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.