"Their Eyes Were Watching God" by Zora Neale Hurston

In a fit of “I must do something new!” I've decided to ditch The Scarlet Letter (which I’ve taught in my honors class for nine years) for Their Eyes Were Watching God. I wish I had thoughtful reasons for deciding to teach a book I haven’t read in years (probably since college), but instead I picked it because it’s written by a Black woman and is sufficiently within the canon to be accepted by my administration. I’m already embarrassed at my ignorance.

On the down side, I’m certain my students won’t like TEWWG any more than Scarlet Letter. Hurston’s prose is more accessible than Hawthorne’s archaic formality, but her colloquial dialogue will undoubtedly be harder. Both books are about women finding their autonomy against men seeking control—a theme I appreciate but for which the boys will show little interest.

On the plus side, TEWWG should pair well with The Great Gatsby, both because of their similar time periods and their commentary on different versions of the American Dream.

TEWWG follows Janie--a Black woman in Florida during the early 1900s--through childhood and then three marriages: first to cold Logan, then to controlling Jody, and finally to devoted Tea Cake. The novel's central focus is Janie's self-awakening and growth.

I’ve read snippets debating whether or not TEWWG is a “feminist novel” (interestingly, a similar debate follows Scarlet Letter). As in most great literature, the answer is not clear cut. Janie’s life is defined entirely by her relationship with men. She has no substantive female friendships. Heck, I think the novel might fail the Bechdel test! Over the course of the novel, Janie learns to exert autonomy, though that autonomy is in the service of men. She abandons Logan, but only to go off with Jody. When Jody dies, she subverts her community’s expectations, but only to be with Tea Cake. Her fawning devotion to Tea Cake is almost cringe-inducing. When he steals her money and holds a party without her, she only chastises him for not inviting her. Later there’s a particularly awful scene where Tea Cake beats Janie to prove his control to a potential suitor.

Then again, Janie is a character whose growth is in learning not to settle—in demanding access to the love and autonomy she desires. Who am I to criticize because she finds those qualities in a man? With the exception of the scene above, the relationship between Janie and Tea Cake is largely one of equals, perhaps not so much by modern standards, but in the sense that both partners have their needs met; both partners feel heard and valued. At the end of the novel, Tea Cake develops rabies after being bit by a dog while saving Janie, and Janie is forced to shoot and kill him to protect herself. Though she's upset to have lost Tea Cake, she doesn't fall into self-recrimination or depression. She knows her actions were justified, and she returns to her former town with her head held high, wearing her favorite comfy overalls.

Thus, I think the best answer to the novel's relationship to feminist ideals is "it's complicated," which I like. There will be more to talk about!

In addition to debate over Hurston's feminism, there's been discussion about the novel's place in African-American literature. Though I've considerably upped the number of books I'm reading by and/or about people of color, I've realized how many are still centered on racism and discrimination. While those are important topics, I know it's important to see a diversity of experience. TEWWG is entirely about Black Americans--and a segment of Black America. There are almost no white characters, and while issues surrounding racism such as economic opportunity are present, it's not the primary focus of the novel. In that way, I think the book serves as an important complement to other canonical African-American works. 

I frequently listened to audiobooks when I lived in Philadelphia but have long fell out of the habit. Given its reliance on dialect, Hurston's novel was a good choice with which to return. The narrator did an excellent job of distinguishing between the many characters, but my only complaint is that her performance of Janie suggested Janie was always on the verge of belly laughs or hysterical crying. The plaintive tone she often adopted in intense moments undermined some of Janie's strength.

I'm nervous about teaching the novel next year. I fear I won't be able to surmount my students' disinterest. But at least we won't spend a quarter languishing over sin and adultery.

"We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves" by Karen Joy Fowler

I haven't listened to an audiobook in awhile, but I decided to download We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves to listen to while I did my pregnancy walks. Fowler's novel was another book that I added to my "to read" list a long time ago but had long forgotten what it was about by the time I actually got it.

So, this total lack of awareness contributed to two large surprises (I don't think these are spoilers if you have any idea what you're reading):
1. When Rosemary spends the first part of the novel talking obliquely about her disappeared sister Fern, I didn't realize Fern was a chimpanzee until Rosemary "drops" the bombshell (rather coyly, she acknowledges).
2. I also didn't realize the book was fiction--not a memoir--until I finished the audiobook and it suddenly occurred to me that the author name I'd been seeing--Fowler--didn't match the name of the narrator.

So, through my own fault, I was rather hoodwinked the whole time. I don't know that being unaware hindered my enjoyment, though I might have been able to appreciate some of the literary structures more if I'd known it was a novel.

For those who are in the unawares like me, a brief description: Beside Ourselves is Rosemary's account of her family. The daughter of a psychologist father, she was raised alongside the baby chimpanzee Fern for the first five years of their lives as part of a social experiment. When both Rosemary and Fern were five, Fern was suddenly taken away for unknown (to Rosemary) reasons. Rosemary's brother, Lowell, left the family not long after in search of Fern and has been on the lam as an animal rights activist ever since. The story is not told chronologically or in long narrative sections. Instead, most of the telling takes place when Rosemary is in college, having avoided the topic of her sister for many years.

As Rosemary acknowledges, though Fern and Lowell are the more interesting characters, the novel stays mostly with Rosemary, and everything is told through her point of view. It's somewhat surprising that we spend much more time on Rosemary's college adventures with the crazy Harlow than on her childhood interactions with her chimpanzee sister, but, again, the book's not really about chimpanzees. It's about one woman who's avoided confronting what happened to her family for years, yet she's also deeply troubled by her missing sister.

The lack of traditional structure can make the book a bit jumbled, and you never get as many answers or details as you like. Nonetheless, it's an interesting read so long as you don't mind exploring the human more than the chimp.

"Amped" by Daniel H. Wilson

I thoroughly enjoyed Wilson's first novel, Robopocalypse, a fun and action-filled account of the war between man and robot. It wasn't particularly novel or thought-provoking, but, like a good summer blockbuster, I had a great time reading it. Wilson's most recent book, Amped, is more ambitious in the themes and issues it addresses, but unfortunately it's also less successful.

In the world of Amped, certain individuals have chosen to be implanted with neural devices. Some of these devices cure medical problems, like seizures, or improve brain function for mentally retarded children. Others enhance children with slight difficulties, such as the auto-focus implant, which can turn a distracted kid into an academic whiz. As the book begins, conflict is simmering between "amps" and "reggies" (people without the implant), who claim amps are being unfairly advantaged. The Supreme Court essentially rules that amps don't have legal rights, and a fierce anti-amp backlash emerges, led by Senator Joseph Vaughn of the Pure Human Citizens Council. Our protagonist, Owen, is a teacher with an implant to stave off seizures, but as he's forced on the run, he learns his father, a doctor, actually implanted him with secret military technology. Owen joins other amps living out West as war between amps and reggies brews.

Firstly, there's some interesting stuff here. There's the issue of technological enhancements and the ethical questions that come along with them. How much is too much? Is there a point where people are no longer human? Do we create two tiers of citizens if some people are amped and others aren't? There's also interesting legal questions, particularly around the Supreme Court's ruling (which, for example, says that because amps are mentally superior, "reggies" are essentially handicapped in any dealings with them, making contracts unfair). Then there are the social issues about the way we treat people who are different. But, none of these interesting questions take center stage in the novel.

Instead, we get Owen on the run, eventually getting to the amp colony of Eden. There he meets Lyle, another military amp, and Lucy, whom Owen falls in love with, most likely because she's the only female character in the book. Owen learns to use his amp powers, but even though they make him a hard-core bad-ass fighter, the scenes are pretty dull. Meanwhile the reggies go all nuts about amps and become hate-spewing villains immediately. As we finally start to reach the end, we go through a dozen or so "twists" to the point where none of the evil guys make any sense. Oh, and in the end, everything's fine, and the answer to "is there a limit to how we should use technology?" is apparently "no."

The pace drags throughout and Owen is uniformly boring. This is actually a rare case where a movie version might be better than the book, as the fight scenes could be ramped up and listening to Owen's rambling inner monologue could be eliminated.

I listened to the audiobook version, which was fine, but nothing special. I'd recommend Wilson's Robopocalypse instead.

"Catch-22" by Joseph Heller

Though audiobooks obviously take me longer to "read" than traditional novels, I still typically finish one or so a month. I've been listening to Catch-22 since mid-March, which means this one took me three months to finish. Oops. It was life craziness, not the book, that caused the lengthy timeline, but in some ways I'm glad it took the time it did as that meant I got to savor the novel for a long while.

Even people not familiar with Heller's work typically know what a catch-22 is: an inescapable paradox that today would perhaps be phrased simply as "FML." In the novel, the term refers to the predicament of Yossarian, a bombadier in World War 2, who desperately wants to escape further flight duty in order to avoid being killed. The "catch-22" is simple:
- Any pilot who is crazy cannot fly.
- Any pilot who does not want to fly must ask to be grounded.
- Any pilot who asks to be grounded is sane, and thus must fly.
It's bureaucracy at its best, and though most of us will never serve in war, I think we can all identify with daily absurdities inherent in the idea of catch-22.

The novel is probably best known for its structure. It's non-linear, and even though Yossarian is the protagonist, the presence of a third-person omniscient narrator means that a reader follows multiple characters. The story is more a series of vignettes than a traditional narrative, and the majority of the book is comprised of dialogue between the characters.

This roundabout dialogue is one of the book's highlights, as it draws attention to the maddening nature of communication and the trivial and mundane state of much of our existence. Take this exchange between the downtrodden and timid chaplain and Colonel Cathcart:

“Haven’t you got anything humorous that stays away from waters and valleys and God? I’d like to keep away from the subject of religion altogether if we can."

The chaplain was apologetic. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid all the prayers I know are rather somber in tone and make at least some passing reference to God.”

“Then let’s get some new ones.”

Intelligence, common sense, and human decency are constantly squashed for greed and self-interest. Nonetheless, most of the novel maintains a humorous tone, and the characters' constant exasperation is more funny than saddening.

In the last part of the novel, however, Heller's tone takes an abrupt turn. Many of Yossarian's friends die in succession, and Yossarian wanders through Italy facing cruelty at every turn. Though we might have laughed when a whore beat Orr over the head with a shoe early in the novel, there's no way to laugh when Aarfy rapes and kills a maid. Though the first part of the novel clearly establishes the absurdity of war, this part cements the real depravity of war and human nature.

Given that turn, and perhaps familiar with cynics like Golding (Lord of the Flies) and Orwell (1984), I was surprised that Catch-22 ends with a thoroughly hopeful conclusion. Heller seems to be arguing that life is shitty and frustrating, but that you choose whether to be defined and shaped by that.

I've had a lot of success with listening to classic novels on audiobook, and I would highly recommend this audio version. The narrator, Jay O. Sanders, did an excellent job with an enormous range of characters' voices (though whenever he did a Southern accent he ended up sounding like a parody of George W. Bush, which made me giggle). The dialogue is definitely enhanced by hearing tone (rising annoyance; calm patronization).

As a last thought, though the books are remarkably different, I kept thinking of The Things They Carried while listening. Perhaps because I think both achieve Truth--particularly about something as mythologized as war--through fiction.

"Divergent" by Veronica Roth

I've been recommending the Hunger Games to my 9th grade students for several years (even before it reached its current popularity--yeah, I'm that cool), and ever since I've been looking for its successor. At this point virtually all of my students have read the Hunger Games, and I need another book with such wide appeal (girls and boys; weak readers and stellar students). Though Divergent isn't quite that novel, I'm happy to say it is one I can recommend to a large number of my students, and it will undoubtedly be enjoyed by many Hunger Games fans.

Divergent's premise and plot lies entirely within it's worldbuilding, though it's this worldbuilding that is also the most unrealistic part of the novel. At some point in the United States' future, people decided that the country's problems were caused by individuals' lack of particular character traits. People formed groups called "factions" based on what personality trait they believed was most necessary for success: Abnegation believes in selflessness; Dauntless in courage; Erudite in knowledge; Amity in kindness; and Candor in honesty. Since then, people have grown up in one faction but are allowed to choose their own faction as teenagers. Once they do so, they undergo a rigorous initiation in order to become full faction members.

So, on the outset, this set-up seems pretty silly and doomed to failure. First, there's the absurdity in the idea that anyone could believe that one personality trait is sufficient for an effective society. Not surprisingly, the factions have taken their trait to an absurd extreme, so that Dauntless, for example, is dedicated mostly to reckless thrill seeking and Abnegation doesn't allow its members to use mirrors or wear anything but gray. Secondly, the government design is doomed for failure. Abnegation is given control of the government (since they're so selfless), but that obviously will breed anger among other factions. And people who fail faction initiation are "Factionless" and live essentially homeless, yet the people in the book don't seem to see this as a gigantic problem.

But, if the reader can accept all this, Divergent is a fun novel. The protagonist is Tris, a girl who has grown up as Abnegation but never felt at home there. When she takes her aptitude test to determine what faction she fits best in, she discovers that she doesn't fit just one faction--instead, she's "divergent." She keeps this a secret, knowing it's dangerous, and chooses to join Dauntless. Dauntless initiation is a struggle; though she makes a few friends (and grows especially close to one of their trainers, a slightly older boy named Four), she's forced to fight, take risks, and face unimaginable fears. Yet amidst all this there is growing unease between the factions, and a future in which Tris will have to play an important role.

Divergent has a fast pace and nicely balances the individual struggles of Tris as she undergoes initiation with the societal struggles between the factions. Tris is a fully realized character, particularly as she attempts to put aside her Abnegation upbringing in order to fulfill the requirements for Dauntless. Her relationship with Four doesn't overwhelm the story, but it's relationship you root for nonetheless. Like Hunger Games, Divergent doesn't shy away from violence. There are teenagers killing other people and a high body count. This will probably help make it appeal to teenage readers, though the number of deaths is so high by the end that the impact is somewhat lost.

The audiobook I listened to is read by Emma Galvin, who does an excellent job with Tris' narration and with the other characters' voices. The pacing and emotional tenor was spot on, and the novel was easy to follow.

I'm planning on recommending Divergent to my students when their next independent reading comes up, and I'm hoping it will be a new favorite for some.

"Deadline" by Mira Grant

I was of two minds about Grant's first book in this series, Feed. On the one hand, I love zombie books, and there was some cool worldbuilding. On the other hand, the characters were often annoying and cliche, the exposition was slow, and there was excessive self-righteousness about the world of blogging. Deadline suffers from all the same flaws, but I enjoyed it anyway.

Deadline picks up a few months after the end of Feed. Shaun has taken control of After the End Times, the news site he ran with his sister, Georgia. Georgia died from a zombie infection at the end of the last book, but she's not gone. Shaun still talks with her, inside his head (he'll punch you if you comment about it, though--something he mentions about two dozen times). When a CDC researcher who faked her own death shows up at their offices, they begin to investigate a giant conspiracy designed to cover up truths about Kellis-Amberlee, the virus responsible for zombies.

Initially I was annoyed at having Shaun as a narrator. He has a tough-guy, "I don't care what anyone else says demeanor" that comes out a bit forced. However, I discovered I didn't mind him as much as I did in Feed, perhaps because he's talking to Georgia less, and the most groan-worthy moments were usually a part of their conversations. The additional characters--Becks (an Irwin), Maggie (head of the fictionals), Alaric--are welcome, though they're not given much personality as they mostly just do whatever Shawn says.

The initial conspiracy reveal is kinda neat. It's a nuanced problem, as you can understand the CDC's desire to keep the information quiet for public safety and Shaun's desire to have free knowledge. However, this subtlety is quickly done away with as the CDC becomes a cartoonish villain (the main guy even does the "let me explain everything to you before I kill you" spiel, just as in Feed). This is disappointing, as the characters then spend much of the book on the run from the CDC only to decide to infiltrate the CDC again and confront a researcher--cause, uh, that'll solve everything. Most of the rest of the novel is the crew sitting around, waiting for stuff to happen and not doing anything about what they know. Furthermore, like in Feed, Deadline is more about living in a world with zombies than about zombies themselves. The walking dead only make brief appearances, in fact, in the beginning and end of the novel.

Grant has learned some from the book before, as the enormously tedious descriptions of blood tests are significantly reduced. However, there's still a lot of repetition, like characters "raising their eyebrows" whenever Shaun talks to Georgia in his head or Shaun's incessant descriptions of drinking Diet Coke because Georgia wants one. Characters are stunned into silence or incredulous, over and over again.

I listened to both Feed and Deadline on audiobook, but this time I listened while cleaning and packing up my house. I found the book more enjoyable this way (last time I listened in a car ride) since I wasn't as focused on the book and could more easily gloss over the annoying parts.

I've come down pretty critically, but, in the end, I listened to the entirety of both books and had a pretty good time doing so. There's some really stupid parts and there's plenty that doesn't make a lot of sense, but it's not a bad ride.

"Daughter of Smoke and Bone" by Laini Taylor

Daughter of Smoke and Bone made many best YA of 2011 lists, so my husband I chose to listen to it on our annual car ride into the Midwest for Christmas.

The book has a great setting and an interesting premise. Karou is an art student living in Prague, but she has a secret: she runs errands collecting human and animal teeth for her "family" of monster-like creatures called chimaera. The head of this family is Brimstone, also called the Wishmonger, as he deals in wishes. On one errand, Karou is unexpectedly confronted by an angel, who attempts to kill her. Though she escapes, she's shocked when he finds her soon after--but he only wants to talk. As Karou and Akiva, the angel, spend more time together, they uncover their hidden history and learn more about the war between the chimaera and the angels.

In the beginning, I was game for the novel. Prague's a fun setting, and I enjoyed reading about Karou's double life. I especially liked Karou's best friend Zuzana, who's spunky and utterly devoted. There's great build up for discoveries about Karou's origin and foreshadowing for a good fight.

But then Akiva enters. And OMG, did you know he is beautiful? Because the author seems to forget we know. Beautiful. Beautiful! Moving on--oh, wait, I need to talk again about how beautiful he is. Okay, I appreciate that characters can be attractive and should be described as such, but there's really a point where it becomes overkill. And, guess what? He's not only beautiful. He's also pained. Tortured. Smoldering. The utterly romantic stalker (barf). Take Edward Cullen, make him warm and give him wings, and you get Akiva. Like Edward, Akiva is utterly without personality in his own right, and because of that, I felt no heat in his and Karou's relationship--just a lot of eye-rolling.

Then, Taylor takes a break from describing how tingly Karou and Akiva are around one another for an extended and awkwardly placed flashback, during which all the mysteries' truths are revealed in a fairly literal reinterpretation of Romeo and Juliet. The novel quickly concludes after, which felt anti-climatic, and ends on an utterly depressing note. Yay.

Considering all the praise the novel received, I was especially disappointed to see a run-of-the-mill romance with a stock male lead. Karou is more interesting initially, but she gets insanely boring by the time we get to the flashback. Taylor gets high marks from me for her world building, so it's a shame she populated it with such trite characters and relationships. Maybe the novel would have been better in print, where the repetition and annoying parts could be skimmed over, but it became almost unendurable at points in the audiobook.

"A Tale of Two Cities" by Charles Dickens

A Tale of Two Cities has been immortalized by its opening ("It was the best of times...") and closing lines ("It is a far, far better thing that I do..."), and when I began reading the book for the second or third time, I doubted Dickens' renowned words would have much effect on me. So, I was surprised that by the time I reached Carton's famous last words, I was teary and emotional, overwhelmed despite my intentions otherwise.

Dickens' story of the excesses of the French Revolution comes down firmly against the revolutionaries, though it is sympathetic in the plight and exploitation of the people by the aristocrats. I would have preferred some nuance here, but Dickens is so skillful in his description and in evoking emotions of outrage (both against the rich and the mob of the people) that the novel works anyway.

For me, the greatest weakness of Dickens' story is the simplicity of his characters, who are mostly one-dimensional: either noble, true, and innocent or bitter, ruthless, and unforgiving. This dichotomy is most present in his female characters of Lucie Manette and Madame Defarge. Lucie is young, pretty and pure, and because of that, she is beloved by everyone--and I found her annoying. Like Les Miserables' Cosette, Lucie has no real personality yet is the axis on which all the other characters turn. Evil is always more interesting, and so is Madame Defarge, even though she's no less a flat character. Defarge's constant knitting serves as one of the most indelible images from the novel, and her single-minded pursuit of revenge forces the narrative forward. However, even when her backstory is revealed, she is made no more sympathetic, which is a shame.

The male characters are somewhat better, though Darnay is for the most part a mirror of his wife Lucie, and Mr. Lorry benefits only from his age and kindliness. Sydney Carton, the hero of the story, is the only real exception, as he's a man with true good and bad inside him.

Listening to the novel at a leisurely pace was a perfect way to re-enter a story I was already familiar with. Narrator Simon Prebble does an excellent job with the male and female voices and keeps the pace moving appropriately.

I enjoyed A Tale of Two Cities when I first read it as a highschooler, and it was no less enjoyable this time around.

"Cleopatra: A Life" by Stacy Schiff

Schiff's new biography of Cleopatra sets out to dispel some of the myths that have surrounded the famous queen for ages, particularly those portraying her as nothing more than a seductress, a femme fatale who led Julius Caesar astray and destroyed Mark Antony. In A Life, Schiff instead posits Cleopatra as an intelligent strategist focused on maintaining her rule and independent kingdom.

There are a lot of great details throughout the book that make it a fascinating read for anyone interested in the classical world. Cleopatra was part of the Ptolemy dynasty that had ruled Egypt for years, yet they were Greek. The family had a nasty habit of killing each other off in order to gain the throne (and you thought the characters in A Game of Thrones were bad), something Cleopatra gamely participated in as well. So fabulous was Cleopatra's wealth that she gave away horses and couches to Roman dinner guests.

It's Cleopatra's relationships with the Roman leaders Caesar and Antony that have given her the most notoriety. These relationships take up much of the book, though the men come more to life than Cleopatra. In the end, it's difficult to know how exactly Cleopatra felt about the relationships. On the one hand, Egypt needed Rome as an ally, so a relationship with the men makes political sense. On the other hand, Cleopatra had children by both men and famously commits suicide after Antony's death (though, significantly, she does so after being conquered and imprisoned). Did she love them? Did they love her? These questions cannot be fully answered.

Though Schiff's research is exhaustive, in the end, the reader learns more about the context surrounding Cleopatra than the queen herself. This may be largely because history is written by the winners--in this case, the Romans--so the information we have on her is from a biased and critical Roman-centered point of view. Schiff does a nice job of trying to parse through the sources, determining each author's agenda, but it also means she's left with little in the way of fact. Most everything about Cleopatra herself is boiled down to "probably's." It was frustrating to know so much about Caesar, Antony, Cleopatra's wealth, Alexandria's status in the Mediterranean, and the status of women and so little about the the woman herself.

The book does not begin chronologically, and so I found it confusing at first because it would jump back and forth in time. Once it became traditionally chronological, I had an easier time. I listened to the audiobook version, narrated by Robin Miles. Miles has a pleasant neutral voice, but she's not particularly engaging, and I wished for a bit more spunk. I did fall asleep at intervals during the book, but I'll attribute that more to my tiredness than a failure of Schiff's work.

Cleopatra: A Life is a comprehensive look at an interesting and important period in history and the intersection of two very different cultures. Although at times a tad dry or repetitive, Schiff does much to raise Cleopatra beyond the Hollywood image of her and into her own right as a powerful and intelligent leader of a nation.

"The Poisonwood Bible" by Barbara Kingsolver

I'm not quite sure why I waited so long to read The Poisonwood Bible except I think I had it mixed up with Prodigal Summer, which I own and started a few times but never got in to. Nonetheless, I'm happy I finally gave the book a try, especially in the well-done audio version I listened to, which is narrated by Dean Robertson in a convincing southern accent.

The Poisonwood Bible tells the story of the Price family, who travel to the Congo as Christian missionaries in the 1960s. The wife, Orleanna, and the four children, Rachel, Leah, Adah, and Ruth May, are led with maniacal religious fervor by the father, Nathan. The story is told from the sisters' alternating viewpoints as they struggle to adjust to life in Africa.

The voice of each sister is especially well-done and reinforced by small shifts in tone from the audio narrator. Ruth May, the youngest, is naive and enthusiastic. Leah and Adah are twins, but Adah was born with some kind of deformity that results in a limp. Adah is silent yet sarcastic and irreverent; Leah is devoted to her father, which makes his fall from grace in her eyes all the more painful. Rachel is vain and flighty. Kingsolver is especially talented at making each girl, and their parents, fully realized characters. It quickly becomes clear that although Nathan is the reason they all travel to the Congo, he is mostly absent from their lives.

The first half of the book explores the family's first year or so in the Congo. The family's interactions with and lack of understanding of the people Nathan is there to convert take center stage. The second half of the book takes place over several decades as the family members go their separate ways and live out their adulthood. Because this part of the novel is spread out over such a long period, some of the intimacy of character that so defined the first half is lost.

Poisonwood Bible takes place over a turbulent time in the history of the Congo as the country transitions from Belgian rule to various forms of independence. Like another book I read this summer, White Woman on a Green Bicycle, Poisonwood Bible explores these changes through the eyes of white individuals living in the country.  Though, like in White Woman, this means the native Congolese voices are largely absent, the technique does expose the stereotypes and prejudices of non-citizens and particularly white Americans.

For me, it was the detail and nuance of the sisters' daily lives in a world that first appears strange, but then became familiar, that drew me in and kept me hooked.

"The Man in the Rockefeller Suit" by Mark Seal

Stories of secret identities are a trademark of classic mysteries, but to me, these stories always have an air of nostalgia. They come from a time when it was easy to change who you are because there was no electronic trail to follow you wherever you went. This notion I had made The Man in the Rockefeller Suit all the more astonishing, for it tells the story of Christian Gerhartsreiter, a German immigrant who transformed himself into various new identities over three decades, culminating with his best performance--convincing wealthy Boston that he was Clark Rockefeller, a member of the famous Rockefeller family, for years. And the story ends in 2008.

Seal notes that one of the reasons Rockefeller (I'll call him by that, simply because it's his best known name) was able to get away with it was because of how outrageous his lies were.  From the beginning, he adopted the persona of an aristocratic person of wealth and established himself in rich communities.  Though the stories he tells the people he meets seem absurd (working in Hollywood, descending from English royalty, doing high level work with various governments), it seems most people didn't have trouble believing him. The lesson seems to be if you're going to lie, lie big.

He even is married to Sandra Boss, an upwardly mobile Bostonian, for twelve years! Though he earns no income during that time, shows her no evidence of wealth, nor introduces her to his famous "family," she doesn't question his identity. In fact, the only reason he is discovered is because of his daughter with Sandra, Reigh (whom he calls Snooks). Sandra does eventually divorce Rockefeller, and in order to avoid his true identity being revealed in a custody battle, he relinquishes custody of Snooks to Sandra.  Months later, he abducts Snooks during a court-supervised visit, and it's this that finally puts the FBI on his trail.

Seal has done his research, interviewing an enormous range of people connected to the story. It was interesting to think of this story in comparison to another outrageous nonfiction book I recently read, Sex on the Moon.  Sex on the Moon is told from the main individual's point of view, thus portraying him rather sympathetically. Rockefeller Suit, on the other hand, is told from everyone but Rockefeller's point of view, so he comes off in a (deservedly) negative light. Because the voice of Rockefeller himself is absent, a central question is left unanswered: what was going on in his head during this time? Did he actively think about his cons? Or did he delude himself into thinking he actually was rich and sophisticated? Why did he have the compulsive need to deceive everyone about every aspect of his life?

From start to finish, The Man in the Rockefeller Suit is fully engrossing and ideal as audiobook entertainment for a long car trip.

"The Magicians" by Lev Grossman

Every year I ask my 9th graders to write sonnets. Of the many that have been written over the years, one of my favorites is a sonnet addressed to Hogwarts. In the poem, the speaker ruefully inquires about when she will receive her admissions letter. That poem came to mind recently as I thought about why so many read fantasy, and I decided that, for most of us, when we read fantasy, we do so with at least some desire to inhabit the world depicted. We imagine how much more exciting our lives would be if we could do magic, and despite the fear of a monster like Voldemort, we envy the sense of purpose and heroic achievement such an enemy provides.

But, in doing this, we don't stop and imagine what life would really be like if we--ordinary, normal us--knew magic. Would magic really be fun to learn? What if it were tedious, dull, and repetitive, more like memorizing a dictionary? And, more importantly, what is the purpose of magic if there is no villain to be fought? If you could have anything at your fingertips, how could you experience the joy of desires fulfilled? It is these questions that Grossman's The Magicians seeks to address.

The Magicians purposefully invokes popular fantasy worlds (specifically the world of Harry Potter and Narnia) in order to subvert our expectations for the novel's protagonist, Quentin. When the novel begins, Quentin is a disaffected high school senior. After mysteriously wandering in to an unusual examination and discovering previously unknown magic powers, Quentin is admitted to Brakebills Academy, a college version of Hogwarts. But even at Brakebills, Quentin is not happy. Learning magic is not fun; school is not fun (he doesn't even make BFFs)--it's nothing like the fantasy world of Fillory (a straight rip off Narnia), a world depicted in books Quentin poured over as a child.

Grossman goes to pains in the beginning to show the tedium and purposelessness of Quentin's schooling. The danger of Quentin's current path is seen in the parents of Alice (Quentin's girlfriend).  Her parents are magicians, but like many, they graduated without any purpose or goal in life. Their lives are meaningless.  This part of the novel is important to Grossman's message, but it also makes for boring reading, despite the strong writing.  After all, we read fantasy for the adventure and heroism! Instead, we get a whiny, unhappy teenager who spends a lot of time drinking. The ennui is so pervasive that the book becomes difficult to read (you can't help but thinking: what's the point of this? this is so dull... there's no reason for all this...)

In the last third of the book, the action picks up as Quentin and his friends discover a way to enter the world of Fillory. Suddenly the adventure that one expects in fantasy is present, but, again, Grossman subverts the readers' expectations. The characters are so desperate for purpose that they allow themselves to be duped into a quest, ignoring a central question: why does a magical world need humans to save it?

It seems like readers' ratings for The Magicians are mixed, and I can understand why.  I wouldn't recommend the novel to fans of Harry Potter and Narnia (or at least not to readers looking for something similar to those) because Grossman is not particularly interested in magic in and of itself. And though you want to like the characters, they're often terrifically unlikeable. The characters, instead, are real and more like us--selfish, cowardly, cruel--which isn't always pleasant. Furthermore, The Magicians hits pointedly on our constant yet unachievable desire for something more: "We're wired to expect the world to be brighter and more meaningful and more obviously interesting than it actually is. And when we realize that it isn't, we start looking around for the real world." It's true, but it's also depressing.

In the end, the message and questions raised are intensely interesting, but the book often isn't. When my husband and I finished listening to the audiobook, one of our first questions to each other was, "Would you read the sequel?" I still haven't determined my answer.

"Sex on the Moon" by Ben Mezrich

Sex on the Moon is the true story of Thad Roberts, a NASA co-op intern who orchestrates a Mission: Impossible-style heist to steal and sell lunar rocks from the organization at which he works. Even though I was born long after NASA's pinnacle with the moon landing, I'd say I still have a healthy sense of awe and admiration for what they do. There's something noble in an organization devoted to exploration and discovery.  It's that view of NASA which colors Mezrich's story in Sex on the Moon and makes it all the more fascinating.

Sex on the Moon is told from Thad's point of view, and he initially comes off as a sympathetic character.  After being disowned by his Mormon parents for having pre-marital sex, he decides he wants to be an astronaut, and he puts in enormous time and energy taking the courses and extracurriculars necessary to be an appealing candidate to NASA. He lands a prestigious co-op at the organization, where he flourishes, making contacts with noted scientists and being invited to participate in important experiments.  He's a man who is going places; he's well-liked by his peers and colleagues, and he seems to stand a good chance of being hired by NASA after graduating.

Then, everything changes.  He begins to become obsessed with stealing lunar rocks, first thinking about it--he claims--only as a "thought experiment" and then becoming more dedicated to the idea.  This is where I lost him as a character.  Why would he risk everything he had for the heist?  Thad quickly dissolves into an unstable man.  He begins having an affair with a 20-year-old fellow intern (his wife is back in Utah) and decides he's completely in love after knowing her for a few weeks; he's convinced selling the rocks will allow them to do anything, even though he's intending to sell for a rather measly $100,000.

It's hard to see whether Thad's behavior is a result of psychosis or youthful obliviousness.  He's obviously an intelligent man, but he's also incredibly stupid.  A man who's triple majored and impressed NASA scientists, who invents a crazy heist and manages to steal lunar rocks, also tries to sell the rocks by randomly emailing members of European mineral societies! (it's illegal to own lunar rocks in the U.S.)  It's this act that becomes his undoing, when one member of the Antwerp society contacts the F.B.I.

If I had a hard time understanding Thad's actions, I had an even harder time understanding why his girlfriend and confidante also decide to take part.  It doesn't appear that they were interviewed for the book, so their rationales are completely missing.

Mezrich seems to sympathize with Thad more than Thad deserves, though that choice does have an interesting effect on the reader.  I began the book liking and cheering for Thad, but at one moment I had to stop and realize he had completely lost my sympathy--he was greedy, selfish, and deluded, and he betrayed the trust of people who sincerely wanted to help him succeed.

The story is fascinating and keeps a relatively quick pace, though the heist itself takes a much smaller portion of the book than I imagined it would.  It's a completely engaging story, both for its inside look into NASA and for the crazy character study it offers.

The audiobook version of Sex on the Moon is narrated by Casey Affleck, which was fun, though he sometimes added a reflective tone that wasn't necessary.  Nonetheless, this is a great car trip book that kept my interest.

(Lastly, because it relates to nothing else: One complaint I do have is Mezrich's frequent use of the term "coed" to refer to female college students. Absolutely no one uses that term in real life, and it certainly wouldn't have been in use when the story takes place in the late '90s and early 2000s.  Its sexist connotations made me cringe whenever I heard it--let's all agree it can definitively be retired.)

"A Visit From the Goon Squad" by Jennifer Egan

There are moments in each of our lives when we stop, look, and wonder, "How did I get here?".  Says one character in Egan's novel, "Time is a goon," and A Visit From the Goon Squad explores those melancholy reflections that occur when the passing of time becomes explicit.  Though the book easily could have felt heavy or dull, Egan's expert use of structure and voice has created an engaging and sincere novel.

One of the things I especially liked in the book was its unusual structure, as in some ways it is set up more as a collection of short stories.  A Visit From the Good Squad opens with narration by Sasha; the next chapter occurs earlier chronologically, and the narrator switches to a minor character from Sasha's story.  This set-up continues for a number of chapters, until the timeline reverses and starts to go forward in time.  Each chapter is told by a completely different narrator, though all the narrators are interrelated (and Egan does include quick "aha" moments where the reader is able to piece together a connection).  What really makes this structure work is that it allows the reader to understand each character from multiple points of views: through his or her own voice, the voices of others, and through different points in time.

This complicated structure would not have worked without the ability to make each new narrator distinct.  Egan also does this skillfully, though because I listened to the novel through audiobook, I also had the assistance of Roxana Ortega, the audio narrator, who did an excellent job of creating a different sound, tone, and pacing for each character.  Bennie Salazar, the record executive around which most of the characters center, has an enthusiastic outside which hides his feelings of inadequacy.  Sasha's sarcastic inner tone isn't revealed in her polite conversations with others.

There were a few chapters that didn't ring true to me.  One, which concerns a disgraced publicist who takes on a dictator ("The General") as a client, is too absurd to be believable or fit in with the other chapters.  Another, from a magazine writer accused of sexually assaulting a famous starlet, has uncharacteristic anger and structurally feels out of place.  Both of these chapters occur near the middle, and I found those before and after much stronger.

Music and New York City are the backdrop for Egan's characters, but they aren't central to the story as a whole.  Instead, A Visit from the Goon Squad follows characters and their relationships (the attempts, the failures, the disappointments), ambitions (achieved and unachieved), and attempts to make sense of who we are and how we got here.

"The Mind's Eye" by Oliver Sacks

The brain is an endlessly fascinating organ.  How can lumpy grey stuff be responsible for so much?  In The Mind's Eye, the neurologist Oliver Sacks explores the extraordinary power and function of the brain through a series of essays on medical issues related to sight.  The essays traverse cases of alexia (an inability to read because written words and letters appear like a foreign language), facial blindness (an inability to recognize faces), and lack of stereovision (3-D vision), among others.

What is immediately apparent through Sacks' writing is the complexity of the brain.  Even small neural changes can create huge disruptions in a person's life.  For example, as a seeing person with two properly aligned eyes, I completely take my stereovision for granted.  Yet for someone without stereovision, simple events like climbing stairs (because they all meld into a flat plane) could cause difficulties.  I say "could" in the previous sentence because a theme that runs throughout Sacks' work is humans' ability to cope and adjust.  Whether it is the inability to read, the inability to recognize objects, or blindness, people always find ways to continue their lives.

Another core question that Sacks' essays raise is "how universal or singular are my perceptions of the world?".  In the chapter on blindness, Sacks compares different blind individuals' ways of adjusting to a non-seeing world.  Some went into "deep blindness," completely forgoing visual imagery.  Others created complex and detailed visual imagery in their mind to the point where they could "see" the world around them.  Here I kept thinking about my own method of perception.  Though it's not impossible, I have always had a hard time creating images in my head.  Ask me to picture my husband in my mind and I can remember a photograph of him, but I can't see him separate from a specific photographic image.  When people ask, "How did you picture that character in that book?", I'm puzzled.  I never have any image in my head as I read.  It was surprising to learn about the enormous range of ways others use or don't use visual images.

I'm assuming some of the essays in the collection were previously printed elsewhere, as there was some overlap in information, particularly in the beginning.  This is the first book I've read by Sacks, and although all the issues were interesting, I got the impression that these essays weren't necessarily his best work.  His essay on his experience in losing sight in one eye was tedious at times, relying on excessive examples and repetitive observations.

The Mind's Eye worked well as an audiobook, as there was plenty to think about (I had to stop myself from closing one eye to test how my perception changed without stereovision as I drove).  The essay format also created nice divisions between material.

Considering how well-known Sacks is, The Mind's Eye might not be the best book to start with, but that doesn't mean it's not based on fascinating subjects.

"Feed" by Mira Grant

One of the things I love about zombie stories is that there are so many different angles from which to discuss humanity's reaction to the undead.  Grant's Feed capitalizes on this; Feed discusses the aftermath of the zombie apocalypse, but the novel takes place long enough after the initial outbreak (about twenty-five years) that human society is no longer solely in the midst of a crisis.  In this world, the zombies are not eradicated (and never will be), but the people are largely protected.  Life has irrevocably changed since the outbreak, but life also continues with normal routines--like an upcoming presidential election.

Specifically, Feed focuses on three bloggers: siblings Georgia (who covers the news) and Shaun (an "Erwin" who chases thrills) and a girl named Buffy, writer of fiction stories and resident tech-guru.  These three are chosen by Senator Ryman, a candidate for the Republican presidential nomination, to join his press corp and follow him on the campaign trail.  As young people who grew up in the aftermath of the zombie apocalypse, Georgia and Shaun especially feel suspicious of traditional news sources and view Ryman's choice in selecting them as his recognition of the power of new media.

Georgia, the novel's primary narrator, has two main priorities in life: the news (the Truth) and her brother Shaun.  Georgia and Shaun are not blood-related, but were both adopted after the zombie outbreak by their blogger parents.  Georgia clearly indicates that their parents adopted them only as a publicity tool, which she resents, but the issue is never explored much.  Georgia and Shaun have an unusually close relationship themselves and a complete absence of any romantic relationships, which seems a little odd as well.  Although it's clear Georgia and Shaun are completely devoted to one another, their interactions are often overshadowed by groan-worthy "repartee" and sarcastic remarks about Shaun being "suicidal."

Perhaps what's most surprising about the book is that so little of it is focused on zombies, or at least current zombie attacks.  Much of the novel is focused on politics and the mundanity of the campaign trail.  This is both a positive and a negative.  On the positive, there's a lot of fascinating questions that come from a world whose norm includes zombies.  In Grant's version of the zombie apocalypse, new zombies are created not just by being bitten by the infected, but also through death of any sort (there's a great scientific/medical explanation that I won't go in to).  Infection can be carried by any animal over forty pounds. What implication does this have on the health system? On capital punishment? On the keeping of large pets? Livestock?  These issues are addressed largely peripherally, and I would have liked to hear more. Grant also does a great job of creating a world built around protection from zombies, such as the ubiquitous blood testing and the severe restrictions on travel. 

In focusing very little on actual zombies, Grant has lots of room for description.  Lengthy and repetitive description, which can drain the story.  While the intricacies and frequency of blood testing is interesting, way too much of the novel is focused on describing each and every test the characters take.  Even ordinary events are subject to over-exposition.  A handshake reads (I'm making this up, but something similar does occur): "I raised my hand and took his hand in mine.  We shook and I returned my hand to my side."  Couldn't you just say "We shook hands"?

Furthermore, Feed also suffers from an obvious and cartoonish villain and a Scooby-Doo like confession (complete with the "And I would have gotten away with it too, if it weren't for you darn kids!").

Grant's worked in some fascinating observations about humanity's reaction to catastrophe, and in the end, what Grant seems to suggest is that regardless of the crises that plague humankind, humans' greatest enemy will always be one another.  Though Feed suffers from trite dialogue, slow pacing, and occasional over-earnestness, I'd still consider it a worthwhile addition to the genre.  Plus, the audiobook version kept my husband and I entertained through 16 hours of driving!

"On the Road" by Jack Kerouac

Summary: Kerouac's classic semi-autobiographical tale of traveling the open road with friends.

Musings: I'm so glad I chose to read On the Road via audiobook.  The narrator, Will Patton, does a perfect job of capturing the characters' voices and that essential "beat generation" tone associated with Kerouac and his friends.  The protagonist, Sal (i.e. Kerouac), has an easy-going but enthusiastic drawl.  He's never a leader in the book, but he's always up for whatever adventure is thrown at him.  The real star of the novel (and where Patton's skill shines) is Sal's friend Dean Moriarty, a "mad" man who says "Yes!" to everything and leaves women (and children) alone in his wake.  Through Patton, Dean's insane desire to capture and experience all that life has to offer is portrayed through a rushed, breathless exuberance.

Dean's without a doubt a polarizing figure. To most people, including myself, Dean is infuriating.  He does what he wants with little concern about others, and though his frenzy is somewhat endearing early on, it becomes more and more concerning as multiple wives and children get left behind for whatever adventure he desires.  Yet there's something earnest and true in Dean, and his freedom from responsibility is infectious.  It's not surprising that people like Sal drop everything to follow him.

In many ways On the Road is a love story with America itself, as Sal's repeated trips east and west (and, in the last part of the book, south to Mexico) allow him to experience a broad swath of the country and its people.  Based on Kerouac's experiences in the '40s, Sal's journey is one where hitchhiking is easy, the women are beautiful, alcohol is cheap, and money (though there's never much of it) always seems to work out.  For this reason, the book does feel so essentially American in its tone.  In it, I saw the desire in generations of young adults to find adventure, independence, eternal youth, and life's meaning through traveling.  Nowadays college students and grads backpack through Europe, but the yearning is the same.

So while typically I'm cynical of 20-somethings who want to "find themselves," I found it hard to be cynical about Kerouac's novel (well, okay, a bit cynical when he idealizes Mexico and its 15-year-old prostitutes).  He's so sincere in his desire to experience and his prose is so lyrical that even I--a mature, stable adult if ever there was one--felt moved.

I can see why On the Road is such a classic and has enticed so many people to explore and look beyond the banality of "responsible" life.

***This book qualifies for the Back to the Classics Challenge (20th century classic category).

"Sapphique" by Catherine Fisher

Summary: In this sequel to Incarceron, Finn is now living in the Outside with Claudia, but he's not satisfied being the heir to the throne.  His oath brother, Keiro, is still in Incarceron, as is the former dog slave, Attia.  As fights for power occur both in and outside of Incarceron, the novel follows each character as he or she chooses loyalties.

Musings: I enjoyed Incarceron, despite its somewhat convoluted (and pretty forgettable) plot, and I feel the same way about Sapphique.  When I first began listening to it, I had to look up a detailed summary of the first book because I remembered nearly nothing about it, and I think in a few weeks I'll have the same problem with Sapphique. There's just too much going on, and for me, too little empathy developed in the reader for the characters for the novel to stick with me.

That's not to say there's no fun to be had while listening.  There's a lot of mystery, and it's rewarding to pick up on small new pieces of information along the way.  The unlikely pairing of Keiro and Attia provides for some interesting adventures, especially as they are more fun than the more whiny Finn and Claudia.

The audio narrator, Kim Mai Guest, does a decent job with the different characters' voices, which is especially important because the book switches points of view frequently.  I was initially turned off by Attia's strong cockney accent (and Ricks, for some reason, has a cockney lisp), but eventually I got over it.

Fisher's series is full of interesting ideas, but there's too much happening to be fully invested in the worlds and characters.

"Jane Eyre" by Charlotte Bronte

Summary: Jane Eyre, an orphan, lives with her hateful Aunt Reed and her snotty children. When Jane finally reaches her breaking point with her Aunt and responds to the abuse, her aunt decides to send Jane to boarding school.  Although Jane has a difficult time at first, she eventually excels.  After many years she seeks work as a governess and is installed at Thornfield Hall where she meets Mr. Rochester.  As romance starts to develop, so too do the secrets of Thornfield.

Musings: I read Jane Eyre in high school but had retained only the barest outline of events, and it was truly a delight to reread (listen) to the novel.  Jane Eyre is the perfect protagonist.  Bright, confident, and spirited, she rebels against the dormant lifestyle expected of women in that day.  Instead, she seeks intellectual and physical engagement.  Her relationship with Mr. Rochester blooms not because of physical attraction or novelty but because he equals and respects her intellectually. With him, Jane does not need to hide or restrain any part of her personality. 

Going in I expected Bronte's style be along the lines of Austen, whom I enjoy but do find long-winded.  I was happily surprised that Bronte's novel felt much different to me, moving along at a good pace despite some extraordinarily long conversations.  I did occasionally grow impatient in the latter part of the novel during Jane's time with the Rivers, but that may be because I was so anxious for the ending (which I remembered) to come.  Yet I do think Jane's time with St. John Rivers (an aside: the narrator of my audio book pronounced his name as "Sin-gen"--is this normal?) is important in order to juxtapose Jane's personality and life with him against that of her time with Mr. Rochester.

My audiobook version was read by Susan Erickson, who did an excellent job capturing Jane's composed personality and Mr. Rochester's fiery temperament.  I loved the way she voiced Jane and Mr. Rochester's repartee.

Rereading Jane Eyre was thoroughly enjoyable.  Because I listened on audiobook, it took me over a month to finish it, but I'm glad that meant it lasted longer.

***This book qualifies for the Back to the Classics Challenge (19th century classic category).

"Packing for Mars" by Mary Roach

Summary: A fun and informative look into space travel, particularly the research that has gone into sending humans into space.

Musings: Packing for Mars has made the lists of engaging nonfiction, and I would completely agree with that classification.  While the book is not a comprehensive look into a particular area of space travel, it's exhaustive in covering all the random questions people are likely to have about going into outer space.  How does one relieve oneself? What kind of food makes it into space?  Fortunately for the reader, Roach has a schoolboy's curiosity and an academic's depth of research.  What makes her book all the more compelling is that she relies primarily on first-hand accounts (oral histories, astronaut autobiographies, personal interviews with NASA researchers) and personal accounts (experiencing zero gravity in a parabolic flight; traveling to a remote "Mars simulant" research area) to explain space research rather than citing other books.  I liked the omnipresent personal; it included me in the material.

Roach spends a significant time exploring the research that has gone into and is currently going into aspects of human travel into space.  Things we take for granted here on earth can be substantially different in the confines of space, and minute research must go into every aspect of outer space travel.  This includes things like hygiene--how does one keep clean when zero gravity makes using water difficult? How does being confined into a small, enclosed space affect personal health?  No question is left unanswered, including whether or not anyone has had sex in space (unfortunately, it seems the answer is no) and the myriad of difficulties of space defecation.

One of the things I was most struck by is how research must go into not only solving practical problems (e.g., keeping an astronaut properly nourished with calories and vitamins) but psychological problems as well (e.g., an astronaut might be able to live off a dog-food like kibble, but what effect would that have on morale and the mission as a whole?).  Time and again, on-the-ground researchers have had to face the reality of in-the-moment astronauts.

In the end, though, probably the best part of Packing for Mars is the random tidbits.  For example, the condom-like wrappers for male urination only come in large, extra-large, and extra-extra-large sizes (surely a reflection of the size of astronauts' egos rather than, ahem, something else).  Carnation Instant Breakfast began as a potential, low-rated, and rejected form of astronaut food (file under: not at all surprising).

I listed to the audio version of the book read by Sandra Burr.  Initially I was put off because Burr sounds eerily similar to my GPS' voice and had some of the same weird intonation.  I kept wanting her to say, "In--(pause)--500 feet, turn left on--(pause)--Main Street."  Eventually I got over it and wasn't distracted.  Burr does a nice job of keeping a light tone and subtly does Roach's sarcasm and humor without going overboard.

I suppose I consider myself someone who is interested in the weird and random, and I'm glad Roach has done the work for me.  Truthfully space travel isn't something in which I would say I have an innate interest, but Packing for Mars is so compelling that I'm ready to Google NASA and see what's going on right now.