"The covers of this book are too far apart." Ambrose Pierce
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:: October 2006 |
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On Beauty (Zadie Smith, 2005) |
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Howard began to feel in the party mood. Soon enough he relaxed into his role of life and soul: pressing food upon his guests, pouring their drinks, talking up his reluctant, invisible children, correcting a quotation, weighing in on an argument, introducing people to each other twice or thrice over. During his many three minute conversations he managed to be committed, curious, supportive, celebratory, laughing before you had finished your funny sentence, refilling your glass even as beaded bubbles still winked at the brim.” |
| Comments: Howard hates Rembrandt. Furthermore, he thinks he may be falling out of love with Kiki, who, although no longer the slender woman he married, is essential to his quality of life. Their eldest son has converted to Christianity and entangled himself with the seductive daughter of black right-wing icon, Monty Kipps, and Kiki insists on making friends with Monty’s enigmatic wife. Furthermore, the Belsey’s girl has galloped into intellectualism with the blinkered enthusiasm of a racehorse, while their youngest son is so ashamed of his upbringing he adopts an accent appropriate to the Bronx. Zadie Smith, the prize-winning author of White Teeth, tackles issues of color, class, and gender (and every which way you can mix those up), in this, her prize-winning third novel; a twenty-first century comedy combining the domestic farce of a Mozart opera with a sly homage to E. M. Forster's Howards End. Read both books together |
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:: August 2006 |
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Birds Without Wings (Louis de Berniere, 2005) |
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"The town of which I speak was finally destroyed by two earthquakes, in 1956 and 1957. It is now populated by small lizards and huge cicadas. Stiff grasses grow up between the stones, and the voices of the nightingales, whose masses improvisations at night used to drive the populace crazy with sleeplessness, now drift out across a sea of rubble, and away over a quiet river that has grown preoccupied and sad. The few peasants who come to cultivate the strips of land along the banks look up at the ruins, where their children forage for old knives and coins, and try to imagine how it used to be. 'It should be rebuilt,' they often say, but then someone says,''I wouldn't live there; there are too many ghosts.'" |
| Comments: Jill M.selected our book this month, which she enjoyed as it "helped me understand the deep seated hatred between the Greeks and Turks." Her choice is roundly supported by book critiques who seemed to run out of adjectives when describing Bernières's latest effort: "Astonishing, and compulsively readable.” -- Los Angeles Times Book Review, "Fascinating, evocative. . . . Rich and compelling. . . . A thrilling ride through a whirlwind of history. . . . De Bernieres has reached heights that few modern novelists ever attempt." --The Washington Post, "Engrossing. . . . The prose is gorgeous. . . . Everyone in this cast of characters is someone memorable, and their lives and fates intertwine to make a marvelously engaging story of a village." --Chicago Tribune, "Marvelous. . . . Breathtaking. . . . Heartbreaking yet resplendent. . . . De Bernières masterfully explores the terrible price of love, politics and war. . . . [He is] a magnificent storyteller." --The Miami Herald, "A masterpiece. . . . Display[s] de Bernières' remarkable literary voice: erudite, compelling, witty." --USA Today, etc, etc. Goodness me! |
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:: May 2006 |
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Never Let Me Go (Kazuo Ishiguro, 2005) |
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"Anyway, what I was doing was swaying about slowly in time to the song, holding an imaginary baby to my breast.In fact, to make it all the more embarrassing, it was one of those times I'd grabbed a pillow to stand in for the baby, and I was doing this slow dance, my eyes closed, singing along softly each time those lines came around again: 'Oh baby, baby, never let me go...' The song was almost over when something made me realize I wasn't alone, and I opened my eyes to find myself staring at Madame framed in the doorway. I froze in shock.Then within a second or two, I began to feel a new kind of alarm, because I could see there was something strange about the situation...There was a sort of rule that we couldn't close doors completely except for when we were sleeping -- but ..Madame ...hadn't nearly come up to the threshold.She ...was out in the corridor, standing very still her head angled to one side to give her a view of what I was doing inside... and the odd thing was she was crying. |
| Comments:Jill L. chooses our book this month, and to cement her claim that it's a stormer, she offers the following blurbs: "Good writers abound -- good novelists are very rare. Kazuo Ishiguro is that rarity...Not only a good writer, but a wonderful novelist" says The New York Times ; Joyce Carol Oates raves in Book Review,"Kazuo Ishiguro has distinguished himself as one of our most eloquent poets of loss." And finally, "Ishiguro has mapped out an aesthetic territory that is all his own," proclaims The New Yorker. |
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:: March 2006 |
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Eleanor Rigby (Douglas Coupland, 2005) |
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"The Liz Dunns of this world tend to get married, and then twenty-three months after their wedding and the birth of their first child, they establish sensible low-maintenance hair-dos that last them forever . Liz Dunns take classes in croissant baking, and would rather chew soccer balls than deny their children muesli. They own one sex toy, plus one cowboy fantasy that accompanies its use. No, not a cowboy - more like a guy who builds decks - expensive designer decks with built-in multi-faucet spas - a guy who would take hours, if necessary, to help Liz find the right color grout for the guest-room tile reno." |
| Comments: Sweep aside all those dreary tomes about seas of depression era wheat, chuck aside those cloying descriptions of quaint Ontario towns and prop up a wobbly table leg with one of those awful, shrill feminist things from a certain someone in Toronto. Instead, settle down with some real, fresh Canadian literature – Eleanor Rigby, by Douglas Coupland (2005).You can tell he’s the real thing, even without reading his work, because he is completely ignored by the rest of Canadian literature.Clear, crisp, mono-thematic and short; it’s darn near perfect writing. (David M.) |