Books of interest 1

It's the end of the month! I can't believe 2012 is already three-quarters of the way done. Here are the five books that I've come across in the past month that I think might be worth reading, along with any comments.

1. The Half-life of Facts, by Samuel Arbesman - I came across this because I was reading his Probability and Game Theory in The Hunger Games article. The book hasn't been published yet and there are no reviews, but the title intrigued me.

2. Jantsen's Gift by Pam Cope - I saw this recommended in the recent edition of Runner's World, and it got good reviews from Amazon as well.

3. The Geography of Bliss by Eric Weiner - I saw this at the local bookstore, and who doesn't want to learn where to find the happiest place on Earth?

4. The Art of Hearing Heartbeats by Jan-Phillipp Sendker - I found this at Costco early in the month, and added it to my list only because it said "Burma" on the back cover. A New York lawyer disappears without a trace, leaving his wife and daughter to figure out what happened to him.

5. My Life as Emperor by Su Tong - this one was recommended by the guy who wrote All the Flowers in Shanghai, which I hated. However, I have higher hopes for this book.

Wild, by Cheryl Strayed

If you want to find my polar opposite, someone like Cheryl seems a good place to start. She got married at 19 after a short relationship; when she was 22, she watched her mother die of cancer; she dropped out of school one paper shy of a degree; she dabbled in heroin (and possibly other drugs) after that; and she cheated on her spouse. Oh yeah, by 26 she was divorced and setting out on the Pacific Crest Trail, having never gone backpacking before. Despite our complete lack of similarity, I love this book (and I haven’t even finished it yet), which I first heard about from my uncle when we all went backpacking a few months ago. It has, of course, become wildly popular, was included on Oprah’s book club list, and as I write this, is #63 on Amazon’s Books Best Sellers list.

Before diving into why this book is awesome, I want to mention that I love the idea of hiking the PCT. Well, for the most part. The idea of traversing from Mexico to California on foot, covering the High Sierras among others, intrigues me. Less intriguing are details such as having to mail yourself resupply boxes along the PCT and, at least in certain parts, having to carry out your, um, waste (or so I’ve heard, but haven’t verified). I’ve done a lot of short backpacking trips, including lots in the Adirondacks and some in Yosemite, but never more than 2-3 nights. Even as a somewhat experienced backpacker, I wonder how I would survive a multi-month backpacking trip. Could I push through the blisters on my feet that would inevitably appear after a few days? How would I handle doing nothing but hiking day after day after day? The credit goes to Cheryl who, with no idea that most backpackers train intently for the PCT, chooses to make it her inaugural backpacking adventure.

One of my favorite things about this book is how well she blends in her hiking trip with the back stories of why she’s here. For example, early on in the book, she takes a break, removes her sock, and looks down at a black bruise on her ankle. We are transported back to her last trip to Portland, just before leaving for the PCT. She’s met up again with Joe, her heroin partner, and he’s looking for a vein in her arm. He can’t find one, asking for her ankle instead. The result of her final dance with heroin is the bruise on her ankle. She continues to do this – equally well, I might add – as the book continues. There’s the part where she talks about the condoms she brought on the PCT (who in the bleep does that?) and then transitions into a conversation with her therapist about how she’s like a guy when it comes to sex –completely “detached.”

Part of the success for her book comes from her ability to weave these stories into her trail experience. Her history is one that I think many would be likely to dismiss (I can see people thinking, “you were an addict, divorced a perfectly good husband, and then decided to hike the PCT with a pack you could hardly lift? Idiot” – and then putting the book down). However, but putting the focus on her experience hiking the PCT, she’s made herself into a character that you sympathize with and keeps her bouts of “woe is me” short and relevant. So yes, I quite liked this book, all except for one thing.

I think she messes up her chronology of the first few days of her hike. I, too, couldn’t believe it, but I’ve been through this a bunch and have no other conclusion. On p49, DAY ONE. She leaves her hotel (I believe midday, although I couldn’t find this referenced again) and hitches a ride with two Coloradoans to the PCT trailhead. She signs into the register. P51-57 is a flashback to when she thinks she’s pregnant (again, well written) and how she buys her copy of Pacific Crest Trail Volume 1: California. On p57 again, she references that she’s in a grove of “Joshua trees, yuccas, and junipers,” and also points out that she’s 1200 ft higher than she was at the start. On p59, she sees a sage plant that reminds her of her mother and gives up for the day at 4pm, even though she had intended to continue on farther. Chapter 5, p61, starts with DAY TWO. She wakes at dawn, stays in bed for an hour. She packs up, as she had done “the day before in the motel” and by noon, is over 6000 ft. She stops for lunch, falls asleep, and wakes up to rain two hours later. On p63, we’re in the “late afternoon and evening”, where she recounts seeing snow and appreciating the significance of climbing a mountain. She mentions that her “existence was beyond analogy, I realized on that second day on the trail,” confirming that we’re still on the second day. Then, on p64, chronological disaster strikes. We’re still on DAY TWO, but she realizes that it’s only been “little more than 48 hours since [her] goodbye to men who had given me a ride to the trail.” But it can’t be more than 48 hours – we’re only in DAY TWO. And we know this, because on p65, she stops for the night at 7pm, still not having reached Golden Oak Springs. She doesn’t reach Golden Oak Springs until a few hours into her third day, where she spends the night before venturing out on her fourth day on p67.

Is this really the end of the world? No, not at all. In fact, given that she took the hike in the mid-90s and the book was only published this year, I can’t imagine that there aren’t at least a few errors in recollection – although I will say that I have no proof of any such errors, and she does say that she kept a journal on her trip. It was mostly just disappointing that no one caught this discrepancy, and I post this mostly hoping that someone will correct me and prove me wrong. Even if it turns out that I’m right, the story is still worth reading, mostly because the many other errors she makes turn the book into an entertaining read. Better yet, rather than laughing at her, you’ll find yourself rooting for her at every turn, encouraging her to keep going and to discover in her journey whatever it is that she needs in order to find a better place than where she’s been since her mother died four years earlier.

All the Flowers in Shanghai, by Duncan Jepson

I...I...I, I, I..I...I. I hated this book, and I don't usually say that. I truly could not wait to finish it and forget about it. But first, the general plot line.

Feng is a young girl living in Shanghai during the 1930s. She is the second of two girls and written off by her middle-class parents, who are focused on securing a strong (ie, higher class) marriage for her sister. Freed from any responsibilities, she spends her days playing in a nearby garden where her grandfather teaches her the Latin names of flowers and gardens. She is the polar opposite of her sister, who wears make-up, dresses well, and is eager to do everything required to secure a good marriage. After finding a good suitor and going through all the wedding preparations, her sister dies. To save the family face, Feng must marry the suitor, who she's only met once. The story follows her life and how she copes with this unexpected and unwanted marriage.

I randomly picked this up at the library, based solely on the cover illustrations and the fact that I had loved Snow Flower and the Secret Fan, despite all its criticism about failing to properly represent Chinese culture and foot-binding. I saw the word "Shanghai" next to a woman's picture and thought, "wow, maybe this will be half as good as the Snow Flower one. Silly me.

My first complaint is the writing style. I really felt like every sentence started with "I". I this, I that, and I this, too. It led to a limited sense of self-reflection on the part of Feng, and made it hard to bond at all with the main character. And she needs the reader to bond with her in order to justify all of the annoying things she does. You spend half the time going "Would you please just talk to your husband?" and the other half sighing. She comes across as a self-centered spoiled brat, which is extra frustrating because she starts out the book as a down-to-earth child.

My other criticism is that the author fails to convince you that he (yes, it's a he) actually how a young Chinese woman in this situation would feel and behave. One problem with the fact that her parents had devoted all their energy to the older sister is that Feng has no understanding of sex. Now that she's married, she's supposed to give the family an heir, and her husband comes to her room nightly. As he understands her inexperience, he takes several nights before actually having intercourse, and these nights drag on and on, not only for Feng but also the reader. (This is the part where you scream "Why don't you just talk to your husband?") I understand that a Chinese woman back then might have had minimal exposure to sex, but the author does a terrible job convincing you that Feng truly doesn't even know what a penis is for. So instead you struggle through pages and pages, mostly pitying her husband. When she finally gets pregnant, it's a huge sigh of relief.

I may try Lisa See's Shanghai Girls later on, in hopes of getting a better reading of how Chinese women survived in Shanghai before the Cultural Revolution. But for now, I'm off to read something completely different.

I missed over a week!

One would think that, as a brand new blogger, I would be inclined to make sure that I always post on a regular basis. After all, isn’t that what all of the “How to start a blog” posts say? “Post on a regular basis!” Alas, work has already forced me to break that rule and within two weeks of starting. On a brighter note, perhaps it’s best to be forced to address something early in the undertaking, rather than after a rhythm has been established.

The last week at work was completely insane and consumed most of my waking hours. After subtracting a few hours for eating, sleeping and commuting, there was barely time left to breathe, much less write blog posts. This morning came along and I suddenly realized that three blog posts had passed me by, without even as much as a nod to my existence. With that slap in the face, I realized I needed to assess.

Although I don’t have a clear purpose for the blog, its initial purpose was to be the place to store passages I enjoyed, general plot summaries, and overall reflections on the book. As I have a tendency to read books and all-too-quickly forget the plots, being able to write this done would give me an easy way to reference stories I’ve already read. Unfortunately, I realized that sharing book plots would make reading my blog dangerous to anyone who hadn’t already read the book. They’d come, read the description, and know how it ends. I’ve gone through several ideas, but I think that this blog is going to have to become more multi-purpose, especially because I don’t have time to read enough books to keep the blog filled solely with book posts. And so, I have decided on the following schedule for my blog, assuming four weeks a month.

Weeks 1-3

Monday: Article on something book-related (ie, things I find online that are somehow related to reading and books)

Wednesday: Notes on the book that I am currently reading

Friday: TBD

Week 4

Monday: Article on something book-related (ie, things I find online that are somehow related to reading and books)

Wednesday: Notes on the book that I am currently reading

Friday: List of 5-10 books that I’ve discovered over the month that look interesting

This will invariably have to change as I develop a routine and there will probably be a new plan sometime in the next few weeks. I hope that this will, at least, make it easier to keep up with the blog that no one reads.

A Wedding in Haiti, by Julia Alvarez

When author Julia Alvarez's husband decides to buy a plot of land in her native Dominican Republic and start farming organic coffee, it leads to adventures that neither accepted. They befriend a young Haitian boy Piti (Kreyol for "little one"), whom they first meet when they drive by him as he makes a small kite. As they get to know each other better, Alvarez promises to attend Piti's wedding whenever he gets married, and voila, you have the story A Wedding in Haiti. I picked this up at the library, mostly because I have Alvarez's In the Time of Butterflies sitting on my floor waiting to be read.

On their way to the wedding, they stop in Bassin-Bleu, a small town in Haiti where they will meet Piti. While waiting for Piti, Alvarez notices girls on a porch step braiding each other's hair. A young man comes up and asks Alvarez if he can help them, but she turns them down. Shortly thereafter, one of the girls joins the young man and together they assess Alvarez, "see[ing] only what of value I am wearing." The girl points to various pieces of jewelry, indicating that she wants them. The boy says he's hungry and wants food. Eventually, Alvarez "turn[s] away, reduced to [her] possessions, feeling the insult of [her] presence in this place" (pg 44-45).

Why did this encounter stand out? While I was in Arusha, something similar happened to me (although admittedly a much shorter and less frustrating encounter). On our way home after picking up some oranges at the local market, a man looked at me and said, "Give me an orange." He laughed and turned back to his friend. The details have gotten hazier since then, but I'm pretty said I said "no", he said something in Swahili, and I kept walking.

With those four simple words, I was more disturbed than I like to admit. I should mention that this encounter was not an encounter with a street vendor. I had many of those and, while annoying, were expected (heck, we even have those in the U.S.). This was one random person walking by another random person who had a few oranges in her hands. Never in a million years would I ever turn to a total stranger and say, "Give me that." I'm as white as you get and the man was black - was it a racial thing? Arusha is a very touristy town - many safaris to Ngorogoro and the Serengeti start here - and I imagine that many of the white visitors in town are rich. Had he been previously successful with such requests, and thus expected to get the orange? Was he making fun of me, trying to make me stop and look confused so that he could laugh about it with friends later? I've tried many possible explanations, but I've never been able to find one that didn't paint the Tanzanian in a bad light. Unless (and this just occurred to me), his English is terrible and he didn't actually mean to say what he said. Unlikely, I think, but either way...back to Haiti.

After a few other adventures, all worth reading, they reach the wedding site and the wedding is lovely. Unfortunately, in order to make the return border crossing, Alvarez, her husband, Piti, his new wife Eseline, their baby Ludy, and the rest of the crew have to leave shortly after the ceremony. Despite the minor fact that Eseline and the baby lack any papers, they all make it back to the Dominican Republic. Life returns to normal for many months, until the 2010 Haitian earthquake. Three weeks later, Alvarez and her husband are back in the Dominican Republic, and eventually they decide to take another trip to Haiti. Although Piti and Eseline's families in Haiti are safe, Eseline is homesick and Piti wants to take her back to Haiti for some traditional family medicine.

With the pick-up loaded and a slightly different crew than last time, they head off. They meet an old woman selling scrawny fruit and purchase some pineapple, which turns out to be delicious. They stop again at the place where old ladies are selling mangoes and share the joy of watching Ludy gnaw on one, and they stop to see Eseline's godmother.

In the interest of not giving away the rest of the book, I'll stop here. I would recommend the book, although I don't think it's a must read. It's great for someone looking for a quick read in which they can disappear to a land they may never visit, meeting people who, despite having few material goods, take the author into her family. Alvarez quickly draws you into the lives of these people, and will have you laughing and crying (well, at least worrying) alongside her.

I'm a "hate reader"....or am I?

Like far too many other people, I read the whole Twilight series. I hated it – the writing is lame, Bella has no spine, and I certainly didn’t learn anything from it – and yet, I couldn’t put it down. Who knew that a vampire who drives a silver Volvo could be so addictive? Halfway through the first book, I wanted nothing more than to throw the book on the floor and scream “I quit!” At yet, each possible hour found me continuing to read. And read. Dishes were neglected, exercise wasn't even considered, and bedtimes were ignored. I read not just the first book, but the entire series. I spent most of the fourth book begging Bella to get the abortion (but suspecting that the author's Mormon background would always preclude the character from such a thing), and then just wishing she's have the #$%^ thing so I could be put out of my misery. What was wrong with me? Why did I bother to finish the first book? Worse, why did I continue to suffer through three more books after that? Worst of all, why were the books so hard to put down? These questions have haunted me for the past three years, casting doubt on my taste in books, my intelligent, and my sense of self. I have suffered, until today. The answer to these questions lies in this article in The Atlantic. Turns out, I’m a “hate reader.”

By this definition, a hate reader "will finish each hate read down to its very last word, and you may well close the covers and toss the volume across the room, but you will do it with a great, secret frisson of satisfaction because it feels so good." While I could only metaphorically throw the Twilight books across the room (my only saving grace in this whole debacle was that I borrowed the books from the library), it did feel good. However, no sooner was I relieved to have an explanation for my Twilight obsession than another, more disturbing question arose - am I really a hate reader? I've loved reading since I was little. How could I be a hate reader?

Rather than mull over the implications of being a hate reader, I decided to read further. And thank goodness I did, for I discovered that I'm only a hate reader with Twilight books (I'll bet many people are - I refuse to believe that the success of this series is because people actually thought it was well-written). For all other books, I'm a "chronological reader." It's as if the author of the article was describing how I read. Who is the chronological reader?

1. You buy (or borrow) a book.

2. You read it.

3. You repeat Steps 1 and 2 in an endless cycle whose beginning is murky and whose end will come only when you take your last breath

4. You always finish the book. For the rare book you didn't finish, you remember the title and the reason why you didn't finish. Even decades later, just thinking about the book will leave a sour taste in your mouth.

5. You're a puzzle wizard and highly reliable.

Check, check, check, sort-of-check (I don't remember the title, but it was about a Lebanese family who tried to eat only things grown in a 100 mile radius), and check. The checkmarks bring a sigh of relief. I'm not really a hate reader. I still love books. With these happy thoughts, I don't even bother to read the rest of the article?*

Does it really matter what type of reader you are? Of course not, although the article does offer book suggestions for each type of reader. I'm just thrilled to know that my obsession with Twilight doesn't mean I'm crazy.

*For completion's sake, you might also be a: book-buster, delayed onset reader (either Type 1 or Type 2), bookophile, anti-reader (this is my DH), cross-under, multi-tasker, or sleepy bedtime reader.

Water for Elephants, by Sara Gruen

Written by Sara Gruen and published in 2006, Water for Elephants (which I keep trying to call Hotel for Elephants) has been on my list of books to read for a long time, and I finally got around to it this summer. A young man, Jacob Janokowski, is in vet school at Cornell when he learns that his parents have both been killed in a car crash. In the aftermath, he runs away and joins the circus, becoming the resident veterinarian. The book is narrated by a much older Jacob who now lives in an assisted-living home. In between meal times and conversations with his nurses, he recalls his time in the circus. Unfortunately, it’s a pretty obvious plot line - the book jacket tells you that it’s a book about a bond between Jacob, Marlena, and the elephant Rosie – I enjoyed the book immensely. Gruen paints a realistic setting filled with circus characters who come to life as they struggle through the Great Depression.

One passage stood out in particular. It’s on page 109 (at least in my copy) and occurs when old Jacob is talking about both the betrayal he felt when his children sent him to an assisted-living home and how his children rarely keep him up-to-date on their events. The passage is:

And those are just the things I know about. There are a host of others they don't mention because they don't want to upset me. I've caught wind of several, but when I ask questions they clam right up. Mustn't upset Grandpa, you know.

Why? That's what I want to know. I hate this bizarre policy of protective exclusion, because it effectively writes me off the page. If I don't know what's going on in their lives, how am I supposed to insert myself in the conversation?

I've decided it's not about me at all. It's a protective mechanism for them, a way of buffering themselves against my future death, like when teenagers distance themselves from their parents in preparation for leaving home. When Simon [his son] turned sixteen and got belligerent, I thought it was just him. By the time Dinah [a daughter] go there, I knew it wasn't her fault - it was programmed into her.”

My grandfather has memory problems these days, and when I call him (we’re too far away to see each other more than once or twice a year), I often find myself unsure how much to share. Do I tell him when life is boring, work is frustrating, and I’m unhappy, or do I present things in a cheerful fashion so that he doesn’t worry about me? If I tell him, he might worry. And I’d be okay with that (after all, isn’t worrying about each other part of what makes us family?), but he’ll probably forget the details in a few days. When he forgets about it, his worrying has been for naught. But then again, when he forgets, he won’t remember that he was worried. Do I tell him about the trips I take or do I leave those out, because I know he rarely leaves the house for anything other than doctor’s appointments. I’m left with the best balance I can manage. I mention minor frustrations (“work is boring”) and leave out the bigger ones (“I don’t know what I want to do with my life”). I do not, however, think it’s a protective mechanism, at least for me. It’s looking for the best solution when no such path exists.

I was also struck by the comments about teenagers being programmed to be belligerent. It reminded me of a comment that one of my professors made in graduate school. It was an off-the-cuff remark, and went something like “Oh, and that idea that teenagers are programmed to rebel? It’s not universal.” (Of course, my professor was much more eloquent in her phrasing.) She meant that teenagers in other parts of the world don’t rebel, and that’s in an American (or at least Western)-specific experience. I didn’t ask her to elaborate and frequently regret it. Are teenagers programmed to be difficult? I lean towards no, but I have no evidence to back it up.

Since the end of the book mentions Edison’s electrocution of an elephant, it’s worth referring to one of my favorite comics.

On a semi-related note, the New York Times has started a series of articles about the poaching of African elephants. The first one is here. It makes me feel both sick and powerless. Sick that a whole animal dies for just their tusks, sick that there’s still a market for ivory, and sick that anyone would do this. Powerless because I can’t make people stop shooting elephants or buying ivory. I don’t care how poor you are, killing an elephant for its tusks should be a ticket straight to hell – and yes, I say this as I type on my laptop, secure in the knowledge that no one in my family will go hungry tonight.