Looking back on some of the stuff I wrote back when this thing was actually active, I saw some stuff that I liked and some ideas I could have developed more. But mostly I saw that I had something I was really into, and for whatever reason that interest atrophied. It helped fulfill a desire to create continually and I miss that, more than ever now. I’ll start writing “creatively” again, sometime, but for now I just need to get my words out of my head.

I’ve been reading more eccentrically over the past year or so, ranging from modern philosophy to flat-out science fiction. Heck, right now I’m reading Ideology and American Foreign Policy, because, hey, why not? If it interests me, I’ll read it. And what I’ll try to do here is explain why it’s important to read or why it was a big pile of crap that you shouldn’t bother with. Or maybe you’ll disagree with me, that would be great too.

This isn’t going to be an everyday thing; it might not even be an every week thing. But I am writing again, and it feels like a comfortable place to be.

Now, an excuse.

I’ve been reading pretty heavy stuff for the past few months. Cormac McCarthy, Faulkner, Beckett, and Flann O’Brien have all been in heavy rotation in my reading materials. I’ve fallen back into American and Irish male writer syndrome again and it’s been difficult to break out of it. Anyway, they all write the sort of books that ask a lot out of any reviewer and with my lack of focus, it’s been difficult – to say the least – to sit down and write my thoughts on them. And of course I’m reading J R by William Gaddis right now, another heavy book, literally and figuratively.

(A quick summary: Blood Meridian – heavy, bloody; Sound and the Fury – heavy, tragic; Molloy – inevitable, heavy; the O’Brien books besides Third Policeman – silly, mad-cap, meta, and beyond comparison.)

Fraction of the Whole was a departure from my reading of the past few months. It was from the past 10 years, it was considerably more light-hearted than those aforementioned books, and it had more or less a concrete plot that was entertaining and engaging. Enough so that I read 300 pages or so in one sitting. It is really that well-written.

The story of a father and son, Martin and Jasper Dean, two starry-eyed but grounded Australians who tend to get themselves and anyone close to them in significantly more trouble than the would have had they left well enough alone. There is certainly a sense of bad luck associated with the duo; while Martin’s brother Terry goes on a murdering spree that manages to captivate Australia and make him a national folk hero, Martin is eventually forced into exile after becoming a pariah as one of the most unlikely politicians ever.

But the plot details aren’t what really made this book for me. Granted, it is a great plot that jumps all over the earth and creates these impossible situations for the two Deans, but Toltz is just a really funny guy. His writing has a wonderful sense of comic timing that actually caused me to laugh out loud in real life (or LOL IRL). It’s a darkly morbid sense of humor, so if you don’t get the joke behind something like an imagined chapter entitled “Manslaughter: Oops!” then it may not be for you. But for a reader willing to see the humor in the sad way Martin always manages to mess things up for himself and others, this will be a deeply satisfying read.

It bears noting that even with all this humor and these jokes, there’s a deeper connection Toltz is seeking out. There’s a fair bit of emotional heft with this novel, and it explores the way no matter how much our parents embarrass us or disappoint us, there will always be a connection there, binding us together. Most people have been in a situation at least tangentially connected to some of the spots the Deans are in. Perhaps not as extreme, but the underlying idea remains the same. And no matter how terribly messed up things end up for them, they remain together trying to help each other.

For a book pushing 600 pages, it went by so quickly. Satisfying and filling in equal measure, Fraction was a bit of tonic from the gloom and doom I’d been reading lately. It was a finalist for the Man Booker Prize, so it’s not exactly underground, but a surprising number of people I’ve talked with haven’t heard of it. It’s a shame, and I always tell them to go pick it up right away, because it really is life-affirming in a twisted way.

It shows how all the time we put into building relationships with loved ones can pay off in the end, even if it doesn’t come out in tangible forms. Jasper ultimately realized that so much of what he became by the end of the novel came about directly as a result of his father. Whatever he was and whatever he wasn’t came about because of the follies and dreams of Martin. The son eventually comes to realize that despite all the difficulties, he is happy with the person he becomes in the end. Defining ourselves relative to our parents is something I believe we all do consciously or unconsciously, Toltz just wrote a book exploring that relationship. But he did in a way that showed it doesn’t always have to be doom and gloom, “the sins of the father” and all that. It pays to remember the laughing, silly parts of that relationship as well, something Toltz does brilliantly with Fraction.

David Foster Wallace makes me angry for so many reasons, but the most tangible is that the man could do anything he wanted. Everything I’ve read by the man has been nothing short of brilliant, and if not genius, at least interesting. He wrote one of the best chaotic epics I’ve ever read (Infinite Jest), one of the best first-person accounts of the modern political process I’ve ever read (McCain’s Promise), and probably my favorite sports article/feature (“Roger Federer as Religious Experience” in the NYT). The first two I can pass off as his just being a genius writer, but the last is just professional envy. The man wasn’t a sports writer in the slightest, and he writes this? It’s just maddening.

Consider me a cultist of Flann. Just mind-bottlingly fantastic. Cannot say too many great things about this writer and what he did in this (and the subsequent novels I read).

Here’s the underlying problem with my lack of breadth in terms of reading: I love Irish writers. They all seem to know how to turn a phrase, make something profound of nothing, and just be damned hilarious about the slightest thing. I like the tricks, and O’Brien is full of them. Hell, Joyce loved him, thought he was one of the best comic writers he’d read. That may be the biggest endorsement I’ve ever heard.

In terms of plot, well, it’s tough to really give a sense of that. It follows a young man, who goes off from his family, comes back, finds the family business taken over by an uncle/relation, and they go off on a heist to make some money. After that, it gets weird. Two policeman show up and take him through a kaleidoscope trip of experiences, essentially designed to scare the crap out of him. All sense of time and reality is lost, both for the narrator and for the reader; it’s difficult to really nail down when and how things happen, only that they do. A lot of bicycles in this one, and they seem to form the main type of transport in this alternative reality. One of the better lines: “Why steal a watch when you can steal a bicycle?” And so on…

I can’t really get too deep into the ending of the novels without giving the entire thing away. I’ll just say, I sort of saw it coming. It wasn’t disappointing really. I just thought that maybe O’Brien had something else in mind to throw the reader off the scent. That being said, I enjoyed the joke played by the author on the reader. It seems Flann just wanted us to get wrapped up in what was going on without giving any sort of road map. Go along for the ride, try not to get lost, but if you do, make sure to enjoy the scenery. And what scenery. All that lyrical crap they say about the Irish writers, it’s true, at least with O’Brien. He makes alliteration seem like the greatest literary device ever, and has your mental tongue bouncing up and down, almost singing to itself.

So? Just check it out. It’s not a fast read, despite being a touch over 200 pages, but it’s worth it to take your time with the words. Pour over them, allow yourself to enjoy what Mr. O’Brien does with his prose. It is a book that rewards patient reading. But, as I said, the plot is interesting, the overall device a bit obvious (at least to me). However, getting there is all that matters and it is a fantastic, mysterious trip.

Holy crap is Flann O’Brien brilliant. Expect a sterling review of The Third Policeman shortly. And no, I didn’t read it because of the television show Lost.

That is all.

What impressed me most about Things Fall Apart was Achebe’s ability to express these complex, profound ideas in an economy of words and space. His language is simple, spare and precise; the book is less than 200 pages. Yet with this, he tells a story as tragic and unshakable as anything in the Western canon. It’s obviously a Western-centric idea to think this way, but the story he tells in this book wouldn’t be out-of-place in Shakespeare’s work. It’s that level of complexity that can apply to almost anyone, yet can be read by any person from almost any age. It’s just a truly universal story.

Is it more impressive to have this level of storytelling in a short form with simple language, or a massive book that requires a dictionary close at hand to finish? Which style of narrative is most effective in expressing an idea? I think that each style of writing is going at the same idea in very different manners. Both are trying to explain what it means to be human at a given point in time. While the former (simple) style is trying to express the universal truths that affect us all (suffering, tragedy, joy), the latter attempts to capture all of human existence in a book form, sparing nothing from the telling. My personal preference is the grandiose, fantastical, over-the-top style, but the expression of thought through simplicity is wonderful to read when done by a true master, which I believe Achebe is.

Set in Nigeria, the main character, Okonkwo, is a tribal leader whose entire basis of power is built on his ability to summon and direct his anger. The tribe’s most feared fighter, he has never fallen in one-on-one combat and no other man deigns to challenge him. He raises his family in the same manner, choosing to lead them through fear, because he believes that is what makes a man strong. Perhaps because he perceived his father as weak and ridiculed, he sought to do the opposite. The first section goes through the daily lives of those in the tribe and sets up Okonkwo’s place. But the pace begins to pick up at the end of the first section, after he accidentally murders another member of the tribe and is forced into exile.

After his banishment, Okonkwo goes away to the village and tribe his mother came from. He is accepted and lives his life there with his family, continuing to farm. During his time there, the tribe is visited by strange men with white skin, talking about their one god and seeking to convert the tribes to Christianity. While initially the tribe laughs off these forays, some members of the tribe hear the call, including Okonkwo’s own son. After a few years, one of his friends from his former tribe comes to bring him supplies and tell him news of his former tribe. He tells Okonkwo that several tribes have been destroyed by the white men. Concurrently, the death of the lead missionary brings in a new, less sympathetic leader by the name of James Smith. Struggles continue to escalate and Okonkwo reacts the only way he knows how to, through violence and aggression. However, no one follows him into combat and he realizes he has gone beyond the pale. With this realization, he ends his own life, a mortal sin amongst the tribes of Nigeria.

Seeing the other side of colonization showed the magnitude of what those European settlers did when they invaded Africa. We generally only hear the European perspective on colonization, and even if we know the Europeans took everything from Africa, we only know it logically. Seeing how this colonization devastated the people of the continent from their perspective shows just how tragic this period in human civilization truly was. Even in the beginning of the novel, when narrowing down the setting was still difficult, Achebe had built up this unfailing sense of dread and foreboding that was inescapable. We know what happened after the white man came to Africa seeking to proselytize. But the people of Africa had no idea, no context of what was about to happen. This book helps show some of that sense of inescapable tragedy, one that the people of Things Fall Apart had no defenses against and no chance of stopping.

Instructions: Don’t take too long to think about it. List 15 books you’ve read that will always stick with you — the first 15 you can recall in no more than 15 minutes. Copy the instructions into your own note, and be sure to tag the person who tagged you. (via No Apathy Allowed)

1. Ulysses by James Joyce – The reason there are a little over 90 posts floating around with my name on them. Everything I could ever want from a book is in this one. Just masterclass.
2. Finnegans Wake by James Joyce – Weirdly, the Rosetta Stone to get through other books I’d previously slogged through. After I “read” this book, everything else seemed so much easier.
3. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory by Roald Dahl – My absolute favorite book as a child, my same copy has followed me from Kansas to Pennsylvania and now to New York.
4. In Cold Blood by Truman Capote – Frighteningly good non-fiction. Just the end all, be all when it comes to that particular genre. First book I read where I knew of most of the places they referred to (see above: Kansas).
5. Good Omens by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett – Actually read this before I read Sandman but this led me into the fantastical world of Gaiman.
6. The Once and Future King by T.H. White – The first book where I picked up on the subtextual stuff going on. Ended up writing a 15+ page book report on it (back when that meant something i.e. high school).
7. A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway – First “classic” I clearly remember reading. Thought Hemingway was a larger than life figure. Still do, just tempered a bit with his output compared to his peers.
8. The Club Dumas by Arturo Perez-Revente – My first suggestion when someone asks for a good airport book. Poppy enough to keep you hooked, but with lots of fun allusions to classic lit.
9. The Love You Make by Peter Brown – There was a point in my life where I read as many books about The Beatles as the Johnson County Library had. Even the day-by-day chronicle of their career. This one stood out the most.
10. The Stranger by Albert Camus – I probably liked The Plague more, but this was the first existential book that I read and truly enjoyed. It opened up the can of worms that is this literary crisis.
11. Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace – Almost the best book I read in 2010, same goes for all-time. Best depiction of life in late 1990s America, at least the way I’d like to remember it.
12. Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut – Of all the authors besides Joyce, I own the most books by Vonnegut. His silly, sad view of the world probably shaped my own more than I know. So it goes is probably the most appropriate view of death I’ve ever heard.
13. The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas – Just the best action novel of all-time, with the revenge story. Dantes is probably my favorite archetype.
14. The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis – The best Christian allegory, I remember reading (and re-reading) these all the time when I was young. Hidden propaganda? Perhaps, but that didn’t stop me from reading The Screwtape Letters.
15. 2666 by Roberto Bolano – The second-best book to come out in the past couple of decades. And another mad-cap romp through the world, just a much more violent, hopeless one than DFW saw. May re-read this in 2011.

It’s been a while (about a month) since I’ve actually written a review, so we’ll see how rusty I am.

No promises.

“(Atwood) is a writer for people who typically don’t read female writers… She’s a writer for men who want to read female writers.” – Anonymous NYC Bookseller

During my recent series about the relationship between reading and subjectivity, I noted that most of my reading in 2010 centered around white, Western men. I read only a few books written by female writers, and three of those were Harry Potter. So between this bookseller’s recommendation(?) and that of one of my followers on Twitter (@czanzibar), Atwood sounded like an awesome way to increase my intake of female writers.

And after reading The Handmaid’s Tale? They were both right.

The dystopian nature of the plot spoke to the part of me that loves 1984 and Fahrenheit-451 and I guess it shows how much I shouldn’t take things for granted. If you told me the book had been written by a man, I wouldn’t have been too surprised. Maybe a few scenes here and there coming from a woman’s perspective make more sense, but it was all-in-all a well-paced, econimically-written book about the impact of centralization of power in modern society.

But I think the main reason I enjoyed this book so much was how easy it was to read. It just went down pretty easy. No wildly complicated syntax; no jarring plot twists; no meandering digressions. It just went from Point A to Point B remarkably well. The main character is very human, with very human needs, in a world far different from the one she grew up in. Her reactions to the wild changes that impacted women severely are the same most of us would have if we were in her shoes. Her character speaks to the fighter in all of us, willing to fight for our rights to basic freedoms. How can’t you relate to a character like that?

The brief interlude at the end, presenting the books as a historical artifact? Eh, it was perhaps unnecessary, but it spoke to the historian in me that so much of what we assume about the past is based on such circumstantial evidence. Despite this ending that felt slightly off from the rest of the novel, Handmaid’s Tale was an excellent introduction into Atwood’s work and a prodding in the direction I want to take in becoming a more well-rounded reader, willing to read anything that may be good, regardless of the author’s background.

For the next week at Rarely Dusty, I’ll look back on the best (and worst) of the past year, while also looking forward to the upcoming year and some of my goals and projects queued up. For purity’s sake, I’ve only included one book I had read already prior to 2010 (while also neglecting Mr. Joyce, who gets enough attention from me as it is).

A schedule of posts:

• Saturday, January 1: Best of the Year (Honorable Mentions)
• Sunday, January 2: Best of the Year (Nos. 10 to 6)

• Monday, January 3: Worst of the Year (Not Top 5)
• Tuesday, January 4: Best of the Year (Nos. 5 to 1)
• Wednesday, January 5: 2010 Breakdown and other Top 10s
• ThursMonday, January 610: What’s in store for 2011?

In 2010, the big goal was to improve both the quantity and quality of the books I read, with a reasonable goal of 52 books in 52 weeks. I finished that off in October, and ended up reading 65. Quality was up too, with several embarrassing blanks in my literary knowledge plugged in (DFW, Faulkner, Pynchon, Achebe, Ellison, etc.). And I also started this little blog up, got rolling with some reviews and (I think) improved over the course of the year.

So what to do in 2011?

After knocking out a certain number of books last year, I want to avoid something along those lines (although I reckon I’ll still read over 52 again). However, something I do want to focus on is something I’ve been exploring in my Subjectivity in Reading series. Namely, being more open-minded about the literature I’m reading. The idea of conscious reading, for a broadening of knowledge rather than mere consumption is something I’m aiming for in 2011. I started to lean that way toward the end of 2010, but want to make it a more directed effort in 2011.

In terms of series, I don’t have too many in mind, but I think some of them will be fun (hopefully, for you too).

Dancing About Architecture

Used to be, when I was younger, I would consume musical biographies like water. Someone at work laughed the other day about a book that chronicled everyday of The Beatles’ career. Turned out, I’d read it back when I was in full-on Lennon-McCartney mode. So in an effort to incorporate more non-fiction into my reading, I’m going to review a piece of musical non-fiction once a month. It’ll generally be about whatever band or artist I’m listening to intensively at that time. First up for January will be the new(ish) book Bowie in Berlin about The Thin White Duke’s time in Germany, where we worked with Brian Eno and created the most lasting (and I think best) albums of his career.

Larger Than Life

It’s pretty obvious I love epics at this point. My favorite novel of all-time (Ulysses) and of 2010 (Infinite Jest) are not necessarily books you take to the beach (unless you’re me, and it was the former book). In 2011, I’m going to tackle a big ol’ book every month, as long as the tip the scales at over 500 pages, they’ll work for my purposes. The first in this series will be Midnight’s Children by Salman Rushdie, which I technically began in 2010, but I’ve read the majority of in 2011. Either way, it’s what’s going first in the series. Other books will include The Recognitions by William Gaddis and Underworld by Don DeLillo.

And that’s pretty much it for now. Obviously I reserve the right to add new series whenever I feel like, but the two above will stay in rotation throughout the year. 2010 was a blast and it’s been fun to write on a consistent basis again. Here’s to the New Year and I can’t wait to see where it takes Rarely Dusty.