A Long Time Coming

Now, I feel like a bad blogger. But to be honest, (because let’s face it… that’s what the internet is for, is it not?) I haven’t felt much like updating it. I then proceeded to go on vacation to New Orleans, and have way too much fun and way too much food, and I really would love to be back there right about now. I have since, completed Beautiful Creatures. Having seen the movie first (yes, I know), I can say that they are to be taken as two very different entities. The movie is gorgeous as a visual piece of artwork. And I will say that it was better adapted (style-wise) than the Twilight movies were. But then again, there are no sparkling vampires in these books.

Review: Dream of Perpetual Motion (& more!)

Talk about a labor of love, or half-love. It took me so very long to get through The Dream of Perpetual Motion that I wonder if the first couple of months were worth it. I feel that most of the action-packed, sensical part of the novel was stuck towards the end. I know the back-story was important, but having finished it, it seemed terribly disjointed from the ending. Do not get me wrong, this was a fantastical idea and a glorious, steampunk, timeless world, but I just wanted to finish it after a while. I no longer wanted to relish in the descriptions, but to finish the book.

Review: Remains of the Day

Finally! I have finished Remains of the Day by the very delightful Kazuo Ishiguro. It took me quite some time to really get involved in this novel, and to care about the characters in it. I thought when I first started this book, Really. What is the big deal? This one guy is rambling on incessantly about being 'dignified' and British and being a 'proper butler.' blah blah blah... But really, once I sat down, took some time out of my day for this story, I could not put it down. I am also nearing the end of Dream of Perpetual Motion, about which I am extremely pleased (as this book has taken me quite some time to finish, as well). I made myself promise not to indulge in any recent purchases without finishing the already half-completed books waiting so patiently to be finished. After DoPM, the only book left for me to tackle is 1Q84, which I absolutely adore, and cannot wait to spend time with my nose buried deep in its pages. On a side-note: my wittiness is lacking today, so bear with my droning on in a very matter-of-fact manner.

Plot: Very simply, an aging butler takes up an employer's recommendation to take a trip for himself. The trip would have been gracefully declined if it were not for a lovely little letter Mr Stevens (the butler) received from an old co-worker. He travels the countryside of England in a six-day journey, chronicling his reminiscing on his past, his previous employer, and the delightful woman behind the letter. Slow to start? Yes. Worth it in the end? Absolutely. Not everything is what we once thought it was, our judgments cannot be relied upon, and our interactions can be deceptive of what lies beneath.

Style: Unlike Never Let Me Go, which I read first, this novel reminds me very much of Virginia Woolf's style of writing. Only with more action. There were sometimes I really wanted to slap Stevens and sort him out a little. Other times, he was really quite insightful to more than just what a butler knows, sees, feels, or doesn't feel. Writing on a four-day journey into the English countryside could really be quite boring, but to have a guide into the past and what it does to the future (or, the present) made it delightful. Just enough descriptives to understand what is happening in the scene without having it detract from the important conversations carrying on. Very passive style, very much as if an actual butler wrote these pages. I found this story unfolding across the pages, across history, much like the big reveal in Never Let Me Go, which I thoroughly enjoyed. *gasp*

Overall: This book deceived me, greatly, but not in a bad way. I guess I expected more of an admission of feelings from one person to another *spoilers,* or for the revelation to be greater... After reading page after page, I ended up craving to know what happened with Lord Darlington and Miss Kenton and Mr Stevens, Sr and everything. The current Mr Stevens can be so passe with everything that happens to him on the surface, I just want to keep poking and prodding until something substantial surfaces. I feel that this is definitely something I would read again once I am older, possibly with more life experience under my belt. Delightful, overall.

My Problem with Tom Robbins

It dawned on me this morning while I was sitting, idling time away before I was required to leave for work that Even Cowgirls Get the Blues is taking me a lot longer than it should. It’s not a terribly difficult book to read: if you majored in literature. There. I said it. I’m maybe being a little pretentious, just a little. But it also occurred to me that I enjoy this book because it completely messes with the structure of traditional, fictional composition. Do not get me wrong, he is an amazing author, an extremely versatile author, and a beautiful writer. And there are these moments where Robbins shows that he knows what’s up with the human condition, and puts little quips that make you believe he might actually want you to lose yourself in his ridiculous peacock-ing. Robbins consistently breaks the threshold between author and reader, wanting you to know that the author is real; this book is a production of human hands.

Review: Super Sad True Love Story

Yes, I know. This is terribly overdue. And, I haven’t even been keeping up with my August Break project. Bad blogger. Bad writer. You could even go so far as to call me a bad reader, seeing as how it has taken me quite some time to get through 85 pages of Even Cowgirls Get the Blues. It’s almost as if reading a whole book would seem daunting after working 6 days a week. I tell myself I will read, but then I always find an excuse to look at stuff online, or get caught up on my overwhelmed Hulu queue. Bad reader. Anyways, I am using this terribly slow Monday at work to do my review of Super Sad True Love Story.

Overall, I really did love this book. This book was recommended to me by a professor of mine a couple years ago. Upon going to a meeting to discuss my re-write for my essay on Heart of Darkness, we soon ended up discussing my goals with my degree, etc. I confessed that a world in which people no longer read books would be my ultimate dystopia, and fear. She immediately told me to read SSTLS, because it grapples with that same problem. Three years later, I finally read it, devoured it, despised it, feared its honesty, and respected its complexity.

Review: Sense of an Ending

This novel (verging on novella) was a difficult one. As was finding something to write about. Not just about this book, but in general. The inspiration to work on an extremely wonderful story idea has completely evacuated my brain. I feel that I have neglected reviewing this book, and therefore here I am. I don’t think this will be the most riveting piece of text that I will write here, but bear with me.

The Sense of an Ending. 2011 Man Booker Prize Winner, written by Julian Barnes. This book was surprising, to say the least. I didn’t know what to expect from it, just that it had to do with time, memory and other fancy stuff like that. Getting into the book, I was torn: on the one hand, I was in love with it, on the other hand, I just wanted to get through the end of it to find out this big surprise that was obviously being held back.

I would probably not read this book again but I would recommend reading it. It all started with the 65 books to read in your 20′s list: this was one of the novels listed. I dove into it expecting a grand flip in the story; from the way the story was written, the reader is made to expect something in the story, a culmination of events in the character’s life. But no. The twist doesn’t really arrive, it meanders its way through, waltzing its way into the ending as if it were the obvious choice all along. As for the writing, it was brilliant. It was written in first person, through Tony, and his memories of his life up until we meet him.

The point we get from Tony’s story: memory is fallible, people aren’t what they seem, you should never rely solely on yourself to remember your own life, and his life was pretty normal. What plagues Tony is these small interactions that bring about these “memories” that change. Once he realizes that people don’t always remember what he remembered, everything kinda changes, sorta.

I don’t really have much else to say about this book other than I do suggest reading it, but don’t expect something grand to change your life. Well, it might make you more aware of how others perceive history, but you won’t want to necessarily pick it up again.

Review: The Catcher in the Rye

The Catcher in the Rye. Authored by J.D. Salinger, and published as a complete novel in 1951. This novel was forced upon my friends back in high school. They were in the "gifted and talented" AP English class; I should have been, but I missed the testing date when I moved to Texas. However, many of my friends did not enjoy this novel at all.

I loved it. I read it in 2 full sittings. Maybe I share that shame in growing up, the sheer obviousness that adults are permanent liars/phonies. Maybe I wish that, for some people, there was someone there to catch them; maybe I wish someone was there to catch me. All I know is this book is written from a boy who wants to be Peter Pan but cannot fly off to Neverland. In total, I think that it's a must-read.

Books. More Books. Some Pie. More Books.

Today, I stumbled upon two extremely wonderful articles from buzzfeed.com regarding, wait for it.... Books! Imagine that. I cannot help but get distracted by the impending vortex of related articles that occur from just one, tiny, little book article. I also baked a pie, today. Because... Well, because I could.

The first article, titled The 25 Most Challenging Books You'll Ever Read, comes complete with 25 daunting titles, reasons why they are challenging, and finishes with an excerpt from each novel. Below is a list of the 25 pains that I now feel compelled to read. Sadly I have read only one, in full: To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf. There are others of which I have read excerpts for school (Jean Baudrillard & William Faulkner).

The Perks of Being an Introvert

This past week, I have been sick. With a cold. Just in time for the first week of summer. Oh, wait: that doesn't really bother me at all. Being extremely fair-skinned and prone to an instant sunburn, I have an official excuse for not wanting to go outside and "enjoy the weather". I have read The Perks of Being a Wallflower in one entire day. Just, wow. Why have I not read this book sooner? Like in high school, sooner? Maybe that's why I enjoyed it so much; I could relate to much of the awkward happenings (aside from the drug use, that is).

My Dream of Perpetual Reading

As of yesterday, I have successfully finished Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse-Five, which was an incredible read. There is no other good word than "harrowing." Cliche? Possibly. Fitting? Absolutely. The novel spins in and out of a tortured mind, between time and space, questionable reality, and definite existence. Although at times overwhelming, Vonnegut's prose never fails to engage: it's not like Hemingway but not Dickens either (for two extremes). I have noticed in trying to explain the plot of the novel to inquisitors, I have extreme difficulty doing the story justice. I cannot simply give a linear answer, mainly because I have not fully understood everything myself.

The Saddest Story (I promise it's only temporary)

Since my return to the hot and humid and sordid ways of Houston, I have picked up more reading, and started writing again. I am once again attempting to read The Dream of Perpetual Motion by Dexter Palmer while continuing Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut and, now, World War Z by Max Brooks. With all this random and strange and unnecessary time on my hands, I am rediscovering my love for "fantasy" and "science fiction." Yes, I just put those genres in quotes. I do not want my idea of these categories to be confused with what others' preconceived notions are. "Science Fiction" for me rests on a post-modernist ledge with a slight push of literary snobbery (Phillip K. Dick & Dan DeLillo anyone?). "Fantasy" is a little harder to define. The last books I read that could be considered "fantasy" were probably the entire Harry Potter series (I will admit to having read Twilight as well, because I was in high school when they came out and no one had any teams and I was/still am a hopeless romantic, slightly unpopular, with a knack for wondering if there really was a love that wouldn't just up and walk away one day. Okay. Maybe I was a cynical high school kid. Anyway, they're great to read when you don't want to read Frankenstein (that I have read, by now, 4 times all for different classes) or The Scarlet Letter (which I still hate with an undying passion) or school books in general). My not-so-recent, but ever-growing, obsession with Doctor Who has lead me to revisit my assumed, automatic apathy for the "fantasy" genre. I realized, I need to stop judging books by their genre (thank you B.A. in Literature) and just relearn my love of reading.

Broken Promises (and why showers are amazing)

It has been so very long since I have sat down and written something and anything here. I have neglected what I had promised to do: which was write more,  be it here, in my journal, napkins, my hand. I don't know why I feel it necessary to apologize to the reader of this, because I have let down myself more than anyone who reads my simple blog. I must say that I have good reasons (nay, excuses) for not writing more of my thoughts on reading and books and life and such. Once finishing my school, I quit my job a month later, began packing up my life, selling/donating my possessions, and now I am (sort of) on the road to Texas.

Second Chances (& double takes)

Maybe too many fingers were crossed, maybe they were double-crossed. All I know is that my door to France is closed, for now, and my escape hatch is ready to go. For now there's numbness. You know you should be feeling something, anything. But there's a shock to the system, and nothing happens. The void opens and life falls in, and there's nowhere to go but down. The crushing of dreams and the lack of emotion are soon to follow. You know that something just isn't how it should be. And so, for now, I have allowed myself more time to adjust and move along and move all of my crap. I have no time table and so everything suddenly is less stressful. And I'm staying just a little longer here in Portland before relocating to Houston.

Mrs. Dalloway, however, is now back on top of my priorities. And Remains of the Day and 1Q84, along with the copy of Dan DeLillo's Underworld, because I love his novels as well; they are always anti-capitalist, a little dark, and most intriguing.

So many books. So little time. At least I removed some stress about moving and made time for myself. Back to work for me...

There was nobody. Her words faded. So a rocket fades. It sparks, having grazed their way into the night, surrender to it, dark descends, pours over the outlines of houses and towers; bleak hill-sides soften and fall in (23) - Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway

(originally posted 5 April, 2013)

Appositively Entertaining

And so it has begun. The process of moving, the process of processing, the process of turning my life upside down. I have donated half my wardrobe, most of my electronics, aside from my computer, and terrifyingly I have decreased my personal library by half. If the title is confusing, (yes, it is technically incorrect) it happened upon me while wandering through Powell's (before I halved my library, that is) a few days ago. I picked up a new-release, with quite a nice cover jacket on it, and read the inside flap. Near the end of the summary of the novel came a string of adjectival appositive statements. Before solely judging the novel on the pretty cover and the appositives alone, I flipped through the pages, read some paragraphs here and there. It dawned on me: I enjoyed those simple, short statements more than the actual writing style of the author. Sometimes I just happens that way. And maybe it's because my English degree has ruined every existing enjoyable aspect of books for me.

finalement. finally. finalemente.

Apparently, blog posts are the best method of procrastination. Because here I am yet again, at almost 3 in the morning, multitasking to escape my mundane, necessary homework. And let's face it, after two summaries and analyses of grammar-based articles, finishing the third and final one is becoming significantly more difficult. 

Finally. This term - from hell, from death, from all ways possible - is ending. I thought this would never, ever arrive. I was beginning to doubt the continuation of time; I somehow managed to become sucked into the black hole of school never to be seen again. And now that I'm thinking more about it, I really haven't broken my rule to write once a day, because.... I have written so many words that I could have my head drained completely empty and there would still be words tattooed on the inside of my skull. 

Sorry for the morbid vision there. I guess that's what sleep deprivation, constant analysis, and no power to think for yourself does: DELIRIUM. The time is nigh. Or is it the end? It could be both: The time of the end is nigh!

.wanderlust.

And it has struck again. Post-nap insomnia followed by a dose of guilt, and maybe with a side of nostalgia. There is no title because I can't find anything to really sum this up, yet. Nor do I have any direction for this post; although it has been a while. I'm extremely ready to be done with school. Week 7 is upon me, midterms are finished, and I only have 5 papers and 2-3 exams left to my college career.

Then it's done.
School will be finished. Bachelor's degree will be acquired. And very possibly I will be moving back to Houston. And then, possibly to France.

The Melancholia of Love

Already, I have broken my own rule of writing once a day. Bad, so very bad. But to be fair, this is my last term. And this one will test all of my patience, adoration, strength, and most of all: endurance. Since it is currently 2am, and I am writing both this post and a response essay for a class, it's easy to say that maybe I need to reevaluate my time.

I have finished, just now, The Lover's Dictionary, a truly revolutionary novel. A novel novel? Having run the gamut of emotions recently (probably every day, in all actuality), I cannot say much but that this book is wonderful. It is literally, and figuratively, an A to Z of every small, and big, thing that we all experience in the best, and worst, relationships.