novel with umpteen narrators and one of the most impressionable messages. Kathryn Stockett’s The Help is a new-age To Kill A Mockingbird. It’s about the relationships between black maids and their white employers in the mid-20th century south. Skeeter, a frazzled yet endearing 24-year-old comes home from college with an English degree and a fresh perspective on things. But her peers and friends, many of whom did not attend college and instead got married and had children, don’t share her sentiments.

Skeeter returns from college to rejoin a society where the most pressing issue is separate toilets for blacks and whites, where the Junior League newsletter is studied more than the Bible. And Skeeter begins to question this frozen, superficial South.

After some struggle, Skeeter, with the help of many of her neighborhood maids, compiles a collection of stories told from the maids’ perspectives. Some are heartwarming, about the maids’ intense love and connection with the white children they raise or the displays of generosity they receive from their employers. And some are heartbreaking, like the stories detailing the naïve ignorance of society women and their inability to properly love their children, and the widespread abuse (League members to non-members).

The book Skeeter writes and eventually publishes is a book within a book. Because Stockett’s The Help accomplishes exactly what she would have wanted Skeeter’s book to. Though it’s written almost 50 years after the Civil Rights movement, The Help challenges the reader to evaluate the “lines” that separate them from others in their lives.

Though the storyline is touching, it’s the presentation that puts this book on numerous “Best of” lists. Stockett actually grew up in Mississippi under the care of a black maid. She is a modern Skeeter with better hair who has had years to contemplate the circumstances of interracial relations. And that meticulous thought is evident in her writing. Skeeter and Aibileen and Milly seem tangible because their characters have been so fully developed over the past several decades, down to the way they write and pronounce “tee-vee.”

Stockett so perfectly describes the clash of a pristine and beloved Southern culture with that of the Civil Rights and hippie movements of the time. But Stockett’s humility takes the book another step further. I actually got chills after I read her post-word apologizing for any mistakes she may have made in regards to her portrayal of another culture’s experiences, language or emotion.

Mostly, this book just sparks conversation. It’s intriguing and so deeply personal. It’s about these numerous women and the way their lives intersected. And as such, it should be read in a group or a book club, or at least shared among friends (Thanks, Laura). Read it, digest it, discuss it. Just be sure to ask deeper questions than those in the “Readers’ Guide” in the back. Who really cares about beauty trends of the 60’s when there are more important things to discuss?

 

"The Help," directed by Tate Taylor, comes out in theaters August 10 and features Sissy Spacek, Viola Davis, and Emma Stone (a personal favorite). 

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What I'm Reading: Tolle's Now

I'm having a Jimmy Neutron-esque brain blast right now and am seriously praying that my fingers can keep up with my flow of consciousness.

So, to start, I'm reading Eckhart Tolle's The Power of Now and have been reading it with a grain of salt initially. In the first couple of chapters, he challenges the reader to turn of their "thinker," to stop overanalyzing everything and thinking about everything and to stop identifying their "self" with their "thinker." My problem with that is that I love the thinker within me. I love the random junk that comes pouring from my fingertips in regurgitated brain barf that, like a craftsman, I work to shape into digestible sentences and thoughts. Sometimes, when I channel that "thinker," it's like everything just explodes and my head is so full of creative inspiration that I can't possibly contain it. That's when I write.

I did understand the importance of turning off the brain, though. In my experience, I've learned the few times my head is quiet are when I'm driving, running or singing. And, really, if you think about it, that makes a lot of sense. During each of those activities, I'm so hyperfocused on everything going on around me that I'm completely in the "Now." When I drive, I'm monitoring my mirrors and the traffic and constantly revving myself up to be prepared for whatever may happen. When I run, I'm focused on my breathing, my heart rate and on the predictable pace of my feet. When I sing, I'm focused on my breathing, my control, my tone, my expressions, the sound and emotion and performance. During all of them, I'm only Now.

So while I initially recognized the importance and the benefit of shutting off the thinker, I thought it was something I didn't want to do. Until I realized that "brain barf" isn't the thinker. Brain barf is Now. It's a tool I use when I channel something so internal and pure and let it flow past my head, past my filter, through my metaphorical veins and onto my computer screen. I didn't realize it, but it's not brain barf at all. It's Now barf.

Woah.

I also didn't realize until today, but since I was about 12, my mantra was "Live in the now, never regret." I made what some people would call mistakes at a young age and I was so sick and tired of dealing with other people's responses that I just said "forget this." I chose to largely forget my past, to move on, to seek the thrill of spontaneity and of living on the edge. And I chose not to think of my "mistakes" as mistakes. I chose not to regret. I chose to learn from the situation, make any necessary changes and move on. Little did I know, but I've been far more enlightened that I could have ever realized. I had the pieces to the puzzle, just no guiding picture to help me place them all together.

I'm not even half way through the book and am having revelations. Just today, I was reading about how Tolle says that harnessing the Now is a way for people to evolve.

"What we are doing here is part of a profound transformation that is taking place in the collective consciousness of the planet and beyond: the awakening of consciousness from the dream of matter, form and separation. The ending of time. We are breaking mind patters that have dominated human life for eons" (55).

When Tolle talks about Now, he talks about the intense focus, the hyper sensitivity. He even sometimes describes it as another dimension. When we see our world through the lens of now, it's as though a filter has been removed. It's more focused. It's life in HD. When I thought more about "focus," I went on some thought roller coaster and started thinking about the "collective," and how so many more people are being diagnosed with ADHD.

At Marie Claire, I often had trouble focusing. I couldn't think straight, I couldn't process, I didn't feel motivated. I don't know where I was, but I wasn't in the Now. I was, like, floating in some timeless blurry observation tank, watching everything happen around me, the movements slow and the sound muffled. And I don't know what it is, but that's been happening more and more frequently. So I've looked into certain things that might help fight that, help motivate me and help me be more focused. Caffeine helps in the short term, endorphins and yoga are always useful... But I've been looking at drugs as well. I don't know if that's the answer to my problem, but I've seen the benefits that meds have on people around me. And it's worth an honest conversation with a doctor.

So when Tolle talks about the collective consciousness of the world, I can't help but wonder that maybe we've already digested his teachings. I mean, obviously, there's always more to learn. But people jump in and out of the Now on a whim nowadays. They can harness it by chasing thrills or adrenaline, by running or by popping a pill. And they can escape it by drowning themselves in a book, playing video games or drinking a beer.

In a weird way, I think there's a lot of truth to what Tolle argues. I just wonder if perhaps his 12 year old book is a little outdated. Maybe Adderall is the new Now. But then again, finding the Now in a pill is certainly not enlightenment. Food for thought? Or maybe I'm succumbing to the "thinker"...

What I'm Reading: Hilary Winston

I'm writing this post in the middle of April, but won't be publishing it until I'm in the Bahamas (wahooo!!) due to publicity issues and the minor, minuscule detail that the book I'm talking about doesn't come out until May 3. Be jealous.

It's been a goal of mine during co-op to read a lot more than I have since I've been in college. The unfortunate truth about being in school is that academic reading--and just about everything else--comes before reading for pleasure. I keep an ongoing list of books on my computer desktop that I want to/plan to sometime down the road read.

As it turns out, my lack of television, Internet, radio or any other means of cheap entertainment (besides people watching) means that I have been reading a lot since January. Admittedly, some books I don't bother to finish, for a variety of reasons. Some are crap. Some are difficult to read quickly, so I put them off till a later date. There's just something so addictive-ly satisfying about reading a book in a weekend. I feel accomplished and educated and witty. And when that same book makes me laugh until I tear up, all the better.

For anyone who's ever had anything shitty happen in their life, please oh please pick up a copy of My Boyfriend Wrote a Book About Me by Hilary Winston. I literally just finished it and then hopped on a (borrowed. Sorry, Lloyd) computer to write about it.

I mean, anyone who can incorporate "It looked like I shit out an alien shitting out an alien" into a published work has got to be either genius or psychotic. Or both. Either way, I looked psychotic as I was reading-slash-laughing-hysterically in a Union Square cafe yesterday.

Winston recounts the most hilarious anecdotes about her single and dating life, including the humiliating true story about the fact that her ex-boyfriend, Kyle (you can cross that name off of my future potential husband list) wrote a "fiction" about her. Given the content of his book, the only thing that was fiction was a minor anecdote about how he may have once jizzed in Winston's color treatment conditioner bottle. Classy.

Winston starts with her elementary school crushes and the boys who crushed on her, recounts her numerous gay ex-boyfriends, her first loves and her ongoing love of her cats (R.I.P. Emmett). Her stories are both hilarious and instantly familiar. And her background in comedic writing makes this book come off like a raunchier David Sedaris. Maybe funnier. Though I've never spent a night in applying Proactive and cold presses to my cat's chin acne, I get it. And I've probably done worse.

She keeps boxes of her exes stuff, like any self-respecting, emotionally-cutting girl would, and lists (yes, mine are color-coded) of ex-boyfriends.

Winston makes me think back on the hilarity of those first boyfriends, on the we-think-we're-so-grown-up talks over pre-teen sleepovers, on those awkward, post-breakup lunch dates. I would love to sit at a table with this woman and share horror stories. Maybe even start a support group. Or a chat room chain. Something. Someone needs to appreciate the retrospective humor of my life. But I could never tell it like Winston does. Nor would I necessarily feel comfortable using the poor kids' names. She's got to be the coolest fat-assed cat lady ever.

She ends on a sweet tone though. Her book, though full of details and lingering bitterness, is no Taylor Swift revenge ballad. It's just fact. Funny, outrageously uncensored fact. And unlike Kyle's scam, you can find her book in the non-fiction section. If it hasn't sold out already.

To Read or to E-Read; That is the Question

Seeing as I am an avid reader, there have been numerous opportunities when I have had the option of buying some sort of e-reader. And while I love the designer covers for the Nook, I just haven’t really understood the appeal.

The other night over dinner, one of my sisters was talking about e-readers (we’re a nerdy bunch) and mentioned that while I’m in the Bahamas, I should bring a Kindle because the screens are anti-glare. I could read it on the beach without the grease and glare of a typical touch screen.

But then we both came to the realization that books themselves are anti-glare, too. No grease or grime, no glare and you don’t even have to charge them. I’ve mentioned before that I’m a fan of the vintage feeling of reading hard copy news. When I read it online, I tend to skip over uninteresting parts, or simply read the photo captions.

I’m kind of the same way with books, too. Not only do I love the organic, often moldy smell of books, but I like having them, holding them, owning them. I find libraries difficult because I can’t stand to part with my books. Since I first fell I love with literature, I’ve dreamed of collecting an expansive library.

I want to have and hold physical books, to admire them and be able to reference them at a later date. I want to look at that copy of Eat, Pray, Love and feel inspired. For some reason, looking at a Nook or a Kindle or an iPhone just doesn’t have the same effect.

And then, of course there’s the tiny detail that I scribble all over my books. I like taking notes and underlining interesting or inspiring passages, so that when I go back and read the book again (which I actually do. You notice things differently the second or third or fourth time around), I can feel the same inspiration that I felt the first time.

I should, however, note that I do think that e-readers are generating new fiction fanatics out of techie lovers. People who wouldn't typically read (or at least as much) are more inclined to because its easier, more accessible. More readers is never a bad thing, I must admit. Even if they're reading Twilight on an e-reader.

But personally, I guess I’m just not sold on the digital readers. Despite the minuscule discount on books and the fact that it saves trees, I don’t really see the benefits. Until the e-readers can bring something new and exciting to the reading experience, I don’t think they’re a good investment. Not for a die-hard vintage bibliophile like myself.

What I'm Reading: A Modern Lolita

Given that I’m a youngster, and typically date people significantly older than I, I’ve been nicknamed Lolita by more than one person in my life. It’s flattering to a degree, but mostly creepy. Nonetheless, I like the nickname because it’s an indication that the nickname-giver reads Russian novels.

When I first read Nabokov’s Lolita, I devoured it. I always keep a book in my purse and during my breaks at work, I would sneak into the back corner of the employee lounge with my latte and read about Humbert.

For those who don’t know the story, Lolita is about a man, Humbert Humbert, and his love for the little girl, Lolita. It’s a story of lust and abuse and coercion and pedophilia. But it’s a love story, too.

I realize that I sound like a freak talking about such a terrible subject. But there’s a reason why the book is considered a contemporary classic; Nabokov’s writing is sensational. The book, written from Humbert’s perspective, manages to take the readers morals, stick them in a blender and hit puree.

Terrible as it is, I found myself rooting for Humbert in his reckless pursuit of Lolita. After all, she loved him, right? It wasn’t until I started discussing the story in a group setting that I realized how loony I sounded. I, the reader, was coerced because I was only looking at the story through Humbert’s perspective and narration. I failed to consider Lolita’s story.

But Lolita’s story is out, under the “pen name” Margaux Fragoso. Just kidding… kind of. In Fragoso’s recently released memoir, Tiger, Tiger she recants her relationship with Peter. Peter provided her a loving environment, an escape from reality. And he provided her love, from the time she was 7, when she met him, until she was 22, when he killed himself.

Written with a mix of the naivety of an abused child and the wisdom of a retrospective woman, the tale is chilling, to say the least. I’m only six chapters in, and already hooked. I think what strikes me most about Fragoso’s writing is that it’s so emotionally removed and jaded.

She describes spending time with Peter as being "like a drug high....They can make the child's world ecstatic somehow. And when it's over, for people who've been through this, it's like coming off of heroine and, for years, they can't stop chasing the ghost of how it felt."

While Nabokov’s novel swept me up in the passion of the moment, the normal-ness with which Fragoso describes innocently kissing a middle aged man (when she was 7) has the same jarring effect.

I’ll keep you posted as I work my way through her older years. But woah.

Margaux Fragoso's Tiger, Tiger, $26

What I'm Reading: A Polemic

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away (But really, it was four years ago in an office in Providence), there was a naïve little girl who have no clue what she wanted to do with her life. Actually, at that point, I--SPOILER ALERT: the little girl is me—was actually toying with the idea of being a classics major and working as a curator type. Boy was I wrong.
--
That fateful summer, I wasted away the first few friendless days shopping in the bookstore on Thayer Street. I picked up some Jane Austen fan lit, which was remarkably unremarkable, and this book called Full Frontal Feminism by Jessica Valenti. Valenti, who filled pages of empowering, but still well-organized, arguments with satire and sarcasm, inspired me.

And for our final assignment in a writing class that I signed up for because I hoped it would help my college application process, we had to write about a particular subject. Anything. Inspired by a chapter in Valenti’s book about sex education in schools, I started reading and researching. I collected everything from studies to song lyrics (“You and me baby aint nothing but mammals/ So let’s do it like they do on the Discovery Channel”) and compiled them haphazardly in a Word document, padded with personal anecdotes and experiences.
--
That fateful day, I found myself cross-legged on the floor of my professor’s office, where we had printed, cut apart, and scattered all of my paragraphs. We then laboriously worked to fit them back together into paragraphs that flowed and presented my argument in an organized fashion.

There, on the floor of that office, Brain Barf was born.

Once my argument was a little more cohesive, my professor got to reading. And, to my unexpected happiness, was actually very happy with the outcome. She liked my voice and how I was very one-sided in my debate. She called it a polemic. And when I asked what in the world a polemic was (it admittedly sounds like a plague), she pulled down a book from her shelves, a book she suggested I read that I looked up on Amazon once and forgot about entirely.
--
Last week, that book just so happened to be delivered to Marie Claire. So I’ve been reading. And while there’s so much personality in the writing that sometimes I have to wade through the “voice” to get to the point, I’m thoroughly enjoying it thus far.

"Will all the adulterers in the room please stand up?"

In Against Love: A Polemic, Laura Kipnis looks at love and all the problems that it creates. She looks at it like a social institution, but then goes further, evaluating it through the lens of Marxist institutional theory. While I haven’t gotten much further than the intro, I’m deeply fascinated by a book that incorporates a reader’s advisory. It’s as though Kipnis is daring the reader to challenge her.

And the writing style is, obviously, that of a polemicist. It’s one-sided and biased, but Kipnis acknowledges her lack of diversity in opinion and goes on to challenge contemporary thought anyway.

As a self-proclaimed romantic who’s enough of a realist to realize that my thoughts are just that—romantic—I’m finding it immensely entertaining. However, it's also a bit depressing at times; comparing a relationship to the Industrial Revolution can have that affect. I’ll keep you posted.

Against Love: A Polemic by Laura Kipnis, $11.20

Surprise :)

Exclusive Q&A: Sarah Bower’s Sins of the House of Borgia
Marie Claire Editors' Daily Dish Blog
March 8, 2011
By Marian Daniells

The Borgias were one of Renaissance Italy’s most famously corrupt families, a sultry mix between the Tudors and the Sopranos. The family history, littered with outlandish tales of murder and debauchery, has an addictive quality to it, and Showtime is set to premier The Borgias, a new series on the crime family, April 3. Against a backdrop of scandal and lust, British author Sarah Bower paints the story of Violante, a converted Jew who joins the court of Duchess Lucrezia Borgia, in her new book Sins of the House of Borgia (Sourcebooks Landmark, March 8).

We spoke with Bower about her longtime fascination with the notorious crime family, the Showtime premiere, and her own Borgia family crush.

Check out the full post here.

What I'm Reading: Madame Bovary

Speaking of "classics..."

I'm currently a hundred pages into Madame Bovary and enjoying it immensely (when I find the time). The young Mrs. Bovary is annoying as heck and I find her irrational and overly emotional and mopey behavior kind of charming. Granted, her husband is a total slob and 100% dumpable, but whining never got a girl very far.

I'm hoping that she'll end up being much more endearing the further I get into the storyline. I sincerely hope that a story about someone so un-proactive wouldn't become a classic, but with Catcher in the Rye so famous, you never know. Come on girl, prove me right.

I'll include more deets when I finish the thing (I'm also reading two other books at the same time. Oof), but I thought I'd share this not-so-new find, while we're on the subject of "classics."

I'm hoping most people have seen these at Urban Outfitters or Borders or something, but numerous classic stories are being re-released with revamped, super sexy covers. Cubin-born artist and hubby to fashionista Isabel, Ruben Toledo has released several, either already out or set to be released this year. (Check out a WWD interview with Toledo here).

But my favorite are the fabric revamps by Coralie Bickford-Smith. The woman must be a total book nerd, but her designs are so simplistic and awesome. Books on their own are pretty and decorative, but adding some texture doesn't hurt, either.

The idea of re-released classics is especially exciting to me because I sincerely hope that they inspire a new generation (that is admittedly more focused on the aesthetic) to read--and appreciate!--some old favorites. Devour Twilight all you want, my little chillins, but no romance will top the complexity of Victorian novels.

Maybe now, you really can judge a book by its cover.

Penguin Hardcover Classics, typically $20