#5: Russian Winter, Daphne Kalotay

I read Russian Winter in January, just as Natalie Portman won the Golden Globe for her performance in Black Swan; for awhile there, I felt surrounded by mentally unstable ballerinas with starring roles in Swan Lake. The two stories dovetailed quite nicely and I enjoyed a month filled with visions of tutus and sugar plums dancing in my head.

Like Possession and the Lauren Willeg novels, Russian Winter features lonely modern-day scholars try to figure out mysterious historical happenings who in doing so heal their own psychological wounds. In this one, professor and adoptee Grigori Solodin is trying to figure out who his parents are; before the novel opens, he has contacted the now-elderly prima ballerina Nina Revskaya, and although we don't know exactly why, she suddenly decides to auction off all of her jewelry. This jumpstarts Russian Winter's plot and brings in Drew Brooks, a recently divorced young woman who works at the auction house and is trying to unearth Nina Revskaya's biography, in order to firm up the auction catalogue. The novel moves back and forth between the present day, when Drew and Grigori start working together, to Nina's memories in Moscow before she defected. Interestingly, the present-day action is written in past tense, while Nina's memories happen in present tense, flipping perspective on "reality" and importance.

At first, I couldn't get into it. Grigori's only clue to his birth parents is a purse that contains some photos, letters, and an amber pendant. He's sure that the letters were written by Nina's husband, Viktor Elsin, and Nina has launched the auction after hearing from him - so it seemed pretty obvious, despite the book's mystery, that they are his biological parents. But then I realized that was way too easy and figured out who his parents really were - and suprisingly that got me into Russian Winter, because I knew it was going to take some serious drama to make that happen and I was looking forward to the where and the when. And then the end came and I found out I was totally wrong - the real answer was totally out of left field (but a believable left field) and I was really impressed by the actual ending, the believable surprise. It seems like a difficult feat to pull off but Kalotay managed it well.

Russian Winter also reminded me, interestingly, of Atonement and The Joy Luck Club, with the introduction of the subtle idea that the telling of stories can heal wounds, and the release of depressing/scary/embarrassing family stories (ie the truth) can free you from emotional burden. As a writer, I really connect with that message - it seems like one of literature's main purposes and the result is beautiful and powerful when done well.

At the end of the novel, Nina says, "'Who else, after I die, will even remember these people? They were real people.' It sounded silly to say it that way, not what she meant at all. What she meant was that it seemed a crime that their thoughts, their lives -- the very fact of their lives, the truth of their lives -- were lost along with them. No one to preserve the truth of who they were. Who they had been." (p. 427)

An Aside: Great Gatsby video game

Yes, there's a Great Gatsby video game that you can play on the Internet! In this supposedly original Nintendo game (Mediabistro doubts the "I found it at a yard sale" origin story), you take on the persona of Nick Carraway navigating his way through the world. The game starts out at one of Gatsby's parties, where Nick's goal is to dodge waiters (or take them out with his flying hat weapon) in an attempt to locate Gatsby.

A random Level Two, the Valley of Ashes, takes place on top of a train. I'm not quite sure what the ultimate point of The Great Gatsby game is - I couldn't get past the laser-shooting T.J. Eckleburg eyes to find out - but the game is quietly addicting, despite the annoying soundtrack.

Clearly I'm not the only one who feels this way. The game has garnered 126, 000 Facebook likes and 5,000+ tweets!

#4: The Joy Luck Club, Amy Tan

For the record, I finished Amy Tan's The Joy Luck Club for the second time at the end of January. I assigned it to my students because it oddly treads some similar ground as The Odyssey and King Arthur, but from a female/minority perspective. I really do love this novel but after three weeks of discussing it, a quiz examining it, and an exam reviewing it, I just can't be bothered to blog about it. I hope you understand.

#3: The Red Queen, Philippa Gregory

The Red Queen is book two of the Cousins' War series; I read the first book, the aptly titled The White Queen, at the end of December 2009. The first two books portray more or less the same time period, but from opposite sides, during England's War of the Roses in the 1400s. The narrators of both books are the scheming wives of powerful men: The White Queen featured Elizabeth Woodville who married the Yorkist King Edward IV whereas The Red Queen centers on Margaret Beaufort, heir to the House of Lancaster. They're both desperately trying to put their own heirs on the throne (although god knows why, they're technically all part of one family...hooray for incest!).

About halfway through both Queen books, the stories merge together; I assumed book three would focus on the ultimate outcome (the two rivals becoming grandmothers to the same future king) but Philippa Gregory's website says that the next book, The Rivers Woman out fall 2011, will focus on Elizabeth's mother, Jacquetta, a rumored witch. But I digress...

I didn't enjoy this book as much as the first, possibly because Margaret Beaufort might be one of the most annoying characters working in fiction today. As a child, she believes that she has divine visions of Joan of Arc and believes she is just as chosen, making for a lot of sanctimonious selfishness. It is slightly amusing when she utters clueless things like, "I care nothing for his good looks as I am devoid of vanity and lust, but the rightness of being his wife and becoming Queen of England haunts me like a lost love" (p. 212). But then, passage after passage, I was reminded of how much I hate people like this...because mon dieu, if you gotta let everyone know just how devout you are, you're in it for the wrong reasons.

Besides drinking the Jesus juice, Margaret harbors some serious jealous toward Elizabeth Woodville for marrying Edward IV, a mate that would have made Margaret queen. And Margaret deserved to be queen, dontcha know? "The plans were formed by a woman who thought herself the mother of a king, who could not be satisfied to be an ordinary woman," Margaret says on page 301, speaking of Elizabeth though she easily could be describing herself. "The fault of the enterprise lay in the vanity of a woman who would be queen, and who would overturn the peace of the country for her own selfish desire." She says this, of course, after she's failed to overthrow King Richard III when trying to put her own kid on the throne.

So after all this, you expect (nay, pray!) she'll get the comeuppance she so rightly deserves. The book ends before the saga concludes but historically, you know it's not going to happen. Her kid is Henry Tudor, i.e. Henry VII. She gets exactly what she wants and becomes a very powerful figure at court, far more powerful than her rival's daughter, Elizabeth of York, who ends up bearing her a grandchild. Margaret deserves a swift kick in the ass but alas, it never arrives. And that ends up being a real shame after putting up with this woman for 400 pages.

An Aside: Casting The Hunger Games

From what I've seen on the interwebs, there's a lot of speculation surrounding The Hunger Games casting but no actual news to report. (In December, the L.A. Times quoted producer Nina Jacobsen as saying they have no front-runners since they're still looking over the millions of young actors no doubt salivating for the star-making roles. That last part, of course, is mine; she just said they were still looking for someone who could capture Katniss' complexity.)

So, I offer a suggestion. Not for Katniss, but for the role of Panem president Coriolanus Snow. As I was reading Mockingjay, a book which prominently features President Snow and his white hair, a vision hit me. He should be played by this man:

Yes, Karl Lagerfeld. That is all.

#2: Mockingjay, Suzanne Collins

Thank god, Mockingjay took the plot in a new direction. Don't get me wrong, I quite enjoyed The Hunger Games - just not twice. But this last installment had serious "what's going to happen" momentum and I consumed Mockingjay in about 24 hours.

In the third and final book, the rebellion has taken center stage. Mockingjay starts with Katniss walking around the ashes of her home, District 12, which was blown to bits by the government forces after she was pulled out of the Quarter Quell arena in a massive plot by the rebels of District 13 - where she now lives with her mother, sister, and remaining survivors. Katniss is very conflicted about taking over the role of the Mockingjay, the symbolic heart of the revolution, because it will result in death and she hasn't resolved her guilt about causing death to her fellow tributes to secure her own life. The book isn't terribly complicated or filled with any surprises but it's remarkable for this - the emotional wounding of Katnisss Everdeen.

The main characters in the other two wildly popular teen series, Harry Potter and Twilight, on the other hand exhibit an utter lack of growth, which is what I came to hate about the books. I mean, the characters go through all kinds of crazy shit but at the end, they emerge unscathed and ridiculously cheerful like they've spent their respective series sunbathing on Bora Bora. How does that work? (Conversely, the emotional fallout is what I respect in works like The Lord of the Rings, Atonement, and even The Odyssey. Being good, or trying to be good, is a lot harder than being bad. If heroism was easy, everyone would be heroic. The point of these books is, the hero suffers and keeps going, despite personal consequence...making him/her a hero. Sheesh.)

Without giving away the plot, I'll just say that unlike Bella Swan, Katniss Everdeen doesn't get everything she wants wrapped up in a neat little bow at the end. She succeeds and completes her heroic journey - which I think was obvious from the outset and not actually giving anything away - but not without loss and change. And that journey - both emotional and physical - was what made for an incredible series.

An Aside: Mystery and Maxfield Parrish's Daybreak

As I mentioned in my last post, there are 22 art prints strewn throughout Steve Martin's most recent novel, An Object of Beauty. I loved these unexpected delights and yet....I found them a little confusing. I could never figure out if the print was the actual piece mentioned in the text or just a work by that particular artist meant to enhance the reading experience. (Or perhaps I am just way over-thinking this?)

The one that really stumped me though was the appearance of Maxfield Parrish's Daybreak, as the Parrish print in the text is the novel's smoking gun. This is what the gorgeous print looks like:

But then the text describes the scene differently: Lacey points to the painting and tells the narrator Daniel that her grandmother was a woman named Kitty Owen, who "was eighteen when she took off all her clothes for him and posed." Which then means that the "grandmother" has to be the figure standing up, since the figure lying down is clothed. She goes on to say that the now 92-year-old no longer has the red hair and the narrator Daniel writes, "I looked at the slender, pale girl on the cover of the book, who looked like a faun standing over an idyllic pool trimmed in iridescent tiles." From all that, I deduced that the unnamed painting in the book was just made-up since the standing figure isn't pale with red hair or standing over a pool or even "arching up, and facing the twilight" as the chapter ends with. And fine, this is a work of fiction; I accept this. But, but...then I found out Kitty Owen was a real woman who posed for Maxfield Parrish. So shouldn't it be a description of the painting featured in the book? I am confused.

And apparently, I am the only person confused. I tried googling this, but the only thing that popped up was middling reviews for this book (though interestingly, an Object of Beauty has 44 five-star reviews on Amazon, compared to a combined 30 one- and two-star reviews.) So, yup, perhaps I am way over-thinking this...though if anyone has a thought, I'm all ears.

#1: An Object of Beauty, Steve Martin

I feel conflicted about An Object of Beauty. I absolutely adore Steve Martin (and should I ever win an Oscar, I fantasize that he will be the one to hand it over) and found this novel to be a quick read on a flight home from Europe. But I didn't actually like it - I kept waiting for the action to start but it never really did...and then it ended with a dull deus en machina event. As usual, I will do a little spoiling, but only a very little bit.

An Object of Beauty tells the sordid tale of a young woman named Lacey Yeager who is determined to take Manhattan by storm, by any means possible. So it's all sex and schemes and it seems to work even though she's kinda despicable. The telling of all this comes by an old friend, narrator Daniel Franks, who documents her high-powered career in the art world in order to try to figure out her allure and her tricks. As he says in the first line, "I am tired, so very tired of thinking about Lacey Yeager, yet I worry that unless I write her story down, I will be unable to ever write about anything else." Writing this now, I sort of see a parallel with Nick Carraway and The Great Gastsby - it's another book where a passive narrator is trying to figure out why selfish people are doing bad things and why, for a time, he participates. And yet, An Object of Beauty is no Great Gatsby.

I think the main reason (and the biggest problem with the book) was that the pivotal moment - when Lacey acquires a large sum of money through devious means - comes very quietly. So quietly, in fact, that only in retrospect did I see that it was the do-or-die moment for Lacey, the moment that the entire novel hinged on. It was also the turning point for the narrator. I guess the incident was to remain as a question stuck in my mind, but it was so undramatic that I forgot about it. Which is the problem with having an emotionally distant narrator - he didn't seem to care that much about it, so why would I?

The most interesting thing about An Object of Beauty was the 22 color art prints scattered throughout the book. I was shocked when the first one appeared on page 14 (though perhaps I should have just read the book jacket more carefully). Oh, and I learned that Steve Martin and I have wildly different versions of what constitutes "sex." His descriptions and the use of the word sex didn't seem to match up in the conventional definition - and I think that might actually, randomly be my biggest takeaway. So take from that what you will.

2011's Books: Better, Much Better

Let's forget the failures of the past, shall we? Yes. We. Are. Forgetting. Now.

Here's what I'm hoping to read this year, while also recognizing that this list invariably changes as new books come out and I get distracted by shiny things:

Ancient Classics (and helpers): Metamorphosis, The Aeneid, The Iliad, The War That Killed Achilles, It's All Greek to Me

Classics: Persuasion, Villette

Biography/Autobiography: The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, Cleopatra, The Bin Ladens: An Arabian Family in the American Century, The Talented Miss Highsmith, Kitchen Confidential

Non-Fiction Travel Tales: Unlikely Destinations: The Lonely Planet Story, All Over the Map

Other Non-Fiction: Unbroken, Outliers

Fiction: An Object of Beauty, Mockingjay, Russian Winter, The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, Room, A Wizard of Earthsea, The Brightest Star in the Sky

Historical People, Fictionalized: The Red Queen, Coco Chanel and Igor Stravinsky, The Birth of Venus, Leonardo's Swans, Stealing Athena

For School: The Joy Luck Club, Shakespeare's Henry IV, Persepolis

All I can say is, wow, my taste in books has really changed in the last 10 years.

2010's Final Tally: Pathetic

And so that's where 2010 ended...at #24 with King Arthur. It is, in a word, pathetic. Especially since I am writing this post on January 16. But onto better and brighter things...really...because 2011 will be better and brighter. I hope.

#24: King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table, Roger Lancelyn Green

After The Odyssey, my students tackled about half of this King Arthur book. I think they liked it better, simply because they could understand it. It had been awhile since I had read any King Arthur, so I ended up reading the whole thing - it seemed like it would be hard to choose stories if I didn't know what the stories were, you know?

I don't much feel like delving into King Arthur - it is what it is, chivalry, damsels, evil knights, etc - but I will say that I didn't particularly enjoy this edition. Although the introduction makes it clear that these are in fact separate stories and that Green relied on different sources, the book as set up seems to be one continuous narrative. And as a result, the main characters switch personalities at the drop of a hat. In Book One, Arthur is the young king who leads England to its destined glory; he's nearly absent from Books Two and Three and then suddenly in Book Four, he's been transformed into an impotent monarch blindsided by his wife's infidelity. Lancelot flip-flops between faithful and faithless, sickened and set upon his path, depending on the story. And then Mordred - in one chapter, he's ashamed of his deviousness, but then later, he's described as being evil as his nature.

In addition, I didn't understand some of the story choices. Morgana le Fay, Arthur's usual nemesis, barely appears in this version. And then, even stranger, Green identifies Mordred as her son, instead of the commonly accepted son of Arthur and his half sister Morgawse (which then adds an interesting motivation, that of a bastard son fighting his father for his birthright). It was just weird.

#23: The Odyssey, Homer

Speaking of classics, I re-tackled this one in October. I hadn't read The Odyssey since ninth grade but since I was teaching it to ninth graders this year (ahhh, the circle of life), I needed to read it again. I remember liking it the first go-round but this time, I really recognized what a masterwork it is.

So, The Odyssey is an epic poem likely written between 800 B.C. and 700 B.C. about a Trojan War hero named Odysseus. He's brave, strong, and crafty, but he's also an Everyman, representing any individual's ability to be a hero should he/she so choose. Odysseus masterminds the Greeks' victory when he comes up with the idea for the Trojan Horse, but then the winning side pisses off the gods (lesson #1: Don't fuck with Athena) and the victors find that they're all doomed in their journeys home. Odysseus then makes several more mistakes in judgment, landing himself on Poseidon's bad side when he blinds his son, Polyphemus (lesson #2: Don't mess with a sea god when you have to sail home). As a result, Odysseus and his fleet get tossed around by the waves and as they go from port to port, either Odysseus or the crewmen make more mistakes until everyone is dead but Odysseus. Finally, ten years later and worn and torn, and with extensive help from a now-fond Athena, Odysseus makes it home to Ithaca only to find that he's presumed dead and all the eligible bachelors in the area have lodged themselves in his palace in an attempt to woo his wife and become king. Having learned from all of his rash mistakes, Odysseus bides his time and plots with his son until the book culminates in a Quentin Tarantino-style bloodbath in chapter 22. But then, happy ending, the family is reunited and the hero is restored to his rightful place. Fun!

There are so many thousands of things one could talk about with this book but most interesting, I thought, was the lingering question of whether or not Odysseus was truly a hero. For one, he's awfully whiny, especially when we first see him crying on Calypso's island. He also makes some morally questionable decisions and causes a lot of carnage (which perhaps the ancient Greeks didn't find so questionable) - is Odysseus really a hero if nearly everyone who meets him ends up dead? And perhaps most importantly, is Odysseus really a hero if he never has an original thought and takes all his direction from Athena and Zeus? In the end, he doesn't "win" by his own skill - the most important gods just like him better. I think you can see where I come down on this; my co-worker, on the other hand, argues that Odysseus is a hero simply because he keeps going. He's faced with seemingly insurmountable odds and death at every turn but the man keeps on trucking anyway. And I guess that's what makes him an Everyman and an inspiration.

It's even inspired me to read some of the classic classics this year. The Greek plays (ahem, Sophocles) killed my enthusiasm for these sorts of works in tenth grade, but I realize I may have left the canon a little abruptly. So at some point in 2011, I'm aiming to read The Iliad, Charlotte Higgins' It's All Greek to Me, and with some luck Metamorphosis and The Aeneid.

Oprah Chooses Dickens

Oprah recently selected Charles Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities and Great Expectations as her new book club picks. Clearly, I was so excited about this news a month ago that I didn't rush to post anything about it. Meh, Dickens. I've never read anything by him and I know it's a gaping hole in my literary education but...meh, I just can't get up the enthusiasm for it. I've previously attempted both of these books and never made it past page 5.

So why am I posting, you ask? One, because I posted about Freedom as her last pick and I'm trying to be more consistent with ye olde blog. But mostly because I ABSOLUTELY LOVE the cover design of the Oprah Dickens edition. I love it so much that I am considering buying it, despite the fact that I already have copies of both books...and no interest in actually reading them. (Apparently most people don't agree with me: USA Today reported that the new edition failed to crack the Top 50 on the bestseller list, theorizing that people already own these books or realize they can get them for a lot less or even for free on e-various readers.)

Apparently there's been quite a hubbub over the suitability of these classics for the average American reader. Hillary Kelly of The New Republic felt that Oprah is leading millions of the unwashed tribe astray by suggesting Dickens as a holiday hot-chocolate companion. Alan Jacobs of Wheaton College presents the counter-argument on his blog that any reading is always worth it; Beatrice.com calls Kelly's view profoundly elitist. I think all arguments have some merit - Dickens is probably not the right choice for this particular audience and I dislike the cattle mentality of Oprah's book club and yet...reading is good. So if you should choose to take up the gauntlet, I must point out that Oprah.com has posted a high school-esque reading guide to get you started.

#21 and #22: The Hunger Games and Catching Fire, Suzanne Collins

I read the The Hunger Games and Catching Fire back-to-back in October, after reading about the upcoming movie adaptation in Entertainment Weekly and generally hearing this series bandied about as "the next Twilight" (despite a distinct lack of vampires and werewolves). You know, I'm a teacher now, so I try to keep up with what the kids are reading - though despite the bestseller status, I have yet to spy one of these books in a kid's hand, alas.

The Hunger Games is the monomyth-based tale of 16-year-old Katniss Everdeen, who lives in District 12 of Panem, a post-apocalyptic country that stands in the place of a destroyed America. Every year to remind the people of the damage that rebellion can do, the Capitol demands that each district send them a teenage boy and girl to fight in the televised Hunger Games, a to-the-death battle in a horror-house arena. The tributes, as the sacrificial teens are called, are drawn by lottery and when Katniss' younger sister's name is drawn, she volunteers instead...which sends her out into the world on a hero's journey. (Like all monomythic heroes, she lacks at least one of her parents - in her case, a father - and she has a mentor, though he's not so magical. Harry Potter has a wand, Luke Skywalker has a light saber, and Katniss wields a bow.) Since the story is a trilogy - I have the third installment, Mockingjay, waiting for me at the library when I get home - I think you can pretty much guess how things turn out for Katniss in the arena as she learns the necessary lessons and achieves her destiny.

It's an interesting tale, considering it's a series about teenagers killing teenagers. Collins did a good job in navigating the minefield of how the reader can root for Katniss and want her to win, and still accept the horrific things that have to happen. I genuinely liked the first book. The second, not quite as much - despite its initial promise, Catching Fire unexpectedly mimics the premise of the first book. Which worked, I guess, for Harry Potter and Twilight but I've always found that repitition kinda boring. Still, I'm looking forward to Mockingjay, which seems likely to tread its own path.

#20: The Best of Friends, Mariana Pasternak

The Best of Friends is an interesting, troubling, strange book. As author Mariana Pasternak details her fractious friendship with (former) longtime pal Martha Stewart, she claims to be meditating on the bonds between females, hoping she will "inspire other women to take a close look at the intimacy of our friendships," as she writes in the final pages. But c'mon, we're all smarter than that! Really, The Best of Friends is a nasty tell-all marketed toward people like me who want to know more about one of the most famous/fascinating/vilified women in America. And it's written by someone who is nowhere near as famous - an oh-so fabulous Eastern European emigree/victim who will benefit by becoming just a little bit famous for writing said tell-all. These sorts of books are always strange, and hypocritical, and it's an icky strangeness and hypocrisy that the author and the reader participate in together.

Interestingly, I left the book feeling sorry for Martha Stewart, which was very much not Pasternak's point. (I gathered the ultimate point was to take revenge on Stewart for involving her in the ImClone scandal.) I felt sorry for Martha Stewart mostly because my biggest pet peeve is when people blame others for their own choices - which is what Pasternak spends the entire book doing. She is a grown woman who barely acknowledges the fact that she made an ongoing choice to stay in an allegedly damaging friendship. And reading between the lines, you start to see why Pasternak put up with this for 20 years: She liked what she got from the arrangement. Friendship with Martha brought prestige, introductions to famous people, trips, invitations to amazing events and dinners, and opportunities for her daughters. And that's cool, but she never recognizes that she used as much as she feels she got used.

In a nutshell, the two meet as young, recently-ish married women. They hang out with their husbands as a foursome, then as a threesome as Andy Stewart departs the scene. Then Stewart and Pasternak become a twosome since Martha's post-divorce needs put too much of a strain on Mariana's marriage. Over time, as we all know, Martha becomes incredibly rich and famous - and it turns out that a wealthy Martha likes to take fabulously exotic trips. Mariana can't afford it but apparently feels like she must keep up with the Joneses, so she accepts a loan from Martha and is then shocked when she receives a carefully calculated bill post-trip. She doesn't say anything, feels bitter, and yet accepts the same offer again, multiple times, restarting the cycle. And it's not just about exotic vacations: Generally speaking, the women compete with each other over things like money/clothes/men, Martha does something, Mariana doesn't like it but doesn't say anything and loses out, and so the disturbing dance continued.

Reading the book, you see that for Mariana, money is about friendship, and for Martha, money means business. And really, either viewpoint is acceptable - the problem becomes expectation. And that's really what this book made me think about: how you don't ever get to control others' actions, and the only thing you are truly entitled to is your own reaction. Mariana never addresses the problems in the friendship and yet seems incredibly bitter that Martha didn't perform to her specifications (which is ironic, considering one of the chief complaints lobbed at Martha is that she expected others to do exactly this). On page 319, she writes, "That was a lot of effort for Martha to make for someone else, and it impressed me when she gave Charlotte the champagne wedding brunch at Skylands, but having it done for me could only mean that Martha was finally beginning to be the kind of treasured friend I had always wanted her to be."

That's what The Best of Friends is really about: Martha Stewart was not the friend that Mariana Pasternak expected her to be. And instead of confronting her friend at the time or acknowledging her own free will in the situation now, Pasternak wrote a blame book, blaming Martha Stewart for everything. And in this, The Best of Friends is fascinating.

#19: The Tower, the Zoo, and the Tortoise, Julia Stuart

I've been a lazy blogger, oh so very lazy. And as a result a bit hard to remember what exactly happened in this book that I read more than two months ago. So let's see...the story revolves around a Beefeater named Balthazar, who owns the titular old tortoise, and as the book opens he is charged with the upkeep of the Royal Menagerie (or the titular zoo), which has just been moved to the titular Tower of London. And as it turns out, there are some strange folk who choose to make a 1,000-year-old stone prison their home, and The Tower, the Zoo, and the Tortoise is really about how their hopes and their disappointments come together.

Overall, it reminded me of a Maeve Binchy novel, how a singular event sheds light on individual hurts, ultimately bringing together a community in a sappy sweet happy ending. Personally, I like those kind of books, and I liked this one, but they're definitely not for everyone.

So, I offer a test to gauge your interest: "For once, he didn't feel the urge to poke her awake in order to rid himself of the harrowing illusion of sharing his bed with his Greek father-in-law, a man whose ferocious looks had led his relatives to refer to him as a good cheese in a dog's skin. Instead, he quickly got out of bed, his heart tight with anticipation. Forgetting his usual gazelle's step at such times, he crossed the room, his bare heels thudding on the emaciated carpet."

The passage comes from page two, as Balthazar gets out of bed in the wee hours to pursue his favorite passion, collecting rain (I kid you not). The language is pretty flowery, with many multi-syllabic adjectives per page, and Stuart uses a lot of quirky descriptions. If you like what you see, I would definitely recommend The Tower, the Zoo, and the Tortoise. It has a strange and lovely charm. But if the paragraph above doesn't suit, probably best just to move on.

#18: The Passage, Justin Cronin

After The Passage was unofficially anointed as THE book of the summer, I gave it to my dad for Father's Day. I was incredibly excited to read it when I got home from Europe, especially as I had been struggling through Orhan Pamuk's Snow, which I never ended up finishing. And then I spent the next four weeks trying to pass through The Passage - why was everyone so crazy about this book? I don't get it; neither does my father. And yeah, I will do a little spoiling.

The Passage reminded me quite a bit of I Am Legend (a movie that, incidentally, when PMS hits right, makes me cry like a baby). The U.S. military attempts to convert convicts into super-fighting machines but all goes awry and the superhumans escape the lab facility and turn the population into vampire-like creatures. The doorstop-sized tome then jumps about 100 years into the future, to one ragtag community that has managed to insulate itself from the monsters with bright spotlights. After a young girl appears in their midst, a group of people - who have never known the world as it was - inadvertently sets out on a journey that will save everyone.

It sounds interesting enough, but I just couldn't get through it. It was well-written (except for the fact that my particular copy had some printing issues, so the last sentence on one page didn't lead to the correct sentence on the next) but it took me forever to read. And then, I found the ending to be pretty disappointing - after 766 pages full of nitty-gritty details, you have to assume the ending. The characters are on their way to eradicating the vampires when The Passage just ends. You know they eventually will from some future documents that pepper the book, but it's like, I have to guess how they got from here to there? After 766 pages? When the whole book is essentially about saving the world?

#17: Pompeii, Robert Harris

Although I had other books stashed in my luggage, I ended up trading Good in Bed for Pompeii at some hostel since I spent most of my time in Europe/Asia tripping around ancient ruins. Even though Pompeii is set in Italy (hence the title) and I was not, it seemed to fit the mood - though I spent the entire book wondering if I had read it before.

It turns out that I had - clearly it was not memorable enough to be remembered in its entireity (though I am absolutely certain that I read it while I was in Athens in 2004) but was still enjoyable the second time around. Pompeii is the story of aquarius Marcus Attilus, who has been sent to the town of Misenum, in southern Italy, after the former aquarius disappears. When he gets there, the mighty Aqua Augusta starts mysteriously dropping in volume. Attilus sets out to fix the aquaduct before southern Italy goes dry, but little does he know that the oncoming eruption of Mt. Vesuvius is to blame.

It's a quick read and good for nipping into here and there on a trip like mine. It also made me realize that I still need to haul my ass to Pompeii - enough so that I almost considered trying to squeeze it into my itinerary. But since that never happened, I'll have to hit it up another time - probably forgetting, once again, that I read this book so it can have yet another go-around.

#16: Good in Bed, Jennifer Weiner

Before heading off to Europe this summer, I visited Half-Price Books to pick up some beach reads (ha, not that I spent much time on the beach). I had long heard about Good in Bed - mostly that it represented the best of chick-lit - and thought it might provide some easy entertainment as I made my way through half-lit hostels. Ugh - how wrong I was. I hated this book; in fact, I think it represents all that is wrong with the genre, a genre which I now pledge to stop reading (really, I promise).

Ostensibly, Good in Bed is about the protagonist's body issues. Cannie is a 28-year-old newspaper reporter who essentially loses her shit when her newly ex-boyfriend writes a magazine column about her entitled "Loving a Larger Woman." Even though Bruce is kind of a loser/creep, she decides that she wants him back and spends the next hundred pages obsessing. But then, on page 164, a surprise arrives and then the rest of the book veers off into something else (which I won't spoil)...and to somewhere else, an imaginary place called Never Never Land where screenplays magically get sold in an afternoon. I know chick lit generally contains fantastical elements but Good in Bed really went overboard - and it was eye-rolling because the characters were one-dimensional and Cannie barely agonized over/worked for any of her big decisions or accomplishments. The moral of the story seemed to be *whine a lot, get a lot* and it really pissed me off.

Before I let this one go, though, I do have to point out an error that really cracked me up. On page 26, Weiner writes, in Cannie's voice, "I felt scalded by shame, like I was wearing a giant crimson C..." But following the reference to The Scarlet Letter, Cannie wouldn't wear a C, because the letter isn't meant to represent her first name. In Nathaniel Hawthorne's classic - which I was forced to read twice in high school - the letter is an A, to represent the sin of adultery, not adultress Hester Prynne's first name. Clearly I really was meant to be an English teacher.

Predictable: Oprah Picks Franzen

Yes, all-powerful Oprah announced her book club pick yesterday: Jonathan Franzen's Freedom. It was a suprise to absolutely no one - not even to me, and I gave up on her endorsed books years ago. (I love her magazine but god help me if I don't want to poke my eyes out reading one of her modern-day book-club picks. I see the Oprah Book Club logo and I drop the book and run. Seriously.)

So, Jonathan Franzen...really? I don't think Oprah is obligated to pick poor, starving authors but c'mon, the man was just on the cover of Time-frickin'-magazine. If you know how to read, you know about this book. Plus, Franzen was too cool for Oprah school the first time around, when she picked The Corrections in 2001. He's already astronomically famous and apparently ungrateful...so why help him out, again?

Susan Orlean agrees with me. Yesterday she tweeted, under the hash tag #thatsmytwocents, "No bone to pick with Franzen, but Oprah could have anointed someone who actually NEEDED attention."

Um, yeah.