Book 22: The Gum Thief

The Gum Thief
Douglas Coupland

Douglas Coupland has made his name studying the inner workings of ordinary people, those of us who live humdrum lives at the margins of society, who may or (as is usually the case with his characters) may not buy into the latest hype or trend. While The Gum Thief is a continuation of Coupland's ongoing exploration of generational mindset(s), its fondness for metafiction tends to cloud the main storyline rather than enhance it, allowing the book-within-a-book to take over the novel without necessarily enhancing readers' understanding of the character writing it. In fact, for a writer whose view of his characters is usually so astute, Coupland's inability to distinguish them or to allow them to speak for themselves is remarkable. Though the ambition evident in the book's mixed viewpoint structure is admirable, every character's epistolary voice carries the same tone and makes the same kind of observations that seem hackneyed rather than pointed. Indeed, Coupland's problem here may be that he has done too well in depicting the kind of detached, wry, wannabe ironic observations that made Generation X and its successors so poignant. Here, it feels as though the author is striving just a bit too much for authenticity, and what remains is a thinly disguised attempt to channel the voice of a cynicism the author himself may not fully comprehend. Readers get the overwhelming feeling that, ultimately, people just don't talk (or think) this way.

The overt ambitions of the novel are also evident in its chaotic narrative structure, which relies far too heavily on the main protagonist's authorial pet project, a truly wretched novel. While Coupland does an admirable job channeling Roger's angst throughout the invented Glove Pond, that angst remains self-pitying and, ultimately, uninteresting. Instead of gaining a better understanding through a subtle handling of narrative nuance, readers get backstory in large, frantic gulps that ring hollow more often than inspiring sympathy. Coupland has not created unlikely or unrealistic characters, but he has made his traditional cast of outcasts boring and difficult to care about as their tedious observations about the modern world fall flat. The book also squanders a glorious opportunity as the office superstore setting falls by the wayside rather than providing what should have been an ideal breeding ground for the kind of cynicism that springs here from other sources. Instead, Coupland relies more and more heavily on Glove Pond and its transparent cast, concluding the book in a truly unsatisfying ending that seems borne of the same malaise that colors the rest of the book. The book is not without its humorous moments, and shows promise at its beginning and, indeed, throughout; there may in fact be poignancy hidden herein, though it is difficult to pry out from the tenor of self-loathing that makes the book so tedious at times. Yet, despite this, the book is difficult to put down and it is only at the end that the reader is left completely disappointed; this is a book that seems capable of so much more than it delivers. The Gum Thief shows promise in its setup and at moments during its execution, but too-lofty ambitions and high reader expectations make the book fall sadly flat despite, or perhaps because of, its desperate desire to be witty.

Grade: C

Book 21: The Opposing Shore

The Opposing Shore
Julien Gracq

Military defeat can loom large in the memory of a nation, and the lingering effects of World War II upon France are evident throughout Julien Gracq's The Opposing Shore, a deeply introspective novel considering the effects of long-term peace and looming conflict. Set in the fictional, but distinctly Mediterranean, city-state of Orsenna and its outlying territories in a period just before industrial mechanization, the novel recalls, in its way, the dominance and eventual collapse of Rome. A far lesser empire, Orsenna grapples with a centuries-long history of stagnation, exemplified not least in an ongoing cold war with Farghestan, which lays on the opposite shore of an unnamed sea. Though the novel's long and introspective passages do an excellent job of portraying the somnolence of Orsenna and its officials, seemingly endless passages unbroken by significant events, they are equally likely to provoke the same reaction in the reader. The ratio of action to introspection makes the novel somewhat difficult to grasp; though, again, the tone and the mood of Orsenna and its Syrtes outposts are suggestively rendered through Gracq's prose. That the book is dominated by a kind of narrative haze is a bit frustrating, as the author shows an ability to raise the level of action without greatly deviating from the general tone of the narration; even the simple act of displacing some observations by couching them in conversation lightens the onus upon the reader. While Gracq's dialogue is certainly not the crackling sort, or particularly true to life, it does have an ability to force the reader to think more than the long, boring descriptive passages that dominate the prose.

That said, the book holds some valuable insights and a fair bit of philosophical entertainment for those willing to engage it with a certain level of intellectual depth. Indeed, The Opposing Shore asks much of its readers but does provide ample rewards in its exploration of political drowsiness and death. Though the action of the novel takes too long to get going by most standards, its pace (once begun) is appropriate, its constituent events serving to illuminate the book's well-established themes. Its characters, however, are a bit ill-defined and have obscure motives that do not suffice to explain occasionally puzzling actions. Readers are indebted almost solely to narrator Aldo's descriptions of character, given Gracq's hesitancy to insert dialogue into such an overtly philosophically-minded story, and his insistence on certain traits sometimes appears distractingly at odds with characterization evinced by observed action. Richard Howard's translation, while (apparently) admirably maintaining a tone and weight throughout, occasionally becomes distracting, as in the absolute overuse of the word "somnolent" and its derivatives. Hardly a page passes by without this word, however appropriate, occurring at least once, and while it may be the most befitting lexical choice its constant appearance serves more to distract than to enlighten. Even the sleep/wakefulness metaphors that dot the book tend to lull the reader into an occasional stupor, and though the book is undoubtedly a fine work of literature it fails to sustain significant interest at a consistent level. The Opposing Shore is an interesting exploration of a nation's long sleep and gradual awakening, as well as a convincing exploration of the power of artificial boundaries, though its focus on introspection over plot makes it slightly inaccessible and, perhaps, more demanding on the reader than is really fair to ask.

Grade: B

Book 20: Super Sad True Love Story

Super Sad True Love Story: A Novel
Gary Shteyngart

While I am not inherently predisposed to believe the seemingly universal fawning praises of the mainstream book reviewing media for certain books, neither am I wholly opposed to its opinions. Never, however, can I recall reading a book that received such high reviews but which was so disappointing and, in fact, just plain bad. Such is the case with the way overzealous, way too self-indulgent Super Sad True Love Story which, of all these words, really only contains a "story." This story, however, is underwhelming at best and ruthlessly disturbing at worst, predicated on a whiny older man's creepy obsession with a nearly anorexic 20-something in a thinly disguised dystopian "America" that consists solely of New York City. That Lenny, the book's primary (and alarmingly unsympathetic) protagonist and narrator, is a fairly obvious stand-in for the author, a circumstance that explains his ridiculous and otherwise entirely bizarre obsession with his Ohio-shaped bald spot (no, literally), in no way excuses the entirely wayward attempts of the book's hapless author. Shteyngart seems to confuse excessive, too-much-information detail and whininess with good, evocative description and daring character development; instead, Super Sad True Love Story is, like its disturbing and obsessive main character, a complete and insufferable mess.

There are redeeming qualities to the book, though they are few and far between. There are times when the author does show a true gift for the English language, although these gems are often lost due to the banality of the plot surrounding them or readers' disgust with the characters writing or participating in them. Some of the elements of Shteyngart's self-indulgent stab at dystopian satire are illuminating, such as his half-baked, pseudo-Bradburian vision of a post-book (but not, as the disarmingly false jacket copy so enthusiastically announces, illiterate) near future (one that cannot, despite the enthusiastic protestations of the jacket copy, ever conceivably occur "next Tuesday," given its own internal chronological reference points) and his keen perception of immigrants' affection for an adopted United States, but where the book goes for funny it inevitably falls entirely flat. Jokes and winks, such as they are, are wielded with as blatant an Obvious Hammer as I've ever seen, to the point where any satire in the book becomes completely ineffective as the author's obvious lack of talent for tact or subtlety overrides any poignant points he might actually make given a hint of restraint. Instead, the book reads like the product of a spoiled, indulgent, ne'er-do-wrong, holier-than-thou literary hack whose preoccupation with The Big Questions overrides concern for sympathetic characters, a sensical plot, and/or a setting that could, when treated with any degree of narrative talent, be painfully revealing. Likewise, anything interesting the author may have to say about society is swallowed in woefully self-aware and self-laudatory prose dripping with a look-at-me-I-am-a-literary-darling inaccessibility and pointlessness. The book has unlikeable characters: how daring! No. How insufferably stupid, vapid, and unreadable.

Where, exactly, does Shteyngart go wrong? While an author certainly shouldn't be faulted for attempting to explore what an extrapolation of our current digital-driven communication habits might mean, his attempt at describing an äppärät-driven word is as exaggerated as the unnecessary umlauts, and any salient points he makes about over-sexualization are surely lost in the book's prurient (and, frankly, disturbing) obsession with things like see-through "jeans" and synonyms for a woman's nether regions and unmentionables. Nor is the treatment of government much more cleverly drawn, Shteyngart appealing instead to the rabid anti-Cheneyism that may have worked in 2006 but which now seems laughably out of place. This is a shame, because some of the fears raised in this novel seem legitimately based on a cynical view of current trends, an Orwellian future disturbingly well-linked to our current situation but whose punch is lost in its pure absurdity. Cute little tricks the author seems to find clever, such as representing mega-conglomerations in nearly-unreadable and frankly untenable mashups of brand names (AlliedWasteCVSCitigroupCredit is an impossible name even after the requisite, and unlikely, mergers) or having non-black characters refer to each other as "Nee-gro" with no discernible context, are instead bulky and lazy, drawing attention to the author's brazenly displayed need for recognition.

That Shteyngart is receiving this desperately-sought recognition is disheartening, because among the poorly contrived satirical elements and disgusting main character, the plot and writing are full of holes, the plot holding less weight than the collapsing dollar holds relative to the surging yuan. There is no explanation given for the current political situation above a lazy attempt to scream at readers, "You're all morons! Look what you idiots are doing to yourselves!" and an attendant, implied, "I am the only one clever enough to see this coming! And look at the hip umlauts! Welcome to the future, we're Scandinavian here!" Moreover, though the book's conceit as a dual narrative between creepy Lenny's diaries and messages from object of his unbalanced affection Eunice Park is clever and does balance their two voices, it is inconceivable that any diarist writes in such flowery language. And if, indeed, readers believe dear Lenny does use such elegant phraseology and incorrect tenses in his daily writing, they must be forgiven for despising him even more strongly in the book's epilogue than at its onset, a seemingly impossible task for which Shteyngart must be lauded.

One particularly clumsy oversight has Lenny reflecting that someone who has not at this point in the narrative died, and whom he interacts with on a daily basis, as "always having had" a certain personality quirk, the implication being that the aforementioned party has died. Only someone with extremely severe egomania would ever write this way, and the worst part of the mess is that this is indeed shown to be possible for Lenny in the book's horrific epilogue, in which Shteyngart (in the guise of older, wiser, and thinly disguised (and, don't forget, bald-headed!) Lenny) oh-so-cleverly dismisses his own book as being written without forethought for publication. In doing so, the author not only fails to justify his own overwrought prose but also makes Lenny even more unlikeable than he already is; again, an almost unfathomable achievement.

Not all books must have entirely wonderful characters to be good or to be respectable, but a focus on such relentlessly, egregiously terrible human beings, who are supposed to be sympathetic, simply will not endear readers to a work. Lenny is whiny and dense, and when Shteyngart attempts to cleverly drop hints to readers he forgets that he is having his lead say things like, "Oh, it's odd this other character would talk this way…so suspicious," only to remain completely clueless about the revealed possibility until the post-action epilogue. There is nothing wrong with an author allowing readers to stay one step ahead of characters, but to have narrating characters openly and unambiguously disclose this information, only to seemingly forget it mere letters later, is just terrible and reeks of the laziness that plagues this book. Even the slang, which at first seems clever (not, of course, counting the bizarre and bizarrely äppärät-specific umlauts), is overdrawn by book's end, and more than one gaping plot hole is left to insinuation where some scraps of meaningful societal criticism could still be salvaged. This, of course, discounts the black whole gaping where the promised love story belongs, replaced with a flailing excuse for "love" so feeble it can't even pass for one of Shteyngart's frankly stupid attempts at satire and criticism.

In the end, the boat sails on Super Sad True Love Story the minute it opens, the book a self-indulgent mess masquerading as incisive social commentary. Within its jumbled pages are a series of half-baked ideas and wholly unlikeable situations, painfully rendered in prose stilted not by the deliberate misspellings of its writers (which, surprisingly, musters the closest thing to realism within this book) but by the insistence of its overbearing and ever-present author. In the end, the book fails on every promise offered in its offensively inaccurate jacket description and in its title: make no mistake, this is a flailing, unsympathetic, utterly unbelievable tale that mistakenly equates disturbing and disgusting sexual obsession (and a healthy amount of emotional abuse) with love and, worse, congratulates itself for doing so. Gary Shteyngart's Super Sad True Love Story is not even elegant in its failure, instead representing a terribly self-indulgent literary cesspool receiving admiration for its uncreative pandering to the modern literati rather than for any inherent merit.

Grade: D

Book 19: Glitz

Glitz
Elmore Leonard

I enjoy novels rich with intrigue and multiple levels of allusion, classics upon whom praises cannot be sufficiently bestowed. Sometimes, however, I just want to read a good book, one that immerses me in its story and characters and in its world. I have found the mystery genre particularly good for this kind of quasi-escapist reading, and within the genre Elmore Leonard is undoubtedly a master. In Glitz, he introduces us to a wide range of characters who occasionally come dangerously close to the stockroom but who are, at any rate, far from cardboard. The opening is a bit clunky as Leonard tees off with an expository back story, but policeman and protagonist Vincent Mora's recent brush with death is retold in a kind of pensive, stop-motion manner that becomes quite effective. Leonard has a good knack for scene-setting detail and infuses a good deal of irony into his character descriptions, an appreciated subtle touch in a genre that often reverts to the overt. Though he can linger too long on scenes that are not integral to the plot, Leonard's ear for dialogue rescues many wayward passages, which come alive despite seeming somewhat unrelated and which further serve to build rich narrative scenes in both San Juan and Atlantic City, the book's two main locales. Even though the book's focus lies squarely on its characters, with fortunate choices of location that tie in perfectly, these cities come alive through the dialogue of their inhabitants and in the implications raised by the events that drive the novel's plot.

Despite an ear for dialogue and an ability to tweak stock characters enough to make them come alive, Leonard's plotting leaves a bit to be desired as some changes come too quickly and the background to one pivotal early character meeting remains implausible at best at novel's end, entirely unexplained and making no sense though greatly influencing the later plot. Leonard does, however, have a gift for rotating points of view, juggling and presenting several characters' stories with a high rate of success and a low rate of confusion, though it must be said that some of the junctions can be a bit difficult to follow at times from a plot perspective. It isn't that the book is particularly intricately plotted, as the connection is rather simple and in fact fairly amusing, but occasionally it can be difficult to determine just how everything is slowly being pieced together. The connection is, however, quite clever and comes complete with some red herrings, no mean feat in a novel where the main antagonist is clearly known from the outset and is one of the book's most engrossing characters. Though the book's denouement and climax are surprisingly lacking, Glitz offers an enjoyable ride, taking readers through the seedy world behind the fading glitz and glamour of Atlantic City without resorting too much to stereotype and stock plots. Vincent Mora's unofficial investigative methods deliver a punch while reflecting some of the best features of a traditional procedural, and everything comes together nicely, if a bit predictably, at the book's conclusion. Glitz is a fully satisfying, if slightly less than perfect, character-driven mystery that makes for a fine, reasonably quick literary companion.

Grade: A-

Book 18: Empire By Default

Empire By Default: The Spanish-American War and the Dawn of the American Century
Ivan Musicant

One of the reasons I spent much of the latter end of my undergraduate career studying English, and not history, is because historians are incomparably proficient at making the amazing strands of the past fall flat. My love for history and its most human of stories has not, however, ceased, and a recent work assignment processing the papers of one Russell Alexander Alger (embattled Secretary of War at the beginning of the McKinley administration) led me to pick up this weighty, but promising, book on the Spanish-American War. Author Ivan Musicant's refreshingly accessible, informative, and enjoyable history of the under-appreciated conflict has not solely redeemed the Hobsbawms of the world, but nonetheless illustrates that popular history can indeed be well-researched, competently written, and far more effective than the thesis-chasing strains enjoyed in more erudite circles. Strangely, however, the thesis offered in the book's first and final chapters, though scarcely (if ever) alluded to in between, may have actually helped drive the book, though it does not lack for momentum and indeed navigates well between multiple theaters of war and tangled webs of diplomacy and international negotiation.

Regardless, Musicant seems to believe, undoubtedly rightly so, that the Spanish-American war dropped empirical concerns into America's lap, but offers little support throughout his story of the war. While a lighter touch is much appreciated around these parts, and the book seems to travel along just fine without an overbearing thesis, it is interesting to see how the author's perception of his argument differs from a consistent tone that initially seems to be just-the-facts, ma'am. Let this not prevent you from reading Empire By Default, however; the book is far from dry and offers an engaging account of war on the precipice of the calamitous quagmire of 1914 and under the increasingly important auspices of the navy and intra-military cooperation. Indeed, all of the pieces are here for the enterprising reader to chew on and digest at will, and Musicant subtly drops several hints throughout the narrative that will entice those interested in looking at the larger tides of history. It is perhaps no accident, given this subtle drive that pulses quietly beneath the surface, that the emergence of the United States Navy is the opening shot and steady ammunition of the book, which traces the history of a single, small-scale, and brief war while subtly considering the implications that would resonate to the present day. Much appreciated is the contextual background Musicant provides, which takes up a healthy chunk of the opening book and reads, at times (and one must believe accidentally), almost as a thriller while readers wait to discover just how and when the final straw is dropped upon the soon-to-be belligerents.

Also appreciated is a healthy attitude of amusement taken up by the author, which stops gracefully short of becoming either patronizing or downright silly but which colors the narrative nicely. Readers may be forgiven for shaking their head upon finishing this book, which tends to highlight with the slightest of literary smirks the very WTF nature of the whole enterprise. The overall effect is, in a nutshell, "How did anyone ever win this war?" with neither Spaniards nor Americans receiving exceptionally kind treatment (though Spain does get by far the worse of the blows). Yet this attitude does not hijack the narrative, and instead serves in its way to highlight the impossibility of objectivity in the historical narrative while delivered amongst an obviously well-researched and thorough outline of events both at the front and behind the scenes. Aside from a lack of a strong, permeating thesis (which does the book both good and ill, I believe), the only major complaint to be levied at the author may be his tendency to allow sentences to get away from him amid a flow of commas and dependent clauses that lose original meaning. These, however, are reasonably infrequent, can usually be parsed, and do not greatly mar the reader's experience. And it is truly strange that this history, placed so well in the context of the 1890s, seems to outright ignore the following decades as the implications of the war are either ignored, dropped (as in the baffling disappearance of the Philippines after a series of tantalizing hints and implications), or lost in a short series of sweeping, thesis-like generalizations. Though its conclusion does the foregoing 650 pages little justice, Empire By Default represents a superb effort to reconstruct the woefully neglected and immensely influential "splendid little war," one that will reward both casual readers and those who will look beyond the text to imagine the conflict's lasting implications upon the upcoming 20^th century.

Grade: A

Book 17: Maurice

Maurice
E. M. Forster

Some novels easily stand the test of time; others, less so. But there is a third category of dated books, books that illuminate their chronological surroundings though they have become, in a sense, aged and difficult to relate to. Maurice, which traces the story of a homosexual man through pre-Great War England's traditional middle class life story, is not exceptional as a work of literature, but as a contemporary work focusing positively on homosexuality it exposes in ways retrospective literature cannot how this facet of one's personality affected life and love in a previous era. Unfortunately, this accident of nature is seen through the experiences of the titular character, a far less than loveable cad whose confusion is reasonable enough given his circumstances but whose personality is constructed with little consistency or care. Forster makes clear in an afterward that he originally had a clear picture of Maurice when he set out, but the most consistent aspect of his hero is a kind of petulance that does neither character, author, nor reader any favors. Maurice slips at will from being a raging dynamo to a tender lover, and emotional confusion alone does not elucidate or explain the behavior. That the main character is weak, impressionable, and distinctly nasty does the novel's difficult subject matter few favors, and indeed other characters come across just as poorly, though less acidic in nature.

One reason for this failure of Forster to create likeable characters is his reluctance to let events and conversations run their course. While writing axioms are generally to my distaste and are of course far from universal, there is no question that Forster's writing would improve considerably were he to relax his grip a bit and let the characters wander a bit. Maurice is a novel that tells without showing, and readers who are left one time too often to take the author's word for it can be forgiven for becoming frustrated with the entire enterprise. There are moments when the author's added insights are welcome and indeed serve to make poignant observations about the nature of love and about the way in which homosexuality was viewed in Forster's time; indeed, there are good times to be had in the novel and there are moments when the narrative drives ahead in an almost gripping manner. Inevitably, however, the author comes crashing back in, making his presence known and swooping in to save readers from the tedious task of construction a judgement of character for themselves. Buried within this overbearing authorial focus is an interesting novel about love and, if nothing else, an amusing story of self exploration and discovery that just manages to cut through the bluster and emerge both subtly and through Forster's less delicate efforts. The ending, even after a number of miscues and relentlessly uneven pacing, feels proper and retrospectively unites some elements of Maurice's character and love affairs despite coming after a particularly rushed portion of the plot. Overall, Maurice is, despite its faults, an interesting (if not entirely enjoyable) artifact of an era that is happily, if gradually, receding into the distance and provides insight into homosexuality and into love that remains relevant today.

Grade: B-

Book 16: Starburst

Starburst
Frederik Pohl

Science fiction often gets a bad rap from the more erudite literary crowds, and may be accused of concentrating on fanciful ideas rather than character development or a steady plot. Of course, much work in the genre manages to surpass low expectations, but the fact remains that some science fiction, like some work in all genres, simply misses the mark; this, unfortunately, is the case with Starburst. The book has several elements that should make it a success, starting with an interesting, sufficiently knotted plot and a host of fervent, intriguing ideas driving both the science and promising some rich character development. Pohl, however, seems unsure how to actually develop his ideas, and instead flails as he gives away interesting elements of the plot too early, too late, or in muddled prose that confuses his ideas even as he's attempting to work through them. While there are times when the book becomes quite readable and almost enjoyable, Pohl's choice to utilize the first-person voice of doomed space crew members as they report back to Earth often backfires as neither reader nor the message's in-story recipients know quite what is happening aboard. Worse, when Eve Barstow takes the reins of the story, it is almost impossible to slog through her woefully low (and unsympathetically rendered) self-esteem issues to get to the heart of the story at hand, which is often hidden among unnecessary self-pity masquerading as character development but ultimately fooling no one. The unreliable narrator can be a powerful literary device, true, but alternated here with the kind of overbearing omniscience that ruins any narrative surprises it merely serves to confuse and to make readers feel as though they have missed a crucial reveal.

The story of Starburst is in other ways a story of missed opportunities. Despite its slim size, the novel seems to be at least two, and possibly more, novels crushed together asymmetrically: herein lies a doomed space mission, a civilization rebuilding itself, and a post-apocalyptic future, and though each part seems to consistently demonstrate a kind of them about self-sufficiency they appear to be ripped out of different novels. The vast differences between these three acts mean that Pohl's choice to have the United States on the verge of civil war is bizarre and incongruous at first, but makes perfect sense at the end of the book. But by beginning with it as mere background without a hint of explanation or even the promise of future relevance, Pohl loses readers at the outset, making it less impressive and far less redemptive when, suddenly, the setting becomes thematic in the book's final third; by this point, readers may not care. Again, there is the hint of a good authorial instinct in simply having the setting begin as it irrevocably is, but an inability to integrate it or to spin it into a robust story. The same, sadly, is true of the narrative arc of the book, an interesting inversion of redemption that, too, falls flat after being placed in the hands of unlikable and horribly underdeveloped characters. This, however, only occurs after sex strangely hijacks the narrative, leaving more completely bizarre elements of Pohl's imagination dormant until he deigns to explain them chapters later. These authorial failures render the book frustrating at best, and mask what is at heart an interesting premise and story. With some character development, tighter appreciation of plot development and revelation, and more exploration (rather than trite explanation) of the satisfyingly intriguing scientific ideas that pop up unexpectedly, this novel could have been an interesting examination of what makes us human. Instead, though the question is asked throughout, Starburst is plagued by too many problems in construction and execution to be a satisfying read even within the sometimes suppressed (though inherently unfair) standards placed on science fiction.

Grade: C

Book 15: Bossypants

Bossypants
Tina Fey

Ah, the high-handed celebrity memoir. Yes, usually I attempt to stay as far away from these (usually) ghostwritten, (often) clichéd (and occasionally) train wrecks, but a continuing flurry of positive reviews for Tina Fey's Bossypants combined with my natural love for the comedian and led me to pick this one up. And let me tell you, like the blurb given by Trees on the book's back cover, it was "Totally worth it." From the blurbs to the dustjacket and author biography, this book is end-to-end hilarious, and the text isn't bad either. Part autobiography, part essay collection, and part memoir, Tina Fey proves that her wit, charm, and intelligence are genuine as she successfully wears a variety of hats beyond the carefully cocked bowler she sports on the cover (assuming that the book is not ghostwritten). While some jokes fall a bit flat or seem slightly out of place, as may be expected, Fey is so often spot-on while joking about everything from feminist-rage-inducing clueless college boys to the joys of motherhood, and what is most remarkable is her ability to allow opinions, genuine and beneficial cultural criticism, and insightful observations about life and society to shine through her humor. Indeed, her thoughts on Photoshop and the unrealistic expectations placed on women's bodies are rendered even more powerful through her hilarious side-notes and non-serious, but still urgent, treatment of these topics. The constant barrage of jokes only occasionally becomes old, but more importantly serves to diffuse any potential tension and might hopefully help to provoke actual thought about an array of important ideas.

But let's be honest, here, Fey's elucidating thoughts on gender are a pleasant bonus and supplement to the meat of the book, which is a charming rendition of the author's life and experiences. Nestled between jokes are accounts of the joys of working a crap job while Pursuing the Dream and the importance of perseverance and loving oneself, though the Obvious Hammer is, despite the humor and somewhat surprisingly, deployed extremely rarely, if ever. One of the most interesting examples of this is Fey's recollection of the series of skits in which she portrayed Sarah Palin prior to the 2010 presidential election, rife with hilarious anecdotes and incisive commentary on that most bizarre of democratic processes. The memories of that strange period will be fresh in the mind of most of Fey's current readers, and her thoughts actually add to and elevate the conversation in surprising ways. What is best about Bossypants, however, is that the author never wears, well, bossy pants in her writing, allowing her to remain hilarious and effective while offering readers the option for a deeper experience. The book could benefit from a bit more organization, sure, but what Fey has created in a book that functions successfully on several different levels, from anecdote to political manifesto, while maintaining a genuinely happy face and always bringing something interesting to the conversations that arise. Fans of Tina Fey have probably already read this book, but anyone who takes a mild interest in the star should read this funny and insightful memoir/humor tract/manifesto-y thing, and hopefully Bossypants will make many both think and laugh as hard as I did.

Grade: A

Book 14: Infinity in the Palm of Her Hand

Infinity in the Palm of Her Hand: A Novel of Adam and Eve
Gioconda Belli

It is obvious from the beginning that this book comes from the pen of a poet, and its continued lyricism is even more striking for the fact that the book comes to English via the translation of Margaret Sayers Peden. My own unfamiliarity with Spanish makes a comparison impossible, but this edition of Infinity in the Palm of Her Hand reads so smoothly, aside from a few minor blips that usually seem more the work of typos than mistranslations, that one can't help but wonder whether translation was in this case of assistance rather than the usually assumed hindrance to art and interpretation. Regardless, the prose in the book is beautifully wrought and suitably adapted to evoke the inner emotions and confusion of the world's first couple in the impossibly difficult days after The Fall. The subject of Adam and Eve's first post-Garden experiences is one of almost numbing precedent and weight, encompassing quite literally the history of humanity and assuming importance in religions beyond those who hold Genesis sacred. The simplicity of the language and Hemingway-quick sentences illuminate and deepen understanding in what is, essentially, a simple story in which not many extraordinary things actually happen. Yet in its sparseness, Infinity in the Palm of Her Hand loads each action with meaning and invests the story with a proper sense of gravity. Here, those essential firsts (the first attempted return to the Garden of Eden, Adam's first time killing for food, the first artistic impulses) achieve that gravity they rightfully deserve as eye-opening precedents for all future generations.

It is perhaps unsurprising, then, that the book's less charming aspects come when the pace accelerates or when the language outpaces the deliberative introspection that makes the book work. While it is understood that the (interestingly female gendered) Serpent speaks in theologically philosophical riddles that twist her forked tongue as she illustrates timeless conundrums (and these indeed are one of the book's foremost charms), other complex words and constructions serve not to deepen understanding but, rather, pull the reader forcibly out of the story. Likewise, as the pace of understanding accelerates toward the end of the novel, and quite rapidly at that, the tone feels rushed yet strangely drawn out as the author somewhat clumsily handles the story of Cain and Abel. Likewise, there is a strange resorting to presumed gender roles between Adam and Eve, which makes an odd bedfellow with a story that is so obviously revisionist and uses an only recently possible feminist lens to view the story. It is difficult to decide whether one should be praising Belli for her obvious care for the story and grappling with its implications or being frustrated at the forceful way in which the Serpent informs Eve that she will take the blame for sin in the world. While Infinity in the Palm of Her Hand is not the kind of book that is meant to offer any answers to the great philosophical questions of theodicy, it does provide a noble, intellectually honest, and religiously sensible effort to provide a new twist on the Adam and Eve story, raising questions in a thought provoking manner and using beautiful, sparse language to fully populate her newly created Earth. Despite some missteps that may make reading a bit frustrating, Infinity in the Palm of Her Hand is a brilliant launching point for theological discussion and will satisfy the intellectually inclined if not totally entertain readers looking for an all-encompassing and internally consistent story.

Grade: A-

Book 13: Like You'd Understand, Anyway

Like You'd Understand, Anyway
Jim Shepard

Single-author short story collections can do a variety of different things, from encapsulating several points of view on a theme or showcasing the diversity of an author's talent. Jim Shepard's offering, Like You'd Understand, Anyway, does a bit of both, exploring a range of individual perspectives across geography and time in a series of intimate character portraits. While Shepard clearly has- and displays- a keen ear for voice and style, however, some elements within the stories in this collection arise often enough to become repetitive rather than uniquely elucidating and enough stories offer too little in the way of closure to make the collection resonate as powerfully as it could. The great poise and potential of Shepard's work are clear from the outset, and "The Zero Meter Diving Team" serves as an excellent opener with its moving depiction of one man's guilt following the meltdown at Chernobyl. As in "Eros 7," Shepard subtly evokes the inner lives of Soviet citizens, paying attention to those differences in societal upbringing that offer degrees of internal differentiation but carefully avoiding a lazy resignation to their Soviet-ness as a sole defining characteristic. Indeed, it is main character Valentina Tereshkova's relentless and unsympathetic immaturity that sinks "Eros 7," just as the brilliantly rendered and almost bewildered familial guilt of nuclear engineer Boris Prushinsky, combined with a sense of beautifully desolate hopelessness, that allows "The Zero Meter Diving Team" to soar.

It is not merely a matter of unlikable protagonists that might make readers hesitant about Shepard's stories. While Parisian executioner and narrator Charles-Henri Sanson waxes self-piteous in "Sans Farine," the story nonetheless achieves an emotional impact other stories only grasp for, often desperately in final sentences. One can feel Shepard's Serious Literary Instincts fighting, and unfortunately beating, common sense as one story after another ends with interesting poetic strains but without any hint of true resolution. There is much to be said for subtlety, and it is certainly not always desirable for an author to beat theme into readers' heads with the Obvious Hammer, but Shepard's elusiveness almost becomes insulting as he bows to the gods of Serious Literary Merit. His stories suffer for this pandering and sadly become inaccessible for all but a select group of readers, a true shame given the clear depth and quality of Shepard's talents. Using first-person narration throughout his stories, Shepard deftly navigates everyone from a Nazi-funded anthropologist ("Ancestral Legacies," though said scientist's story ultimately comes across as silly for a lack of narrative thrust) to troubled American seventh graders during the Vietnam Era ("Proto-Scorpions of the Silurian" and the tragically close to meaningful "Courtesy for Beginners"). It is these latter two that make the collection become truly onerous, however, each displaying a similar enough story and narrative voice that readers will become distracted from the matter at hand and merely think, "Wait, didn't I just read this?"

Despite its flaws, however, there is significant merit in Shepard's stories, from his unceasing sympathy to his short, effective sentences. In fact, when the author allows himself to unwind and become engrossed in particular narrative territory, the stories shine and attain far more meaning than the groping ambitiousness of their Serious Literary counterparts. "The First South Central Australian Expedition" even manages to pull off the lyrical ending while offering closure and maintaining an air of ambiguity and nuance, proving that the best literature can successfully combine both intimate character portraiture and, shocker this, an actual story. Nonetheless, none of the stories in this collection are for the weak of heart, and while some will reward due attention others remain just a small step away from the lack of self-consciousness that would make them truly resonate. Each offers a rare complexity of character more remarkable for the range of personas Shepard tackles in the collection. Particularly worth reading are the aforementioned "The Zero Meter Diving Team" and "The First South Central Australian Expedition," as well as the very timely look at the brutality of high school masculinity and (not, as one may expect, wholly unrelated) high school football in "Trample the Dead, Hurdle the Weak." A failure to evoke Ancient Greece in "My Aeschylus" is countered by the success of "Hadrian's Wall" and "Sans Farine," and in its first half even the painfully immature "Eros 7" has a few moments of insightful observation. Though father and family issues are beaten to death by the time "Courtesy for Beginners" rolls around, as a standalone story it offers an interesting perspective on these issues, even if it cuts out just before becoming truly powerful. Like You'd Understand, Anyway is, in its way, a tragic collection, bursting with ambition and showcasing an immense talent hampered by conventions of style and woefully inadequate standards for determining merit; regardless, the stories within offer a range of carefully rendered psychological portraits that will evoke in readers sympathy and the feeling that Jim Shepard is so close to crafting something truly magical.

Grade: B+