Kategori: Aardwolf – one hit wonders

Part of a book-relay, this one. I’m always delighted to read children’s classics that have remained undiscovered by me, and Tuck Everlasting was more worthwhile even than most. I have to agree with JessicaEby in that the ending is bittersweet, but I think this is to the book’s advantage rather than otherwise.

(Bookcrossing journal)

Denne var det bare så vidt jeg leste, de første femti sidene var det et slit å komme gjennom. Etter det klarte jeg nesten ikke legge den fra meg, men i dette tilfellet var det ikke positivt. Jeg leste nemlig videre med den typen skrekkslagen fascinasjon som gjør at man ikke klarer å la være å stirre på en trafikkulykke.

Ekkel og relativt uforståelig oppsummerer vel mine følelser om Den hellige natten. Verden er visst ikke helt enig – Jelloun vant Goncourt-prisen for denne boka i 1987. Jeg føler ikke at jeg har lært noe mer om arabisk/marokkansk kultur, ei heller føler jeg at jeg har fått noe nytt innblikk i menneskesjelen. Det er mulig jeg ikke er sofistikert nok, men jeg klarer slett ikke å se noe poeng i det hele. Kanskje skal det ikke være noe poeng? Prøv gjerne å overbevise meg om at denne boka var verdt de minuttene av livet mitt jeg brukte på den, jeg liker slett ikke å føle at bøker er bortkastet…

(Bokens bookcrossing-side)

In search of another Patrick O’Brian (ha!) I bought two «Bolitho-novels» in Hay to test Alexander Kent: Mr. Midshipman Bolitho and Midshipman Bolitho and the «Avenger». They are both now in a bookshelf at The Cricketers in Clavering. Not THAT good, in other words. Entertaining, sure, and I might read a few more, but only if – against all expectations – the local library has them, or if I can pick them up at around a pound second hand.

I was in the mood for a good story, hence I picked up The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd, and I was not disappointed. Lily Owens is a white, motherless child in the american south during the period of the civil rights movement. She runs away from an embittered and violent father and brings her black housekeeper – on the run from the law – with her when she goes in search of her mother’s story. They find sanctuary with three black sisters who keep bees, and Lily slowly comes to terms with life, death and her less than ideal relationship with her mother. It’s the sort of book that should have a «kleenex needed» warning sticker on the front, but it is also a very uplifting tale.

Picked from the shelf because of its lightness and it’s potential for being left behind when leaving Copenhagen, Home Truths is pleasant enough read, raising a couple of interesting (though, it must be admitted, by now somewhat over-hashed) points about media and fame and privacy and so on. The novella is basically the playtext of Lodge’s play by the same name with a couple of extra bits stuck in and «disguised» to read like a novel rather than a play (i.e. it says «Adrian said, (…), (…) Eleanor replied.» rather than «Adrian: (…) (line break) Eleanor: (…)»), which is fair enough, I suppose, except it still reads rather a lot like a play (being mostly dialogue) and since I’m the sort of person who enjoys reading play texts I would have preferred to read it as such. Never mind. Stuck a bookcrossing note in it and left it in The Bloomsday Bar.

The Art of Travel is a pleasant little book. I’m not sure I got a lot wiser on the questions of how, why and where concerning travel, but I was entertained, reminded of a few books I’ve been meaning to read and became thoroughly travel-sick. Good thing we’re off to Copenhagen next week.

Well, what a bl***y waste of time. Whatever. In spite of the little voice that said «perhaps not? You know, really?» in the back of my head I thought I’d give the Snicket books a try. I have sort of been planning to since they first appeared, actually, just never quite managed to persuade myself that the tiny snippets laughingly called «books» were worth the pricetag. My better judgement must have been asleep when I finally forked out for A Series of Unfortunate Events: The Bad Beginning. It’s not so much not good as simply completely uninteresting. It’s a bit like Harry Potter at the Dursleys’. Except there’s no magic and that’s all there is. I mean, what makes the Harry at the Dursleys’ episodes interesting is the contrast with the rest of the book – here there is no «the rest». That’s all there is. Perhaps «the rest» turns up in later books? I have no idea. And I won’t be finding out, either, The Bad Beginning did not tempt me to continue reading.

And another thing, the narrator keeps explaining «difficult» words throughout. Not necessarily a bad thing, a few of the explanations brought me the closest to smiling that the text managed, but the «difficulty» wasn’t very consistent. At one point he explains «faked» with «feigned» – now it may be that native english speakers are more familiar with the latter than the former, but I doubt it – «fake» is, after all, a reasonably basic term. «Feign» seemd to me to be the term needing explanation (if any of them need it). At other points he fails to explain terms that I would have thought were beyond what you’d expect the core audience to understand readily. But it may just be me. English isn’t my native language, after all, and I expect words that seem obscure to me may be obvious to your average ten-year-old from Swindon.

En bok jeg plukket opp på bibliotekets utsalgsvogn fordi tittelen inneholdt ordet «bokorm». Jeg vet. Jeg er en enkel sjel. Av bokormens liv er en ganske fornøyelig samling barndomsminner fra et noe uvanlig hjem. Det var mindre snakk om bøker enn jeg hadde ventet, derfor var jeg vel en smule skuffet, men alt i alt en ganske behagelig leseropplevelse.

So, I finally finished Atlas Shrugged. Phew.

What to say? Well, it’s an interesting read for many reasons, though waaaaaaaay too long. For instance, I basically skipped the climactic speech towards the very end – 20 or so pages at least – since if you’ve actually read and understood the previous 950 pages, the speech is pretty much redundant. As are the majority of the longer soliloquies earlier in the book. Someone ought to give Rand a lesson in «show, don’t tell». Are all «philosophers» this wordy? Actually, I know the answer to that, and it’s «Many, but no, not all».

While the plot of the book is soundly structured and can make for an engaging read if you ignore all the waffle (and there is a lot of waffle) it’s hard to accept Rand’s philosophy, even at face value the «every man (or woman) for himself» is off-putting.

One thing I will say, which is not something I’ve seen mentioned in other critiques of the book, is that a major stumbling block for Rand’s attempt at converting me is the feeling one gets that though she seems to find few enough men worthy of any attention, she finds even fewer women. Dagny Taggart is the only woman who really makes herself felt in the novel. With the exception of two peripheral characters (one of which comes to grief before she has a chance of proper «redemption»), all the other «worthy» persons are men. And naturally quite a few of these «worthy» men are in love with Dagny. Fair enough, but as the writer is a woman herself and the novel an acknowledged explanation of a personal philosophy one can’t help feel that Dagny is meant to be at least partly a self-portrait and the hopeless devotion of all these super-humans leaves one with an unpleasant taste in one’s mouth. It’s all a bit too self-applauding.

Jeg vant en signert utgave av Presten på Bok i Sentrum i høst og tenkte at det vel ville være høflig å lese den. Så nå har jeg fått en påminnelse om hvorfor jeg så sjelden leser ny norsk litteratur. Hanne Ørstavik fikk Brageprisen for denne boka, så man må anta at dette er noe av det beste som kom ut i Norge i fjor, og dersom det er tilfelle må jeg bare si at jeg synes tilstanden er heller laber. Det er ikke det at Presten er noen spesiellt dårlig bok, den er bare ikke spesiellt bra heller, og det synes jeg faktisk at vinneren av Brageprisen burde være.

Hva har jeg så i mot Presten? Vel, hovedproblemet mitt er vel at jeg synes Ørstavik mislykkes kraftig i å røre ved noe «viktig». Jeg prøvde så godt jeg kunne å føle noe mens jeg leste, men det var liksom ikke noe der å føle. Og det er ikke som om hun ikke prøver, hovedpersonen gjentar stadig viktigheten av det sanne og riktige, og poengterer at det sanne ofte ikke er særlig behagelig. Men det eneste ubehaget jeg følte mens jeg leste var kjedsomhet, dette til tross for både selvmord og usmakelige episoder fra Norsk-Samisk historie.

Så, nei, ikke helt fornøyd.