Book 6: Birds of America

Birds of America
Lorrie Moore

Usually short story collections have ups and downs, but most do have a general level of quality, with a few stories rising above to enchant and a few being, well, less than memorable. Given my previous experiences with Lorrie Moore, I expected Birds of America to present a group of witty and endearing gems; what I got, however, was almost precisely the opposite: a group of disjointed, cloying, and boring stories with only one that seemed to justify the time put into reading it, let alone the rest of the collection. Don't be fooled by the abstract, too-long title, for "People Like That Are the Only People Here: Canonical Babbling in Peed Onk" is a moving tale of a parent's worst plight, and its impersonal manner transcends the plane of pretentious litfic experimentation on which it is built, becoming instead a universal exploration of pain and suffering, an oasis of meaning in a desert bereft of entertainment or, sadly, plot. This story has plot, and characterization, in spades, and almost- but only almost- makes one look more fondly upon the author. Unfortunately, the majority of the stories in this collection, while having their moments, meander along pointlessly until reaching a noncommittal ending that really has nothing to do with the preceding story. It's possible to read these as portraits, and while yes, they are in a sense rich and layered, they fail to captivate; these are still lives, not moving images, and one cannot blame readers for simply wishing that Moore would get on with it already. Too much in here bows to the litfic intelligentsia, appearing to work in profound subtlety but being instead almost unbearably boring. There are moments, of course, where Moore displays her searing ability to peer into the depths of the human soul, but these are quickly swallowed by the boredom that plagues each of these stores. Likewise, both "Which Is More Than I Can Say About Some People" and "Charades" each come very close to being meaningful, before eventually wandering off into the same meaningless, but critically beloved, territory of utter pandering. Lorrie Moore is, I believe, capable of much more than she shows in Birds of America, but the collection sags under the weight of its own assumed importance and never becomes, well, interesting.

Grade: C-

Book 25: End Zone

End Zone
Don DeLillo

Current concussion debate and lockout woes aside, football is in many ways the great American pastime, symbolizing for many not only our resistance to world sports but also a kind of brash, flashy violence. Given its seeming spontaneity at the whistle and the general brevity of even the most complex of football plays, for Don DeLillo to forge a connection between football and nuclear violence seems, if not natural, reasonably plausible. Unfortunately, other than having a small Texan college's running back become inexplicably fascinated by nuclear conflict, DeLillo is unable to draw any meaningful parallels between the two, nor to use the juxtaposition in any elucidating way. Sure, there are moments of humor within the book, but DeLillo is too unsure of his characters to create anything in the story that is truly lasting. Readers may leave with a decent, half-fuzzy picture of narrator Gary Harkness, but the rest of the cast is a revolving door of meaningless caricatures who show up to spout uncharacteristically sophisticated philosophy when DeLillo believes it convenient. When the most evocative, truest characters in a character-driven book are those who play the smallest parts, readers are going to find it exceedingly difficult to care, let alone to enjoy the book.

DeLillo hints at greater meaning several times throughout the story, and it is certain that Gary learns something during his semester in a small-town Texas college football program. What this is, however, eludes the reader, and I'm not convinced that it's worth digging through the book to find. The reader isn't helped by the sheer brutality of the football characters who occasionally pop in to offer bits of wisdom. Readers may be willing to accept that college football players are, as a rule, capable of achieving the kind of philosophical and intellectual depth that eludes most college students (full stop), but DeLillo bounces his characters around like so many ping-pong balls that it's impossible to glean any true meaning to their words. This book is, from start to finish, the author speaking, and it is perhaps not a coincidence that the book's most nearly infuriating (for nothing within is interesting enough to be truly maddening) passage has the author quoting a later part of the book and oh-so-cleverly-and-he-believes-subtly berating readers for finding a 31-page play-by-play of a football game intensely boring and exceedingly pointless (and I notoriously love football). In the end, however, the effect is just one of indifference. There may have been substance had the subject matter been treated with care or a modicum of thought, but End Zone just peters out at the end, content in its pointlessness but not making a show of it. What Don DeLillo has done in End Zone is, indeed, a remarkable achievement: a nearly meaningless book that, somehow, is neither amusing enough to be rightfully called terrible nor terrible enough to be considered a slog; this is the truly mediocre.

Grade: C-

Book 13: Shanghai Girls

Shanghai Girls
Lisa See

Not every book is going to capture both character and historical book as well as, say, A Tale of Two Cities; in fact, such an achievement is nearly impossible, but surely it is not too much to ask that historical fiction, even when rigorously researched, be supported by more than a skeleton highlight reel of Important Events in This Idiom. Such is the main problem with Lisa See's Shanghai Girls which, despite the depth of the research that clearly went into creating the well-described worlds of Shanghai and Los Angeles around World War II, is driven purely by a cast of egomaniacal characters and the historical merit is thrust uncomfortably to the forefront. From the second paragraph of the book, main character and narrator Pearl is revealed to be petty and self-indulgent, and things only get worse as she is exposed to harrowing adversity. Events like a prolonged gang rape are relayed in a flat, even tone, removing any power or (horrifyingly) sympathy that may arise in readers. Worse still, it seems that See is exploiting the brutal power of such a traumatic event, having characters refer to it in passing occasionally but otherwise treating it as, well, one of those things, refusing to have Pearl deal with it in a realistic or even particularly interesting way. This seemingly major plot point, like others, fades into the noise of the background and only arises when it is necessary to make a (usually petty) point.

This illustrates the fundamental problem of Shanghai Girls: its characters are horrible people and it is nearly impossible to feel any sympathy for them. Pearl and her sister May throw out the required Character Development Lines (complete with an insultingly predictable and unconvincing Reversal of Understanding Argument at the book's utterly dissatisfying climax) without showing any real growth throughout the novel. Instead of feeling sorry for Pearl and her (unbelievably) even more petulant younger sister May, or even feeling sympathy for the terrible trials they see as they flee war-torn Shanghai for the horrors of the mid-century Chinese immigration experience, readers want to reach into the book and slap some sense into these weak and petty women, who hilariously seem to be seen by their delusional author as Strong Role Models. Most egregiously awful is Pearl's uncanny ability to forget her own opinions and See's propensity for one-liners of the very worst kind. One moment, Pearl laments her lack of advancement in America. Fair enough, but not when a few pages later sees her unflinchingly proud of all she has achieved; reversals like this (and Pearl goes back and forth without retrospective insight) are lazy and plague the novel, taking an important and often ignored immigrant narrative and using the worst possible kind of characters to represent it.

I understand some of what See was trying to do; obviously, immigrant narratives are rich with the tension between a desire for assimilation and love for one's home country and culture. There are ways, however, to write about this conflict without petulance and there are ways to deal with the ambiguity of these complex emotions without the black-and-white platitudes that populate this novel. One moment Pearl's father-in-law is an unrepentant dick and the next they reach An Understanding of Each Other; this, too, may reflect some elements of real life but for the rest of the novel Pearl is 100% understanding of the man and never shows any shades of gray in her estimation of him. This is absolutely maddening, especially when placed in the hands of an annoying narrator. See's choice of present tense for the sweeping book, which sees decades pass in awkwardly phrased catch-up sentences, is disastrous and makes no sense, often inducing confusion when the narrative leaps so quickly to reach its next Illustration of History. I believe that Lisa See's heart is fundamentally in the right place, and that her decision to tell a difficult story is brave, but the execution in Shanghai Girls is terrible. There are interesting descriptions of place and moments where even the narration cannot stand in the way of powerful events occurring (see especially Pearl and May's time on Angel Island), but ultimately my distaste for these two women made Shanghai Girls a real struggle to get through. The sibling tension is over-hyped, the narration is terrible, and Shanghai Girls suffers from interesting content matter, good research, and horrible storytelling.

Grade: C-

Book 30: Free for All

Free for All: Oddballs, Geeks, and Gangstas in the Public Library
Don Borchert

The jacket of this book promises that it will be a wild ride, a tell-all memoir of sorts that will hilariously and tenderly convey the perks and perils of working in an underfunded, often overcrowded public library. Unfortunately, though there are amusing and touching anecdotes spread throughout this book, the vast bulk of this volume consists of snide, self-serving remarks with remarkably little perception or tolerance from someone who works at a public institution in Los Angeles, one of our country's most diverse areas by any measure. For an author, Borchert seems to be unrepentingly and unforgivably ignorant of the effects of his language on the reader. This book is full of moment after moment that should be touching or funny, only to be ruined by an ill-timed non-sequitur or blatantly ignorant remark about a patron or colleague's culture or race. And, for the record, hijab is not the same as a burka. That said, there are a few excellent moments in this chronicle of life as a public servant (a noble title Borchert reiterates every chapter or so), most notably an almost insult-free love story between two mentally challenged adults that manages to be written with subtlety, grace, and affection. Likewise, most of the stories about beloved children's librarian Terri shine with admiration, commiseration, and humor.

While there are a few stories that manage appropriate pacing and language, such as an early chapter about drug dealers working out of the library's bathroom, Borchert misses far more comic opportunities than he succeeds in delivering and the book suffers for it. Borchert is an author of extremes: he is either entirely off the mark, delivering punch lines before adequate (or any) set-up, or he is trying to force what he must see as witty cynicism into his dour remarks, throwing in an ill-timed "fuck" here or there to seem hip but making himself seem all the more tragically un-so. In fact, I would hate to be a patron of Mr. Borchert's library, and not because of the trying customers he faces. He seems to be stone-faced and, in trying to make himself seem understanding and polite comes off instead as a self-serving, crotchety jackass with no respect for others, a remarkable task for a librarian. Borchert has no sense of overall plotting as his stories are loose, unconnected, and hastily composed with no sense of story throughout. We are introduced to a librarian, Lillian, somewhere in the middle with no explanation of who she is or where her previous title-bearer had gone, only to get the patchy backstory in the final anecdote. Likewise, the "afterword" is really just a closing chapter to the book: readers will look at this and wonder if it saw any professional editorial attention at all.

I'm all for creating a stir and I'm no censor, but it seems unlikely that and editor looking for a book with mass-market appeal would allow Borchert's racist and offensive material to go through unscathed, particularly when it is either flat-out wrong (hijab is NOT a burka!), misleading, and usually entirely irrelevant to the story at hand. Aside from its horrendous styling, however, Free for All does have its moments. Many of its stories are funny, owing no thanks to the author's delivery, and uncover a bit of the shroud of mystery that hangs over library associates. Though civil servants are not the highest creatures on the employment totem pole, as this book would have us believe, Borchert does give readers an idea of the kinds of small and large annoyances that haunt the average branch librarian. Ultimately, though, Borchert's contempt for others and general inability to craft an interesting story overwhelm the power of the material. There are only a handful of passable chapters in this book, and two truly great ones: a moving ode to love, mentioned above, and a realistic, caustic, and shockingly witty look at the futility of summer reading programs. Free for All boldly attempts to take readers on a journey through the stacks, but gets lost in a dark, dank corridor of bad writing and fails to capture interest, unlike so many books Borchert has passed to the readers of Los Angeles who, thank god, seem to put up with him.

Grade: C-

Book 33: Finnegans Wake

Finnegans Wake
James Joyce

I have done it; I have completed the first leg of anyone's literary Ironman competition, and what a journey it is. From the blatant absence of an apostrophe in the title to the circular grand finale, which ends before the book even begins (apparently), Finnegans Wake is a journey through impossibility and utter silliness, a highly prized literary send-up of highly prized literature. The book itself makes a mockery of the entire idea of narrative, beginning in the middle of a sentence and ending with the first half of that same sentence. This, however, as so much else in the book, is at once nauseating and incredibly clever. This specific example shows the entirety of the book in a nutshell: Joyce has created an intricately detailed yet entirely unreadable work that has somehow wormed its way into the hearts of the English language's literary intelligentsia. Unfortunately, unlike many other worthy classics, Finnegans Wake is popular precisely because it is unreadable and, I suspect, due to its unmatched ability to induce a headache within mere seconds. The book often shifts between insightful and infuriating from letter to letter as a barely-recognizable pun slides into a mishmash of letters placed together with no eye for coherence or meaning at all. The book is at once deliberate and careless and ultimately it is a 600-page mess of contradiction and pretentiousness that is, at best, silly.

The main problem with Finnegans Wake is its sheer randomness. The reader will recognize an allusion only to have it melt away within words. The only passage that I understood at length was in the first fifty pages or so and dealt with some highlights of Napoleon's career. After that, the only enjoyment the book offers is the brief feeling of competence as a reasonably transparent pun sneaks its way into the nonsense and gibberish. Joyce is clearly a master of the language and cleverly plays with the sounds and shapes of English words; many of the puns in the book are indeed quite clever and those that make sense seem to hint that the rest are as deliberately constructed. The problem is that the puns are so constant as to make the text absolutely indecipherable and that the allusions come out of nowhere and disappear just as suddenly. They are far too specific and woe to the reader who reads this tome without having visited Ireland. There is rarely any sort of theme or trend to grapple onto, which is too bad because one of the highlights of reading the book is seeing some old gags recur throughout the flow. Joyce's constant play on the phrase "Finnegan's wake" and various homonyms for "Ireland" and "Dublin" is delightful and does offer a kind of grounding force through the free-flowing lines of words and words and random collections of letters. Not so fascinating are the fifty-odd letter constructions or words that consist of a string of the same letter ("ttt" is particularly annoying), which come off as merely pretentious and show none of the cleverness that makes other parts of the book pop out. There is potential, so much potential, but it is all wasted as Joyce endlessly congratulates himself upon creating another useless pun.

Finnegans Wake is not for the lighthearted and probably shouldn't be for anyone. It has rare glimmers of genius and talent, but for the most part it is hogwash that does not offer any significant rewards outside of running across the word "hogwarts" in the vast midsection or the recognition of river names in a particular paragraph. The puns are interesting and clever for their phonetic linguistics, but for the most part the pun itself doesn't contribute to the word. Why use a reference to Beethoven or to a sign of the zodiac if that reference isn't going to add anything to an interpretation or understanding of the text? This is the ultimate question raised by the book: why bother with the genius when so much is dreck? It simply is not worth searching for the needle in the haystack, for the needle itself is rusty and only barely resembles a needle at all. Finnegans Wake may not be a complete waste of time, but it is more infuriating than illuminating and I personally question its placement at the pinnacle of English language literature, though not its place amongst the language's hardest works. It requires far too much effort for no reward other than vaguely interesting wordplay that usually works only on one basic level. One-hundred pages and it's genius. Six-hundred and twenty-eight make the most well-meaning reader want to gouge his or her eyes out.

Grade: C-

Book 20: The Roman Empire

The Roman Empire
Colin Wells

Read in preparation for my trip to Rome, this book was at once inconceivably annoying and reasonably informative. Wells has a unique blend of the actual ability to convey historical information without boring to tears, only to have his power evaporate due to a complete and utter lack of editing of any sort. It's as if no one read the proofs. If Mr. Wells is British, surely some of our differences in grammatical opinions can be chalked up to dialect differences; regardless, this book is riddled with misplaced commas and truly appalling sentence structures. The most reprehensible error I may ever have seen in print is a reference to "Dicken's" [sic] as a possessive, when the author is clearly references Dickens the author (my edition of the MLA even uses this as a specific example, where the correct version is "Dickens's"). I have seen and sighed with exasperation over many misunderstandings of the poor maligned possessive apostrophe but this took me rather aback. Did no one edit this grammatical monstrosity? Is there no hope left? Misplaced commas abound and can usually be excused in books, but in books where they appear every few sentences they become utterly unbearable and distract so much from the content that the book becomes much more of an effort than the most laborious heavy-handed historical tomes.

What of the content, then? The content itself is relatively interesting, and the grammatical mistakes are even more tragic because Wells appears to have more talent than most historical writers. He wisely chooses to focus not only on the power struggles at the top of the Roman hierarchy, but also on life in the army and provinces, a crucial step towards understanding the Empire in its entirety. This objective, however, to expose the sum total of the Roman Empire, is somewhat hampered by Wells's (see what I did there?) own thinly veiled admiration of Octavian/Augustus, which occupies an unjustifiably large portion of the book. Again understandably, tracing the origins of the empire through Augustus is necessary, but in a brief history one must be brief and attempt to spread the information around a bit. Wells continually provides interesting and moderately well-presented information, but strange juxtapositions and inexcusable time shifts continuously break continuity and leave readers confused. Breaks between chapters contain understandable time shifts (chapters alternate between top-heavy and little-guy descriptions) but jumps also inexplicably occur within and between the supposedly continuous narratives of alternating chapters. Again, the information is well-presented and remarkably understandable, but Wells seems intent on confusing his readers.

This book, which in more organized hands could have been an engaging and useful history of the Roman Empire, succumbs in the end to Wells's inability to edit and think of the bigger picture. The author repeatedly insults Tacitus but uses him as one of his most trusted sources in the next sentence. Source problems aside, this is utterly confusing and makes no sense whatsoever, especially in light of the author's own well-placed and surprisingly honest discussion of the source material in the second chapter. Wells consistently allows his own bias to shine through the narrative, and rather than making the book lively and interesting, the work becomes dull and imposing. Wells thinks he is providing an objective look at the history he presents but the text time and again takes a ridiculously subjective turn that, rather than providing humor or witty commentary, is merely pompous and annoying. It's horrible that a well-written history is riddled with so many simple errors and greater errors of vision. History is so often written terribly, but Wells had such a chance to shine. Among his many faults is an interesting history of the Roman Empire that isn't terribly difficult to understand, something sorely lacking in historical writing today. Sadly, this book succumbs to an utter lack of editing and vision and is more than mediocre, endlessly annoying and confusing to an uninitiated reader, the book's stated prime audience.

Grade: C-

Book 50: America Divided

America Divided
Maurice Isserman and Michael Kazin

Well, I'm going to have to split this up into two sections: the introduction and conclusion versus the actual body of the text. Neither part is brilliant, but upon reading the conclusion to the book I want to re-read the entire thing to see if it's truly as bad as the last chapter would suggest. If their neat little wrap-up of the book reflects the book, I fear for my own memory.

As for the text itself, it isn't horrid. There are continuity issues, such as when the authors cannot decide whether to be liberal or conservative in their not-so-subtle editorializing. There is almost no neutrality in this book, which is a general overview of the 1960s. If the book took a solidly liberal or conservative bias, I could handle it, especially since the events are so prominent in popular memory and so relatively recent. The tone is all over the place; maybe, upon reflection, this is due to the dual authorship. In any case, the book does not flow particularly well, though it is strangely readable.

I attribute the readibility to the interesting nature of the story being told and the nonstop hammering of the "current relevance" bell. The events themselves are ingrained on our popular consciousness and seeing them addressed in a mildly academic way is interesting. The prose itself isn't staggering, but is simple and gets where it's going just fine. There is only the occasional case of unnecessary embellishment (coincidentally, this occurs most often around the not-so-subtle editorializing) and if anything the book is slightly demeaning. The book meanders along, passing but not with flying colors. The fact that it isn't horrible cannot make up for the fact that it isn't good, and it is just solidly average.

Okay, so now the fun part. I could not even believe my eyes when I read the mind-bogglingly stupid conclusion. I was thinking that it would be an interesting forum for our opinionated authors to link the events of the 1960s to today, hardly a difficult task. They started with the Civil War, which I vaguely recalled from the opening of the book. Unfortunately, they started by asserting that we do not dare ask the question of who won the battles of the Civil War. Regarding the 1960s, sure, I can buy that, because the answers aren't clear yet. But the United States Civil War? The one in the 1860s? I'm sorry, boys, but it's over. We resolved the issue of slavery and (lest you think I'm a mindless drone) settled the issue of state supremacy (or now, the lack thereof) and constitutional interpretation. It would help the book if the comparisons presented were based in historical fact, let alone relevant.

The sheer stupidity of this ending makes me want to hit the authors over the head with this book and remind them that I am a thinking person, as are some Americans. In the conclusion, the authors sadly recite the same lines we are tired of hearing, the endless partisan whining and bickering. I know you're arguing that the issues are unsettled, guys, but can you at least try to present both sides of anything slightly reasonably? Is that just too much to ask? I'll leave the gratuitous anti-Bush ramblings (and this is a comment from me here) for your digestion, fellow readers. Don't touch this conclusion unless you are in just the right mood. I'm angered and insulted and, instead of feeling mobilized by the call to action that was the 1960s, I've been maligned as a whiner in Bush v. Gore, because homosexuals were behind that. That implication and more await you.

Oh, and one final note. What's happening as you write the book is present tense, not past. If you're talking about 2003 in 2004, that is still present tense. Morons.

Grade: C-

Book 40: The Generals of Saratoga

The Generals of Saratoga
Max M. Mintz

There are many ways to write a book about history, and all can be effective in the hands of a good author. There's the dry and informative historical account, complete with footnotes on every page. There's the narrative approach, and even historical novels. There are hybrids that intersperse context with their main narrative or thesis, educating their readers without being too smugly academic. While I contend that very few strictly nonfiction books about history are actually well-written, it's rare to find a book that so spectacularly fails as this one does.

From the cover and first couple of chapters, one would assume that the book is a dual biography, a narrative and lively look at one of the decisive battles of the American Revolutionary War through the eyes of its two generals. The chapters alternate between the two featured men, John Burgoyne and Horatio Gates, and though the book shows disturbing signs of excessive name-dropping early on, these early pages set up a nice dualistic structure. Even when this begins to be disturbed, the generals are still separated by sections within chapters. Though these divisions had previously divided chapters based solely on one general, the continued interaction of the men's fates provides a reasonable basis for this change in technique.

It's around this point, though, that the book gets confused. Is it a history of Saratoga through the eyes of the men who were in charge? Is it a history of the campaign for New York in general? Is it a biography? Is it even about Gates, who disappears for a good three or four chapters?

Unfortunately, I can't answer these questions; nor can any reader. The book, which had such an interesting premise and an intriguing prologue, descends into a holier-than-thou mess of confusing and irrelevant details, neglecting one of its main characters for the sake of context. I am a firm believer in context, but it does not lay in petty details and in completely discarding one of the main characters in lieu of other American generals. A compelling narrative needs details, but it also needs a general plot and it cannot get lost in irrelevant stories that don't illustrate any points.

The only thing that the book does well, besides allowing me to feel infinitely superior in my own writing abilities (quite the formidable task, I assure you), is in highlighting the confusion in both the British and American commands regarding who was to take charge where. Unfortunately, this is conveyed so well because the reader is right there with the officals, left with no clue what's going on but staring stupidly at a list of names that sound vaguely familiar but are unexplained.

I would like to blame myself for zoning out during large portions of this book, but the portions that had my full attention absolutely failed to reverse any of my perceptions. I think it's safe to say that I learned more about the Revolution through a fact-based fictional account (Jeff Shaara's The Glorious Cause) than through this muddling procession of factual assaults on my intelligence.

Grade: C-

Book 4: The Last Juror

The Last Juror

John Grisham

This book is not exceptionally well-written, but it also lacks the plot and continuity to get it off the ground. Put simply, it fails on all counts. The big shake-up surprise at the end is predictable, and even if I hadn't blatantly seen it coming to smack me in the face (luckily, I was able to duck and sustained no damage), it is not of a magnitude to shock or even merely stun anyone. The effect is, "Oh, wow, right, duh." My other major gripe is that Grisham tries much too hard to make the novel relevant and insightful regarding racism in the 70s. The racial tensions revealed by the plot are meaningless and underdeveloped. The effect of this is to make Grisham seem to be a meaning-mongerer eager only to fill pages rather than paint a finely attuned portrait of the day and age in which his characters are operating. In this case, he has no excuse, as the issue is school integration in the 70s.

Did I mention that this has nothing to do with the plot except to make it forgettable? Though this forgetfulness comes into play when Grisham tries again to overextend his limited writing capabilities in attacking a flawed legal system, it is still ineffective and does not even function as a plot device. Grisham cannot make up his mind regarding the genre of his work. Is it a fictional coming-of-age memoir? Is it a murder mystery (albeit one where all the answers are given out on a silver platter, requiring no thought whatsoever of the reader)? Is it a legal thriller? Is it an expose about racial tensions in 1970s Mississippi? Is it a scathing revelation of corruption in the judicial system? Can it decide? No. Grisham would do much better to stick to one or maybe two genres instead of trying to make his book a catchall.

Oh, and the end is sad to, for no reason. Grisham gives in to the pressures of modernization and his character sells out to The Man after avowing earlier not to. This change of heart is not explained. After reading this novel, Grisham would have you believe that the South can turn anyone conservative, that rich entrenched whites own the system, and that blacks and whites live happily (that is, the blacks are quite satisfied with their lower position) and best when separated by the enigmatic "tracks."

Grade: C-