In 1995 Thalia Keith was murdered at the elite*Special Content only on my blog, Strange and Random Happenstance during Summer School (May-August 2025)
In 1995 Thalia Keith was murdered at the elite New Hampshire boarding school Granby. The school's athletic trainer, Omar Evans, was fitted up for the crime. In 1994 Thalia Keith's roommate was Bodie Kane. Thalia's murder was just one more horrific event that happened in Bodie's life that she's trying to forget. She has a successful career teaching film at UCLA and running the podcast Starlet Fever. Which is why Granby asks her to come and teach a class or two for their January "mini-mester." She will spend two weeks with students teaching them film history and podcasting. But her secret hope is that one of her students will take up Thalia Keith's case for their podcast. In the weeks leading up to her return to Granby Bodie has gone down the rabbit hole of conspiracy theories with regard to Thalia. An innocent link to a video Bodie had never seen of the production of Camelot the night Thalia was murdered has her asking questions she never would have thought to ask as a senior in high school. But when her student, Britt, starts to investigate, Bodie can claim that it was all her student's idea. It wasn't her idea to come back and open up old wounds, even if that's exactly what she wanted to do. She has plausible deniability as her entire class becomes obsessed with the case. And there legitimately seems to be a case. Omar Evans was a convenient villain, he was black and not "one of them." So the school and local law enforcement never looked beyond him despite things not adding up. One big piece of evidence overlooked by the original investigation is that it looks like Thalia was having an affair with one of the teachers. Dennis Bloch was the music teacher and, oddly enough, Bodie's favorite teacher. But things start to slide into place making it look like he could have silenced his young protegee. Looking back Bodie realizes that the culture of the times let teachers like Dennis Bloch prey on innocent girls by being the "cool teacher." He was young and understood them, and therefore could act with impunity. And perhaps Thalia wasn't the first? Thalia was young and vibrant and she didn't deserve to die. But what's more, her killer deserves to be brought to justice. The times have changed and the female of the species is going to prove she's deadlier than the male.
One can't discount that there's a nostalgia factor to true crime. Reading or listening about a time and place that brings up your own associations that are somehow comforting despite the horror. I really didn't expect to be so affected by this when I picked up I Have Some Questions For You, but here I find myself. Not connecting to the location or the murder, but to the era. To 1995. To how the world was different. To how the world has drastically improved. I was also in high school in 1995. In fact I would have been a year behind Bodie Kane had we been in school together and she weren't fictional. And everything she was saying about how life was like back then I found myself agreeing with. The casual sexism, the way boys behaved and we just excused it, because this was what life was. As women, as girls, we didn't know that there could be a reckoning. We didn't know that things would change. You just accepted being shit on and made uncomfortable by the opposite sex. Oh, and let's not forget how vicious girls could be with their little cliques. I look back and wonder how I ever survived. And I really don't think there's been an author I've read who just understood the pervasive shit that I had to wade through on a day to day basis for years. Rebecca Makkai gets it. She gets it completely. And this might not have been my school or my classmates, but they were. They had the same ideas, the same attitudes. It was nostalgic and cathartic reading this book. Knowing that I wasn't alone. Knowing that while I struggled then that I can look back and understand that it was just the way the world worked and thankfully times have changed. Sadly they haven't changed as much as they should, but to acknowledge that boys were just given free reign to be the creepy the little shits they wanted to be and no one called them out on it, at least, for me, this meant something. And yes, I know not all boys were creepy shits, but there was always at least one and that one made your life a living hell. Sadly the book wasn't able to keep it's narrative focus once it jumped forward in time to Omar's hearing for a retrial. It felt like it was trying to be too of the moment with MeToo and Covid. We haven't had enough time to come to grips with what "now" is and how it will be remembered so having it be the narrative focus instead of the lens we're looking through to the past made it feel like it was trying too hard. Add to that the fact that Bodie's just sitting around doing nothing, until she's doing a classmate, and there was just too much of a disconnect. The past should have informed the present more and instead we are left dissatisfied....more
Tod Hackett is looking for i*Special Content only on my blog, Strange and Random Happenstance during For the Love of Book Clubs (February-August 2024)
Tod Hackett is looking for inspiration. He wants to do a great painting, it's what his Ivy League education demands, but moving west to Hollywood means his skills are only useful in scenic work on films. Not exactly work that has depth and meaning, which is what could be said for the town and it's denizens. The more people he meets the more he realizes that Hollywood is full of frauds and wannabes with eyes full of hatred. He wants to capture this in his great work, "The Burning of Los Angeles." He wants to watch the town burn and immortalize the conflagration. In his apartment complex there is the full array of the Hollywood unwashed, the failed dreamers, the bookmakers, the screenwriters, and the failed actresses. Faye Greener is a failed actress, though she'd never admit as much. She's just doing what she needs to to get by until her big break. Tod becomes obsessed with Faye. He wants Faye but she always keeps him at a distance which results in him fantasizing of taking her by force. It's Tod's obsession with Faye that keeps him constantly in her orbit. He is stuck in a twilight world of hangers-on. Faye plays her men off each other. She seems to get far more enjoyment from their anger than their attentions. There's Earle, an ersatz cowboy, Miguel, a fake Native American, and most importantly, Homer Simpson. Homer came west for his health, one of those who come to California to die, and has ended up supporting Faye. It's unclear what he gets from the relationship other than pain and heartbreak. All these people scrap and fight in Homer's house in the valley. There's brawls and violence and cockfights and pornography. This group of people is endemic of what is happening in Hollywood and one night it all boils over. Homer tries to leave, there's an incident with a precocious child actor who has been taunting him and Los Angeles burns. Just as Tod envisioned.
A book needs to have something going for it, a compelling plot, compelling characters, or a compelling message. If you have all these things, all the better, if you have none of them, you have The Day of the Locust. I know, you could argue with me that it does have several messages, the deevolution of man to animals instincts, that California is where the American Dream goes to die, that it was a clarion call to take heed of the rise of fascism, but guess what? I don't care. This isn't an introduction to literature class where we sit around and justify this book as a Classic with a capital "C." This is nothing more nor less than a study in entropy with such violence against women that it is triggering to read. Tod again and again has rape fantasies. He plainly states that "[n]othing less violent than rape would do" in his pursuit of Faye. That isn't love, that is violent obsession. And I'm sorry, but that doesn't make him a quicky character, that makes him a sexual predator. I can't get past this. Tod is the epitome of all the characters in this book, horrible people living lurid lives. These are not people I want to read about because these are not people I want to spend time with. Have you ever been at a party you didn't want to go to and you don't really know anyone at and then all of a sudden the atmosphere shifts and you realize not only do you really not want to be there but that it could be dangerous? Well that's The Day of the Locust. I mean, maybe if it was eloquently written there could have been some redeeming factor. I think you can gather already that there was not. Nathanael West can write descriptions but when it comes to action? Oh, the cockfight and the riot are such a mess that they literally did not make sense. There was one section of the book where Tod goes to a party and for a second I was confused, the writing was assured, the story made sense, and then I realized that it was completely lifted from The Great Gatsby, female tennis pro and all, but with a lurid pornography twist. In an interesting aside, West was good friends with F. Scott Fitzgerald, and the day after F. Scott died of a heart attack Nathanael West ran a stop sign that killed both him and his wife. A cruel person would say that perhaps West had no more reason to live because he had no more work to rip-off... But I'm not quite that cruel, unlike the other reviewers who said that The Day of the Locust was overly praised because of West's death before he was even forty. I will just say this book was not for me and no matter how people praise Miss Lonelyhearts there's not a chance in hell I'm ever reading it....more
Janet lived for sixteen short years. Her family went*Special Content only on my blog, Strange and Random Happenstance during Going Gothic (March 2023)
Janet lived for sixteen short years. Her family went away on holiday without her because she was being punished because of her behavior and she was gutted like a rabbit at the foot of the stairs. Stabbed by a family retainer for being a "whore." But as everyone said, it's what she deserved. She never was normal. She liked books too much and boys barely at all, an extra irony given why she had a falling out with her parents before the holiday and what her murderer thought of her. Her mother despaired of her. All she wanted was the perfect daughter, someone to chat and gossip with, but instead she got Janet. A girl who couldn't be bothered to wear a simple white dress to the hunt ball and instead insisted on a purple gown that was a bit too grown up. But then, she got what she deserved. And Janet didn't see her death coming. She loved life. The castle that was home to her family and the eighty odd boys her father taught during term time, Auchnasaugh, she loved more than anywhere else in the world. The castle wasn't just a castle, it was her castle, her home, and somehow, when they moved there, it's almost as though her wish to be a princess had come true. She explored every room and turret and turn of the stair until it was her domain completely. The countryside she explored on foot and hoof. Watching the changing of the seasons. Rejoicing in the flora and fauna that was a part of her world. Learning about mycology from her eccentric relative Lila. She spent every minute she was indoors in her room sitting perfectly straight in a chair reading. She loved poetry, she loved the sounds certain words made, but she learned early on not to share this with anyone. Her brother thought it stupid, her younger sisters weren't anything like her, and as for when she finally went to school, her classmates thought her a joke. Who actually wants to learn Greek and worship their gods? Learning is a burden and everything else is what life is about. But not for Janet. Janet was different and therefore she got what she deserved. Because girls shouldn't want to decorate their rooms to reflect the work of Edgar Allan Poe, they should want mirrors and makeup and not have jackdaws making homes in their dollhouses. But at least her family was ride of her. At least she got what she deserved.
One can see why people superficially compare the heroine of this book traditionally to Merricat Blackwood and more contemporaneously to Flavia De Luce, but they're missing a key detail, we actually got to deeply connect with those two heroines while I know the barest hints of who Janet really is. Her story is told at a remove. We don't get to know her at all and I WANT to know about the girl who had been dying to quote Nina from The Segull to her mother and claim that she was "in mourning for [her] life." This is someone who I think I could be friends with. Instead I know that she likes Greek and hates math. I know as much about her after reading this book as I would a perfunctory job interview with her. Her entire brief life is here and yet I am as ignorant as when I started this short yet excruciatingly long book. But the worst part is I don't know if Elspeth Barker loved Janet and all her eccentricities or wanted to make an example of her, after all, she got what she deserved. It's said over and over again. She was a sixteen-year-old who was murdered and she deserved it!?! For what? For being different? Because that's what this book says again and again, if you're not normal, if you're not feminine, if you're not towing the expected line in regard to traditional gender rolls, you deserve death or the insane asylum. And yes, her eccentric relative Lila does go to the insane asylum, driven there by Janet's mother. Oh, and let's not forget the number of sexual assaults that Janet fends off. I'm sure if she hadn't been so resourceful she would have "gotten what she deserved." This book was being touted everywhere as a rediscovered classic. Who says it's a classic? Just because there are superficial inklings of the Mitfords or Dodie Smith or Shirley Jackson does that mean we are to embrace this simply odoriferous mess of victim blaming? Who said, this book is what people need to read now? No, in a post #metoo world this is the exact kind of book we should be holding up and saying NO MORE! No more to just accepting that women deserve to be victimized by their family and by the opposite sex just for existing. This book was first published in 1991 and a lot has changed in the world since then, and yet I feel like a woman author should have known better even then because it feels so dated. This tripe needs to be called out. And not just for abhorrent treatment of females but for lack of character development, lack of plot, and if anyone says the language and turn of phrase is beautiful, yeah, occasionally, but is that when Janet's describing her dream funeral or a friend of the family is showing her his cock before she pushes him into the hogweed?...more
Having just recently read the first book in this series again I was wondering how they would fit everything in; the answer is by omission, Brian and DHaving just recently read the first book in this series again I was wondering how they would fit everything in; the answer is by omission, Brian and DeDe suffered the worst. Well maybe Edgar’s wife Frankie… Which was expected I’m just perplexed by what they omitted and what they kept in and how many times they changed who was saying dialogue from the source material and in many instances this changed the import of scenes. There’s a reason Michael wears tighty whities and is envious of the leopard print… But more importantly I felt the biggest omission was the city of San Francisco. The city is one of the characters and this did not come through in the adapting. The art style is interesting if uneven and might have worked better if it wasn’t so constrained to it’s grid structure and it’s source imagery occasionally lifted directly from the original miniseries. I did enjoy Armistead Maupin’s cameo. Though perhaps they should have fixed the French signs in the background because it comes across as lazy, much like two misspelled names. In the end I don’t know who this was for, fans will feel the omissions and new readers will be turned off of picking up the original books. And after thinking about it for awhile I now realize if they want to continue forward how are the going to fix that Norman really looked like he died and Connie and Brian didn't hook up......more
Mary Ann Singleton went to San Francisco on vacation and rea*Special Content only on my blog, Strange and Random Happenstance during Pride (June 2023)
Mary Ann Singleton went to San Francisco on vacation and realized she was home. Nothing her parents said could lure her back to Cleveland. Her life was finally beginning, as soon as she moves out of Connie's place, which has more kitsch than Mary Ann can stand. Connie and her were high school acquaintances and Connie happens to be the only person Mary Ann knows in San Francisco. But that won't be for long once she is embraced by 28 Barbary Lane and it's eccentric landlady Mrs. Madrigal. As Mrs. Madrigal is fond of saying, she doesn't pick her tenants, the house does. But she is responsible for the welcome joint taped to the door, and you're welcome. Across the hall from Mary Ann is oversexed Brian Hawkins, who likes being one of the only straight men in the city and views Mary Ann as a challenge. Downstairs is Mona Ramsey, Mrs. Madrigal's favorite. Upstairs, well, Mary Ann didn't even realize there was an upstairs. And in random twists of fate and happenstance that is part of the magic that is San Francisco, all their lives start to weave together and overlap and conjoin in the most interesting ways. Mona's best friend Michael "Mouse" Tolliver moves in when he and his boyfriend breakup, a boyfriend who Mary Ann happened to give a hollandaise recipe to while prowling the Safeway Marina with Connie. Brian has an affairette with Connie. Mrs. Madrigal takes up with Mona's boss Edgar Halcyon while Mary Ann falls for his son-in-law Beauchamp Day whose flirtatious ways might be hiding something deeper. The connections and relationships they forge all swirl around Barbary Lane and at the heart of it all is the benevolent and mysterious Mrs. Madrigal. Because she does have a secret, but so does everyone. Only hers might be a doozy. One people are willing to die for.
Tales of the City was originally a column in the San Francisco Chronicle leading it to be compared to Dickens and other Victorian authors whose work was serialized. Which is valid, but those authors didn't have the limitations of writing by the column inch. Each "chapter" is more a chapterette. Which makes it easier to indulge in just "one more chapter" much like DeDe Halcyon Day scarfing down a whole bag of chips in the doctor's waiting room you WILL sacrifice sleep as you devour this series. And that's the hard thing about writing a review for this book because it's more an epic soap opera stretched out over nine volumes that span forty years without real arcs, it's more episodic. In fact I couldn't remember what big moments capped this volume and I was surprised that we actually learn so little, but then again, Maupin was in it for the long game, one major plot point wasn't resolved until Mary Ann in Autumn in 2010. And I can tell you, if I didn't have, you know, a life and obligations, I'd be tearing through the remaining eight volumes at breakneck speed. Because the thing about Tales of the City is that these characters are more than friends they are family, chosen family. They can annoy you and do stupid things, you can be yelling at them hoping they can hear you, but at the end of the day there's no line they can cross that will make you cut them out of your life. In fact, when I first read this series I strongly related to Mary Ann, she's from the Midwest and naive and a bit uptight, check, check, and check, but what she does to Brian in Babycakes, I was so pissed at her, because it was something I would never do. And yes, I realize I am not the character, but this gave me many feelings rereading this book. I no longer related to Mary Ann but I understood her, she was still a part of me. This whole series is a part of me. From watching the adaptations with the dreadful Mona late at night to making ramen with my cat in the kitchen trying to get in one more chapter before the water boiled. This series is in my bones as I'm sure it is in many peoples. Now if I can just find some time to reread the next eight volumes. Who am I kidding, I'll sacrifice sleep....more
Therese Belivet moved to New York in the hopes of being a se*Special Content only on my blog, Strange and Random Happenstance during Pride (June 2023)
Therese Belivet moved to New York in the hopes of being a set designer. But waiting and hoping and making models doesn't pay the bills so she is working at Frankenberg's department store during the holiday season. She's in the toy section selling dolls and is oppressed by the noise of the toy train by the elevators, the din of the customers, and the general chaos that working in retail entails. Her life is a grind, a depressing mix of cafeteria meals and hoping her boyfriend Richard comes through with a job opportunity for her in the theater after Christmas. All this changes when she sees Carol. Carol Aird comes into Frankenberg's to buy a doll for her daughter. The doll is to be sent to Carol's home in New Jersey and the address is emblazoned on Therese's heart. She doesn't know what possesses her but after Carol leaves she rushes to send her a card. Carol calls the store, intrigued by being sent a card from an employee of Frankenberg's. She wonders if this is common practice but learns that it, and the girl who sent it, are not in the least common. Carol is going through a divorce and is separated from her daughter Rindy for the holiday season so she takes in Therese like a stray. They drive around together, sit for hours doing nothing, listening to music, having dinners out, even getting a Christmas tree for which Therese makes all the decorations. They are fast friends. As Therese muses, "It would be almost like love, what she felt for Carol, except that Carol was a woman." But women can love. And that's one of the reasons that Carol is being kept away from Rindy. The divorce isn't going well because of something that happened in her past with her friend Abby. But what Therese feels, Abby could never have felt. As Carol and Therese take to the open road the future is wide open but their past is closing in.
The Price of Salt is a classic of lesbian fiction and it's easy to see why; two women fall in love and are given a chance at a happily ever after. This was something unheard of in literature of the time as it defied all tropes of the genre. Which makes it an important book even if it's a very flawed book. The problem is that both characters are enigmas. They are ciphers. Neither really shows themself to the other fully. We have full insight into Therese's fractured and half finished thoughts as the story is from her point of view but Carol is a conundrum. Yes, I know that they are two people dancing around a taboo subject and it isn't until their trip that they take the risk to finally put their feelings into words and actions, but this makes most of the book an almost excruciating read. It isn't just a "will they won't they" situation it's a Waiting for Godot level situation. And if you're not in the mood for that level of interminable fatalism, well, then this book might not be for you. For the most part it wasn't for me until it was. Because buried among all the things not done and said all of a sudden there's this heart of gold. Yes, I'm saying The Price of Salt should have been a road trip novella. Therese and Carol finally being a couple, just touring the country, oddly skipping Wisconsin on the way from Rockford to Minneapolis, I mean, who seriously goes via Iowa, is a delight. They take pictures and do things normal couples do, they talk, they love, and we learn more about them in these few chapters than in the whole rest of the book. Plus Highsmith, with her accomplished crime fiction background, has this delicious foreboding building. Could they be being followed? Has Carol's husband given her enough rope to hang herself? All the while there's that gun in Carol's suitcase and you can't help but wonder, will it be used? Could Highsmith be going for a dark ending for our lovers? Because literature of the day demands it. When she taps the breaks, that's when you realize what a genius she is. Just not a genius at editing....more
Joanna Teale is alive becaus*Special Content only on my blog, Strange and Random Happenstance during For the Love of Book Clubs (February-August 2024)
Joanna Teale is alive because her mother is dead. Her mother was diagnosed with breast cancer too late. But it wasn't too late for Jo. After a radical double mastectomy Jo wants her life to get back to some semblance of normality. Cancer put her life on hold so she's trying to get back to that life. And that life means grad school. Therefore she is burying herself in her graduate work in the wilds of southern Illinois studying birds. She has her routine. It's solitary but restorative to work from dawn until dusk until all you can do is collapse into bed. Or drink a nice cold beer in the backyard of her white clapboard student housing before collapsing into bed, banging on the window AC to show a little life. But her life is about to change radically once again. A young shoeless girl appears battered and bruised outside her house. The girl claims to be an alien child named Ursa, sent from the stars to witness five miracles. Obviously the kid is running away from something and has created this mythology to cope. But the more time Jo spends with Ursa the more she questions what is possible. She can't do this on her own, and there's something about the police that she just doesn't trust, so she turns to her neighbor Gabe. He runs the roadside stand selling eggs while coming to terms with his own existential problems. Gabe agrees that Ursa is special. Maybe she is some sort of extraterrestrial. They can't deny that Ursa brings a strange sort of luck with her wherever she goes. As the three unlikely souls form a ragtag family time passes and Jo realizes that it will be harder and harder to explain to the authorities why she has kept someone else's child for an entire summer. But when Ursa's real life finally catches up to her and shows Jo and Gabe the dark underbelly of human existence they will do anything to save this little girl. It might just take a miracle, but as humans who are they to judge what an alien would view as a miracle?
You know the phenomenon of the last great book you read? Where it was so amazing and transformative that anything that came after would pale in comparison Well, I had the exact opposite experience with this book. I was suffering from last shit book I read. The book I had read previously was possibly the worst book I have ever read. It was Devil House by John Darnielle if you're interested. So anything would have been better than Devil House. Anything at all. While my friends were lamenting that this book used the alien angle as a kind of bait and switch all I could say was at least there wasn't fake ye olde english. So what if this is Northern Exposure meets Law and Order: Special Victims Unit verging towards the almost completely unrealistic? It wasn't Devil House. Where the Forest Meets the Stars is competently written if completely quixotic. But for me it was a place I could escape into. I felt just like Jo, I needed a reprieve from reality, I needed to swim in the rivers, I needed to bath in the forests, I needed to purge the stank of Devil House from my being and Where the Forest Meets the Stars did that for me. But it was Jo's graduate work that intrigued me the most. Glendy Vanderah was a field biologist who got her MS in the Cerulean Warbler so the insight she brought to the character of Jo made her research spot on. And the reason I connected so strongly to this is because of one of my best friends. She's now a Biometrician for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service but every summer for more years than I can count I remember her going out into the field somewhere to do research. She'd be in Ohio in prime Mothman country studying riparian zones or just slightly north of home looking into the impact of windmills on birds. Actually I think she didn't actually get the windmill summer job, but I remember proofing her resume. As well as her paper on riparian zones. What Glendy Vanderah gave me was a glimpse into my best friend's life for all those summers she was away from me and for that I am grateful. I can see her and Jo hanging out a sharing a beer....more
Angela Pralini has been give*Special Content only on my blog, Strange and Random Happenstance during For the Love of Book Clubs (February-August 2024)
Angela Pralini has been given life by her creator, a God-like auteur with whom she holds a dialogue. Breath, words, life, death. Because once created there is only one outcome for Angela, and that is death. As Angela writes, she grapples with what she is and what her purpose is and whether there is a God and is her God everyone's God or is her creator, much like Victor Frankenstein, her God as he was to his creation. Or is her "God" her master? A philosophical monologue envelopes her. But it is a monologue where she knows who she is talking to. She is talking to her creator. And she needs answers to this life, to this strange feeling of being alive with blood flowing like lava. Why was she created? Why is anyone created? And why create when the only outcome is death? Angela's stream of consciousness washes over you. Yet is the dialogue really between Angela and her creator or is it between Clarice Lispector and her authorial voice as embodied by Angela trying to come to terms with her own impending death? Because as Clarice Lispector wrote this fragmented and existential piece that is almost more poetry than prose she lay dying. She would never see this book published. The heights of joy that Angela reaches are that which Clarice Lispector will miss the most, as the depths of Angela's despair are what she herself is grappling with. This is a transcendental meditation on what it means to be human. The small joys, staircases and music, the fact Angela feels herself nothing more than a mirage. Life is brutal but it is filled with miracles. This is the human experience hitting you full in the face while at the very end of the journey. But in the end, do we know anything? Do we know why we were here, why we experienced joy or sorrow? Did the weight of one make the other worth it? Or was life just in the living? In the emotion? In the feelings like lava through the veins, the absurdities or what it is to be alive. If nothing more can be said of Angela and her author, at least they both lived. Angela lived because Clarice Lispector lived. A fictional person can be real because they help the reader understand what it is, what it was, to be alive when the end comes.
I don't think I'm alone in thinking that books should, for the most part, have cogent sentences. That the words and meaning should form to be something legible. There are people who just like the cascade of words flowing over them, and that's fine. It's just not my thing. I don't like word salad. I don't like stream of consciousness. I like to pick up a book and know that it's going somewhere. That wasn't A Breath of Life. But I don't think I can judge Clarice Lispector as an author by this, her final book. Because the truth is this book wasn't just her coming to terms with her end and railing against the God who had created her, it was also unfinished. Olga Borelli, her assistant and friend, took writing fragments and structured them into a book. So who knows if this is what Clarice Lispector would have wanted. Did she desire these half-finished thoughts to be put out in the world? Did she want the final memory of her work to be this weak? That's why there's this part of me that agrees with Terry Pratchett whose unfinished work and hard drives were steamrolled into oblivion at his request. He didn't want anyone else tinkering with his work after he was dead and gone. He didn't want what happened to Truman Capote to happen to him, where Capote's Answered Prayers was just thrown out into the world to harsh criticism due to it's unfinished state. And here's the thing, there's a big difference between assembling unfinished material and hiring someone to finish it. This was an assemblage, which, when you think of the nature of the book, an author bringing life to "his" creation, there's a very Frankensteinian vibe which makes sense. The creature in Mary Shelley's tale was an assemblage. Fragments from different places. So while Frankenstein is a modern prometheus, this is a post-modern prometheus, and with all due respect to The X-Files, this book was written first and that episode is about a rapist. I guess what I'm trying to say is that this is a book that can be studied and taken apart but as a reading experience it's far from enjoyable. You shouldn't take great pleasure in random asides like Angela declaring "I like staircases." You should enjoy the whole thing. Not plan to sit in a chair and plough through until the end. And maybe that's not the way to read this book, maybe it should be taken slower, like poetry, allowing the words to wash over you. But as I've said before, that's just not me....more
On a hot summer day in 1969 the four Gold siblings, ranging in age from seven to thirteen, embark on an adventure. Daniel, age eleven, has heard rumorOn a hot summer day in 1969 the four Gold siblings, ranging in age from seven to thirteen, embark on an adventure. Daniel, age eleven, has heard rumors of a woman on Hester Street who will tell you the day that you will die. They have combined their allowances into a bag and head off in search of the woman. For an epic quest she is found quite easily, only they must each face her alone. They never speak of what they learned except once, nine years later, after their father's funeral, when they will be together for the last time. Klara dares her siblings to reveal when they will die. Varya has a long life ahead of her, Daniel will only life to forty-eight, Klara to thirty-one, Simon just says it's when he's young. It is clear that all of them have spent the last nine years dwelling on their fates and this knowledge will forever shape their lives consciously and unconscionably. Simon, youngest sibling and soonest to die, has his life laid out for him. Varya and Daniel went off to college, Klara has always had a weird desire to be a magician, but Simon, Simon is the last sibling at home, taking care of their mother and the family business. But Klara knows that his fate is weighing on him so she offers him an alternative, follow her to San Francisco and live the life he was meant to lead now. He throws himself into dance and hedonism and dies four years later from AIDS, on the day he was told he would die. This shakes the siblings considerably, but seeing as they didn't know his exact date, they can't lend too much credence to it. It's Klara who makes sure her death date is right to continue the augury. Is there any chance for Daniel or Varya to avoid their fates? Or were they given self-fulfilling prophecies? And is it better to burn bright and flame out than exist without really living?
The undeserved success of The Immortalists is why I will never like populist literature. This book wanted to be everything to everyone and failed because the vision and the execution were worlds apart. There is no unifying style, first we have Armistead Maupin shorthand, then magic, then vengeance, then Michael Crichton, yes, I get it, the siblings are vastly different, but a book needs to feel cohesive, and this doesn't. Could we perhaps have had one narrator? An overseer or omniscient being, perhaps one of the siblings that unifies all their stories, not shatters it. Klara is the only one whose voice didn't feel like nails on a chalkboard. She was mystical, magical, she could have been our narrator. After all she believes she can hear Simon after his death, why doesn't she carry the narrative weight? Because as this stands, the only way to really fix The Immoralists would be if each sibling had their own book instead of some shorthand story that is painted in such broad strokes that it doesn't just verge on but is stereotypical. And that is why I loath this book. Take away the fact that the storylines are nothing special and you see that Chloe Benjamin is a lazy writer. She wants readers to connect to a time instead of to a character. She uses cultural shorthand, Forest Gumping her way through the 20th century, so that us readers will connect to their own nostalgia of that time versus bothering to create characters who the readers can connect to on their own. I mean, these siblings literally can not have been there for all these events. Oh, the day they found the fortuneteller was the day of the Stonewall Riots? And the day Simon hooked up with his boyfriend was the day Harvey Milk was shot? Oh, they were listening to Paul Simon's Graceland? Give me some more rampant consumerism in-between cultural touchstones why don't you? Because I know Benjamin has to be shilling for the drug companies and I know she wants some Milwaukee's pickles! She is supposedly now a Wisconsinite after all but does she actually know that Devil's Lake isn't between Chicago and Madison but further north? And that no one has ever referred to Door County as a collection of islands....more
In Dublin, as in any town, p*Special Content only on my blog, Strange and Random Happenstance during For the Love of Book Clubs (February-August 2024)
In Dublin, as in any town, people's lives are interconnected. They form friendships and relationships and create families. The young learn from the old but sometimes the old have their own epiphanies. A young boy experiences death for the first time when his friend, Father Flynn, dies, and as he listens to the stories surrounding him he realizes that the Father Flynn he knew wasn't the one they knew. But death is just one thing children learn, they also learn about rules and how to break them and then, worst of all, what happens when you break your heart. But as you age, sometimes you learn that love isn't everything, as Eveline chooses her family and her home over love overseas. Though what can you get overseas that you can't get at home? You can wine and dine with the best of them. Drinking, dancing, cards, games, just be wary of your wallet. Of course, if your wallet does end up a little empty, who's to say you can't con your way to being flush again? You just need to find the right people to swindle, like housemaids in wealthy homes. And for every young person contemplating marriage there's another contemplating the road not taken. The carefree life of the intellectual with no ties to bind. Though it's the saddest of cases when you lash out at those who love you who you view as chains around your neck. No child should ever be hurt. Because family and those who you care for should be held precious. Sweets and cake and joy in each other's presence is the greatest of gifts, even if you accidentally forget the cake. One never knows when your chance at happiness might pass you by. Love those who love you, marvel in their presence in your life. You don't want to only be a memory. Though if a memory, raising a glass and reciting a poem wouldn't go amiss. And that is all life is. Love and loss. We never know the pain of others. We never know what the person in bed beside us might have suffered. We only know that we need each other and have to be kind and true and hopefully our better angels will triumph.
The Irish are one of the most stereotyped cultures; everyone can hold their pint and tell a story and is a little light-fingered. But is this stereotype true? Is the belief that Ireland is full of drunk thieving storytellers based on truth or based on tropes that writers such as James Joyce disseminate and have therefore ingrained in society? This was my constant struggle while reading this book. Was he picturing the world he knew or the world that would be an accepted truth? And I can't come to a conclusion. I've tried to discuss this before and all I ever get out of people is that "James Joyce is classic." Well, what about these issues I have? Being classic doesn't mean you can't be wrong! And I know, I'm a neophyte when it comes to Joyce, I haven't read any of his other works, just these fifteen short stories about drunks and creepy priests with abrupt endings. So I don't get the larger context, I don't have the intertextuality. He obviously loved his country and this book brims with national pride so I would assume he wouldn't want to be a contributing factor to the stereotyping of his countrymen and women. But I can't get around that this is exactly what it feels like. When I was younger I always went to Irish Fest in Milwaukee. I went for the culture and the music, most everyone else went to get blind drunk. Not helped once they stopped selling funnel cake. And all these midwesterners thought that this is what it is to be Irish. To just get plastered. I mean, the same can be said for every Saint Patrick's Day everywhere. But Ireland and Irish culture are more than this. So maybe what I'm saying is that James Joyce is limiting. He's limiting his country to the cultural stereotypes of the day. Because there is progress. Look to a television show like The Irish R.M. based on books from the turn of the last century where it was all about the British being exasperated by those wiley drunks to the late nineties show Ballykissangel where, yes, there were still cons and drunks, but they talked about their problems and actually helped one of their own get sober. And yes, I might have been on a weird nostalgia trip recently and rewatched these shows. But there was progress. There was something more. And that's what I expected of this classic writer. Something more.
The Sisters ★★ An Encounter ★ Araby ★★ Eveline ★★★ After the Race ★★ Two Gallants ★★★ The Boarding House ★★★ A Little Cloud ★★★ Counterparts ★ Clay ★★ A Painful Case ★★★★★ Ivy Day in the Committee Room ★ A Mother ★★★ Grace ★ The Dead ★★★...more
Fourteen year old Matty Tele*Special Content only on my blog, Strange and Random Happenstance during For the Love of Book Clubs (February-August 2024)
Fourteen year old Matty Telemachus rather awkwardly finds out he can astrally project. He's just thinking inappropriate thoughts about his cousin Mary Alice and discovers that when he's sexually aroused or, in this first instance, masterbating, he can leave his body behind. Which makes him wonder, is he unique or are his gifts inherited? It turns out that his family is none other than the Amazing Telemachus Family. They were the darlings of TV talk shows until they imploded on air. Which means no one in the family will talk to Matty about their past. Which makes him start digging. His grandfather and grandmother met in a government study into psychic powers. Teddy had conned his way in but Maureen was a genuine psychic. They fell in love and married, having three children. Irene, Matty's mother, is a human lie detector, Frankie is telekinetic, and Buddy can see the future. But the past is in the past and the family's powers have done nothing but destroy their lives, turning them into barely functional adults. Irene can't hold down a job or maintain a stable relationship, Frankie has used his powers for nefarious means and is now in deep with the mob, and Buddy, well, Buddy spends his time digging holes in the backyard and is practically nonverbal. In fact, when Frankie realizes his nephew has been perving on his daughter instead of taking him to task he decides to use Matty to help free himself from the mob. His genius plan is to rob the mob and then pay back his debt with their own money. No matter how "amazing" his family once was, any sane person can see that this plan is flawed. But Frankie, and the whole family, is desperate. Their mother was their rock and without her the family is spiraling. And now the CIA have come knocking. They were reviewing their files from Project Stargate and were wondering if any of the newest generation of family members had started exhibiting powers. Little do they know about Matty... Who might just be the key to solving all their problems, but not as Frankie had planned. The family is in for a reckoning and their whole world is about to change.
I feel like I've been swindled by Teddy Telemachus. If you read the actual blurb of the book you think this is going to be a romp about a gifted family. And it is not that. At all. This was a bait and switch. The best character, Maureen Telemachus, is dead and gone by the time the action starts, and the family isn't just dysfunctional but I dislike them all. Deeply. I was hoping for nostalgic television talk shows with psychic stunts, and instead this is just your basic boring Chicago mafia tale. With a whole heap of nineties historical inaccuracies. I assume the other decades also have historical inaccuracies, but I just caught the blatant ones from my childhood. A SNES doesn't have a standby light. It does have a light when the power is on. No standby light. And these inaccuracies just made me more annoyed with the book than I can adequately explain. It wasn't just that this wasn't the book I thought it would be, it was that it just wasn't a good book. Because having a deceptive blurb isn't the end of the world. In fact a book I read quite recently was nothing like I thought it would be and yet it still completely won me over. So much so that I had to order the sequel from England so that I could read it a full month early because of the US publication date not being synchronous. But all of these pale in comparison to my problem with Matty. Um, how are we supposed to feel about Matty? Because he really creeps me out. I know his cousin Mary Alice is adopted, thus skirting the whole incest vibe, but, um... Is he supposed to be the hero? Or is he supposed to embody how flawed the family is? Because as I said before and will say again, he just creeps me out. I read enough books with gifted people to know that emotion can trigger their powers, but did it have to be masterbating? And masterbating to thoughts of his cousin? Oh, and then when he can't trigger his powers near the end of the book when it's necessary to save their family Mary Alice lets him cop a feel!?! Ew, no, ick. I did not sign up for pervy incestuous teenagers trying to take down the mafia. I wish I could expunge this book from my mind because I feel dirty....more
Susan's ex-husband Edward vi*Special Content only on my blog, Strange and Random Happenstance during For the Love of Book Clubs (February-August 2024)
Susan's ex-husband Edward views her as "his greatest critic." Could it be because she was so critical of his life choices, abandoning law school for a career as a writer, that she cheated on him and eventually divorced him for a philanderer? Or is his sending her his manuscript for Nocturnal Animals an olive branch? A way to forgive the past twenty-five years? A way for him to tell her what his book is missing and why. She reluctantly takes up the mantle of critic, after putting it off for months, at the thought she will see him again. The book is about mathematician Tony Hastings. He and his wife and their daughter are on their way to their country house in Maine. Three men in a truck accost them on the highway. Tony's wife Laura and his daughter Helen are brutally raped and murdered. He did nothing to stop it. Not that there's anything he could have done. Or so the police insist. Tony falls into a deep depression. He's fatalistic and rants about green houses and terrorists and war and death. He is spiraling out of control. It's only after a year when he's able to positively identify one of the murderers that he starts to move on with his life. He begins a relationship with one of his former grad students and feels like he's on stable ground again. But then he finds out that the killer of his wife and daughter is about to be set free. The cop who was assigned to the case is dying of Cancer and he wonders if Tony would be interested in some vigilante justice. At first Tony thinks that he is incapable of such violence. But hearing the murderer confess tips him over the edge and he kills the man. Wounding himself in the process. He stumbles out into the woods, blind, in pain, and awaiting his own death. Susan finds herself enjoying the book and connecting with Tony. She wants to talk to Edward about this book he has created. About their life they had together. Maybe she, like Tony, has regrets. But Edward will have the last word by saying nothing.
Rarely does a book annoy me to such a level that I never want to have it in my sight again, and I'm not even talking about how this book failed when it was released in the United States but was somehow a hit in England so that when it was reissued in the United States to coincide with the film adaptation they didn't even bother to go back to the original text and instead released the version with of all the Britishisms still intact. That was just mildly WTF. But that lack of initiative, that lack of drive, that complete incomprehensible stupidity just emanates from every page in this book and made me want to throw it across not just the room but the continent. Begone from my sight foul demon. Of course what I did was give it to another member of my book club to read and told her to never give it back to me. Ever. Let's dig into the stupidity of this book and the book within the book. The characters and not just dimmer than a dead light bulb they are all too dumb to live. Not to mention they don't even achieve anything beyond one-dimensionality. Why does Susan feel a need to recap Nocturnal Animals for us? We're reading it too. It sucks. And if she likes this bably written piece of shit well, what does that tell us about her? Or maybe there's some sort of mirroring of her own lack of a single brain cell with Tony's lack of a brain at all. He totally lets his wife and daughter be caught and is oblivious to the consequences but then again Tony Hastings always refers to himself as Tony Hastings. Because that's so normal. You know what? Tony Hastings is a fucking coward who always thinks of himself as Tony Hastings. But what about the characters that aren't even here? Like Edward. We never hear from Edward so his writing and Susan must speak for him. Well seeing as we don't even get Susan's opinions just random thoughts and how she's burying herself and her feelings below the floorboards through the trapdoor every night, hoping to learn anything about Edward from her is futile. And Nocturnal Animals is futile. Reading this book was futile. But more than that, it verged on infantile....more
Elizabeth (Miss Eliza)
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