My mom has always said that an involuntary shudder—a shiver going up your spine, if you will—indicates someone having just walked over your grave. ThaMy mom has always said that an involuntary shudder—a shiver going up your spine, if you will—indicates someone having just walked over your grave. That cold spot you pass through when walking from the living room into the foyer? That’s not a draft of unheated air coming from upstairs (cold air sinks, you’ll recall)—no, that’s a ghost. And the message written in blood on your bathroom mirror this morning? Well, er, let’s just ignore that for the time being. But really, what is our obsession with the paranormal or the supernatural? What makes it so fascinating even to those of us who don’t believe in it?
Eleanor Vance isn’t sure she believes in it, and yet she agrees to spend a summer at an unoccupied house purported to be haunted. Eleanor reminds me of the unnamed narrator from Rebecca. She is insecure, introverted, and often finds herself fantasizing about her current and future situations. Dreams keep us sane, though, right? Or is the descent toward instability a more slippery path than we’d like to think?
Eleanor is both intrigued by and simultaneously frightened by the concept of solitude. Being an introvert, some of her favorite fantasies involve being on her own, secluded from the unwelcome intrusion of others. But after a few nights in Hill House, maybe being alone isn’t such a grand idea. What induces fear in Eleanor and the other guests of Hill House is their inability to reconcile observed phenomena with fact-based logic at the moment it occurs. They encounter something for which an explanation cannot be immediately provided and their minds are unable to cope. So what happens when these unexplainable occurrences no longer induce fear? Has the fear been somehow conquered? Or is there something more sinister in the fact that the need to formulate logical explanation for the otherwise unexplainable is no longer pressing?
Unlike this guy, I do not believe in spooks. But when the fight-or-flight response associated with fear is triggered in a secure setting—you are home with your significant other and the doors are locked, or you are at a Spooky World funhouse where you know the scares are manufactured—the adrenaline jolt can be a pretty fun thing to experience. And this book is a pretty fun thing to experience because Jackson’s choice to limit the perspective of the protagonist is effective at heightening the senses. Eleanor doesn’t always know what’s going on around her, so neither does the reader. Not only is the line between the living and the dead somewhat blurred, but so is the line separating Eleanor’s internal ventures from that which she perceives externally. It is suffocatingly frightful, I say.
So for those who don’t believe in ghosts, how many of you would be willing to spend a few nights in a house considered haunted by restless spirits? After all, you don’t even believe in restless spirits, so what is there to be afraid of? Except, how would you feel if people refused to believe in you?...more
The Chicago Tribune wrote: “The book is by turns hilarious, mysterious, contemplative and poignant, and everywhere full of rich descriptive passages.”The Chicago Tribune wrote: “The book is by turns hilarious, mysterious, contemplative and poignant, and everywhere full of rich descriptive passages.”
Hilarious and contemplative my ass, CT. This book is an interminable slog.
Look, here’s the deal. I get that this book satirizes 1930s Stalinist Russia, and I get that—for some—this earns The Master and Margarita a place on their “works-of-historical-importance” shelves. But for me, it earns nothing. I mean, let’s just call a spade a spade, shall we? There are articles in the Journal of Biological Chemistry that have more successfully held my attention than this Bulgakovian bore. (Exhibit A)
To start, the characterization in this book is near zero. Although there is a point where some barely discernable personality traits become apparent in one or two of the characters, by the time the reader makes it this far the show is nearly over. And if by curtain call the reader discovers Woland and his retinue to be even remotely interesting, it is not because of careful character construction. It’s more like the end of a really stuffy dinner party when you begin making your parting rounds. The thrill is in the palpability of finally being free of these people. Toodle-oo!
And what is the author’s intent here, to single out the literary bureaucrats and the nouveaux riche? If so, the demographic is not effectively targeted. The Faustian demon who comes to wreak havoc across Moscow does so seemingly at random, with little adherence to agenda. Bartenders, ticket sellers, poets, little old ladies—they are all ambushed. It is clear someone needs to take a lesson from Omar Little, who “ain’t never put no gun on no citizen.”
Whatever. I’m tired of even writing about this book. Before we part, though, I’ll leave you with several examples of yet another unworthy aspect of this novel: its ridiculous sentences. Here are some of my favorites.
To tell the truth, it took Arkady Apollonovich not a second, not a minute, but a quarter of a minute to get to the phone.
I ask this question in complete earnestness: is this supposed to be funny? I have absolutely no idea.
Quite naturally there was speculation that he had escaped abroad, but he never showed up there either.
Huh?
The bartender drew his head into his shoulders, so that it would become obvious that he was a poor man.
Yeah, I give. I don’t even pretend to understand what this means. Anyhoo, hey—it’s been a pleasure meeting you all; we should do this again soon. Toodle-oo!...more
Sorry, I meant to share my review of The Savage Detectives sooner but things got sort of crazy. I was enjoying a Cuba LibreI am so late to this party!
Sorry, I meant to share my review of The Savage Detectives sooner but things got sort of crazy. I was enjoying a Cuba Libre at El Loto de Quintana on Avenida Guerrero near the Glorieta de Insurgentes with Ian Graye’s visceral reviewers, the self-proclaimed readers of the Goodreads avant-garde. We were discussing the poetry of Alberto Bonifaz Nuño and López Velarde and even the butch queer Manuel José de la Cruz from San Luis Potosí when I noticed the waitress Jacinta Rúbin eyeing me from behind the bar. It was clear what she wanted. Her English may not have been the best, but the meaning of her language required no translation. I quickly ordered a shot of tequila, downed it, and followed Señorita Rúbin to the back storage closet. The wet, sloppy blow job she gave me was amazing and I wanted to tell her I loved her but instead I cleaned myself up and left the bar through the back alleyway, wandering over toward the Encrucijada Veracruzana on Calle Bucareli in Colonia Lindavista. It was there that I indulged in a few more Cuba Libres, which undoubtedly caused me to receive looks of disgust from some of the other patrons, but it nonetheless strengthened my resolve to return to El Loto de Quintana. When I entered the bar, I noticed that the visceral reviewers had left, but Señorita Rúbin was still there, and when she finished her shift she asked me to accompany her back to the first-story flat she rented in the seedy part of Coyoacán reserved mostly for the city’s prostitutes and drug dealers, and I went. She asked me if I was a virgin and I told her no, which was a lie and I’m not sure why I said it except that it felt like the right answer at the time. We fucked six times between midnight and 4 a.m. which must be some kind of record. In the morning I returned to Calle Bucareli where the visceral reviewers were eating their breakfast, already having discussed their reviews of The Savage Detectives, but even though I am late to this party (DAMN YOU, JACINTA RÚBIN!), my entry into their collected works has been graciously accepted. It is therefore time to present my review.
But first, let us order an El Diablo and talk a bit about some poetry...
Jason Morais, West Grand Avenue, Old Orchard Beach, Maine, August 2012. I remember it like it was yesterday. Mary and Kris came to see me at my small studio apartment in Chapultepec where I often barricaded myself for days writing love letters and poetry to the waitress Jacinta Rúbin, which I never planned to send. They came to ask about the three Steves. The Steves had left México the previous year and hadn’t been seen since. We found this diary, Mary said, it belonged to one of the Steves, the one they called Hermano Penkí. I told them to sit down, offered them a drink, some Los Suicidas mezcal, a favorite of mine from a distillery that had gone out of business long before the Steves disappeared, but of which I had the sagacity to stock up on and it was only occasions like this along with my own excessive drinking when writing letters to Jacinta Rúbin that threatened to extinguish my supply. The diary was unremarkable, a simple square book with worn edges. I had never seen it before but knew what it would contain. I knew it would heighten the curiosity of its reader to the whereabouts of the three Steves, and even while it may not reveal the truth, it would surely point to me as the one most likely to know it. I read the diary slowly, trying to buy time and hoping to imbue myself with the fortitude to fend off questions from the young señoritas meant to ascertain what information I was not yet ready to give, information that would inevitably lead the conversation over the disappearance of the three Steves back to Jacinta Rúbin.
This review is as much about Roberto Bolaño’s novel as the novel itself is about visceral realism. In tribute to Jenn(ifer) and her style of song inclusion, here is the appropriate accompaniment to this Goodreads “review”: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=soHq5-......more
A book about screwed up people and their screwed up lives! It’s like it was written specifically for me. The thing is, this book has got some flaws...A book about screwed up people and their screwed up lives! It’s like it was written specifically for me. The thing is, this book has got some flaws...big ones. But for the most part, the flaws are mitigated by good writing and by ambitious insight into human motivation—the factors that influence our behavior and interpersonal relationships. It’s like a Franzen novel, but with a psychological twist.
The Flaws
First of all, the connections in this novel are way too convenient. I could get past the fact that Anna, who used to screw Simon, is now tired of screwing Joe, and that Joe, who misses screwing Anna, has been enjoying screwing Angelique, and that Angelique, who has been screwing both Joe and Simon, is going to end up getting screwed by everybody. But then Perlman introduces even more coincidental connections that reduce his world to bizarrely small proportions, making the whole thing seem mildly claustrophobic.
Also, the characters are unlikeable. This is not necessarily a flaw in itself, as there are plenty of novels I love which contain characters that I do not; the flaw stems from the fact that I suspect I’m meant to like these characters, especially the protagonist Simon. Does the fact that I don’t like him mean the author has failed? Have I failed? When there is ambiguity between my emotional response to a character and what I suspect is the author’s intent, I feel uneasy. To me, these characters are self-centered, short-sighted, and their behavior, even after understanding the motivations behind it, makes it difficult for me to empathize with them.
My last gripe is that the final chapter of the book contributes very little to the story. There are seven chapters in all, each presenting a first-person account of a character mixed up in this tangled web of betrayals. They are:
1. Alex, the Compromised Psychiatrist 2. Joe, the Shallow Adulterer 3. Angelique, the Selfless Prostitute 4. Mitch, the Unstable Analyst 5. Simon, the Insightful Kidnapper 6. Anna, the Perpetual Victim 7. Rachael, the Unlikely Epiloguer
Each of the characters is in some way involved in the plot and provides insight into his character and the characters with whom he interacts. The exception to this is Rachael, who has nothing to do with the story at all. Rachael’s chapter seems only to exist to push forth Perlman’s views on moral ambiguity and on what constitutes mental health. Rachael’s account feels out of place, and it is written from a future perspective which gives the characters a form of closure that does not suit them. Their futures, along with their moral certitude, should remain as ambiguous as it was in the rest of the book.
The Insight
This part is pretty awesome. One of the first things this novel analyzes is the concept of human behavior and the motivations that drive it. These motivations could be something palpable such as hunger or sexual desire, or they could be more tenuous like jealousy or the need for social acceptance. Psychology professor Abraham Maslow categorizes these motivating factors into a hierarchical structure that provides a basic understanding of which needs take precedence over others and how they come to dominate human behavior. Like this!
[image] Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs [Maslow, A. H. (1943). “A Theory of Human Motivation,” Psychological Review 50(4): 370–96.]
Maslow’s hierarchy of needs separates “deficiency needs” from “betterment needs.” The deficiency needs are lower level needs that must be met before moving on to the betterment, or higher level, needs. Without having fulfilled one’s deficiency needs, he will not have the capacity for betterment. Of course, this is all an attempt at generalization—humans are much more complicated than this, and there are often multiple motivators occurring simultaneously that influence a person’s behavior. But overall, if someone has the emotional maturity to seek constant betterment, then it can be deduced that the person’s lower level needs have been met, and he’s probably in a state of sufficient mental health.
This title of this book takes its name from the the work of a poetry critic, William Empson, who talked about the elements of a poem that give it its greatness—specifically, a sense of ambiguity in word meanings. But Perlman refers here actually to the moral ambiguity of his characters, which is another topic of interest this novel addresses. In many ways, the protagonist Simon reminds me of Tony from The Sense of an Ending. He acts primarily out of self-interest but is too full of himself to see it that way, convincing himself instead that his actions are altruistic, and even goes so far as to throw his moral superiority into the faces of those he has clearly wronged.
Tony may not have been, but Simon is by most definitions mentally unstable. In fact, Simon’s mental health issues form the basis of this novel. Simon is described as having two particular traits that affect his mental health. First, he is acutely aware of the world around him—too acutely aware. “The illumination is not worth the candle.” Second, his self-appointed sense of empathy prevents him from attaining happiness because he is constantly concerned, so he says, with the welfare of others. He sees altruism on the decline in society and it depresses him.
But, you say, there are plenty of those who have an acute awareness of other people’s pain and the strong tendency to empathize with them, and not all of those people are mentally unstable, right? So true! And this is explained by a trait of last resorts called “learned helplessness.” If we convince ourselves that we are unable to change a situation for the better, even our acute awareness and our overwhelming sense of empathy will not be enough to make us batshit nuts. Perlman essentially describes the state of mental health as being one in which there is not an acute awareness or there is not an over-concern for others; or if these traits both exist, that they are kept at bay by learned helplessness. The fact that most people see the world through a lens of ambiguity, or the fact that we are driven by our desire to fulfill our own needs helps protect us from mental breakdown.
Throughout his life, Simon has acted mostly out of a motivation to satisfy higher level needs, which explains his ability to empathize (as his basic needs have already been met). But after losing his job he falls down the rungs a bit, and within a short time his behavior becomes dominated again by deficiency needs. This causes him to temporarily lose the ability to empathize and the danger for Simon lies in the fact that he is unable to acknowledge this. Combined with his grandiose sense of self-worth which disallows any learned helplessness on his part, Simon becomes delusional and these delusions are what end up driving his behavior.
I’m really glad to have read this book. Novels that pick apart the nuances of human motivation greatly interest me and Seven Types of Ambiguity is no exception, especially considering that the insight it provides far transcends its shortcomings....more
I grew up in a very liberal part of the country. My family is comprised mostly of hard-working European immigrants who valuThis book is heartbreaking.
I grew up in a very liberal part of the country. My family is comprised mostly of hard-working European immigrants who value education above all else. In many ways, I should be the last person able to appreciate or understand life in small-town Texas with its conservative values and its unhealthy obsession with high school sports. Yet, I actually did attend a private junior/senior high school with a hockey program that is probably the best in the country. We won the state championship every single year of my six years there, which was in fact part of a twenty-six year streak of consecutive titles. Dozens upon dozens of students from my school have been drafted by the NHL. So perhaps the whole concept of “high school sports are the most important thing you’ll ever do in your life and enjoy it because it is all downhill from there” shouldn’t be so foreign to me after all.
But nope, it is still foreign to me. Very foreign.
This book reminds me of about a handful of John Mellencamp songs that praise the glory days of youth and that try to recall a feeling of nostalgia for a simpler time and place. Mostly I feel sorry for anyone who actually identifies with any of that, as it just perpetuates the nonsense that one will spend the majority of his life with his best days behind him. To me that’s a bit pathetic. This book, though, is a complete embodiment of the Mellencamp philosophy. It is the story of the 1988 football season of Permian High School in Odessa, Texas. It is the story of the town itself, insular and deeply rooted in social conservatism, unabashedly ignorant of the larger national political scene, and seriously, seriously racist. Oh my God, how racist. But above it all, town pride for its high school football team shines through—pride that is fundamental to its nature, to its identity.
No connection in all of sports was more intimate than this one, the one between town and high school.
On the surface, the intensity with which the townspeople of Odessa embrace their high school football team is rather endearing. It gives the kids something to do on a Friday night; it gives them something to work for and to be proud of. But as the author delves further, the intensity starts to seem a little grotesque. These people depend on high school football to survive. More than just an escape from the financial ruin that has set in since the Texas oil bust, high school football is the only thing that matters. They live vicariously through these teenagers, these children, as if they are somehow their only connection to anything good or right in the world. That’s a pretty heavy burden for a 17 year-old to bear. And more than that, these 17 year-olds start to believe it themselves—that there’s nothing else for them beyond high school football. They are hit in the head with this concept over and over again as very little concern is shown for their academic progress. To their peers, their teachers, their counselors, their parents, town officials, and to basically everyone else in their sheltered world, high school football is the most important thing they will ever have.
And yet as sad as this is, I found myself getting caught up in it: the excitement, the rush, the adrenaline of the game. It’s dangerous. It’s dangerous to glamorize something that should really only represent a small part of someone’s life, but it was easy to understand how one could get wrapped up in it. I think this book is worth reading. I think it’s important. And I don’t think you need to be a high school football fan, or even a sports fan in general, to appreciate it.
Permian High School Panthers: 1988 Football Season
vs. Palo Duro Dons — LOSS (Pre-Season) vs. El Paso Austin — WIN vs. Marshall Mavericks — WIN vs. Odessa High Bronchos — WIN vs. Midland High Bulldogs — WIN vs. Abilene High Eagles — WIN vs. Dallas Jesuit — WIN vs. Cooper Cougars — WIN vs. Midland Lee Rebels — LOSS vs. San Angelo Central Bobcats — WIN _________________________
vs. Amarillo Tascosa Rebels — WIN (Post-Season) vs. Andress Eagles — WIN (Post-Season) vs. Irving Nimitz Vikings — WIN (Post-Season) vs. Arlington Lamar Vikings — WIN (Quarter-Finals) vs. Carter Cowboys — LOSS (Semi-Finals)
I’ve always had a weakness for these mystery/crime thrillers—you know, the dragon tattoos and angels & demons of the world? I suppose I should be a liI’ve always had a weakness for these mystery/crime thrillers—you know, the dragon tattoos and angels & demons of the world? I suppose I should be a little embarrassed by this but I’m not. They are my peanut butter and fluff.
Defending Jacob is some of the best fluff I’ve ever tasted. It is written by a former assistant district attorney from Massachusetts with a real knack for this type of storytelling—Jacob is perfectly paced with a tugging suspense that doesn’t abate until the final sentence. And it’s rife with all this legal mumbo jumbo so sometimes you forget it’s just fluff (don’t worry, though, it will remind you). By the end, my adrenaline levels were so high I needed to borrow my Mom’s blood pressure pills.
If you don’t want spoilers, you should probably stop reading now because I can only avoid them for so long. The thing I love about this book is its delve into the personal. The assistant DA’s teenage son is implicated in the murder of his classmate and so even though this is at some level a legal drama, it is also a family drama. To switch roles from lead prosecutor to paternal protectorate is obviously necessary for the ADA, but it does nothing to curb the tide of repercussions for him, his family, and the case. I was also riveted by my own fluctuation between empathy for a boy unjustly dealing with a murder rap and revulsion for him as doubts of his innocence grew.
Also, this book has wicked cool courtroom scenes.
Although the novel’s “present” occurs mostly during the aftermath of the murder and the murder trial itself, the story is interwoven with witness testimony from a grand jury trial that occurs six months later…which must clearly be unrelated to the events of the current murder trial, right? This seemingly unrelated testimony adds to the suspense of the book and its relevance is not revealed until the final chapter. And if you want to know what that relevance is, it turns out to be this: (view spoiler)[
I need to cut the crap with my preconceptions. Although I almost unfailingly launch into a new novel with great enthusiasm like a kid on Christmas morI need to cut the crap with my preconceptions. Although I almost unfailingly launch into a new novel with great enthusiasm like a kid on Christmas morning, anxious to discover what hidden treasure awaits, for some reason I held out little hope for Mrs. Foer’s book about a book about love. Maybe it’s because books about books about love aren’t usually my thing? Maybe it’s because I read her husband’s bestseller last year and was less than impressed? Maybe it’s because I had heard somewhere that they wrote their books together (oh, how adorable!), bouncing ideas off one another and giving each other high fives, so naturally I assumed that if Mr. Foer’s book was gimmicky (which it is), then The History of Love would surely be a major eye-roller as well, right?
Wrong.
Whatever the reason, I was clearly out of line, and for that I owe Nicole a huge apology. In this book she weaves three intersecting storylines all under a cloud of intriguing ambiguity, so even though it is understood that the stories are related, it isn’t exactly clear how until about two-thirds of the way through. And as the stories of Leopold Gursky, Alma Singer, and Zvi Litvinoff are told to us, they leave an imprint on us even before we learn for sure who they are.
The History of Love is a gorgeous novel with gorgeous characters who do what characters do best: they love and they lose, they struggle and they fail, and if lucky they learn how to pick up the pieces and survive. For them, survival is not a destination but a journey. There’s no magic cure and there’s no end-all. But taken one day at a time, it is possible to live a life worth living. Krauss reminds us that all we really want is to remain visible—to be known, to be loved, and to be remembered by those who knew and loved us.
I won a copy of this book through World Book Night, a program begun in the UK last year to spread the love of reading. That program has now arrived in the US, and even though I technically shouldn’t have qualified for receiving a copy of this—WBN books are supposed to have been given only to “light” readers in the hopes that they become “moderate” readers—I will make sure that it will have been worth their while by spreading my love for this book about a book about love....more
This book has the coolest cover ever. What’s great, though, is that the coolness doesn’t end there.
Charlie and Eli sisters are Gold Rush–era contract This book has the coolest cover ever. What’s great, though, is that the coolness doesn’t end there.
Charlie and Eli sisters are Gold Rush–era contract killers. They’re hired for what Eli hopes to be their last job, as he’d much prefer to hang his holster and settle down with a nice girl—or failing that, the first trollop that crosses his path. It makes no difference to him, really (dude is such a sweetheart). Charlie, on the other hand, is the less sensitive one. It’d be tougher to convince him to make sound retirement plans, what with the allure of all that cash and booze that accompanies “the job.”
Sounds like the makings of some brilliant Coen brothers film, doesn’t it? In fact, this book is brilliant. It is light and humorous without being superficial, it is touching and poignant without being sappy, and with dialogue redolent of Deadwood, I have to wonder if David Milch didn’t have a consulting role here. Although maybe that’s really the way people spoke in the latter half of the 19th century, in which case, never you mind.
But truly, this book deserves any praise it receives. It’s a pleasurable read with vividly entertaining characters, and the only thing disappointing about it is that it ends far too quickly.
A few months ago a stylish looking British adaptation of Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy was released in theaters and I was intrigued. But I knew better.A few months ago a stylish looking British adaptation of Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy was released in theaters and I was intrigued. But I knew better. Movies are for smart people. If I had to constantly nudge my wife during Superbad to ask questions like, “so who is that guy again?” and “wait, is she the same one from before?” then I had to admit that seeing this movie would only serve to make me feel very confused and intellectually inadequate. I do better with books. Books explain things. Books are for people who need a little, uh, help in the hand-holding department. So like any other self-respecting moron, I decided to read the book instead (or at least, before seeing the movie)—that way I could have everything explained to me nice, nice.
But I was duped.
When my friend asked me to go with him to see Tinker Tailor, I told him it was not possible. I explained my reasoning while he nodded agreeably, accepting my oddities without judgment. But then he said, “I think you’ll find this to be an exception to your rule. In this particular case, you’re going to want to have seen this movie before reading the book. Trust me.” What. A Freaking. Liar.
As soon as those last two words were uttered, warning bells should have gone off in my head. But I took him at his word and went to see a movie with the most convoluted plot I’d ever tried to absorb. 120 minutes later I had a raging migraine.
I now understood the lengths to which someone would go in order to have a companion at the movies. I suppose I can’t begrudge a man that small favor, and I was not entirely the worse for wear—800 mg of ibuprofen and a good night’s sleep restored my faculties wonderfully. And that’s when I decided to read the book.
John le Carré’s novel retains all the plot complexity of the movie and then some, but it is delivered in such a way that is digestible. Even though I knew the fate of Colin Firth’s character, my pulse still raced at the novel’s climax. The author opens up a world of secrets, lies, espionage, and scandal that are somewhat missing from my everyday life, but seem to be more or less commonplace in a Europe engulfed in the Cold War. Mistrust and paranoia run as naturally as snowfall in New England. I am generally very glad to have read this book despite having done so after seeing the movie....more
Hi, my name is Jake Epping and I’m a dull high school English teacher who has decided to go back in time to prevent JFK from being assassinated. I’ve Hi, my name is Jake Epping and I’m a dull high school English teacher who has decided to go back in time to prevent JFK from being assassinated. I’ve decided to do this primarily because a fat man who serves me 53 year-old cheeseburgers (with whom I share only a vague casual acquaintance) has told me that I should. There is no other real reason for me to being doing this. There really isn’t. Once I’m there, I will also risk my life to save a bunch of other people that I barely know because I want to demonstrate how amazingly selfless I am. It is important to me that I am well-liked. I will fuck up several times, but that is no problem because I have no life and therefore I will simply go back in time again and repeat the experience until I get things right. At some point along the way, I will fall in love with an 80 year-old woman. But don’t worry!—when I go back in time, she’s 27. So that’s no problem, either.
Anyway, once I (view spoiler)[save JFK and am thanked with a lifetime supply of beer, I will finally return to the present. But oh no!—saving JFK has caused massive earthquakes (WHAAA???) and now the entire country is a complete nuclear wasteland!! And yet even though there is no plausible reason whatsoever for this to be the case (hide spoiler)], I will nonetheless accept it as true and simply go back a-fucking-GAIN just to undo what I spent 800 pages doing.
And that is my story.
Except actually it isn’t. Now that I’ve returned more or less permanently to the back-to-normal present, I have decided to hunt down my former lover like the psychopath that I am and dance with her one last time. In my head, it’s oh-so-sweet and will bring a tear to your eye. But in your sane reality, it will probably have the effect of making you want to vomit—cuz she’s EIGHTY. It’s like that scene in Ghost where Sam uses Oda Mae’s body to put the moves on Molly. We get that it’s Patrick Swayze in spirit, but somehow we can’t let go of the knowledge that it’s actually Whoopi Goldberg who’s feeling up Demi Moore....more
Apparently Steve Jobs was a bit of a crazy person. An undiagnosed sufferer of at least three different personality disorders (that I could count), he Apparently Steve Jobs was a bit of a crazy person. An undiagnosed sufferer of at least three different personality disorders (that I could count), he could be strangely oversensitive in one moment and fiercely intimidating the next. I suppose this shouldn’t have come as a surprise, as he was not the first creative genius in history who struggled with interpersonal relationships. But still…
Dear Steve,
I know you’re not around anymore, but let me just tell you that I am very disturbed to learn how manipulative and abusive you were to those around you. Honestly, I don’t understand how anyone could have worked with you, let alone buy your products.
First of all, let’s get something straight. I don’t believe people should be judged too harshly for behavior they Tony Webster is a shallow douchebag.
First of all, let’s get something straight. I don’t believe people should be judged too harshly for behavior they exhibited in adolescence. That’s not to say that people are not responsible for actions they committed in their youth; it just means that their actions as teenagers do not necessarily reflect the kind of people they will become as adults. So my problem with Tony Webster isn’t that he was an asshole in high school. In fact, I’d probably be a bit hypocritical to judge him in that context because I might have been a asshole myself at that age. Maybe. But I can assure you I am not an asshole now and if I’m to be judged on the kind of person I am, I’d like for that judgment to consider me only in my current adult state, please. No, the problem with Tony Webster has nothing to do with his high school self—it’s the fact that over the course of forty years, he has not changed one single bit.
As Tony divulges the circumstances surrounding a pivotal juncture in his youth, he would have you believe that his best friend was a disloyal SOB, his girlfriend a Cutthroat Bitch, and he perfectly justified in telling them both to fuck off. And perhaps he was. Again, that is not the problem I have with Tony Webster. Even that he holds on so tightly to warped memories as reasons for his past behavior (which are really justifications) is something I do not hold against him—we all do that to a certain extent. It’s called self-preservation. But where I start having issues with Tony is where he begins to dwell on these events and obsess over these people he hasn’t seen in decades in a way that is not normal or healthy. If his reasons were sincere, if he actually felt like he needed to atone for something, then I might understand. But that is not what he’s doing. No, he wants to ingratiate himself into these people’s lives, forty years later, just so they can be left with a positive impression of him! See, Tony might think he has you convinced he’s grown and matured into a considerate human person, but the only one he’s convinced is himself, because Tony is in fact the same self-serving bastard he was when he was fifteen. It does make you reconsider his life details in a new light, though: his failed marriage, the distant relationship he has with his daughter, his pathetic lack of friends. I mean it’s one thing to be an unreliable narrator, but here we have one who’s delusional, too.
History is not just the lies of the victors; it is also the self-delusions of the defeated.
The final straw for me was when he (view spoiler)[writes Veronica a “yo, my bad but call me if you need me” email. Yes, email. Because he’s a class guy now, right? And he considers this an appropriate form of closure? Seriously, Tony, go fuck yourself (hide spoiler)].
This book does present an interesting supposition, though—that past events are easier to understand from the historical perspective, the fact that one can see an event in its entirety, more objectively, and from various angles with the passage of time, which allows for a more accurate account of that event. In other words, it’s hard to maintain a clear perspective on something while in the thick of things. Although the narrator uses this to justify his own shallow behavior, I thought it was a pretty enlightening concept nonetheless....more
This is a good book, but not as good as I thought it was going to be. Sometimes I find technical writing to be a bit repetitive and this definitely leThis is a good book, but not as good as I thought it was going to be. Sometimes I find technical writing to be a bit repetitive and this definitely leans more toward technical non-fiction than biography (I was hoping for more of a human interest story here)—because even though Billy Beane takes up a large chunk of the story, it isn’t really a story about Billy Bean per se.
Moneyball was published in 2003, only a year after John Henry bought the Boston Red Sox. Before that time, very few people in baseball had ever heard the term sabermetrics, never mind tried to implement it into a strategy for drafting and trading players—very few people, that is, besides Billy Beane. What’s fascinating about Beane is how much he had to struggle against the tide in order to apply the statistical approach of sabermetrics to his managing of the Oakland Athletics. Of course, given the payroll of the A’s in the early 2000s one might argue that he had no choice. But still, he was the first general manager in baseball to attempt it, so his story is unique.
But why the struggle? Any baseball fan could tell you how important it is to get on base, that patience at the plate is in fact doubly rewarding as it wears down opposing pitching and draws walks. And walks are huge! They extend an inning by avoiding an out, and they put a man on base which statistically leads to a greater probability of runs scored. The reverse is also true: base stealing attempts and sacrifice bunts are no-no’s in the world of sabermetrics precisely because they have the effect of potentially shortening an inning, leading to a lower probability of runs scored. It is simply not worth the calculated risk to try to advance a base runner. So why were these concepts so difficult for baseball operations managers (besides Beane) to understand? This is essentially what the author investigates here, and the easy answer lies somewhere in the fact that baseball managers are curmudgeons who are used to doing things a certain way and don’t want any smart alec college boy with his pocket protector changin’ the way things ‘er done.
Also, Joe Morgan is a buffoon.
I think this is basically old news, but I was still pleased to have my suspicions confirmed. So the story here is definitely interesting, but like I said, the argument in favor of a more objective approach to baseball decision-making is something that I already subscribe to (Yeah, Science!), so the argument itself does become rather repetitive.
Being a baseball fan, though, there are a few things I did enjoy, specifically Billy Beane trying to steal Kevin Youkilis out from under the noses of the Red Sox brass. At first, even though I obviously knew how things would turn out, I was almost rooting for Beane (who, by the way, was John Henry’s initial choice for managing his new organization), but I quickly checked myself and did a Jersey Shore–style fist pump when Theo Epstein refuses to let himself be outsmarted by that West Coast punk!
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And now that I’ve read this book, I think I’ll see the movie....more
I used to have a customer with Tourette’s. Back when I was a teenage supermarket teller, a million and a half years ago, she used to come through my lI used to have a customer with Tourette’s. Back when I was a teenage supermarket teller, a million and a half years ago, she used to come through my line routinely. At the time, I didn’t reflect much on her condition other than that I assumed it must be tough for her occasionally, but how tough it really was I considered only in the vaguest sense, to the extent that I considered it at all. (Sorry, lady, but I was 17 and had a whole slew of 17 year-old thoughts to preoccupy myself with.) She seemed to handle it in stride, though, or least this was my impression of our brief bi-weekly interactions—I certainly don’t remember there being any social awkwardness. It probably helped, too, that she never made any apologies for her outbursts.
So it was interesting for me, with Motherless Brooklyn, to experience life through the first-person perspective of Lionel Essrog, a man with, not only Tourette’s, but also its oft-accompanying sidekick, obsessive-compulsive disorder. With the little foreknowledge I have of these syndromes, I’m not able to say whether the novel faithfully represents them, but I’d like to think it does. Aside from the neuropsychiatric issues, Essrog also has a fascinating character history. Inexplicably orphaned at a young age, he grows up in a tough Brooklyn neighborhood and is recruited by a low-level Italian mobster whose eventual murder serves as the basis for the book’s detective-story plot. Essrog’s physical and verbal tics—which are conspicuously present throughout the investigation—do not impede the reader’s enjoyment of the novel, as his internal dialogue remains unhindered by the disorder (other than expressing an oncoming urge to shout or tap or straighten or poke), all of which I believe is consistent with the way Tourette’s presents in its sufferers. What’s more, Essrog’s tics almost endear the reader to him. I felt a kinship with the misunderstood, relatively lonely man who is driven by a misguided sense of loyalty in the search for his mentor’s killer.
Being at its core a mystery/crime thriller, Motherless Brooklyn at times falls prey to some of the clichés of the genre, but Lethem succeeds in transcending this label by writing with, I don’t know, heart or something. Essorg’s world, touched as it is by inner-city dealings and by mob activity, is still somewhat insular and claustrophobic. It’s his relationship to the elements of this tiny world, however, that drive his motivations and make this book among the more interesting crime novels I’ve read in a while....more
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