Non-fiction tragedy is an odd genre. One I enjoy on occasion, admittedly, but nonetheless, there's something peculiar about experiencing something shiNon-fiction tragedy is an odd genre. One I enjoy on occasion, admittedly, but nonetheless, there's something peculiar about experiencing something shitty and going out and writing a book about what happened. Case in point, Tig Notaro has experienced some shit. In fact, odds are good that if you have even heard of Tig Notaro, it is in large part on account of the particular shit she's experienced. The roughly-a-year in her life she recounts in I'm just a person is one filled with suffering, overwhelming personal disasters that would test the mettle of most anyone, and which hit her in such rapid succession as to make her seem like the toughest sonovabitch on the planet.
But the book is more than that, because she does all she can in it to make it clear she's not the toughest sonovabitch, not really. She's just a person. And as she describes her life, her family, her hopes and dreams; as she gets into the waves of misfortune that fuck all of that up; she earnestly and openly reveals all she did to cope with the horror, along with all the time she spent simply too broken to resist. We've all seen heroes stand up to a sea of troubles and never break. We rarely see them sit on a couch, too paralyzed with anxiety to act. It's surprisingly painful to witness. And thankfully, it's not all negative. She spends as much time or more going into the things she's grateful for, the friends and family who eagerly helped her as best they could, and the newfound family connections she forged once she crawled out of the rubble.
The content of this book is, in places, stuff that hit me very personally, and I imagine most people will find content in here that'll strike a resonant chord in them, most likely a bad, painful one. And that shared suffering did so much to make me love this book. If one measures a written work in the emotional response it elicits, I'm just a person stacks up quite nicely....more
As a general rule, I love the work of Tom Robbins. The guy's got a way with words and a talent for absurd realism that keeps me reading, grinning, hapAs a general rule, I love the work of Tom Robbins. The guy's got a way with words and a talent for absurd realism that keeps me reading, grinning, happy as the mysteriously literate clam who snuck a few pages of something delightful into its shell. But Tibetan Peach Pie is not his usual work. Part collection of anecdotes, part wanderlust-stricken memoir, TBP is a mostly-chronological compilation of interesting moments in the life and times of an imaginative, friendly old horndog who did some drugs and wrote some books and thought some kooky thinks along the way.
Is it entertaining? Is it good? Is it worth your time and attention? Kind of; sort of; I suppose if you've got nothing better currently on your plate. There are certainly rich, tapas-sized portions of joy and thoughtful introspection spritzed throughout this concoction, but there's no thread holding it all together - Tom's strength lies in top-notch narrative, and without that central storytelling highway to cruise on down, I found myself crawling along from tidbit to tidbit.
I struggled for a bit there deciding between two and three stars, but in the end, the unfortunate tedium could not be ignored. I'm not about to tell any die-hard Robbins fans not to pick this one up, but for everyone else? Go read one of his fictional stories for a much more satisfying slice of literary confection....more
I am 30 years old, and I have just finished reading It. Liked It too, maybe even loved it. This is my second attempt on the book. I first tried to reaI am 30 years old, and I have just finished reading It. Liked It too, maybe even loved it. This is my second attempt on the book. I first tried to read It years back; I'm not sure how long ago, but my brother was alive. He saw me struggling with It and suggested a few other King titles instead, The Talisman and Desperation. I honestly don't know how deep a King fan he was, but he enjoyed them, and I'm pretty certain he realized how deeply caught up in the Kingverse I'd wind up some day.
I am 30 years old, and King was 40 when he wrote It, a story about middle-aged sorts and the children they once were and the odd uncanny gap between them. It's fantastic work on his part, considered by many to be his masterpiece (though I feel The Stand certainly holds its own). Even so, I'm only giving It four stars. It contains some of his most fleshed-out, believable, relatable characters, and demonstrates his knack for binding the unspeakably wrong to the every day through one of his most popular villains of all time (no small thanks to Tim Curry), but oh god, how it drags. The story takes place across a chasm in time - you see the cast as children - you see them as adults - you learn about the forces that shaped them over the last 27 years - you reminisce, remember your own childhood, your own chasm, but you do so quietly, because dear god Mr. King you're taking your sweet ass time building up these characters, and you pray he doesn't hear your life story and spend 27 more years drawing it out of you. There are lulls in the action, deadzones in the pacing, is what I'm trying to tell you, but in the end you see how worthwhile the time was; you wind up with a cast of human beings you care for and root for, and you can look back over their odd phantom lives with pleasure and sadness, and you damn yourself with a smile on your face for forgetting all the friends of your youth and oh hey the book's back up to five stars - I wonder how that happened.
There's a definite generational gap here. Stephen's kids grow up in an era nearly 30 years before I was born, and was written by a man 30 years after his own youth, recalling childhood as best he can while writing a story at least heavily concerned with that dark space between now and then, You Today and You The Delightful Scamp of Yesteryear. It doesn't matter though; even with occasional bursts of King's trademark oddball dialogue, the attempt still succeeds spectacularly, and you get hit by all the waves of nostalgia and forgotten memories roughly 1100 pages can hold. At least when the dark and horrible things aren't creeping in, of course, but It wouldn't be a King book without the things that go bump in the night, which certainly can't quite technically be real but feel all too horribly familiar, or the things that absolutely are real but which you never chalk up as something that could happen to you.
I wouldn't suggest It as an introduction to King simply due to the sheer mass of the thing. As a child, It discouraged me pretty handily barely a hundred pages in. For anyone who's already in the know, however, (or who read one of his crap pieces and is convinced the guy's a cheap hack) It is one of the best reads the man has to offer.
...Just don't hold me responsible when you discover yourself stuck with a new mantra....more
Easily the least location-centric travel fiction in history, You Shall Know Our Velocity! is a manic, passionate love song to everyone who ever tried Easily the least location-centric travel fiction in history, You Shall Know Our Velocity! is a manic, passionate love song to everyone who ever tried to fly and broke his nose, to everyone too terrified to make the attempt, and to those so beaten they never even thought of leaving the ground. It's got some pretty mean things to say about everyone else....more
Literary ladies, mental bent-al gentlemen, and chapter-chomping children of all ages; I come to you to apologize. Still Life With Woodpecker has a ratLiterary ladies, mental bent-al gentlemen, and chapter-chomping children of all ages; I come to you to apologize. Still Life With Woodpecker has a rather dismal view of critics, and it would seem that it has no intention of giving us permission to review it. We tried to curry its favor with convertibles, cocaine, and concubines, but it seems perfectly content with its Twinkies and dynamite. Which is somewhat surprising, because it really doesn't seem like a Twinkies-and-dynamite sort of fellow. Or maybe that's just my own personal bias talking; perhaps I haven't really given Twinkies and dynamite the kind of respectful concentration (less analysis and more bosom camaraderie) that they duly deserve. Especially the dynamite. Definitely gotta respect the dynamite.
So yes, that's it folks, sorry to disappoint. Feel free to treat yourself to some five-finger-discount wedding cake and champagne, and if you'd like to get over the loss of my second-rate critiquing, I'd suggest picking up the dang book and reading it yourself. It's short, it's kinky, and it's got a fabulous little crinkle to its pages that'll set your heart a-flutter....more
Drop City is a book, above all else, about adventures. You could say that Drop City is a book about hippies, a surprisingly sober insight into the innDrop City is a book, above all else, about adventures. You could say that Drop City is a book about hippies, a surprisingly sober insight into the inner monologues of a gaggle of full-fledged flower children as they celebrate free love under the summer sun of California and in the dead serious beauty of the Alaskan middle-of-nowhere. You could say that Drop City is almost as much about trappers, about a society of hard men and women who live off the grid, driven there by fear or stubbornness or madness, surviving and thriving in a place most civilized folks actively avoid bothering with. You could say it's about the wacky, tragic Far-East-philosophy-meets-American-North-West-Wilderness antics that the book promises early on and delivers in spades in the second half, but the sense of adventure that runs through it, of life's little hopes and great expectations and the sudden shock of carrying through with any of them; its grasp on the monotony of downtime and the uncomfortable disbelief of the morning after; of the scattershot miracles and tragedies that come time and again, and the fragile fear and anticipation that accompanies a conquered goal when you suddenly understand that you're expected to defend it now, and the way some people treasure that peace above all else while others seem unable to trust it or are even sickened by it...
Yeah, adventures. Woo.
Give it a go. It's an excellent and endearingly written novel by someone I've been told to attempt half a dozen times from just as many sources. Expect love, drugs, sex, bears, beauty, tragedy, and all that jazz....more
Cosmicomics is a very peculiar find, a lively and touching compilation of mythology and folk tales written for the romantic atheist. Each story beginsCosmicomics is a very peculiar find, a lively and touching compilation of mythology and folk tales written for the romantic atheist. Each story begins with a (n occasionally debunked) scientific theory about the origins of the earth, the universe, the galaxy, life, or a variety of other cosmically significant historical moments, which the narrator (a charismatic, adventurous old "man" named Qfwfq) immediately grabs onto and runs with, telling tales of what it was like back in his younger days living in a proto-solar system disc of dust or being part of a family that had just decided it was time to crawl out of the soup and onto the sand. The stories are usually funny, occasionally sad, and as suitable for a younger reader as they are for an adult.
Apart from the narrator, there is no real continuity from tale to tale, but it's still a pleasure getting to meet the peculiar characters in each iteration of his family or to watch his romantic exploits nearly succeed time and time again. It's a short, sweet, surprisingly unique read that adds a much-appreciated human face to the often cold and sterile scientific world....more
Tom Robbins was born with a congenital disorder that renders him physically unable to write at any pace short of "break-neck." To date, neither he norTom Robbins was born with a congenital disorder that renders him physically unable to write at any pace short of "break-neck." To date, neither he nor his fans have yet complained. Jitterbug Perfume is a tight, tight, beautifully-worded story of love, lust, ambition, lack-of-ambition, pagan practicalities, and the ability to take life in stride, all run through with a carnage-red streak of beet-ink. It is a very dynamic and exciting story in which not very much happens over the course of many centuries, even if a whole lot of people have sex with varying degrees of satisfaction and a man gets his head chopped open like a honeydew. All told, it packs a fine cast of characters (both likable and pleasantly dislikable), a bombastic set of settings (it's hard to go wrong with Paris, New Orleans, and a dozen European countrysides), and a properly GoodUgly sense of humor into a chewily dense pile of delicious, staggering wordplay....more
I saw the movie first, not out of any strong preference, just because my friends and I love good movies. Heavy movies, strange movies, whatever we canI saw the movie first, not out of any strong preference, just because my friends and I love good movies. Heavy movies, strange movies, whatever we can use to one-up each other. We enjoy books, too, but you can't share them the same way, not with the same immediate results. We all watched Requiem, all felt the same brutal messages and thought them beautiful and most of us swore not to ever watch it again. Some of us did later on down the line. At least one of us loves it, still watches it often. I got around to my third watching this summer, showed it to my girlfriend, and had no clue how to comfort her afterwards. It's something that takes time to settle.
A month ago, my little brother recommends I read the book, insisting that the author's got an unmatched talent. I take him up on it with a smug sense of superiority, certain the book can't match the pacing and sucker punches of the film. I read it, slowly at first as I pace myself through summer, reacquainting myself with the cast, and then in a blur as I finally find myself caught up in the heart of winter. Now I'm finished it, and they're identical. It's the same story of the downfall of four human beings you'd probably like to talk with, hang out with, perhaps even love. They have the same pacing, the same emotional manglings at the same spots, the same unmatched sense of dread throughout. The only difference lies in the details; the movie gives you faces, colors, voices, and "music" as it drags you along indifferent to your will, while Selby's novel is expansive in other directions, showing you more of the people you watch crumble, letting you move at your own pace, as you see fit. If you see fit.
I'm not sure which, if either, is better. They're both gruesome and painful and entirely worth enjoying....more
All the rich, meaty character-dissection and insight into the human soul of a Jane Austen novel, but set in modern times and more concerned with underAll the rich, meaty character-dissection and insight into the human soul of a Jane Austen novel, but set in modern times and more concerned with understanding Republican/Democrat friction and living beneath the guillotine of All Our Modern Worries than about dances and balls and all that other obsolete garbage that makes me incapable of touching Ms. Austen's work. It's a very insightful read, and I really wish I'd read this before figuring out all the tricks I played on myself to keep myself sad and angry in my youth, but I can't help feeling it went a little too in-depth from time to time. Regardless, an excellent read if you can tolerate knowing far, far too much about a dense cluster of human beings....more
A noteworthy contender in the vast sea of books for confused people living living aimless lives and asking billions of impossible questions. The artwoA noteworthy contender in the vast sea of books for confused people living living aimless lives and asking billions of impossible questions. The artwork's a bit less polished and reliable than O'Malley's work in Scott Pilgrim, but the talent's right there and the writing gets the ideas across nicely, interwoven with perfectly mundane, casual banter from a pack of confused brainy highschool slackers. Not a necessary read, but satisfying all the same.
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