Madoka Magica: Another Anime Review

I don't really watch anime anymore. I used to be a big fan of the genre, back when I was into cartoons in general. Only, it was certain kinds of anime that got my attention. Y'all can keep your Dragonball and Mobile Suit Gundam. Sailor Moon was my gateway drug, and defined my taste in the burgeoning offerings from Japan. Most of the ones I got into, therefore, are about girls with powers. But after a while it became more of a hassle and everything started seeming like the same old, same old, so I lost interest. But I'm not totally against getting into new stuff.

Someone on the internet alluded to Madoka Magica, and it piqued my interest. The Wikipedia summary blew me away, and when I saw the entire series was available for free on Hulu, I was like, "I have to watch this!" And... it is FUCKING AMAZING.

The Wikipedia entry contains some spoilers, but it only intrigued me further. Like a lot of the anime I've enjoyed in the past, it's part of the magical girl genre, tropes and all. But you ain't never seen a magical girl anime like this before. This anime is dark, and an ominous atmosphere is present right in the beginning, before we technically know that something is off. Don't let the overly simplistic character designs fool you about the animation, either: it is at times strange, creepy, gorgeous, seizure-inducing, and experimental. There's not stock footage in use at all.

The story hinges on the protagonist Madoka's decision whether to become a magical girl. The current magical girl of fictional city Mitakihara, Mami, shows the ropes of being a magical girl to Madoka and her best friend, Sayaka. Meanwhile, a mysterious transfer student (another magical girl archetype), Homura, seems intent on preventing Madoka from becoming a magical girl at all costs. But fighting witches couldn't be that bad, right? (It only gets trippier, darker, and spoilery from there)

I've never seen a stare so sinister

 All the tropes are there: the protagonist is rather unexceptional in every way except for her kindness and compassion and capacity to believe, the magical girls wear elaborate, feminine costumes in themed colors, there's a magical creature companion who is more than what he seems, the source of their power resides at an emotional core, of sorts, and there comes a time when our heroine has to save the world. However, most of these are turned absolutely upside down and inside out. The main character doesn't become a magical girl until the end, and you absolutely don't want her to do it. One could even argue that Madoka isn't the protatgonist, but Homura, who makes the story possible, is the true protagonist (or at least a co-protagonist). Either way, you end up cheering for them both, and hope they manage to defeat Kyubey and change their fate.

Success Somewhere Else: Five Star Billionaire by Tash Aw

We hear a lot of things about China, from its oppressive government to how it's going to take over the world (wouldn't count on that). But there is another way to understand what's happening in China, and that is to read the stories of people who actually live there. Oppressive the government may be, but it is one of the more economically prosperous countries in the Asian continent. Tash Aw's place story Five Star Billionaire accounts for a more nuanced perspective on the way life is in modern China, especially city life.

The five characters who come to Shanghai, China's largest city and the most populous city in the world, each want a chance to succeed in ways familiar to Western audiences. The Chinese economy is fully capitalist, and the protagonists' goals start out, at least, as purely material. But committing oneself to the capitalist agenda casts out the virtues of humanity that these characters, one by one, realize they have lost, perhaps irrevocably. In this entangled narrative, Aw shows us that capitalist ideology has the same effect here, to the detriment of the environment and humanity, in the most effective way possible: through small, individual stories.

The tale starts out strong, with an immersive introduction to Phoebe, one of two heroines in the book...though none of the characters can hardly described as heroic. She's an illegal immigrant but desperate to achieve materialistic and romantic success, expressed beautifully in a scene with a wealthy-looking young couple. This first chapter, which weaved in backstory with a wonderfully immersive scene, hooked me immediately.

The other characters, however, had less gripping introductions, Aw dropping the backstory almost all at once for the rest--most notably, Justin and Gary. Justin is the heir and proprietor to the massive family business of LKH Holdings, but we come in just before the moment of collapse. Gary ends up having a similar breakdown and drastic change of fortune, except he's a famous pop star, having won the genetic and marketable talent lottery, who ends up resenting his own fans and hating fame. The other female protagonist, Yinghui, is a successful businesswoman, but is feeling the stigma of being a "leftover" woman. Her introductory chapter is also excellent.

There is a fifth protagonist, who reveals his backstory slowly, recounting moments in his youth and more recent history to give us hints of his true motivations for success, remaining an ever-mysterious figure even as he enters the narratives of the other characters. And the reason why he is so successful may surprise you.

Naturally, as a lot of these novels go, the characters' lives each intertwine at one point or another. In a few cases, it's unknowingly, but we, the reader, are clued in. Seeing how these characters' lives connect is part of the fun in reading, so I won't reveal to much plot, but they all have a few things in common: they all are not native Chinese (all except Gary are from Malaysia), they all have achieved financial success (except for Phoebe, who manages to get there through deception), and they all are lacking in the personal life department, as none of them are married or have steady relationships. In the end, they all feel empty inside, as it turns out that financial success alone does not complete one's life.

The characters are also very calculated in their interactions with most of the people they meet, figuring out how they could use the other person and how the other person could use them. Often, the characters lie their way into success and out of sticky situations, and when they're finally honest with someone else, they get burned in the end. The culture of Shanghai seems to compel them to act this way, and the characters fail hard before they learn from their mistakes and move on to find true happiness.

The plot may appear cliched, but the different setting and culture gives the story a freshness that it may not have in a Western setting. Setting is important in this story, as well, and it is richly depicted in the prose description and characters' colored points of view. However, the women characters became engaged in stereotypically feminine behaviors that does not occur likewise for the male characters and I can't help but cry bias. I got tired of Phoebe's relentless pursuit of men, when I wasn't all that clear on what it was that she really wanted, and Yinghui's growing interest in dating made me sigh and roll my eyes occasionally. Other than that, however, the narrative hardly annoyed me.

Overall, this story is an engrossing portrait of the capitalist dream in Shanghai, which will chew you up and spit you out just like in pretty much every major city in the world. You may be able to save face, but only if it's not too late. Four out of five stars.

Aimee Bender's "The Color Master:" a Three-Part Review, Part Three

The third and final section of this underwhelming collection was...maybe not the best, but I enjoyed every story in this section, up until the very end. It seems that the theme of this collection is primarily unsatisfying endings that make no sense.

I really enjoyed the story "Wordkeepers," a kind of fabulist tale of modern-day distraction, even if the narrator was exasperating. I identified more with his love interest, who insisted upon correct grammar and complete sentences, fighting back against this new realm of easy forgetfulness, but the subject matter was topical and the ending was actually satisfying in its own way--a rarity in this collection.

The next story was the title story and the star of the collection, "The Color Master," was indeed one of the best stories in this collection. The setting was odd, as it was at once fairy-tale and modern-day Europe (a fantastic facsimile, more like) and there wasn't much world-building--not that I would expect any from a literary short story. But the process of choosing colors (as the Color Master did) and the vivid descriptions of color, as well as a well-threaded fairy tale plot in which the protagonist grows into her own and the kingdom is saved, were all expertly woven and a delight to immerse myself in. The final line, though, left me going "huh?", because even though I figured the story of "Donkeyskin" referred to the deposed king, why is the story "hers"--i.e. the Color Master's? Because she knew what was happening all along? Or is the Color Master the "her"? Once again I found the ending needlessly confusing whereas throughout the rest of the story I had been able to follow along and pick up the thematics pretty well. So either I'm not "getting it" or it's just plain nonsense.

The third story, "A State of Variance," was not particularly memorable, a story of a legacy of freakish symmetry and finding love and happiness in the opposite. In a way, though, the story starts out one way--a woman who can no longer sleep for more than an hour and thusly experiences dream states while awake--and then turns into the story about a too-symmetrical young man's hangups and his dealings thereof. Interestingly, she didn't get too much into the boy's dad, and the trend of not naming characters continues.

The fourth story, "Americca," was one of the more interesting ones, and contained plenty of echoes of Lemon Cake: an ordinary family encounters some extraordinary small occurences. But unlike in Lemon Cake, the inexplicable giving mysteriously stops after a while, and happens only once more. One of the most difficult things to pull off in a short story is the flash forward--in this story it would be revealing whose voice it was all along--and this story is not an example of such a device being well-done. The voice was not quite that of an adult (in fact she's a child for most of the story) but all of a sudden she is 27 and crying over some delicious curry, presumably because it was the last gift and it will never be given again? Didn't work for me. I'm not a fan of the title, either. Otherwise, though, Bender's usual talent was on form.

The final story in the collection, "The Devourings," stood out in that it's a very fairy tale type story. For one, it has ogres and honest-to-God magic in it. This is also one of the top five best stories in this collection. From the single narrative of a woman in love with an ogre springs forth two narratives related to devouring, and like the concluding events of the story, neatly wraps in on itself. It's a nicely put together, if strange, story that lends itself more to the Brothers Grimm school of fairy tales than it does to what most people are familiar with. (Then again, most people won't be reading this book)

In the end, the collection had mostly okay stories, and some good ones, as well as a few bad ones. I did not enjoy this collection as much as her first, and I'm starting to think Bender is getting too comfortable with a certain formula. It seems that even experienced writers forget that the formula doesn't always work, and you got to mix it up a little bit to keep your stories fresh and prevent writers' atrophy. I give it 2.5 stars out of five.

Aimee Bender's "The Color Master": A Three-Part Review, Part 2

So, after a disappointing first part, I didn't hold much hope for the rest of the collection. But, I bought the damn book, so I kept on reading. Luckily, the second section improved in quality overall.

"The Fake Nazi" started off as a quite compelling and expertly constructed story, revolving around a man who believed he was a Nazi--even though he wasn't. Through three different people--the man himself, his brother, and a curious legal clerk--we learn more about the strange psyche of this man and the intersection of coincidence and fate. But then, when the legal clerk visits the man's brother at his apartment, she...lets him feel her up on her visit? It was another example of sexism and objectification in a story in this collection that I can't tell if it's showcasing a character's internalized mentality or the author's own.

"Lemonade" is an overall good story--Bender really got the voice and psychology of this insecure and somewhat strange teenage character down to a T. The thing was, though, that at first I thought they were 13, 14 years old--but later it is revealed that they are old enough to drive. (so, 16?) And they use cell phones--so we're talking the year at the earliest is like, 2006. (mayyybe a couple years ealier, maybe) They live in LA. And they're hanging out at a fucking mall? They did some paltry shopping there, but like, nobody goes to malls anymore if they have their fucking driver's license, except maybe to go shopping, I guess. And the voice of the narrator especially seemed so young--I guess because she's a little naive compared to the other characters? And again, the ending was kind of "meh" for me.

"Bad Return", which is another story about two young-ish female friends who are very different from each other, is much more interesting. This also has a scene between a young woman and an old man, but it doesn't get sexual, thank God: instead, it becomes a faintly magical and creepy encounter that brings the protagonist to a profound conclusion about her friend. Perhaps it's more conventional than the other stories, but I certainly enjoyed it.

The next story, a short one, "Origin Lessons," was absolutely fantastic. It captures the students' insatiable questioning and curiosity and the professor's increasing difficulty in being able to explain the origins of the universe. Though I wasn't sure how old the kids were at first, and again, with the ending, the traditionally feminine imagery, that I keep hating for some reason. But this one I liked a lot.

The last story in this section, "The Doctor and the Rabbi," also deals with big questions, asked by a very specific character. I thought it was cool the rabbi was a woman (I wasn't sure rabbis could be women), and this story is expertly crafted, intertwining big questions and personal revelations, teetering on the edge of being "profound on purpose" (a made-up term for something I often loathe in literature) but not going too far.

So this section was a great improvement. I look forward to reading the next (and final) section...maybe it just keeps getting better? Or do we turn back around to worse?

Aimee Bender's "The Color Master": A Review in Three Parts

My latest reading is Aimee Bender's recent collection of stories, The Color Master. I loved her first collection The Girl in the Inflammable Skirt and her second novel The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake. Yet, I was apprehensive when approaching this collection. I'd not so surreptitiously read the first story "Appleless" in the bookstore before I went ahead and bought it, and didn't like it too much. (More on that later) And the collection is divided into three parts, so I'm dividing my review into three parts, one for each section.

The first part did not get off to a good start, to say the least. The first story, a three-page story called "Appleless," is an exercise in mythical and literary cliche: the vaguely defined "we" as a narrator, the objectified beautiful blonde woman, and a story that is so blantantly obvious in its attempt to try and make you think. Oh, I thought about it all right. Now, some of the imagery and description of the story is great--the "loaves" of hair, the smell and taste of apples--but it's a story that just plain doesn't make sense, and not in a good way. I probably missed something, but I'm not looking to discuss this story in a class or a book club. Quite frankly, I think the story sucked, especially for a first story--isn't it supposed to be a good one that's supposed to be first? And the funny thing is, I think this was the first story by Bender that I actually came to dislike the more I read it. Whether it's about misogyny or raping the earth, it's old hat. The packaging doesn't fool me.

Next was "The Red Ribbon," which I found interesting at first. When a woman plays out her husband's prostitution fantasy, it changes the way she looks at everything, including their relationship. Her awkward inquiry about intimacy with an intrepid saleslady was funny and poignant in its own way, but the story falls into the failing marriage cliche of storytelling. By all accounts, I liked this one better than the first, and perhaps this subject doesn't interest me, but I found elements of the deja vu variety that just bores me to tears.

When I got to the third story, "Tiger Mending," I thought, "Now we're getting somewhere!" A story about a strangely gifted seamstress as narrated by her sister as they travel to Malaysia to see what the sister's job offer was about. The voices of the two sisters are so distinct, yet they play off each other quite well, and the scenes in which they're at the tiger mansion are bizarre and spooky. But then, the story just ends, and again, it doesn't make sense in a bad way. I'm sorry, but what? They do this to themselves? So then what the fuck's the point of even doing it? Tell her to just not do it, let them die! They are not fit! Let them die out, like the pandas (sorry panda lovers). So another disappointment in the end.

"Faces" conjured up more familiar themes and situations. In fact, the main character in this story, William, exhibited similarities to the brother in Lemon Cake: he's antisocial but still manages to get by in classroom and social situations. The story wasn't that bad, and I commend Bender on giving a protagonist with a disability pov a whirl, but I found so many logic fails. William has face blindness (thank you Arrested Development! Saw it coming the minute the doc took the photos out), which for some reason is called "facial illiteracy" in the story (wut?) and made me wonder if Bender knew if this was a real thing. Now labeling it with a name people don't use is one thing, but the fact that he gives all his "friends" aka the people he hands out with the same name? Um, their voices and clothes would be different, wouldn't they? And wouldn't they call each other by their names at some point? I suppose it's funnier/quirkier/more "profound" for him to just call them all the same name, but face blindness is a real thing. People who actually have this get by by differentiating people by other identifying markers, like voices. Sure, they may forget who's who from time to time (because apparently facial recognition is important for memory, at least as far as remembering people are concerned), but they'll figure it out! Eventually he'd have to call someone by their name.

"On a Saturday Afternoon" was yet another story that started off promising, but kind of didn't do it for me by the end. It started out as the strangely told story of a woman who has become jaded and tired with dating, but then one day she asks her two male friends to enact a fantasy--a sexual fantasy--for her. I found it strange that the friends are unnamed and reduced to merely "the blond one" or something like that, though it becomes apparent that she regrets goading them into doing something that was so objectifying and demeaning, in a way. And the sex scene--which was such a big part of the story--is so awkwardly written I sped read through it the first time.

So, I didn't have high hopes for the next ten stories as I finished this part. Little did I know that I would be pleasantly surprised...

A Short Review on a Book Too Long

So, among the usual reasons for extended dry spells--busy, busy, busy--I also have not posted for a while because it took me so long to read Clash of Kings. While I enjoyed the blood and violence and horrible/awesome twists and interesting characters, the book was too damn long.

Are there abridged versions of the Game of Thrones books that I can read, which get to the meat and leave out all the pointless details about this lord or that lord who gets cut down like two pages later? (Essentially, cut out all the parts I should be skimming over?)

On a related note, I have been contemplating the TV series ever since it took me so agonizingly long to read this book. I usually don't spend a whole month on a book, unless it's something like IQ84. I'm starting to think that watching the show might take less time than reading the books at this point. Also, Sigur Ros, one of my favorite bands, will appear in the next season, so that definitely piques my interest a bit more.

To end this short review, a video from the band in question.  

(To read more detailed thoughts on Clash of Kings, read my review of the first book. My thoughts are basically the same. I am so tired of this book I do not even want to put any more thought into it than that.)

The Wonder of Childhood and the Wisdom of Experience

Welcome to the weekend, and the end of summer, in which I might get more time to devote to this blog (maybe; I have to admit that lately, other things have taken higher priority). So today, a short post about a short novel: Neil Gaiman's The Ocean At the End of the Lane.

The story follows a boyhood encounter with a mysterious magic world that is full of peril for the mere mortal, leading him to experience a thrilling, strange, and terrifying adventure. It's framed by a middle aged man remembering this period of his life, and the entire story is tinged with a nostalgic atmosphere. It's technically a novel, but flows as smoothly and slowly as a short story.

Neil Gaiman is an experienced writer, and it shows. His language is air-tight, and he paints the secret, forbidden world with vivid detail. I won't give away much here, because I think it should be experienced first-hand, this introduction to this world. Gaiman also captures the psyche of an imaginative little boy wonderfully, full of the curiosity, wonder, and fear of an imaginative seven-year-old. While the story takes place when the unnamed narrator is seven, there is a sense of experience, of darkness, perhaps imposed by the presence of ancient beings, that may appeal more to older audiences--or precocious children. That said, anyone with adequate life experience to understand that things were different "back then" will take some enjoyment from the story.

In some ways, the tale subverts the genre of boyhood adventure, as he becomes scared an powerless the being and forces too great for him to overcome alone. His troubles begin and end with the Hempstocks, a family of women whose origins and existence remain a mystery. Another interesting point is that all the named characters are female, suggesting that it is these characters who are the real actors in the story--the boy is just along for the ride.

That's not to say that the boy's problems were purely fantastical. There's a not-so-subtle implication that his father has abusive tendencies, which is not explored further when the traumatic incident is snipped out of his father's memory. We get a sense of disconnect of the boy from his family, right in the beginning when he's moved out of his own small bedroom into his sister's. While he cares for his mother, he doesn't seem to be close with her at all. In all, the bland family situation, aside from the time when they rent out the boy's room to lodgers, is pretty run of the mill family drama type stuff. It's almost unfair how the boy's adventure seems that much more fantastic, as his family and his own life are so mundane.

Gaiman leaves us with incredible, beautiful, shocking, frightening images from this boy's encounter with the magical realm. I found myself verbally reacting to the turns of events of each chapter as the story revealed that the world of what could be called "magic" can be dangerous and scary, possibly resulting in existential threats. The language is perfectly immersive, the work of a master of his craft, creating a lasting impression on the reader. I finished reading the book about a week ago, and the story still holds fast in my memory. I will definitely read it again at some point.

In The Ocean at the End of the Lane, Gaiman presented a world that is vivid, wonderful, and terrifying that I had never seen before, a world within a world that follows its own logic. and this was the story of one little boy's encounter with it, and his death (or near-death) because of it. Because it is so perfectly constructed, I have to give it 4.5 stars.

Life After Life After Life

So much for the "Summer Reading Series". Apparently my summer got busier than I thought it would be, and the only book I had left unread lying around the house was Kate Atkinson's generally acclaimed new novel, Life After Life. The premise intrigued me, so I decided to pick it up some months back when it was actually new. While it's certainly a riveting story, there isn't a complete and satisfactory follow-through in the concept, and the story was almost too easy to read, lacking enough immersive prose replaced with exposition. (Atkinson is no Murakami, but come on)

This surprisingly breezy novel (considering it's over 500 pages) begins with the death of Ursula Todd, our protagonist. She dies almost half a dozen times in the first 100 pages of the novel, all before reaching the age of ten (except for the intriguing and gut-wrenching first chapter, strategically placed to pull you into the story). Her first few lives start out normal, but end tragically, and the next few, as she makes some unconsious changes in choice and circumstance, she slowly begins to improve her lot--and potentially those of the people she is close to.

But this isn't your usual reincarnation story: Ursula is born on the same date under (almost) the same circumstances in February of 1910, to the same family, living through both wars in most of her lives. She experiences a few horrors in some lives that she manages to avoid in others--but how she does avoid them is neither entirely clear nor consistent. Initially it is this intense, visceral fear that prevents her from making ultimately fatal decisions, and other times it's an unconscious enthusiasm to actively make a different choice than she had before--as if she wants to try something new.

The story is quite interesting and for the most part I was compelled to read further, if only to get to the point where she (spoiler alert) attempts to kill Hitler. The complex characterizations, and the funny way the other characters tend to stay the same no matter how radically their choices differ--and even Ursula, at her core, remains the same--are major virtues in this work. And while I'm no expert, and surely there are anachronisms, Atkinson portrays the particular era that Ursula lives--from the prewar 1910s to the London Blitz--with intricate realism that allows me to be there, not seeing it through a distorted black and white lens.

However, the development and execution of the concept fell short of expectations--of course, it's not that we need answers to everything. There are hints peppered throughout the novel that others experience this sort of recurring lives as well, and we don't need to know if there's a "set" number of lives or if it goes on forever... It was more in the lack of consistency in Ursula's apparent awareness of the phenomenon. At first it seems like she is becoming more aware of her deja vu, but then the oddly standout section "End of the Beginning," where past, present, and future blend together, she seems more confused in general than anything. Not to mention that killing Hitler, even if the fact that it may not alter history all that much, is kind of a cliche at this point--mind you, Atkinson handles this bit quite well. And there didn't seem to be enough moments where she was "aware;" I wanted this to be weirder than it turned out to be.

In the end, Life After Life is a story about a particular woman living in a particular era, and her active explorations in this cross-section of time and space as she tries to "get it right." It's as decent a read as they come...but perhaps not for the summer. Save it for when the weather is colder--this does take place in England, after all. 3.5 stars out of five.

A Summer Reading Series: There's Always a "Light" at the End of the Tunnel

In three days, I read the final installment of the fast-paced and immensely disturbing Gone series. Light was decidedly faster paced than the rest of the books in the series (except perhaps for the first), so fast that I really did get swept up in the action, unaware of time's passing. It was a brisk, violent, emotional end to the series, but I responded more viscerally to the former than the latter. It seems that even though Light is full of action, death, and thematic resonance, it fell short emotionally, as if the author himself had turned off his emotional capacity to better cope with all the suffering he has caused these characters, just as many of them have done with theirs.

**SPOILERS AHEAD**

Obviously, Gaia lives, and grows, as Sam had not managed to kill her completely. And now that the FAYZ wall is transparent, the whole world can see the suffering and trauma that the kids have endured. But as sound cannot travel through the wall, misunderstandings about the goings-on in the FAYZ abound, and our core characters each consider what lies in wait for them at the end. It's not long, however, before Gaia is strong enough to unleash some bloodshed, and several characters, some named and most not, meet a swift and terrible end.

Light retains all the good stuff from the last five volumes, keeping the tone consistent: a fast-moving plot, complex characterization, and intense action. Additionally, all the loose ends get tied up real nicely, with a quick hint that maybe not everything is back to normal. But even as the story moved quickly, it is the same plot that drags on: the battle with Gaia. A couple kids get to throw some punches at her, she massacres a few more, then there is a rest. So there wasn't a whole lot of variety this time around. The plot with Petey was also grossly underutilized, as we only get precious few glimpses into his disembodied psyche before he possesses Caine, and his final battle with Gaia is laughably brief and almost comical to boot.

Interestingly enough, the last 30 or so pages, which go over the aftermath with all the main characters, was the most intriguing aspect of the emotional psychodrama that took place in this volume. The effect of their experience in the FAYZ would definitely be long-lasting, and adjusting to life in the real world would be difficult. I would almost rather have had another volume that went into a bit more detail about these kids' futures; sure, it would be epilogual, tangential to the overarching story of the FAYZ, but it is just another missed opportunity for a YA series to go in depth with the psychological effects of the trauma that the characters experienced and the cruelty of the real world when it comes to sympathizing with such trauma (see also: Hunger Games). But I applaud that Grant devoted more than 10 pages to it and treated the aftermath with deft realism.

One major weak point in the overall emotional arc came from Edilio's end. Edilio quickly became one of my favorite characters over the course of the series, and he has steadfastedly remained a "better person" than even Sam and Astrid (who basically give in to fear of death towards the middle-end), and there were some nail-biting moments when I thought he wouldn't make it to the end. But his grief for Roger, his supposed lover...I couldn't sense it the way I had with Sam and Astrid, or even Dekka's love for Brianna. Maybe Edilio is just good at holding back his emotions, but I did not get that intense fear and sadness that the other aforementioned characters in love had felt. If Grant really wanted to run with this, we should have gotten more set-up, seen Edilio and Roger interact a few more times than the few scenes we got back in Fear. In the end, I was happy for him, but still didn't buy that it was "true love" in the sense of Sam and Astrid or Dekka's love for Brianna.

Which brings me back to emotionality. This book made me gasp, tense, sigh with relief, and even feel happy for the characters towards the end. But I didn't cry. I was shocked that Brianna was killed so quickly, but I didn't feel sad. I felt sorry for everyone who was there to witness it, and the characters who cared about her, but I wasn't sad. I wasn't sad when any of them were killed. I even got angry with Sam and Caine for acting like such selfish cowards while helpless kids were being slaughtered with their powers. (Yeah, sorry Sam fans, but for a minute there I actually wanted him to die. When will a YA author have the guts to kill off the hero?) It wasn't like I didn't care about any of the characters who died. Perhaps there was just so much death, more then in any of the other volumes, I expected just about everyone to die, and not only wasn't surprised, but was desensistized to it. It stopped being shocking and more like, "Welp, now it's time for more kids to die." The killing was getting out of control.

But even through all of this, Sam gets through it all, coming out of the experience amazingly well-adjusted (if more stubborn and headstrong than before) while many others hadn't. As he's been in the thick of the action, you would think that he would leave the FAYZ just a teeny bit more scarred than he had. Ironically, in the end, the big hero of the FAYZ wasn't much of a hero, his life preserved thanks to others and his own selfish instincts, and yet retains that title for his past actions and doesn't seem to suffer a major guilt complex. (Though one would hope that Astrid would give credit where it was due regarding the end of the FAYZ) It was pretty obvious that the author was making it so that he and his closest friends would live...surprise, surprise.

So ends this thrilling ride of a series. Worth checking out, but, like the vast majority of critics say, it could've been better. 3 stars out of 5.

A Summer Reading Series: "Game of Thrones," and Why I Hate George RR Martin

I have never been a big reader of epic fantasy. It's not that I dislike the genre, necessarily; I'm just not that interested in it. I have never read the Lord of the Rings books (though I have seen the movies) and do not care to. It wasn't until I heard a lot of my friends talking about Game of Thrones--and raving about it--that I decided to give it a shot. More on that in a minute.

Reading Game of Thrones made me think about why I don't read epic fantasy. It's not because those stories are relegated to the genre ghetto (I still read some genre books)--though that factors into it a bit. But typical epic fantasy takes place in other realms modeled after Medieval Europe--a period of time in that place to which I'd rather not return. The notion of absolute monarchs and nobility is so outdated, and both sexes are allowed so little flexibility in their predetermined roles. And the focus on the higher classes, while a decent escapist route for other people, does not appeal to me in the least. What about all the people they allegedly rule over? And why are the Middle Ages so intriguing? I don't even want to pretend about it. It was a terrible, shameful period in the history of Europe. The promise of magic isn't really enough for me--I can get plenty of magic in Harry Potter-like fare. Even more socially conscious epic fantasy stories don't especially intrigue me--I guess any Medieval trappings in general are bound to turn me off.

So then why, you ask, did I decide to read Game of Thrones? This fantasy world resembles Medieval Europe even more closely than other epic fantasy stories, and even more blatantly racist and misogynistic--to a point teetering on the brink of problematic. And though I found a lot of such content in the first volume, I was nevertheless enthralled in the characters and ever-evolving intrigue as the story progressed.

A brief synopsis, for those who don't know: Game of Thrones follows the Stark family as each member gets pulled into national politics (in modern terms) and uncover a plot to kill the king and secure the cunning Lannister family into greater power. Each chapter follows a different point of view, most of them members of the Stark family, with the exception of the dwarf Lannister son Tyrion and the tangential story of the last Targeryen (the family that had been deposed by the current king) Daenerys, who at 14 is married to a Dothraki khal by her brother and whose experiences compel her to help bring back the age of magic and monsters.

Game of Thrones is obviously meticulously constructed (fyi, I'm obviously just referring to this first book, of course), with each chapter advancing the plot and pov character's arc in some way. Even the seemingly pointless deaths, for which many claim are pervasive in the book, serve the greater narrative in one way or another. And with each event (or almost every event) serving such a purpose, the tension rapidly rises and the stakes raised. And as I got to know each of the p.o.v characters, I came to like them more, or else my feelings toward them changed over the course of the narrative. By the middle of the 800-page tome, I had characters I was rooting for, characters I loathed, and characters I felt pity for.

But George RR Martin seems especially cruel, not just with the grim portrait of a Medieval-esque land, but also in how he constantly beats down his characters the second they have something to hope for. Whether it's murdering characters they care about, allowing them to be tricked or make mistakes for an inordinate amount of time, have them lose, and lose again, or laying bare the misogynistic culture that seems to respect women as much as cattle, Martin is one cruel god. This is not necessarily a bad thing, as it sustains narrative tension, but all the hardship makes me want to put down the book after a while. Sometimes, it gets to be too much.

Another reason to put down the book? It's too long. Now, it's not that the book is uninteresting, but there were moments later in the book where something that happened earlier is referenced and for a second I'd thought it was a previous book. Too much happens--and I'm sure the overall word count could have been reduced in other ways. I can certainly appreciate a lengthy novel that meanders slowly through the plot and soaks itself in details and character studies, but this is epic fantasy we're talking about here. It's meant to be consumed quickly--and for that it was too damn long.

So, while Game of Thrones may not be the best that epic fantasy has to offer, or even my particular cup of tea, but it is an entertaining and often thrilling read. 3.5 stars out of 5.

Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha ain't so funny

Roddy Doyle's Booker prize-winning novel isn't your typical novel, even among the literary types in which Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha fits so well. There's no real overarching plot tying all the episodic occurrences together, rather, a thin thread of feeling and a sense of security that changes over time--a length of time that is imprecise and imperceptible, as we are given only a vague sense of the order of events that occur in the novel. It is also all told from a 10-year-old boy's perspective, who learns a lot but still is very ignorant about much of the world. This structure may be off-putting to a lot of people, but if you take your time with this subtly pensive tale, you may find the story absorbing and enjoyable.

The story takes place in 1968 Barrytown, Ireland, a very specific time and a very specific place, but Doyle presents the context--even in the eyes of a ten-year-old boy--quite adeptly, so one gets a fairly accurate impression of the setting, and even the prevailing attitudes of the time. The titular protagonist gets into fights, picks on his little brother, participates in gross and masochistic dares, steals from certain shops, and looks down upon the boys who live in the newly constructed corporation housing. Like all his friends do. But slowly, over the course of the novel, the boy changes, and no longer fits in with his boorish peers. Coincidentally, or not so coincidentally, his parents' fights come to a breaking point and his father leaves the household for good, and he is drawn to one of the more aloof Corporation boys, Charles Leavy. The change is not much, but profound.

The story is strongest with its authenticity in detail and in Irish manners of speech, transporting to you to this very distinct setting. Roddy Doyle is nothing if not authentically Irish. That said, you'll need to put your context clue sleuthing skills to the test at times if you're not familiar with a lot of Irish-isms, or else have Google handy.

The structure of the novel is a major weak point, however, as each (mostly short) section is individually compelling, and not so much builds up a collectively compelling read. Though the book is under 300 pages, it took me longer than usual for a book of its length to read, largely because I wasn't dying to read more, only reading a few sections in a sitting and satisfied with that. It could be a purposeful device, allowing for deeper ponderation and a more true-to-life look at Irish boyhood, but a few sections likely could have been cut out without impacting the overall story very much. But to each their own.

In sum, Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha is an engaging, sometimes funny, and occasionally shocking portrait of one Irish boy's life at the age of ten. 3.5 stars out of 5.

Thoughts on the new season of "Arrested Development"

At long last, I've powered through the debut season of the new Arrested Development. I've been a fan of the show since a year after it went off the air and discovered its wonders from my peers (did somebody say "wonder"?). Now I'm as big a fan as they come, and AD remains one of the greatest comedies of the 2000s. I expected it to be a little different this time around, what with the different format and the longer episodes. I think it's well-suited to the style of AD, with the interwoven narratives that close the knot (and leave some open for another season...which we may in fact have!). It unfolds much like a novel, with unanswered questions that will get you to read the next volume. On a related note, if this format catches on, we could replace the word "season x" with "volume x" like graphic novels.

Old promo image...

Warning, spoilers....

In this season, each episode focuses on a different character, and at this point the Bluths have gone their separate ways, more or less. Not all of the Bluths are in every episode, so you may miss a character from time to time (I did), but then you'll also realize which characters you missed the most. (Mine: George Sr. and Lucille, GOB,  Maeby, George Michael) The episodes are also longer than 22 minutes, which sometimes bogs down the funny in service of the story. So it's a little slower-paced, with some overextended gags and yet a great deal of information packed in...with some intriguing incomplete moments acting as missing pieces of the puzzle, as it unfolds. The season definitely starts to pick up as it goes on, though, and it's most fun the moments those pieces fall into place.

There are some moments that are a little silly, like Lindsay's beau the Ostrich Man (and his farm), Maeby staying in high school a few years longer than when she should have realized it was a fruitless endeavor, and Michael's downward spiral (as of right now) feels a little far-fetched. But there are some classic Bluth moments, and the new format, in which we follow the story of a single character (and where their paths cross) works quite well considering the fact that all the characters are inter-linked and will interact with one another from time to time. But don't worry, you'll laugh: I laughed out loud quite a few times every episode, and will probably laugh more the next time I get around to watching this season.

New promo image

A lot of critics have mentioned how dark it is, and how unlikeable Michael has become in this season. And I wonder, have they not been paying attention? This family is as unlikeable as they come, and haven't been able to mask it well over the course of the original series. It would only be a matter of time before each of them "got theirs". On the one hand, we feel bad for them, because thanks to the brilliant writing and acting, we actually kind of like these characters, even if they're selfish and racist and generally horrible people. They redeem themselves every once in a while. But on the other hand, the Bluths as a whole are horrible, and do horrible things to others for their own gain, each Bluth varying on levels of pitiability and horriblility. And in this season, the more things change, the more the Bluths stay the same--to a degree. I do feel bad for Maeby and George Michael, though, since they didn't ask to be a part of this dysfunctional family.

The idea that Michael would turn out to be a failure when he struck out on his own and then get into the movie business in a meta-arc is a stretch, but not entirely implausible--like a lot of the situations presented in this season. Michael has made many Bluth-worthy mistakes in the past. I found George Michael and Maeby to be the more relatable characters, anyway, though maybe that's because I'm a young'un. But the dark, cringe-worthy comedy is hardly alien to intelligent American viewers, and sure, it's not everyone's cup of tea, but you would think the critics would get that.

"Fear" Keeps the Suspense Going

Five books in, Fear retains all the great qualities of the previous four books, even as the red shirt, climatic battle with Drake and death of some other baddie starts feeling repetitive. Clocking in at over 500 pages, this is one of the longest books in the series by far, and Grant maintains the mounting suspense, surprising (and shocking) twists, and realistic character development that has made the series so compelling. However, beneath all the action, horror, and suspense, one can sense that the author was running out of steam, making this book a little more uneven than the first few.

I can never figure out who the kids on the cover are supposed to be...

The looming crisis in this volume is the impending darkness of the sphere, stemming from the gaiaphage and blackening the barrier, eventually obliterating all sky light in the FAYZ. Astrid has exiled herself from the new communities as a form of punishment for her desperate act of the previous book--and she is easily one of the best-written characters in this volume. Sam and his crew have set up a new community at the lake they had found, and enjoyed four months of relative prosperity. Things in Perdido Beach are not as peaceful, however, as one of Quinn's fishermen is sentenced to being tortured by the visions of Penny, who herself begins to plot a coup against "King Caine" when he is pressured by Quinn to get rid of her. Meanwhile, Drake is on a mission for his master: to bring Diana, and her baby, to its lair, and Petey has become a disembodied spirit with the ability to manipulate living things--often with horrific results.

Things go south fast in this book, but not before a good deal of time is taken to catch up the reader on the past four months and spend some time with each set of characters, which slows down the momentum of the book. It's a lot more quiet and pensive in the beginning, which ain't a bad thing. We also get a glimpse of what has happened in the outside world after all this time--and a plot to destroy the sphere forever. The greatest strength remains to be the complex character development, strongly evidenced in this volumes by Astrid, Dekka, Sam, and Brianna--with Quinn and Caine revealing new sides of themselves, as well. Astrid's was by far the most profound, as she had lost her faith and accepts her desire for Sam, rather than try to push it away. We see Dekka and Brianna be hopelessly vulnerable--and Orc, too, come to think of it.

The ending--which was quite cool and surprising--opens up the door for further interesting character conflict, as the world of FAYZ is now open for the adults to see--without the benefit of warm embraces and lengthy explanations. (And imagine the pressure of being seen while going about your business running a run-down world!) For that reason, and not the final demise of the gaiaphage, I am excited to see what happens in the final volume.

In spite of its enduring strengths, Fear had many weaknesses, mainly figuring around the mutant baby of Diana's that the gaiaphage possesses. It was one thing to have the "bad girl" endure a pregnancy, but once it accelerates and the baby is born, I couldn't help but giggle a little bit because it's so convenient that the gaiaphage can accelerate growth, I find the precocious monster baby trope a little silly (as well as precocious babies in general), and I am immature. Even with Penny's quick descent into madness and evil and Cigar's beady new eyes, I found the baby gaiaphage to be the silliest turn that the Gone series has taken thus far.

I found other aspects problematic, as well. While the depiction of violence and madness has usually been handled tactfully in the series, the introduction of Penny as a "pure evil" character as bad as Drake, and Cigar's descent into madness as a result of her own, paints a problematic picture of both. While in a world where survival is prime, the mad and the violent are most often shunned or condemned to death, a sad state of affairs, I still find it terrible that nobody has tried to help them. Mad people need help, not to be euthanized or brutally killed. Another small issue I had was the abrupt reveal of Edilio's relationship with Artful Roger. Though Sam calls him "gay," I doubt that Edilio should have accepted the label so blatantly. Didn't he have a little crush on Lana at first? I would say he's at least bisexual. He just happens to like this guy.

All told, however,  Fear remains a quality installment to the series, with a cliffhanging finish that leaves you beyond excited for the next volume. I give it 3 stars out of 5.

"Plague: A Gone Novel": the FAYZ continues

To call the Gone series a dystopia is a misnomer, at the very least. A dystpoian tale conjures up the likes of Brave New World and 1984: stories that take place in the future, predicting a forseeable technological and societal upheaval that bears the mask of a utopia, but is actually quite a terrible place, devoid of such Enlightenment values as freedom and reasonable debate. Yet this is what it is called on the dust jackets of the first edition, probably to capitalize on the dystopian trend at the time. And it does appear a utopia (from a kid's point of view) for a fleeting moment in the first book: no more adults. And...that's it. Plague, perhaps more so than the other volumes, shows that this series is not "dystopian," but a supernatural horror story, with some aliens thrown in for good measure.

These kids still look too good to be from the FAYZ

Among the growing atrocities in Plague, a parasite that eats kids from the inside out--and can transfer itself to another host via green goo--that eventually grow into six foot long mutant insects terrorize Perdido Beach; two individuals who cannot die and share the same body (Brittany and Drake from the previous book) are sliced into pieces and put themselves back together multiple times; and a freak flu strikes in which the infected can literally cough out their insides. If you thought the craziness of Lies was bad, things get much, much worse in this installment.

*mild spoilers may follow*

Even with all the shocking and stomach-churning events that transpire over the course of the novel, Grant remains true to the characters, who keep growing and changing throughout the novels. Astrid finds herself in a dark place, and commits the previously unthinkable, riddled with guilt afterwards. Sam, tired of being a leader, begins to regret his choice as things just keep getting worse. Edilio, now mayor of Perdido Beach, sees what made Sam shrink away from leadership and is in a bind with terrible choices to make. Lana opens up slowly to one of the kids from the island, Sanjit, and on the island, Diana works at keeping Caine with her, but when he returns to Perdido Beach at another chance for glory, she leaves him in the end. Each of the characters we follow in Gone's diverse cast is distinct and complex, continuing the trend of the previous books.

My main criticism? People seemed to get from place to place suspiciously quickly. While it's tough to keep track of the time frame when so many things are happening at once and the perspective changes every other time, the bulk of the story takes place over a mere three days. Would Drake have reached the bottom of the cave so quickly? Would Quinn really have reached the island and come back in time? Would Sam and his water posse have made it back so soon? It's hard to say.

As with the swiftly moving, action-packed plot, the interesting characters keep the reader engaged and leave you hungry for more. Oh, I am definitely seeing this series through 'til the end. 4 stars out of five.

Labor Day is Today

While I don't normally use my online platform(s) for political purposes--though I am pretty passionate about many politicized issues--this post is in honor of International Workers' Day, also known as Labor Day throughout the world. May Day bears a lot of significance for many movements--namely, the labor and anarchist movement, and I've come to view this day as the "true" Labor Day, not the September U.S. "Labor Day" that is a joke of a holiday. Do we ever discuss workers' rights that weekend? Anyway, now for a short post...

The labor movement has taken a lot of bad hits lately. Proposals to raise the minimum wage, as was recently in New York, are met with intense resistance, as are measures to require paid sick and maternity leave--both of which are claimed to hurt "small business." Attempts to unionize have been promptly quashed and strikes of teachers and service workers can often fizzle. (though the recent fast food strike holds promise) A more recent phenomenon has been the reduction of hours for retail and food service workers so that employers don't have to give them health insurance when the Affordable Care Act kicks in (among other reasons). These reasons alone justify organized labor, though there are plenty more.

Ironically, I found this on a .com

While there are many worthy criticisms of labor unions today, one has to keep in mind that all power needs to be kept in check. That is how the Founding Fathers structured the federal government, so that the three branches would check and balance each other's power to keep them in line (whether that holds true today is another story...). Government alone cannot be counted on to keep corporate power in check--besides all the lobbying and schmoozing, government is not sufficiently opposed to a corporation to be considered a proper check to its power, anyway. What does this leave us? Labor unions, and for the previous few decades, both the government and corporations have been attempting to chip away at the power of labor unions (see: Wal-Mart and Wisconsin) in order to assert their own.

Unions, perhaps, are not the most ideal solution in a world that is increasingly run on the work of service, freelance, and independent contract workers. The volatility of the economy and the increasing necessity to change jobs or even careers has created an environment hostile to the development of strong, stable unions. But the only significant power that unions can have is in numbers. The more people that join unions, the more powerful the unions can be. This is reflected in the history of the United States. "Divided we are weak; united we are strong" never rings so true as in the case of labor.

The dichotomy of "labor" and "management" may become antiquated as an increasing number of people choose to be their own boss (and employee, out of necessity), but there will always be people who have the money and control of production, and those who produce. And us producers always have to keep in mind that together, we can remind management who gets the real work done around here.

Recurring Themes and More of the Same

George Saunders released a new collection of short stories this year, Tenth of December. But that is not the collection I read this past week or so. Instead, it was his first collection, Civil War Land in Bad Decline. I had read the title story back when I was an undergrad, loved it, and had been meaning to pick up the entire collection for some time. Meanwhile, I had read The Brief and Frightening Reign of Phil at some point, which was a very quick read and I don't have the faintest memory of what it was about. This collection left a similar impression on me: breezy, funny, smart at times, but a bit behind the times. (Yes, even in the '90s...hell, especially in the '90s)

Civil War Land in Bad Decline is a collection of six satirical short stories and one novella, "Bounty." Each story is narrated in the first person, relating a skewed, disparate point of view in the face of the mounting madness. The heart of the conflict in most of these stories lies in the workplace, mainly between a disgruntled, inept employee and the boss. The title story outlines the quick decline of a historical theme park and the increasingly desperate attempts on the narrator's part to put things right. In "The 400-Pound CEO," the titular character works at an inhumane "humane" raccoon control business, and finds himself in hot water when he accidentally kills his abusive boss. "Bounty" starts out in a similar vein, but broadens into a dystopic satire featuring the ugly and the misfits.


The first writer that comes to mind in terms of influences is Kurt Vonnegut, who also wrote futuristic, satirical stories and outlandish characters and situations with quick-clipped pacing. This was his first collection, and that is allegedly the collection where an author's influences are most likely to show, but sometimes it seemed like he was trying to be like Kurt Vonnegut. Like Vonnegut, Saunders hardly takes part in the literary trappings of detailed description and rumination, which creates a fuzzy, liquid world in which the characters float--perhaps fitting, because the characters are downright cartoonish at times. This is most detrimental in his more futuristic stories, such as the novella "Bounty," which is  one of the better stories in the collection, handing over an almost O. Henry-esque ending. There's nothing wrong with the reader's imagination filling the blanks, and one almost inevitably envisions a penciled watercolor landscape and exaggerated silhouettes. If that's the effect Saunders wanted, and I just think it might be, then good on him.

Saunders' satire remains to be right on the money. Even though the vision of virtual reality depicted in "Offloading for Mrs. Schwartz" is very much the '90s-inspired heavy-headset kind, the idea that we may live within our own virtual fantasies is not far off from becoming reality (thanks, Google Glass). And all his commentary on the growing specter of corporate power and influence remain as salient as ever. But his heroes all seem to be relics of Vonnegut's era, with even less gumption: bumbling, disfigured, or nerdy men--though one story features a female protagonist--and most of them meet grim endings. With this comes rather old-fashioned ideas about women and people of color--if they are mentioned at all. I kept forgetting that these stories were supposed to take place in the future.

The stories were very similar in other ways. Each story features an odd workplace--theme parks appear no less than three times--and the protagonist is struggling to make ends meet and kiss up to the boss. Not all stories wound up being about the same thing--the main standout story is "Isabelle," about human kindness and compassion that rises out of chaos and ruin, and is almost kind of sweet in the end. But the themes can get tired--I mean, there are ghosts in two of them. Two!

This is not to say that Saunders isn't a skillful writer. The fast pacing of the stories are easily digestible in short periods of time, and rather expertly constructed in terms of thematic and satirical content. They are also quite enjoyable to read, and not painful exercises in 20th century bombast and bigotry. But I have seen it all before, and done better. Saunders may be different from the other literary stars of the last couple of decades, but he is nothing new. Three stars out of five. Oppression score: 4, as he does root for the little guy.

Solidarity with Boston

Hang in there, Boston. You'll pull through. You've already proven how great your citizenry is, and, well, it could be worse.

And while most New Yorkers will go back to hating on the Boston Red Sox when this whole ordeal is over, I will keep rooting for the Sox. You changed me in many ways, Boston, and that was just one of them.

The Longest Dinner Ever

Recently I read another book that's been hitting the hardcover bestseller charts, Herman Koch's international hit The Dinner. Presented as a Dutch Gone Girl (which maybe I should read now), the story takes place over the course of a single evening between Paul Lohman, his brother Serge, and their wives--with plenty of flashbacks throughout to full in the reader on the backstory. The story starts out wonderfully cryptic and tense, but once we get to the main course, it loses a bit of steam, kicking up again for the payoff in "Digestif."

The two couples have met, primarily, to discuss their biological sons and how best to deal with what they have done--which was quite a deplorable act, even if the end result was an accident. A lot is on the line, as Serge is running for prime minister and his brother suffers what appears at first to be a mean temper. As the story and the dinner moves forward, Paul reveals some shady motivations and dark past, almost each chapter ending upon a cliff and pressing you to go forward. It's more of a meditative tale than an action-packed one, with most of the plot having happened well before this dinner is taking place.

Each character in the story is devious and self-centered to a degree, and each member of the dinner party is looking out for themselves and/or their immediate families, to hell with anyone else. All Serge cares about is preserving his reputation, no matter how much he says that he only cares about his son's future. On the other hand, his wife, Babette, wants him to keep quiet about the incident and stay in the running for Prime Minister to protect their son. Claire's final desperate act at the end of the evening was a last-ditch effort to protect her son and Paul from prison and public scrutiny. Even Paul, our protagonist, reveals an unnamed mental illness that makes him prone to rage and see the worst in everyone--especially anyone who is not his wife or son. None seem to think that they boys should confess and suffer the consequences of their actions because what they did was wrong. In the end, this is what the story is about--the lengths at which people will go to protect themselves and their families (and especially their offspring), no matter the consequences otherwise.

But the plot bogs itself down in backstory during the main course--rather than having such juicy details be revealed through brief scenes that Paul reckons back to at some point in their vacuous diner conversation, we are treated to an uninterrupted succession, which makes it easy to forget at what point in the dinner we're at. By the time we return to the dinner as it's happening, thee story has lost a lot of momentum, failing to pick it up again even with a last-minute twist. After all that buildup I had expected a flashier finish, but considering the fact that they were out to protect their family from scandal, and succeeded, it is not much of a surprise. Another frustrating flaw was Paul's intentionally vague description of his and Claire's illnesses--one can only assume that he is talking about real illnesses, though such vagueness almost always leaves me suspicious of its accuracy.

On the whole, The Dinner is a satisfying read, and an interesting character study, even if it seems like the evening went on for much too long. I give it 3.5 out of 5 stars. Oppression score: 3, for Paul's contrarian and quite prejudiced views on such matters as those of the homeless. On the other hand, Paul is kind of a terrible person, like a lot of them, so it's largely harmless.

Karen Russell is different, but not too different

I have read Karen Russell before--and found her to be a good writer, generally, but in the end Swamplandia! was not what I had expected--in a bad way. Her second collection of short stories, Vampires in the Lemon Grove, shows off her literary prowess and the depth of her imagination, but she still sticks to a rather traditional formula. Even if she does mix that of the literary short story and that of fantasy/horror. 

While the reviewer on NPR rained praise upon Lemon Grove, even calling it "completely original," I have to disagree on this point. Not to knock this individual, but he is obviously not very well-read--at least in the mix-it-up literary genre of magic realism and suspense. Various stories reminded me of some by Joyce Carol Oates, Haruki Murakami, and some Stephen King, and others, and apparently one of her stories bears similarities to Ray Bradbury's "The Illustrated Man." Again, nothing is ever completely original. You just invite this kind of criticism when you say something's completely original.

Most of the stories of this collection are a worthwhile read, even if a lot of them get a bit draggy because Russell wanted to show off all the research she did on these stories--and considering that this collection takes us to Meiji Era Japan, mid-19th century United States, and the Antarctic Circle, among other unexpected places, she obviously did some. I commend Russell for writing such a wide range of characters and settings, as in each story they felt vivid and real to my mind's eye. The title story is definitely the strongest in the collection, but I also liked "Proving Up", and the final two stories in the collection a lot--even if they were, as I've mentioned, a bit meandering and pensive. The "Barn at the End of Our Term" is arguably the most creative and brisk story in the collection: mysterious, absurd, and a bit profound--which all of the best stories in this collection seem to have in common.

The weakest story was, by far, "Antarctic Tailgating." The entire story was built upon a gimmicky, nonsensical premise, and I couldn't get past the illogistics of it to glean any sort of significant message from the story. "Reeling For the Empire" is quite good, too, even if the visual of the women working there is unclear--as well as their fates. Finally, "Seagulls," for its clever concept and excellent thematic explorations, falls flat with the most stereotypical teenage obsession of sex and losing virginity--just about everything else in the story was very well-done.

Overall, I do not regret purchasing this collection, and will certainly read some of these stories again in the future. I admire Karen Russell's skill and imagination, but she is hardly a trailblazer in the realm of the literary weird. Worth it if you like something a little bit different, but not too diferent.

I rate the book overall a 3.5. out of 5 stars. And though the collection displayed few instances of oppression and stereotyping, I am disappointed that only two of the stories featured female protagonists--a nitpicky comment, I know. At least in one story it was a horse.

Corn Maidens and Demon Brothers

Joyce Carol Oates is, at the very least, an unsettling writer. I haven't read a lot of her work, but the one novel of hers that I have read, Zombie, made my skin crawl all throughout. This more recent collection of hers maintains that vein of creepiness that seems to have become her trademark. That she is revered in literary circles and not relegated to the genre ghetto is almost incredible. In her stories, though, the idea of supernatural forces influencing the characters is suggestive at best, or nonexistent. The horrors that Oates covers in this collection are entirely the result of the human mind and the society that has failed it.

The title story is unquestionably my favorite, though it is more accurately a novella than a short story. In this tale, a blonde girl is kidnapped by a sociopathic teenager who plants false evidence to implicate the school's computer consultant in her disappearance. While the missing girl's mother frets with worry and regret, the teacher bubbles with anger and resentment, the girl is drugged and kept hidden in a room in the sociopath's mansion, and prepared for a ritual inspired by Native American "corn maiden" tales, twisted in the sociopath's mind. We get a full picture of this story that the characters each grasp only a fragment of, seeing the points of view of all directly involved. Judith's is obviously the most twisted perspective, with her scenes narrated in a manic cadence. And though the mother and teacher's victimization and frustration are understandable and sympathetic, Oates lays bare the very real effects of rumor and prejudices that permeate not only the evening news, but the actors involved. Though the circumstances of the girl's disappearance are highly unusual, Oates presents the harrowing event in a realistic and haunting manner.

Oates' status as a literary writer is quite obvious in the way she richly evokes scenes, weaving into them the characters' emotional state and point of view, following the classic "show don't tell" rule of writing. The final story, "A Hole in the Head," serves as a perfect example, richly detailing the hastened but thorough process of covering up an accidental murder. "Beersheba" also does this quite well, as Oates slowly reveals the details and backstory as we follow the protagonist through his (likely) last day alive. No matter how harrowing or horrifying the experience, we can clearly envision these scenes as if we were there. Oates' stories also debunk the myth that another writing adage, "write what you know," means that you should only write about what you have personally experienced. Because surely Oates has not murdered or kidnapped anyone. With the right amount of research, you can write about anything.

"Unsettling" is a flexible term. In "Nobody Knows My Name," a story with suggested supernatural elements, a large cat kills the protagonist's baby sibling, almost in response to her hatred and jealousy. Supernatural forces are the only explanation that I can think of to explain this bizarre occurrence, because it's just so strange. In a way, though, it doesn't matter how the baby died, for Jessica would have implicated herself in it. "Helping Hands" I also did not enjoy so much, bringing in an out-of-left-field ending. In this story, a recently widowed woman reaches out to an employee and war vet of the titular charity/thrift store. Perhaps she was so stricken with grief that she could not see the "signs,' and perhaps sometimes people whom you'd expect to  be shady are shady, but I thought things escalated much too quickly, in any case.

The other two stories in the collection were very similar, and less nightmarish than the rest. Both involve twin brothers: one handsome and successful yet sleazy, and the other less successful and well-liked, but intelligent and kind. Over the years, the brothers become estranged, but in the end, they reconcile with each other somehow. And yet they are not the same story: the first, "Fossil Figures," the weaker brother was born with birth defects, spending his life as an artistic recluse, and the stronger brother is ashamed of him. However, when the stronger brother falls from grace, he moves back home with his weaker brother and they grow old and die together. It's kind of sweet, really. In "Death Cup", the successful brother is a cad and a con, while the other is merely an introvert. This story is told from the introverted brother's point of view, and we can understand how much he despises his brother, and how much he believes his brother despises him. When the caddish brother returns to the family estate in the wake of their uncle's death, the introverted brother finds himself incapable of killing him, as much as he fantasizes about his death--always the better man even against this will. But, riding together in their uncle's Rolls Royce, just in time to be killed in a car accident, he finds that perhaps there is something to be said of his brother's life after all.

Though not all these tales are nightmares per se (see above), each story stands to shock or creep you out in some way, and you might find yourself sympathizing with characters you may not have sympathized with otherwise. These tales are authentic Oates tales, stories that could only have come from her enigmatic mind, so any fan of hers is strongly recommended to read  this collection. My rating: four out of five stars.

The Writer's Life in the 21st Century

One of my resolutions for this year has been to devote more time to my creative writing, which I had sorely neglected in 2012. By "work", I don't mean the first draft, which I practically breathe on the page, but revealing it to new pairs of eyes for the first time, rewriting and revising, and sending it out to strangers in strange offices for them to judge my work on its publishability. And as I am finding out, this is where the real work in creative writing endeavors lies.

So far this has proved to be a challenge, as I work a full-time job that requires me to sit in front of a computer 35 hours a week. But it's not just these hours I can factor in--there is also commuting time, wake-up time, and decompression when I get home after devoting my entire day to someone else. So the last thing I want to do when I get home is to spend another 3-5 hours on another computer. And do more work--albeit of a slightly different nature.

In order to become a published writer, one has to not only write, but rewrite, edit, and gather enough gumption to send out her work to the best magazines and publishers (and know which ones to send to). This can take several hours out of one's day, and if one has a day job or a life of some kind, this would have to be spread out over several days. And one would also need to have the energy and ability to concentrate on such things for such a large block of time. This doesn't turn out to be so easy. Some days I am just burned out and don't want to deal with anything that is also work.

These elements, of course, apply to all writers who have had to struggle to make their voices heard. What makes this time, this century, unique? The unlikelihood that we will ever be able to make a decent living off our writing alone, for one--the number of writers who could was always small, but it seems to be smaller. This makes the grinding 9-to-5 even more essential to the living of a writer's life.

We also have a lot of distractions to push away in order to devote the level of concentration required to follow through with the remaining steps of the writing and publishing process. Fewer people will also likely read our writing--especially if one decides to write literary fiction, thanks in part to the aforementioned distractions. (As for myself, though I do enjoy literary fiction, have found myself increasingly bored with literary realism, so those of you who specialize in that genre--good luck with that) With the amount of time required in order to even get oneself out there, it's amazing that people manage to do it at all.

Obviously, it's not impossible. But what if you feel like you were more on top of things before? When your schedule was more varied? Before you had broadband internet access, and just had your imagination to keep you company on those long summer days? What about those days when all you want to do is write, but you have to work all day that day?

Grapes of Wrath: Greatest American Novel...until the End

Along with my newfound Doctor Who obsession, I have also been taking my sweet time reading John Steinbeck's greatest novel, The Grapes of Wrath, which also may be the greatest American novel to date. I should have read it ages ago, and as I got started with it, I came to agree with the critics who so highly praised this book...

...until it got to the ending.

The Grapes of Wrath, though it takes place during the worst of the Great Depression, where things were much worse, as a greater proportion of the population was starving or near-starving--still resonates strongly with today's circumstances. The novel, aside from several intermittent chapters that examine the times holistically, follows the Joad family as they reunite (when Tom returns home from jail) only to slowly be torn apart as they travel to California in search of work. Each character has their own epiphany, with only Tom, Rose of Sharon, and their parents holding onto what little hope they have left in the end.

Steinbeck's interludes were poetic and resonant, touching on themes and changes that were both specific to the time and universal: the development of technology, the displacement of poor farmers, the economic disparity, big business' takeover and pushing over of the little guy, the struggle to find work and financial stability. The story could have easily been a dystopian, post-apocalyptic novel had it been any other setting, with the struggling masses, selfish masters, and rare little pockets of freedom. The characters speak in thick accented Midwestern English, put it doesn't make them seem ignorant; they're just expressing their feelings and thoughts in their own way. Sometimes what they say is even profound, characteristically and thematically.

And each character goes through his or her own transformation over the course of the novel. Tom, previously ignorant of the rampant injustice, realizes that he can't take all of this lying down, and leaves the family to fight on for equality and justice. Noah would prefer to live alone in the wilderness. Al realizes he would rather have a career as an auto mechanic than work on farms all of his life. This novel was crafted to perfection--or as perfect as Steinbeck could make a novel.

Some things are obviously dated, however: throughout the novel (moreso in the beginning), objects are often referred to as "she" rather than "it," a very sexist pronoun assignment, and several times the characters try to run over animals ON PURPOSE while they're driving their car--an idea that is completely abhorrent and that I had never even dreamed of before. Then, there is a scene from their time in the government camp in which Al rapes a girl he's met in secret--but of course is not characterized as such, and Al is supposed to be a sympathetic character.

Now, I could largely forgive the characters' lack of respect for animal and women's rights, due to the date of the text and the ignorance and struggle of these impoverished characters, and the prose, characterization, and thematic resonance are so amazingly done. But when I got to the final pages of the novel, when the handful of Joads left abandon their makeshift boxcar home to the floods and take shelter in a barn, I was left scratching my head. In the barn, there is a young boy and a starving man who is near death. Then Rosaharn, clothes soaking wet, snuggles up next to the dying man naked as if to comfort him, then looks upwards with a "mysterious smile" on her face.

Seriously. That's how it ends.

I can't figure whether to interpret the ending as good or bad. Is it good because they will still be kind to those who are even less fortunate than they are? Or is it bad because Rosaharn is acting like a slut, a "comfort woman"? Or bad because they're all just gonna starve anyway, and she's smiling because she's insane from illness? I suppose it's whatever you interpret it to be, but it seemed to be out-of-place with all the other thematically resonant scenes in the novel, and the ending is one that makes an impression.*

Still, this novel is one of America's finest. Our writers don't always make sense. 4 out of 5 stars. Oppression score: 4 (though I think most of it would be obvious to 21st-century readers, anyway). Highly recommended to people who would like to write politically-charged, controversial, or other works featuring people who speak a different dialect.

*Okay, so I did some cheatish research, and it turns out to be a reference of to the painting Roman Charity, where a woman breastfeeds her ailing father back to health. So it is, more likely, kindness that she is expressing. Excuse me for growing up so grossly uncultured. Still, it's an odd scene--even after knowing the reference.