Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Gilgamesh Made More Readable...
Reminder that the March book is not just any old Gilgamesh...it is the version by Stephen Mitchell. Don't show up with your old college version and think you can talk myths at the March meeting. ( February is In the Garden of the Beasts..)
Friday, December 21, 2012
Caleb's Crossing: Discussion 12/19/21
An engrossing good read that brought you on a crossing to another time. Or an engrossing good read that seemed more like a novel for young adults. Opinions differed about how successful the author was at pulling you in emotionally and there lay the split. Yet all continued reading.
Bethia's plot driven life story and crossing dominated instead of the historical Caleb's crossing. Too difficult to get into the head of a young Wampanoag boy turned scholar of classics? The life story of Bethia, the fictitious character, seemed too contrived--too shallow--to be believable. Her voice stayed that of a young girl, even though she is looking back as an older woman. The best developed "characters" to some were the places--especially Martha's Vineyard.
Those who didn't feel that positive about the book and who read other Geraldine Brooks' works; i.e., March, Year of Wonders, and People of the Book, were surprised and felt that this was the weakest of her novels.
Oh by the way:
We are proud that one of our members is a direct descendant of John and Priscilla Alden, despite their poor showing in this novel. (Taliban of the 1670s as the sponsor mentioned.)
And we had our first grab bag of gently read books...I got Swamplandia. Not a great review, but I am looking forward to reading it!
Members: Send me your book title and I will link them to a review.
Bethia's plot driven life story and crossing dominated instead of the historical Caleb's crossing. Too difficult to get into the head of a young Wampanoag boy turned scholar of classics? The life story of Bethia, the fictitious character, seemed too contrived--too shallow--to be believable. Her voice stayed that of a young girl, even though she is looking back as an older woman. The best developed "characters" to some were the places--especially Martha's Vineyard.
Those who didn't feel that positive about the book and who read other Geraldine Brooks' works; i.e., March, Year of Wonders, and People of the Book, were surprised and felt that this was the weakest of her novels.
Oh by the way:
We are proud that one of our members is a direct descendant of John and Priscilla Alden, despite their poor showing in this novel. (Taliban of the 1670s as the sponsor mentioned.)
And we had our first grab bag of gently read books...I got Swamplandia. Not a great review, but I am looking forward to reading it!
Members: Send me your book title and I will link them to a review.
Thursday, December 6, 2012
Another Old List...this one is from 2006-2007
Click on title for links to reviews, etc.
On Beauty
Zadie Smith
The Sea
John Banville
The History of the World in 10 1/2 Chapters
Julian Barnes
Founding Brothers
Joseph Ellis
The History of Love
Nicole Krauss
Midaq Alley
Mahfouz
So Long, See You Tomorrow
William Maxwell
The Thread of Grace
Mary Russell
The Liberated Bride
A. Yehoshua and H. Halkin
Beyond Black
Hillary Mantel
On Beauty
Zadie Smith
The Sea
John Banville
The History of the World in 10 1/2 Chapters
Julian Barnes
Founding Brothers
Joseph Ellis
The History of Love
Nicole Krauss
Midaq Alley
Mahfouz
So Long, See You Tomorrow
William Maxwell
The Thread of Grace
Mary Russell
The Liberated Bride
A. Yehoshua and H. Halkin
Beyond Black
Hillary Mantel
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Tinkers
The following is the gist of the discussion...
Tinkers--the story of three generations of men--a preacher--a tinker of words; his son a tinker of pots and peddler of wares; and his son--a tinker who puts together a house and clocks is the first published novel of Paul Harding. (Another novel was discarded and this one was pieced together--tinkered--much like a soldered tin pot.)
What made this book worthwhile? The poetic language, the characters, the amazingly realistic capturing of the random thoughts of a man on his death bed. The ending--a Rosebud moment--poignantly moving.
But was this book worthy of a Pulitzer Prize? Probably not was the majority feeling. This, a first novel, seemed heavily influenced by the writing style of Harding's mentor...Marilynne Robinson also a Pulitzer Winner. A Pulitzer should reward a published established writer who has a body of work and a unique style --a unique voice expressed one member and others agreed.
Thanks to smart phones we were able to hear a list of previous Pulitzer winners many of which we agreed were given to writers who fit our groups' definition. Browse for yourself...
Pulitzer Prize Winners
Pulitzer Prize Winners
*Still...on reading the cover...it turns out that this books has been named one of the best books or notable book of the year by NPR, the New Yorker, Granta, ALA, etc. So....
*Added by the sponsor of the book and this blogger....
And this is added by BB who came late to the meeting...
Harding said in an interview that he was reading Karl Barth, the prominent Protestant theologian of the 20th century who wrote, among other topics, on revelation. Whether a believer or not, the fiction writer has a handy tool in revelation--a God's eye view, so to speak. In the final summing-up of George's life, pieces are fitting together in his mind like the works of a clock. Some of those pieces were not actually known to George previously—his grandfather’s dementia and banishment, for instance—but are now revealed to him. (1 Corinthians 13:12: "For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall understand fully, even as I have been fully understood.") Is the reader to believe that as George hovers between this world and eternity, he's seeing God face to face? And is the point of this book that the final stage of life, dying, has value?
Marilynne Robinson, Harding's mentor, has a big interest in theology, as I think does Harding.
And this is added by BB who came late to the meeting...
Harding said in an interview that he was reading Karl Barth, the prominent Protestant theologian of the 20th century who wrote, among other topics, on revelation. Whether a believer or not, the fiction writer has a handy tool in revelation--a God's eye view, so to speak. In the final summing-up of George's life, pieces are fitting together in his mind like the works of a clock. Some of those pieces were not actually known to George previously—his grandfather’s dementia and banishment, for instance—but are now revealed to him. (1 Corinthians 13:12: "For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall understand fully, even as I have been fully understood.") Is the reader to believe that as George hovers between this world and eternity, he's seeing God face to face? And is the point of this book that the final stage of life, dying, has value?
Marilynne Robinson, Harding's mentor, has a big interest in theology, as I think does Harding.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Sunday, October 21, 2012
We the Animals: Discussion
Everyone...and there were quite a number of members present...liked this lyrical novel that poetically captured the upbringing of three boys by two other children--their very young parents. A sentence/paragraph which goes on for half a page was read aloud.
"Always more, always hungrily scratching for more. But there were times, quiet moments, when our mother was sleeping, when she hadn’t slept in two days, and any noise, any stair creak, any shut door, any stifled laughter, any voice at all, might wake her, those still, crystal mornings, when we wanted to protect her, this confused goose of a woman, this stumbler, this gusher, with her backaches and headaches and her tired, tired ways, this uprooted Brooklyn creature, this tough talker, always with tears when she told us she loved us, her mixed-up love, her needy love, her warmth, those mornings when sunlight found the cracks in our blinds and laid itself down in crisp strips on our carpet, those quiet mornings when we’d fix ourselves oatmeal and sprawl onto our stomachs with crayons and paper, with glass marbles that we were careful not to rattle, when our mother was sleeping, when the air was still and light, those mornings when silence was our secret game and our gift and our sole accomplishment—we wanted less: less weight, less work, less noise, less father, less muscles and skin and hair. We wanted nothing, just this, just this.” * See BB's paragraph in this style describing her childhood, below.
All agreed that it was beautifully done. But too much agreement may not make a good blog entry. (Sorry for the self-consciousness.)
A few sparks shot up but were not kindled enough to keep the log of conversation rolling--how is that for a mixed metaphor...Not to say people didn't keep talking...they did. And what they said was certainly articulate. Oh my, I am digging myself into a hole.
Back to log metaphor...
Here are some sparks:
Spark 1: The narrator's revelation was not fore-shadowed or developed enough and seemed abrupt. This spark created the biggest flame...as a good number of members felt that this was not so.
Spark 2: This felt like a first novel...(I lost the reasoning behind this comment, sorry.)
Spark 3: What would the second novel be like? Can the author write in a different voice?
Spark 4: Some elements of the novel are autobiographical--we tried to decipher which ones were based on author's statements. Don't want to reveal them as they give away some important elements in the novel.
We are all interested in reading more by Justin Torres...Turns out one member's daughter is in a writers' group with him. Cool!
*Always reading, always devouring more. And there were times, still times, when my mother was busy in the kitchen, when I knew I wasn’t alone in my solitude, and no noisy brothers, no ringing phone, no burst-open door, no cat yowling outside could distract me, those lavender afternoons when I cocooned in an afghan, myself a pupae, a snuggler, a kangaroo’s joey, with my book and my doll and my old-fashioned ways learned from my mother’s stories and my mother’s books, with their lovable characters, their improbable coincidences, their hair-raising perils and their happy-ever-after endings, those winter afternoons when the sun kissed the horizon radiating pink to violet through the window that looked onto the sun porch, those golden afternoons when I’d lie on the couch between window and fireplace with the book I was inhabiting, when my mother stirred tuna into cooked noodles and sprinkled crushed corn flakes on the other side of the wall, when the air was cool and light, those afternoons when reading was my secret garden and my gift and my proudest achievement—I wanted less: less piano playing, less dishwashing, less dressing up, less acting ladylike, less curlers, combs and barrettes. I wanted just this—to read.
by B.B
"Always more, always hungrily scratching for more. But there were times, quiet moments, when our mother was sleeping, when she hadn’t slept in two days, and any noise, any stair creak, any shut door, any stifled laughter, any voice at all, might wake her, those still, crystal mornings, when we wanted to protect her, this confused goose of a woman, this stumbler, this gusher, with her backaches and headaches and her tired, tired ways, this uprooted Brooklyn creature, this tough talker, always with tears when she told us she loved us, her mixed-up love, her needy love, her warmth, those mornings when sunlight found the cracks in our blinds and laid itself down in crisp strips on our carpet, those quiet mornings when we’d fix ourselves oatmeal and sprawl onto our stomachs with crayons and paper, with glass marbles that we were careful not to rattle, when our mother was sleeping, when the air was still and light, those mornings when silence was our secret game and our gift and our sole accomplishment—we wanted less: less weight, less work, less noise, less father, less muscles and skin and hair. We wanted nothing, just this, just this.” * See BB's paragraph in this style describing her childhood, below.
All agreed that it was beautifully done. But too much agreement may not make a good blog entry. (Sorry for the self-consciousness.)
A few sparks shot up but were not kindled enough to keep the log of conversation rolling--how is that for a mixed metaphor...Not to say people didn't keep talking...they did. And what they said was certainly articulate. Oh my, I am digging myself into a hole.
Back to log metaphor...
Here are some sparks:
Spark 1: The narrator's revelation was not fore-shadowed or developed enough and seemed abrupt. This spark created the biggest flame...as a good number of members felt that this was not so.
Spark 2: This felt like a first novel...(I lost the reasoning behind this comment, sorry.)
Spark 3: What would the second novel be like? Can the author write in a different voice?
Spark 4: Some elements of the novel are autobiographical--we tried to decipher which ones were based on author's statements. Don't want to reveal them as they give away some important elements in the novel.
We are all interested in reading more by Justin Torres...Turns out one member's daughter is in a writers' group with him. Cool!
*Always reading, always devouring more. And there were times, still times, when my mother was busy in the kitchen, when I knew I wasn’t alone in my solitude, and no noisy brothers, no ringing phone, no burst-open door, no cat yowling outside could distract me, those lavender afternoons when I cocooned in an afghan, myself a pupae, a snuggler, a kangaroo’s joey, with my book and my doll and my old-fashioned ways learned from my mother’s stories and my mother’s books, with their lovable characters, their improbable coincidences, their hair-raising perils and their happy-ever-after endings, those winter afternoons when the sun kissed the horizon radiating pink to violet through the window that looked onto the sun porch, those golden afternoons when I’d lie on the couch between window and fireplace with the book I was inhabiting, when my mother stirred tuna into cooked noodles and sprinkled crushed corn flakes on the other side of the wall, when the air was cool and light, those afternoons when reading was my secret garden and my gift and my proudest achievement—I wanted less: less piano playing, less dishwashing, less dressing up, less acting ladylike, less curlers, combs and barrettes. I wanted just this—to read.
by B.B
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)