Summer favorites

I fell off the bandwagon of these favorites posts over the summer, so I'm just going to do one post for the whole summer, which was a little blurred together anyway because of spending so much time on the one project of my dissertation. Which is now over, so I have time to blog again :)

Favorite music:

I needed plenty of good study music to keep me going through the end of my dissertation, and I really fell in love with a few artists. I knew of Kimbra from her collaboration with Gotye on 'Somebody That I Used to Know,' but I recently discovered her independent album, which is fantastic. Unfortunately, she only has one album out as of now.

I also rediscovered Emily Wells, who's a one-woman music magician, playing and mixing all the instruments and vocals herself. I saw her live at my college a couple of years ago and never got around to listening to her albums. The lyrics to her songs are almost onomatopoetic at times, which is interesting and very pleasing to listen to.

Favorite food:

Milkshakes. The ultimate summer treat. The best, most indulgent reward after finishing a big project or putting a grueling day of writing. I actually only discovered the joys of milkshakes a few years ago, so I'm making up for lost time! There were a couple of great places in England that put any kind of cookie or candybar into a milkshake form, a magical and delicious transformation. But I also experimented with making them at home with fresh fruit. Even better!

Favorite book:

This was a summer devoted to the oeuvre of David Mitchell. I love and worship all his writing, but my favorites are probably number9dream and The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet. They're also some of my favorite books of all time. Seriously, do not get me started on David Mitchell unless you want to be suddenly overwhelmed by a towering wave of admiration and specialized knowledge.

Favorite movie:

Definitely From up on Poppy Hill, the newest movie from Studio Ghibli. I am, in general, an adorer of Ghibli productions. I have many more to watch, much to my shame, but also secret delight because how delicious is it to know there are movies out there that you haven't seen yet but know you'll love? From up on Poppy Hill was wonderful. I loved the main character and her subtle evolution from selfless responsibility to falling in love and letting go both of her day-to-day tasks and her clinging to the past. The visuals, of course, were stunning, especially the interior of the old clubhouse that's at the center of the story. The best part: I got to see it in original Japanese with subtitles, which I love.

Favorite fashion:

To be honest, this was not a summer for being fashionable. I spent most of it sitting in bed or at my desk in my pyjamas, which is my go-to writing outfit. When you have to sit all day, all you care about is being comfy. I stopped wearing jewelry, just threw on jeans and a t-shirt whenever I went out to dinner with my friends, and generally lived in the same clothes for three months. What's strange is, I kind of loved it. Now I've been reunited with my full closet, I'm very excited to get back into creative fashion combinations, but I'm also a lot more stressed about clothes. As someone who has trouble with decisions and wants to get her clothes just right every time, I found the simplicity of a small closet incredibly freeing. So right now I'm trying to figure out a balance between satisfying my love of clothes and self-expression-through-clothes and my need not to obsess over clothes for an hour every morning.

Favorite experience:

The best thing about this summer is that, when I finally turned in my dissertation and left England, I was satisfied. I'm proud both of the work I put in and the final product I turned in. It may not earn a high mark, but I know that this project took me way beyond my previous academic work, in terms of thinking and writing. So I walked away from this year feeling good about it and satisfied as I move on to whatever my next projects will be.

Recipe: Yogurt cake with strawberry-nectarine compote

 Got a cup's worth of yogurt in the fridge? I did yesterday, and after a few hours of editing the first chapter of my dissertation, I definitely needed to bake a cake. The obvious solution is this yogurt cake recipe, which I got from the Whole Foods website. The only thing I adjusted is adding a few drops of milk at the end, because the batter looked alarmingly thick and sticky. I figured it might be because I used very thick greek yogurt, so I added the milk to lighten it up. I have no idea if that was the actual cause or if the milk had the desired effect. Anyway, it turned out deliciously.

After I popped it in my inconsistent and uneven student-housing oven, I cut up some overripe fruit I had and improvised a little compote. Half a lemon squeezed over the fruit, 1/8 cup water, a tsp of sugar. Boil until thick and delicious.

I've actually gotten a lot bolder with improvising in the kitchen this year. Possibly because I'm the only person eating it, so if I mess up, no one else will suffer. Possibly because, when sorting which food blog to use for a given recipe, I end up actually paying attention to what ingredients differentiate scones from bread and pancakes from crepes. Possibly because I've had to substitute quite a few ingredients that I couldn't easily find in this part of the world. In any case, I've learned a lot about cooking as well as literature this year.

Ta-da! The cake rose A LOT, so much that I had to rearrange the racks in the over to accommodate it. It stayed nice a fluffy when I took it out, too.

The end product was delicioso. Not too sweet, because (as I forgot to mention earlier) I only had half the amount of sugar they called for. The compote could have been sweeter, too, if I'd added more than a tsp of sugar, but actually it made a lovely tea-time snack. The best thing about this cake is that it tastes gooey and dense without being buttery or fatty-feeling. It's sort of like eating a bowl of yogurt and fresh fruit, except also a cake :)

Review: Cosmopolis

Another read for my dissertation, picked because it's about cities and modernity. I got through this book in a couple of long days of reading, and it does have a way of sucking you in. The whole book (with a few exceptions) is set inside of a limo driving around NYC and, more specifically, inside the mind of Eric Packer, its bajillionaire passenger. This is not the nicest space to be in for 200 pages. Eric is, quite frankly, a strange guy, with very weird relationships to the people in his life who climb in and out of his limo. These include his wife, his body guards, his doctor, and his various assistants and employees. Actually there's no one likable or easy to relate to in this book. The fascination it holds is more the fascination of peering in at some weird subculture than the fascination of learning something about humanity or yourself (although maybe DeLillo would say that we can learn about humanity and ourselves from getting a glimpse of Eric's life).

The style of the book isn't very friendly either. The characters talk in some kind of strange mixture of philosophy professor and New York slang. Maybe that's how multi-billionaires in NYC actually talk, but for me it just felt like another thing distancing me from the characters, making them sound like the mouthpieces of DeLillo's abstract ideas about modern life.

What I found effective about this book was actually precisely what I'm complaining about - that it makes the city strange, as if by putting us inside this limo, DeLillo has plucked us from earth and put us in an alien spaceship so that we can see our lives from a totally new perspective. Eric does in some sense live above the world. However, his perspective doesn't offer much insight. Maybe the space ship is just too high up (excuse me while I beat this metaphor to death), so that the view becomes too simplified.

This was my first DeLillo novel, and I don't think I'll be reading any more of his writing. It was just too rarefied, too fascinated with messed-up people in a messed-up world, too stylistically stilted for me. But I'm glad I read it, as part of my goal to become better-versed in contemporary literature. Now if someone brings up DeLillo at a dinner party, I'll have something to say.

Review: Specimen Days

I read this as background/margin reading for my dissertation, so I was mostly reading for content that related to my main topic. However, I thought I'd write up a few thoughts on the book itself.

Cunningham tells three different stories, which are in some senses the same stories. They cover what some people call the three industrial revolutions - the mechanization of labor in factories in the 1800s, the advent of computers and other telecommunications in the present day, and the future of biotechnology, in this case spreading to artificial human life. Each story has three main characters, Luke, Catherine, and Simon,whose names and general characteristics stay the same across the whole novel, but who also change to fit each story.

This conceit worked pretty well for me, and I found the moments of time well-chosen. For my dissertation, I've been reading a lot of books that use multiple narratives or multiple times and places, or that imagine a near future, or that use reincarnation as a motif. Although it's a very literary novel, it was also a bit of a page-turner. Each story felt like it was heading inevitably toward something that would probably be terrible, but that I couldn't wait to discover (oh, the suffering we put ourselves through in reading!). I suppose I'd say the best thing about this book is the plotting, both in the normal sense of suspense and pacing and meaningfulness of events in the book, and in the larger sense of how Cunningham constructs his three strands and their overlaps.

What was missing for me was a sense of connection to the characters. I did find them pretty interesting, especially the narrators of sections one and three, but the writing felt a bit distanced. The artifice of the entire structure and the concept made it hard to believe in the characters as people, rather than as literary symbols. As they started to repeat, in variations, over the three stories, each previous incarnation of Luke, Catherine, or Simon began feeling less real. I couldn't help imagining Cunningham sitting at his desk inventing these characters and manipulating them so that they would fit equally well into each story - with the result that they don't fit snugly or perfectly into any story.

The other major element of this book is Cunningham's use of Walt Whitman's poetry - in each story, the narrator has a very special relationship with Whitman, and his verses keep popping up throughout the narration. I haven't read him at all, and I caught myself skipping over the longer excerpts because they were a bit opaque. But nevertheless, the repeated lines of verse made a kind of background rhythm for the whole book even as the individual narrator's voices changed - a kind of fourth voice that spanned the whole.

I wouldn't recommend this book to the idle reader who just wants a good book. It wasn't hard to get into, but it was very easy to get out of. The imagery stayed with me more than the voices or the emotions. A worthwhile experience, but not an entirely satisfying one.

It's been a while...

Wow, this month has gone by fast. I launched pretty much straight from my last semester of school into a summer of dissertation. Well, it hasn't really felt much like summer yet, or even spring. With the exception of a few days of lovely sun, we've had nothing but grey and cold. Still, I've been getting out of the house a lot more than I was over the winter - maybe I'm sort of willing myself into a summery mood despite the weather and the workload.

One thing that's drawn me out of my pile of library books has been an arts festival that's come to town for about two weeks. Although it's a bit overwhelming trying to focus exclusively on work during the day and then go to shows at night, it's also energizing to be seeing great performances and inventive ideas brought to life onstage. In particular, I've seen a lot of circus/dance/theater-type things that inspire me to make more time for both creativity and taking care of my body.

For the latter, I've been striving to get on a great health kick, eating more fresh and raw veggies, making smoothies, going to classes at the gym and doing push-ups at home, etc. It's hard to keep up those habits when the weather makes it feel like its February (California February, that is), but I'm trying. I'm still getting my veg-and-fruit box every week, which forces me to be both creative and healthy with cooking and eating.

It's nice eating salads, because you can throw them together at the last minute, when you're in the middle of studying but need food fast to feed your brain. You don't have to plan ahead for several days, imagining what kind of left-overs you'll feel like eating tomorrow or the next day, because you can just make one portion at a time.

I particularly love couscous because it's so easy and tastes lighter than pasta. And recently I've gotten a little obsessed with tortilla wraps. I eat them with chicken, hummus, feta, and veggies for lunch, and with scrambled eggs for breakfast. Yum.

There's only so much time I can spend cooking and eating, though, because the dissertation really is upon me, even if summer isn't. I'm enjoying the work so far. Somewhere at the back of my mind (or maybe lodged at the back of my stomach, against my backbone) is some nervousness about the eventual deadline and the scope of the project. Just enough to keep me working and moving forward.

Right now my life is about enoughs: reading enough, writing enough, eating enough, sleeping enough, getting out enough, finding enough inspiration, exercising enough, having enough fun, doing enough work. Balancing things out and moving forward. And not forgetting desert, like this delicious apple/pear tart I made the other day :)

April Things

N.B. I was watching a video by WonderlandWardrobe, who has a pretty cool channel with DIY fashion projects, and I noticed that she has a slightly different way of doing her monthly updates. So this is me being inspired to change things up a little.

Favorite food in April: Breaking news: did you know you can make grilled cheese with olive oil instead of butter?! I made the ultimate grilled cheese today with fresh monzarella, pesto, and sun-dried tomatoes, and instead of butter, I just spread a little of the oil from the tomato jar on the outside of the sandwich before I put it in the pan. Delicious flavor, perfectly even crispness, no burning. A revelation.
Am I the first person to discover this? Probably not. Did I remember to take a picture before I ate the whole thing? Definitely not.

Favorite fashion item or idea: Definitely the shift from my big winter coat (although I LOVE my cozy winter coat) to a lighter jacket. It's so freeing to shed the weight and bulk of a coat. I'm still wearing sweaters and scarves and even half-mittens, but the change feels amazing.


Favorite movie or show: This month I'm re-watching the Harry Potter movies, starting from the beginning. I haven't seen the early films in years and years, but there's nothing better than a trip down memory lane to get you through finals week. Of course I'm thinking all the usual things, mostly how they were all so young! But it's actually really fun to go back and notice the beginnings of Harry's snarkiness and his compulsive heroism - what an amazing experience it's been to grow up with these characters and really see them develop naturally along with us.

Favorite book: I suppose this would be Lolita, sort of by process of elimination because I'm writing a paper on it and haven't had time to read anything else. But this year has truly been a revelation for me vis-à-vis Nabokov. I re-read Pnin and read Lolita and Pale Fire for the first time last semester, and this is my second paper on Nabokov. I was nervous to tackle such a famous and famously tricky novelist, but it has been so rewarding to dive deep into these books. My discovery of Nabokov this year is one of those things that makes me incredibly grateful that I get to pursue my education at this level.

Favorite experience: Finishing my second semester (and the last taught portion) of grad school and realizing how much I've learned and, better still, that I have the energy to keep getting the most out of this degree over the summer. Dissertation, bring it on. I'm excited to tackle you.

Spring/Transitions

This weekend, the weather has been bizarre. Woke up to bright sun - an hour later, it was blizzarding outside my window - the clouds cleared and it sunny again - I glanced back at the window and saw snow - currently we're back to blue sky. I guess the only constant is that it's cold.

Even the temperature, though, has been swinging back and forth over the last week. After endless snowy, cold, grey weather, the sun came out, and I walked to school without a coat on for the first time in months. Everyone rushed outside to eat their lunch, and sitting inside at our computers felt ridiculous when it was so nice outside (p.s. the high was only 54 degrees, but it felt like 70 to me).

Alas, it was not to last. Now it's snowing again. In March.

That taste of spring, though, reminded me that the semester is almost over. Once again, after winter hibernation, I'm moving into a period of transitions. I'm not particularly good at transitions - I'm a creature of habits and comforts - but I also feel a great attraction to them. I love to look forward to things, whether it's a new book, an upcoming trip, or just breakfast tomorrow morning. The thing is, of course, things usually don't turn out exactly how you imagine them, and whether the reality is better or worse than anticipated, it always takes a bit of adjustment. You go to sleep, already savoring the taste of pancakes, only to wake up and find your milk has gone sour. Maybe you dissolve in a heap of tears, or maybe you end up eating some scrambled eggs that taste just as good. Or maybe someone surprises you with some fresh croissants they just brought back from the bakery, and you decide to postpone pancakes until tomorrow. There's just always that moment of recalibration that's sometimes joyful and sometimes hard.

There's a lot of patience involved in transitions. I've been listening to music on Spotify recently, which is great because I was really missing Pandora. On the radio function, you never know what song is coming next, and in the moment that the last song ends, I always start conjecturing about the next one, and it's usually not what I expect (except that this morning, I was hoping they would play something by A Fine Frenzy, and they miraculously did). Sometimes it'll be one of my favorite bands, and sometimes I'll reach immediately to click the thumbs down button. But sometimes I just don't know if I like the song yet or not, so I just sit there and listen and wait to see how I feel about it. And since the best thing about this radio function is discovering new favorite bands, that minute or two of patience and listening can really pay off.

So here I go transitioning from my last semester of classes into my first summer of truly independent writing work. Yes, I'm writing to a deadline, but the restrictions on the what, how, and why of my dissertation are pretty minimal. For someone who wants to write books, this will be good training in making my way through a big writing project without much outside structure.

I'm not saying that writing a dissertation is like listening to music or eating pancakes, but the fact is that I'll be doing a lot of those latter two things while attempting to do the former, and I like the way the micro mirrors the macro sometimes (often). I will also be living for about 5 more months in a country where the weather changes all the time. Then I'll move back across an ocean and a continent and start looking for a job. So my life will be full of transitions. I guess I better just keep listening and get ready to recalibrate.

Review: An Instance of the Fingerpost

Drumroll please.....it's my 100th post on this blog! And in honor of that, I'm going to do something totally ordinary and write you a review of what I've been reading. Sorry, I really couldn't think of anything exciting this early in the morning. However, this is a really good book, so I guess that makes up for it.

Let me qualify: this is a great book for people who are both patient and curious. The former because it's 700 pages long and written in a the long-winded style of the 17th century. The latter because it's a murder mystery that not only reveals who did it, but also an amazing wealth of information about life and thought in Oxford in the 1660s.

This is a truly dynamic setting, because the place was crawling with now-famous scientists and philosophers - although, as Iain Pears shows brilliantly, the two were one-and-the-same back then. The characters who are interested in experimenting in science are also wedded to religious doctrine and manage to mix the two in really astounding ways. Instead of just telling us what people ate or how they dressed, Pears reveals how they thought, and how different their assumptions were to ours. There is one scene in particular of a chemistry experiment which shows how rudimentary the scientific method was and how exciting it was for people steeped in both Christian and ancient Greek dogma to discover these new ways of thinking.

The theme of scientific inquiry and truth (which fits so nicely into a mystery novel) intersects with a political strain. The book is set just a few years after the end of the Cromwellian era in England, a time when religious and political tensions were running very very high. Pears gives us four different first-person narrators, whose perspectives highlight different aspects of the era: Marco da Cola, a gentleman physician from Italy, Jack Prescott, a young man trying to prove his father was not a traitor to the newly restored king, Dr. Wallis, a very paranoid cryptographer who's enmeshed in both the old and the new regime, and Anthony Wood, an antiquary and historian who claims to be impartial in his writing of the events of the books.

As it turns out, none of them are totally impartial, and they all have different reasons for writing their versions of the murder and its solution. As I said, it takes a lot of patience to get through the same narrative four times and have the answer to the who-done-it question delayed for about 600 pages. But it's really such a rewarding read, because the four stories turn out to be very different versions, and Pears does a masterful job layering perspectives and timing revelations so that you are always on the brink of finding out another crucial bit of information.

The writing is old-fashioned, of course because it's written in first-person, but once you let yourself sink into it, it's very easy to read. I recommend this for a long week in winter with many cups of tea. Reading it in one weekend was like running a long-distance race (luckily one I've been training for the last six months), but I still appreciated this book immensely for what it taught me about the era, for giving me another amazing example of historical fiction, and for telling a good story that left me really satisfied.

Review: Sacred Hearts

This is another book from my historical novel syllabus, and the first I've been disappointed in. The story is set entirely in a Benedictine convent in 16th century Italy, and the main narrator is the dispensary mistress, Suora Zuana, but her voice is interspersed with the voice of Serafina, the newest arrival at the convent, who has been put there against her will. According to the author's note, this was a common practice at the time - women from various social strata and with different problematic backgrounds were forced into convent life. That's one of the novels historical revelations. The other is that these convents were not the stark, spartan cells one might imagine, but could be places for women to practice art - singing or composing in particular, for religious music - or, as in Zuana's case, to pursue the study of medicine.

Dunant sets her story at a time when that way of life - the relative freedom allowed to nuns within convent walls - is in danger of being destroyed by fiercer regulations and more of an emphasis on religious devotion. Moments of transition in history are always interesting, but Dunant actually places much more weight on the plot surrounding Serafina's resistance to convent life and Zuana's spritual/moral doubts about how to help Serafina.


It wasn't enough of a story to maintain my interest through three or four hundred pages, especially because Dunant never allows us to leave the convent or the women's minds. This really gives the novel a sense of claustrophobia and repression, because the nuns are cut off from the outside world and from their own impulses and desires and thoughts. They can never talk honestly to each other because there are so many rules about which thoughts are pious and which require penance. And even Serafina, whose rebelliousness at first brings some variety and relief, eventually starts to succumb to the influence of some of the most violently pious nuns.

This device - the closed world, the women sharing this intense relationship with each other and with their god - could have made a really interesting book, but Dunant doesn't take it far enough. She never really gets into her characters' minds enough to convince you of what it would really be like to live in a convent, or even in an era when religion was such an important part of life, a given, whether you were in a convent or not. Instead of real psychological study, we get a lot of repetitive reflections on god, regularly interrupted with sensational plot twists. These really undercut the effect of the claustrophobia, because while we're supposed to be sympathizing with the women's self-denial and suffering, Dunant gives us everything we want - a love story, an escape attempt, tense politics, a mystical nun, even a kind of chase scene through the convent at night.

It's funny, I thought I was going to really enjoy this as an easy read after so many bizarre, experimental novels, but I got really frustrated because when I indulge in an easy read, I want it to be a really good easy read. If for some reason, you can't get enough of renaissance novels or love reading about religious life, I guess you might enjoy this (quite a few people in my class loved it). Otherwise, I advise you choose a different book.

Review: Shame

Not to be confused with the movie. This is not a book starring Michael Fassbender. Probably the only thing it shares with that movie is that it makes its audience uncomfortable, in this case, by setting up heros, storylines, and an identity as a historical novel, and then tearing each of them, carefully, lovingly, apart, gutting them, and hanging them out to dry like carcasses (the simile is particularly apt for the book, as it's full of corpses and grossness). I don't recommend this book for the lover of the book equivalent of Jane Austen adaptations. Or maybe I do, because it attacks the idea at the heart of classic historical fictions - the assumptions that history can be told as a straightforward narrative and consumed for idle pleasure and escape.


The book is set in the aftermath of Pakistan's separation from India and follows the intertwined fates of three families - the Shakils, the Hyders, and the Harappas - who intermarry, feud, succeed each other as leaders of the new country, and eventually all die, more or less gruesomely. Oops, sorry, spoiler. Except it isn't really a spoiler. First of all, Rushdie has a frustrating/tantalizing habit of telling you what's going to happen before he gets there in his story. He'll hint at someone's demise or future, then loop back to continue the novel chronologically, leaving you simultaneously annoyed that he gave away the future, and impatient to get through the present. But wait, didn't I say it was a historical novel? So the future of the novel is our past, and we know that all these characters are not only fictional, but also already dead in the parallel chronology of historical fiction.

Second of all, Rushdie makes the idea of spoilers a moot point by systematically disengaging us from sympathy with any of his characters. Even the man he labels as his 'hero,' Omar Khayyam Shakil, is painted as terribly unappetizing, and Rushdie even devotes a couple of pages in the middle of the book to how disappointed he is in his hero, how morally repugnant Shakil has become, what a lousy hero he has turned out to be.

Finally, Rushdie sets up, rather brilliantly, a very particular atmosphere that makes each character's fate seem inevitable. As the story progresses, each piece seems to fall into place as thought we knew it would belong there all along. This is partly because of the way Rushdie constantly hints at the future, but also because of his use of magical realism. There's a really strong sense of Fate with a capital F, some ulterior force (History with a capital H?) drawing all the characters along their tangled paths toward the ultimate roles they will play in each others' lives and in the history of their country.

So, without a linear chronology, an emotional through line drawn by a certain character, or the rational worldview of cause-and-effect that one might expect...well, spoilers just don't seem that relevant.

This is not a fun book to read, but it is fascinating. Rushdie has a great command of storytelling techniques, even though he breaks a lot of the rules, and I found myself almost morbidly riveted to the book, disgusted by intrigued. And the book certainly sparks interesting questions about the forms historical fiction can take, and the purposes of writing about history. Rushdie's authorial voice is very strong, and he comes in as himself every so often to talk about the events (stories of Pakistani immigrants in London, for example) that inspired the book. He manages to seem incredibly honest and transparent about his process and goals, and at the same time to slip you into such an intricately woven pattern of different realities and different voices (he's especially good with character's voices and the use of dialect) that you barely know where you are. And that's the point of the book, I think - or one point - that history is deceptive, that we can't trust it, but that it is seductive and compelling all the same. He advertises the book as a fairy tale but winds up saying a lot about both the nature of storytelling and about the reality he's trying to tell.

Critiquing the Critics

When I was younger, I thought 'critical' comments meant harsh comments, until I realized there was such a thing as 'constructive criticism.' Now, as a 22-year-old, I'm reformulating my ideas about criticism once again. One of my courses this year is dedicated to exploring the creative side of literary criticism, and the more I read for the course, the more I realize that I'm just not satisfied by the narrow definition of criticism that pervades the academic world.

I've never been a big fan of the scholarly articles that college professors encourage us to read and quote in support of our arguments in term papers. Although these critics' ideas can be great - changing the way I read a novel, or teaching me a really important part of its historical context, for example - the way they express those ideas can be very clunky. And that's just the run-of-the-mill critics. What's worse is that, when you get to the really big name critics, whose ideas have spawned entire schools of criticism, the writing is even worse, sometimes totally opaque.

I really dislike having to show up in class and stumble sentence by sentence through an essay that no one except the professor understands - we always wind up floundering in the text, trying to understand it instead of actually discussing it. What I dislike even more, however, is the idea that I should have to spend hours reading and rereading a writer's argument in order to be able to make any semblance of a commentary on it in class or in my own essays. I get graded on the clarity of my essays; why should I cut Jacques Derrida or Roland Barthes more slack than my professors cut me? After all, they're supposed to be geniuses, while I am but a lowly student. Could they really not take a minute or two to stop philosophizing and clean up their prose?

So we have two problems. 1: the average critics try so hard to be clear and follow the rules of scholarly writing that they write utterly boring stuff. 2: the avant-garde critics try so hard to be original and break the rules that they write utterly incomprehensible stuff. What to do? How to write creatively without losing clarity? How to write clearly without sounding just like everyone else?

I suspect the answer may be a simple one (or a deceptively simple one): how about just writing well? But not within the rubric of good academic writing. I think scholarly criticism needs to take a deep breath and look around at other types of criticism being written outside of academia, and maybe then critics can learn something from their colleagues. Good writing has various virtues, including clarity, elegance, organic-ness (matching form to content), rhetorical power, etc. So yes, it's not easy to make them all work together. But some authors have succeeded very well. George Orwell wrote gorgeous essays while simultaneously making very important points about politics and language and political language. David Brooks, who writes for the New York Times, produces great little op-ed pieces about current events, managing to express an interesting cultural critique in a very short form. James Wood (you can find a lot of his articles in the New Yorker and other similar publications) writes literary analysis that is as fun to read as the novels he covers. Anthony Lane (also of the New Yorker) writes film reviews that are both entertaining and educational, offering a subtle instruction in how to watch and appreciate an enormous range of movies.

The problem is that not all of these authors fall under the category of 'critics' in academia. In a hypothetical example, if I were writing a term paper about marriage values in a certain novel, I could quote David Brooks on the importance of choosing a good life partner in modern life, but I would not get credit for that citation because it's not from an accredited scholarly source. Academia reinforces its ivory tower image by segregating its version of criticism from any other kind of journalistic or other forms of writing about culture. Because that, to me, is what criticism comes down to. People writing about culture, providing a new perspective on a book, a painting, a fashion trend, anything. I just read an essay by Benjamin Friedlander, where he describes the way books inspire such different reactions from different readers and then sums up the role of the critic very well: "What, after all, is a critic, if not a reader who takes his pen in hand in order to substantiate the reality produced in his or her head [by a certain book]?" (This is from his introduction to his book, Simulcasts, if you're interested).

So why such a strict definition of what counts as good enough to support the argument of a term paper? According to Friedlander, every critic's argument is a personal one, more or less well-argued or well-written. This is not like scientific writing, where accredited journals weed out properly and ethically run experiments from amateurs' crazy hypotheses. This is just people talking about books, arguing over fictional worlds, about people and events that never even happened. I think we should stop being afraid of putting the personal into the critical/argumentative mode of writing. When I read those accredited scholarly articles, I feel like I'm reading something written by the machine of academia, not by a person who has actually read the book they're talking about, let alone (god forbid!) enjoyed it.

When I think of criticism, I think of all sorts of different kinds of essay-form, non-fiction writing about cultural objects, and I want to be able to blend those forms and approaches freely. That phrase that I learned years ago, 'constructive criticism' - well, that kind of criticism can come from so many perspectives and angles. In fact, often the most constructive feedback a person or a work can get is the feedback of many different people, who come to a book or an author with different expectations and desires, for entertainment, enlightenment, or escape. As a writer/reader, I think it's valuable to cultivate flexibility, in order to write great, multi-faceted books and read other people's great, multi-faceted books in the way they'd like best to be read.

So there you go, I'm still learning things.

Review: Waverly

The proper name of this book is actually Waverly, or 'Tis Sixty Years Since, which helpfully reminds you that although it was written in the past, it is also written about the past - apparently the first historical novel in the English cannon. And it is also the first novel I've read in months that professes to be out simply to please you, not to educate you, shock you, or dismember your mental faculties until you are left with a shambles of a sense of reality.

Well, Sir Walter Scott, writing anonymously, did want Waverly to educate people. As a scot, Scott (ahahaha, I'm amazed more people don't make this into a poor joke) wanted the english to better understand and be more sympathetic toward the unfortunate Jacobites, supporters of King James Stuart, who rose of in Scotland twice during the 18th century and twice were quashed. It's not a political novel as such, because by the time Scott was writing, in the early 19th century, the rebellion and the question of succession were pretty much history - two generations gone. But the novel is definitely trying to show the highlanders and other Jacobites in a fair light without espousing their political cause.

I read this for class - otherwise, I probably wouldn't have made it all the way through, because it's very old-fashioned indeed. But I ended up really enjoying both the story and the very-present, but pleasantly ironic authorial voice that comments on the action and reminds you what you're feeling and what your hero's feeling at all times.

This hero is Edward Waverly, a young and very romantic man who goes up north from his English estate and gets caught up in the Jacobite rebellion, not because he's a great political leader or even a great soldier, but because he is in love with the ancient, fading highland way of life, and he makes personal connections with many of the rebels. There's much saving of lives, pledging of fealty, and heaving of tormented bosoms, but Scott's awareness and exploitation of Waverly's innocence and idealism gives it all an edge and doesn't require you to take it too seriously. The things that happen to Waverly first feed directly into his romantic dreams and then begin to unravel them, so it's both a national story and a coming-of-age story.

A lot of people in my class found it dull and slow-going and had trouble with the archaic language. For whatever reason, I got through the difficulties, though, and enjoyed it a lot. There were even moments (brief moments) when I didn't want to put it down and go make a cup of tea, because I had to know what was going to happen to poor Waverly and his friends. I also enjoy the challenge of sinking into another form of language, whether it's a foreign one or foreign version of my own. Probably that's the language major in me.

The question of language is particularly interesting at the moment because I'm starting work on my own historical novel project. I'm writing about France in the 17th century, but in English, so I not only need to imagine what the characters would have said and thought, but also need to translate that into English and once again into modern parlance. Last night I started re-reading Wolf Hall, and am just amazed at how Hilary Mantel manages to make medieval characters sound ancient and modern at the same time. I keep trying to skim it, because I'm short on time, but it's so good I just want to read every word over again. If you haven't gotten around to reading it since I reviewed it over the summer, I recommend it again heartily.

I also recommend Waverly, but only if you enjoy classics and sweeping narratives and want to spend hours imagining yourself tramping around Scotland with a sometimes silly, but also often endearing protagonist and also, of course, with Scott's authorial voice. If, like me, you're semi snowed-in, it's a great curl-up-by-the-fire read. So is Wolf Hall. This is definitely historical novel weather, when you want to dive headfirst into another world and linger there for hours, which is exactly what I'm doing this weekend. You can imagine me floating from Henry VIII's court to Paris's literary salons, with a brief detour through the kitchen for breakfast.

Looking back

As the new year begins, I'm looking back, but not at 2012. More like 1745. I've been reading Waverly in preparation for one of my new courses this semester, which is focused on the historical novel. And even though the class hasn't even started yet, I'm already starting to pay a little more attention to my interest in historical fiction.

I was thinking yesterday how fun it's going to be to get back to historical fiction, which was a big part of my childhood reading. Then I realized that I won't really be getting back to it - I've been reading it all along. Some of my favorite books from the past year have been set in the past: The Remains of the Day, by Kazuo Ishiguro, The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, by David Mitchell, Absalom, Absalom!, by William Faulkner, Sweet Tooth, by Ian McEwan, and, of course, the historical novel that's gotten talked about so much since it and its sequel won the Booker Prize, Wolf Hall, by Hilary Mantel. Over the past few years I've also loved The True History of the Kelly Gang, by Peter Carey, and Atonement, again by Ian McEwan. Two of the top books on my to-read list are Orlando, by Virginia Woolf, and Perfume, by Patrick Süskind, both historical novels.

My list of favorite movies and TV shows is even more peppered with historical drama: The Hour, BBC's amazing recreation of its mid-century self, is one of my all-time favorite shows, and the best detective show I know of is Foyle's War, set during WWII. I also love the film versions of Atonement and of Une longue dimanche de fiancailles (A Very Long Engagement), originally by Sebastien Japrisot, adapted by Jean-Pierre Jeunet.

Historical movies and TV shows have an obvious allure for me, because I love to see historical costumes reconstructed so stunningly and in such detail. One drawback of historical novels is that they usually don't devote many words to describing clothes. I suppose that modern readers wouldn't stand for it, however fascinating it might be to me. I actually stopped watching another period piece the other day (actually an adaptation of a classic, not a historical novel), The Paradise, partly because there weren't enough close-ups of the costumes. That might seem a ridiculous reason, but I think that part of the appeal of historical stories for everyone is a chance to glimpse the past close-up and ogle all its oddities, from old-fashioned customs to clothes that have no zippers.

For me, the costume-obsession is just one part of my interest in the atmospherics and textures of the past. I loved The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet for the way Mitchell works his narrative around the gritty details of life on Dejima, the Dutch portal to Japan in the 18th century. But there's a real thrill in not just physical, but also psychological detail. This is one of the best things about Wolf Hall, which plunges you into a first-person account of Tudor England from the unlikely, but captivating perspective of Thomas Cromwell.

The class of course, will not be just about what makes historical fictions fun and interesting, but also, I suspect, the ethics and mechanics of recreating history in stories. Not only that, we get to try our hand at historical fiction ourselves. I think some people dread taking classes on a genre or subject they love - I seem to hear a lot of people complain that high school English classes, and even college courses have ruined certain books for them. But when I find a good course on something I love, I look forward to enriching my appreciation of it, expanding my reading list within the genre, and meeting other people who are just as passionate about it as I am.

I'll report back about the progress of the course and what I've learned in a few weeks. In the meantime, are there any historical novels, films, or TV shows you love that I should check out? I love suggestions.

A peek inside the mind of a literature student (...or maybe it's just me...)

I've now spent a little over a month being a full-time student of 20th century literature. As you might imagine, it involves reading a lot of books, but instead of having raced through an impressive number of volumes during the last weeks, I've actually been reading the same book. Have you guessed it? Yes, I've been reading Ulysses. But in about 24 hours, I will have graduated to person-who-has-read-Ulysses (and if I'm aggrandizing the accomplishment, it's only because I need a reward to get me through the last hundred pages).

It's been an interesting experience, to keep reading a book that I don't fully understand for a month - an experience, I suspect, that only students of literature enjoy. Without the certain knowledge that you will have to get up one morning every week and go sit in a room with five or ten other people for three hours talking about this book, it's harder to push through those next fifty pages before stumbling downstairs to the kitchen for sustenance. Part of me is resentful at my professor for thinking it was a good idea to assign this book as the first reading of my grad school career. But another part of me is grateful because 1) nothing I read for the rest of the year will be this hard and 2) reading Ulysses is like a crash course in how to be a literature student, or as Joyce would put it, a "learning knight" (don't quote me on that, because it might not be exact, but there's no way I'm flipping through 800 pages to find that quote again).

Everybody reads (or almost everybody), so when you think about it, it seems every person who enjoys a good book should have the qualifications to study literature. You could make the same argument for science, for example: everyone lives in their body, so they should be, theoretically, ready to launch into the study of anatomy or biology. But that example reveals the flaw in the idea, because obviously the biologist brings a very different set of skills and curiosities to her job. She doesn't just enjoy the workings of her body, she examines them and finds patterns and probes mysteries and carries out elaborate experiments to test her theories. A literature student is no different. He enjoys books, sure, but he also dissects them, picks them apart, and tries to sort out all the pieces so he can fit them back together again. It's like the difference between a person who listens to the radio and a kid who takes apart a radio to see how it works. Both things are pleasurable, both expand the mind, and both increase the scope of human knowledge, but they're very different.

So basically, I've been discovering what it's like to be the kid who takes apart the radio. (Not that I haven't studied literature before, but I've taken different approaches and haven't done it so intensely before.) And what I've discovered is that literature students should be called literature detectives. This idea came out of reading Thomas Pynchon's The Crying of Lot 49 while still struggling through Ulysses. The former is about a woman, Oedipa Maas, trying to discover a secret behind the estate left behind by her former lover, a process which leads her further and further into a kind of paranoid detective work with no clear solution at the end of the book. She thinks she sees patterns, but she's never sure, and neither are you (the reader), because the intricate skein of connections and reflections Pynchon sets out might actually be all inside Oedipa's head.

Over the course of Pynchon's (miraculously short) 120 pages, I started to see weird patterns myself, but not the way Oedipa does. Instead of seeing mysterious symbols scrawled on bathroom walls and miniaturized on postage stamps, I say mysterious symbols printed out in times new roman between the pages of books. It turns out that reading books like Ulysses and The Crying of Lot 49 (or any book, really, when you're reading it like a literature detective does) is a lot like sifting through a dead man's estate with the suspicion that it hides a centuries-old secret and that if you just spend enough time with it, everything will become clear and it'll all add up. You have the dead guy (the famous dead white man author, and variants thereon, because living women of color can be just as confusing), you have the centuries of other literature to which they make cryptic allusion, and you have the words on the page, the endless pieces of paper that may or may not offer clues to the meaning of the whole.

So this is the state of mind of the literature student. I read a chapter of Ulysses and try to sort out the various symbols and references Joyce is playing with. Then, later that day, or the next, I read another book and look for other symbols, other key words, other connections. And for the rest of the week, I can't turn that part of my brain off. I keep doing the detective work everywhere I go. My mind is swirling with character names, images flitting by, memories that I then realize aren't memories, but rather something I read this morning - James Joyce's memories, most likely.

And the thing is that the real world is actually connected to the books I'm reading. Say I have an experience riding the bus or doing my grocery shopping that reminds me of something in the book I was reading the day before, and suddenly that bit of fiction makes more sense and I understand what it was the author was trying to capture about human experience. Or my mind wanders toward lunch as I'm sitting in class and then I realize that that's exactly what Leopold Bloom would be thinking about too, if he were somehow sitting around discussing the novel in which he is a character. These aren't tangible clues, but they are nevertheless keys to the books. When you're a literature student, it makes no sense to keep work and life segregated like food carefully nestled in different compartments of a microwavable meal. Books are better, I find, when their flavors mix with everyday experience, when you allow them to affect your life and visaversa, when you keep an eye out for clues in all sorts of unlikely places (a sentiment I think Joyce, champion of the everyday, would applaud, or maybe just nod thoughtfully at before he returned to writing a really complicated book).

OK, I'm starting to mix my metaphors and it's obviously time for second breakfast. Sorry for the break in regular posts and for the lengthiness of this one. I hope to be sharing thoughts more regularly this week, because as you can see, reading lots of books is giving me lots of thoughts.

Review: Gilead

I came to this book straight off of Ian McEwan's new novel, Sweet Tooth, which is a romantic spy story, so when I was faced with the prospect of an elderly reverand from Iowa writing a letter to his son (the premise of Gilead), I was a little discouraged. However, since I was reading this for class, I stuck with it, and it's amazing how this book grows on you. By the end I was practically in tears. So first of all, I must say that if you choose to read this book, then please be patient with it. It really is brilliant.

The form of the story, as I said, is a letter, and in that sense it reminded me of The True History of the Kelly Gang, but instead of an outlaw writing to his daughter on the eve of his death in battle, Marilynne Robinson takes on the voice of John Ames, a reverand writing to his young son on the eve of his death from a heart condition. So at first the stakes seem very low indeed. But this book also reminded me strongly of The Remains of the Day because Ames is, in some ways, an unreliable narrator whose story conceals more than it reveals about the fraught lives of the people of Gilead. Over the course of the book, we glean bits of insight, not only into Ames' life, but also those of his father and grandfather and of his friend Reverand Boughton and his family, particularly his wayward son, Jack. The two families' stories are woven together around themes of faith, honor, and fatherhood. (And if this all sounds like a very male-dominated book, not to worry. Robinson has written a kind of companion novel written from the perspective of Glory, Boughton's daughter, which I'm looking forward to reading.)

Having said that Ames is unrealiable, I need to clarify by adding that he strives very hard to be as reliable as possible. He says over and over that he's trying to be honest, but over and over he finds himself hemmed in by his own stringent morality. He prides himself on never speaking ill of anyone, and so he finds it extremely difficult to recount the story of the various characters' failings - some of them very extreme (I won't give them away, because not knowing what exactly Ames was trying to shield is what kept me going until the end of the book).

Although this reticence can get quite frustrating, it also feels completely organic to the character. I don't know what Robinson's own background is, but she certainly writes a convincing portrait of a mind steeped in religion. Ames laces his prose with Scripture, which he knows off by heart, and the same heritage of ideas and language permeates all the conversations he describes. This is the story of people brought up with a strong sense of faith and charity who nonetheless find themselves confused and troubled in the face of historical and personal circumstance. From Ames' grandfather's questionable actions in the Civil War to Boughton's and Ames' struggles to forgive the impossible Jack, Robinson shows the limits of doctrine and at the same time the boundlessness of faith. Ames finds manifestations of god not only in his struggles with moral questions, but also, more importantly, in everyday moments of beauty and joy, in his observations of people in his town and his own enjoyment of his wife and son, whom he values above all else.

So although I have no religious feeling or knowledge of Christian belief, I found myself entirely drawn in my Ames' reflections on his religion. This book is a fascinating window into American history, especially around the Civil War, and into a distinctly American code of faith and morality (Ames' life is set against that of his brother, who travels to Germany to read philosophy), and an equally fascinating portrait of a mind and a life woven through with historical, cultural, and social circumstance. I really could be considered a meditation on the meaning of individual existence within that network of history and present. But unlike many meditations on existence, this one left me with a really positive feeling. It's a tough book, but not an entirely sad one.

Now I must run off to class to discuss it.

Being done

1 year and 160 pages later, my thesis is done, and my undergraduate studies are nearing a close. Alarmingly quickly. I'm not quite sure what to write about this, as I'm still in the fog of accumulated exhaustion, and I still have two papers and two presentations to get through before I'm really truly done. But the thing that seemed to order my entire life has suddenly slipped away, leaving...what behind?

Not quite freedom. A feeling of pride, yes, and of accomplishment. The certainty that I've learned a lot. The hope that other people appreciate the product as much as I appreciated the process.

I tried weighing my bound copy, and the scale wouldn't even register it. Such a little thing.

It's easier to write about other people's creations than your own.

An early morning wish

If I could pop over to Hogwarts to learn just one spell, it would definitely be the summoning charm, because then I could just yell "Accio book" or "Accio cup of tea" or "Accio dinner" when I'm sunk in thesis writing sessions and don't want to move.

Oh, and a time turner would also be useful.