This year, I made one big literary goal: to get through all of Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov. I read the book in the space of a couple of weeks in high school. But frankly, besides the basic plotline and a few key scenes, I couldn't remember much about the book. More importantly, I've grown up a lot as a reader and a person since then. With a huge appreciation for 19th-century Russian novelists under my belt, I figured it was time to revisit Dostoevsky's "big one." Well, I started a couple weeks ago, and I'm making my way through it verrrrry slowly. It doesn't help that I'm continuing to read other things that float across my line of vision, but I figure a book like Brothers isn't going to make very good before-bed reading.
So now, I am about 180 pages in, with about another 600 to go. So far, I am already understanding it a million times better now than I did as a gawky teenager. Part of this is surely due to the award-winning and critically-praised translation by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky that I'm using this time . The translation is clear, clean, and supposedly true to Dostoevksy's actual style and voice.
Anyway, I just wanted to mention this to you all so you might understand why my reading in the next month or so will be so erratic. I am currently finishing a new "trashy read" (and HOLY CRAP, is it the mother of awesomeness in romance - details coming soon!) and some poetry books. And I have the feeling Neil Gaiman might distract me soon, as his books are calling to me from my "bought-but-not-yet-read" shelf. But I promise that sometime in the next couple months, I will finish The Brothers Karamazov, and I will definitely be blogging about it.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Poem of the Week: "Moss-Gathering," by Theodore Roethke
It's that time of year where flowers begin to bloom but trees and plants still have that look of winter deadness to them. This paradoxical season always puts me in the mood for one of my favorite poets, Theodore Roethke. Roethke grew up with gardeners, so the world of plants and natural life inform his work quite a bit. His poetry exists in a kind of "between-place," where life and death coexist within the natural symbols of the earth. Here's one of his earliest poems, which fits this mood quite nicely. Plus, who wouldn't want to end a poem with the word "desecration"? Badass.
Moss-Gathering, by Theodore Roethke
To loosen with all ten fingers held wide and limber
And lift up a patch, dark-green, the kind for lining cemetery baskets,
Thick and cushiony, like an old-fashioned doormat,
The crumbling small hollow sticks on the underside mixed with roots,
And wintergreen berries and leaves still stuck to the top, --
That was moss-gathering.
But something always went out of me when I dug loose those carpets
Of green, or plunged to my elbows in the spongy yellowish moss of the marshes:
And afterwards I always felt mean, jogging back over the logging road,
As if I had broken the natural order of things in that swampland;
Disturbed some rhythm, old and of vast importance,
By pulling off flesh from the living planet;
As if I had commited, against the whole scheme of life, a desecration.
Moss-Gathering, by Theodore Roethke
To loosen with all ten fingers held wide and limber
And lift up a patch, dark-green, the kind for lining cemetery baskets,
Thick and cushiony, like an old-fashioned doormat,
The crumbling small hollow sticks on the underside mixed with roots,
And wintergreen berries and leaves still stuck to the top, --
That was moss-gathering.
But something always went out of me when I dug loose those carpets
Of green, or plunged to my elbows in the spongy yellowish moss of the marshes:
And afterwards I always felt mean, jogging back over the logging road,
As if I had broken the natural order of things in that swampland;
Disturbed some rhythm, old and of vast importance,
By pulling off flesh from the living planet;
As if I had commited, against the whole scheme of life, a desecration.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Four Poets For People Who Don't Read Poetry
Poets are an admittedly clique-y bunch. We like to reference other poets and poems in our work, and we tend to stick to pretty academic and art-focused subjects. But occasionally, a really great poet will break out of the mold and become loved by poets and casual readers alike. And if a poet is particularly fantastic, he or she manages to get under the skin of even non-poetry readers. So here are my recommendations for the five poets who might spark the interest of people who don't read or like poetry, including links to the poets' Poetry Foundation pages featuring some of their work.
1. Philip Larkin: I know I constantly rave about Philip Larkin on this blog, and it's for good reason. He's a ridiculously good writer who knows how to play the line between emotional resonance, humor, and a heightened sense of language. He writes about everyday subjects and everyday people because he always saw himself as just another guy, a librarian who happened to write mind-blowingly-awesome poems. Even better (or worse, if you're a Larkin addict like me), he only published four slim volumes in his entire life, so his Collected Poems make for a sweet and satisfying read that won't take longer than a week. If "This Be the Verse" doesn't make you laugh and "Aubade" doesn't stir something in you, I worry you might not be human. http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poet.html?id=3940
2. Charles Bukowski: I'm a little wary of suggesting Bukowski, since he's not exactly my cup of poetry tea. But for some reason, a lot of non-poetry-readers love his work. He's super-observant and writes in a conversational style that's easy to read. Plus his work is often so funny or preposterous or perverted that people can't help but be charmed by his down-and-outness. http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poet.html?id=924
3. Yusef Komunyakaa: Komunyakaa was one of the first poets I fell in love with. If I had to recommend one book of poetry by a single writer, I wouldn't hesitate to name Komunyakaa's Dien Cai Dau first thing. It's about his experiences in Vietnam, and it reads as beautifully and deeply as Tim O'Brien's The Things They Carried or any other war book ever written. It's an absolute must-read for anyone who loves books or humanity. http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poet.html?id=3823
4. Anne Sexton: I was a little over-ambitious as a middle-schooler and made Anne Sexton's collected poems the very first book of poetry I read. Yikes - talk about an education. She writes about really angsty subjects: her battle with depression (she eventually committed suicide), sex, and being a woman in a man's world. A lot of people compare her to Sylvia Plath, who ended up being more famous. But you know what? I'd take Anne Sexton over Plath any day of the week. Sexton's a great poet to start with if you are mad at the world and need to find a way to quietly vent. http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poet.html?id=6163
I hope this will be a nice starting point for all of you non-poetry people out there. And if you have any other suggestions for good "starter" poets, let me know!
1. Philip Larkin: I know I constantly rave about Philip Larkin on this blog, and it's for good reason. He's a ridiculously good writer who knows how to play the line between emotional resonance, humor, and a heightened sense of language. He writes about everyday subjects and everyday people because he always saw himself as just another guy, a librarian who happened to write mind-blowingly-awesome poems. Even better (or worse, if you're a Larkin addict like me), he only published four slim volumes in his entire life, so his Collected Poems make for a sweet and satisfying read that won't take longer than a week. If "This Be the Verse" doesn't make you laugh and "Aubade" doesn't stir something in you, I worry you might not be human. http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poet.html?id=3940
2. Charles Bukowski: I'm a little wary of suggesting Bukowski, since he's not exactly my cup of poetry tea. But for some reason, a lot of non-poetry-readers love his work. He's super-observant and writes in a conversational style that's easy to read. Plus his work is often so funny or preposterous or perverted that people can't help but be charmed by his down-and-outness. http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poet.html?id=924
3. Yusef Komunyakaa: Komunyakaa was one of the first poets I fell in love with. If I had to recommend one book of poetry by a single writer, I wouldn't hesitate to name Komunyakaa's Dien Cai Dau first thing. It's about his experiences in Vietnam, and it reads as beautifully and deeply as Tim O'Brien's The Things They Carried or any other war book ever written. It's an absolute must-read for anyone who loves books or humanity. http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poet.html?id=3823
4. Anne Sexton: I was a little over-ambitious as a middle-schooler and made Anne Sexton's collected poems the very first book of poetry I read. Yikes - talk about an education. She writes about really angsty subjects: her battle with depression (she eventually committed suicide), sex, and being a woman in a man's world. A lot of people compare her to Sylvia Plath, who ended up being more famous. But you know what? I'd take Anne Sexton over Plath any day of the week. Sexton's a great poet to start with if you are mad at the world and need to find a way to quietly vent. http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poet.html?id=6163
I hope this will be a nice starting point for all of you non-poetry people out there. And if you have any other suggestions for good "starter" poets, let me know!
Thursday, April 8, 2010
This Week in Trashy Reads #2
Like the last romance novel I read, I picked up this week's trashy read, Jill Shalvis's Slow Heat, because of its glowing reviews in the romance-reading world. The book just came out a couple months ago, and every major romance-reviewing website gave it a fantastic grade. And then, the killer: all the reviews mentioned that the hero had some issues with his rough childhood. Damaged characters?! Count me in!
I love me some damaged people in my romance books. I don't know why; I assume it keeps the story from feeling overly cutesy or easy. And this one definitely brought on its share of damage. The hero, professional baseball player Wade O'Riley, grew up motherless in a trailer with an alcoholic father who basically ignored the fact he had a son. Meanwhile, heroine/publicist Samantha "Sam" McNead has a wealthy and successful family with crappy morals, making her the only person fit enough to take care of her nephew, Tag. However, despite all these characters' terrible odds at life (and their super-unfortunate names), they all end up with a happy ending!
This was a good trashy read. Shalvis isn't necessarily a great writer and tends to get a little repetitive at times, but she also had the awesome ability to surprise me with small, unexpected moments between the characters. Romance novels and their characters are a pretty predictable bunch, but occasionally, a good writer knows how to play around without making things pretty and pat. There's some nice early goings-on between Samantha and Wade, who have to pretend to be in a relationship for a month to give the wayward Wade (heh, alliteration) some good press, that keeps everything from seeming too cheesy and unbelievable. Even better, Shalvis doesn't press Wade's sad past too hard. She doesn't let Wade dwell on it much, and when Wade's loser dad shows up later hoping to make amends, she makes things between the two men messy and gives them the appropriate distance needed in such a situation. Sure, the final "conflict" between Sam and Wade is as inept as every other romance novel I've ever read ever, but it's still handled pretty deftly, and the ending is a nice call-back to some earlier happenings.
So overall, I liked it a lot, and I managed to read it in only a handful of sittings. The characters are likeable but not cliche, and I actually didn't mind the baseball stuff, despite not being a fan of the sport. Plus, cute hero/kid interaction! On the other hand, I am currently working my way through Dostoevsky's masterpiece, The Brothers Karamazov, and quite frankly, Slow Heat might as well exist on a completely separate planet. Oh well; no harm in a little fun once in awhile, right?
I love me some damaged people in my romance books. I don't know why; I assume it keeps the story from feeling overly cutesy or easy. And this one definitely brought on its share of damage. The hero, professional baseball player Wade O'Riley, grew up motherless in a trailer with an alcoholic father who basically ignored the fact he had a son. Meanwhile, heroine/publicist Samantha "Sam" McNead has a wealthy and successful family with crappy morals, making her the only person fit enough to take care of her nephew, Tag. However, despite all these characters' terrible odds at life (and their super-unfortunate names), they all end up with a happy ending!
This was a good trashy read. Shalvis isn't necessarily a great writer and tends to get a little repetitive at times, but she also had the awesome ability to surprise me with small, unexpected moments between the characters. Romance novels and their characters are a pretty predictable bunch, but occasionally, a good writer knows how to play around without making things pretty and pat. There's some nice early goings-on between Samantha and Wade, who have to pretend to be in a relationship for a month to give the wayward Wade (heh, alliteration) some good press, that keeps everything from seeming too cheesy and unbelievable. Even better, Shalvis doesn't press Wade's sad past too hard. She doesn't let Wade dwell on it much, and when Wade's loser dad shows up later hoping to make amends, she makes things between the two men messy and gives them the appropriate distance needed in such a situation. Sure, the final "conflict" between Sam and Wade is as inept as every other romance novel I've ever read ever, but it's still handled pretty deftly, and the ending is a nice call-back to some earlier happenings.
So overall, I liked it a lot, and I managed to read it in only a handful of sittings. The characters are likeable but not cliche, and I actually didn't mind the baseball stuff, despite not being a fan of the sport. Plus, cute hero/kid interaction! On the other hand, I am currently working my way through Dostoevsky's masterpiece, The Brothers Karamazov, and quite frankly, Slow Heat might as well exist on a completely separate planet. Oh well; no harm in a little fun once in awhile, right?
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Two Reviews for the Price of One
This week, I finished two books, so I thought I'd just review them at once. Let the reviewing begin!
First off: Joe Hill's debut short story collection, 20th Century Ghosts, which came out in 2005. Joe Hill is Stephen King's son, and like his famous father, he writes horror with a humane edge - fantastical stories that aren't afraid to also explore the emotions of their characters. This book lives up to its title, with its ghosts and nightmarish premises and fantasy-heavy concepts. But there are three reasons to pick up a copy of this book, and they're the three best stories in the collection. The title story, "20th Century Ghosts," is as good a meditation on loss and love and obsession as you can find. Hill manages to make it scary and beautiful at the same time, not an easy combination. Meanwhile, "Bobby Conroy Comes Back from the Dead," is a zombie story without zombies; it has nothing to do with real horror at all, in fact. Instead, it's a bittersweet and well-done meditation on second chances.
Then, there is the story that totally makes this collection worth its weight: "Pop Art." The premise is bizarre, where a small number of inflatable people live among us like regular folk. But the story's heart lies in the narrator's boyhood friendship with Art, an inflatable child doomed to meet a bad end. There are a lot of short stories out there about having and losing a childhood friend, but to me, this one rang particularly true. It's absolutely wonderful. I urge everyone to find a copy of the book and just read this one story.
----------
The other book I finished this week was Li-Young Lee's The City in Which I Love You. It always amazes me that Lee manages to create such powerful poems and images out of such quiet and unobtrusive language. That's something that maybe one in a thousand poets can pull off. Lee's poems are ridiculously sensual (and I mean that in two ways: they are very much rooted in the five senses AND some of them have an intensely sexual bent to them), and they always manage to both unnerve me and lull me at the same time. This collection is a couple decades old by now, but the poems take place in a kind of timeless haze. The language is precise, soft, and careful, as if Lee is slowly pulling them out of himself. For me, the book's highlights are "My Father, In Heaven, Is Reading Out Loud," "This Room and Everything in It," "The Waiting," "A Story," and of course, "This Hour and What is Dead." It's no wonder that Lee is considered one of the masters of contemporary poet, and with a major fanbase to boot. He can add one more to the list.
First off: Joe Hill's debut short story collection, 20th Century Ghosts, which came out in 2005. Joe Hill is Stephen King's son, and like his famous father, he writes horror with a humane edge - fantastical stories that aren't afraid to also explore the emotions of their characters. This book lives up to its title, with its ghosts and nightmarish premises and fantasy-heavy concepts. But there are three reasons to pick up a copy of this book, and they're the three best stories in the collection. The title story, "20th Century Ghosts," is as good a meditation on loss and love and obsession as you can find. Hill manages to make it scary and beautiful at the same time, not an easy combination. Meanwhile, "Bobby Conroy Comes Back from the Dead," is a zombie story without zombies; it has nothing to do with real horror at all, in fact. Instead, it's a bittersweet and well-done meditation on second chances.
Then, there is the story that totally makes this collection worth its weight: "Pop Art." The premise is bizarre, where a small number of inflatable people live among us like regular folk. But the story's heart lies in the narrator's boyhood friendship with Art, an inflatable child doomed to meet a bad end. There are a lot of short stories out there about having and losing a childhood friend, but to me, this one rang particularly true. It's absolutely wonderful. I urge everyone to find a copy of the book and just read this one story.
----------
The other book I finished this week was Li-Young Lee's The City in Which I Love You. It always amazes me that Lee manages to create such powerful poems and images out of such quiet and unobtrusive language. That's something that maybe one in a thousand poets can pull off. Lee's poems are ridiculously sensual (and I mean that in two ways: they are very much rooted in the five senses AND some of them have an intensely sexual bent to them), and they always manage to both unnerve me and lull me at the same time. This collection is a couple decades old by now, but the poems take place in a kind of timeless haze. The language is precise, soft, and careful, as if Lee is slowly pulling them out of himself. For me, the book's highlights are "My Father, In Heaven, Is Reading Out Loud," "This Room and Everything in It," "The Waiting," "A Story," and of course, "This Hour and What is Dead." It's no wonder that Lee is considered one of the masters of contemporary poet, and with a major fanbase to boot. He can add one more to the list.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Poem of the Week: "The Mower," by Philip Larkin
Happy Easter, everyone! I hope you've had a great day. I'm going to keep it short and sweet in honor of the holiday. Here's a Philip Larkin poem I've always found quite charming.
The Mower, by Philip Larkin
The mower stalled, twice; kneeling, I found
A hedgehog jammed up against the blades,
Killed. It had been in the long grass.
I had seen it before, and even fed it, once.
Now I had mauled its unobtrusive world
Unmendably. Burial was no help:
Next morning I got up and it did not.
The first day after a death, the new absence
Is always the same; we should be careful
Of each other, we should be kind
While there is still time.
The Mower, by Philip Larkin
The mower stalled, twice; kneeling, I found
A hedgehog jammed up against the blades,
Killed. It had been in the long grass.
I had seen it before, and even fed it, once.
Now I had mauled its unobtrusive world
Unmendably. Burial was no help:
Next morning I got up and it did not.
The first day after a death, the new absence
Is always the same; we should be careful
Of each other, we should be kind
While there is still time.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Happy National Poetry Month!
For those of you who aren't aware, April is National Poetry Month. I'm not a particularly big fan of month-long-only celebrations of culturally relevant things, but I am still going to celebrate this wonderful month! I have several poetry-related lists and special posts in store, and I will be reading and reviewing some poetry-related books throughout the month.
Enjoy this month, and please try to read at least one good poem a day to celebrate! A good place to start: http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/.
Enjoy this month, and please try to read at least one good poem a day to celebrate! A good place to start: http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/.
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