BookLust

My BookLust 2007, Part I

I know that lately it seems that I haven't talked nearly enough about any of the books that I have been reading. Yes, I have been reading, just not writing about the damn books. Problem is, even to write a half-assed review of a book, it takes a good chunk of my time and brain cells. It got even tougher once I started that Writing For Children course, and will continue to be a challenge, since I have now managed to get into the advanced class, which starts in about two weeks. And on top of that, I've got three major illustration projects on the go (one of them another trade picture book – yippee!!), as well as some other educational book illo jobs, too. I know, I know – cry me a river, no one's putting a gun to my head and making me write this blog. But I want to continue to create an interesting place here – it's just that sometimes I just won't be able to write as much as I'd like. I'm utterly amazed at the countless passionate book bloggers out there who manage to post every day, while also taking part in numerous reading challenges. How the hell do you guys do it? Are you people on steroids?? Perhaps I should report you to the authorities. Anyway, all this blather is my way of saying that one of my goals for the new year will be to post more often, and get back into talking about the books I'm reading (since this blog is like, um, called 'BookLust'. Maybe I should rename it BrainFriedLust or something).

Actually, a few weeks ago I was asked by Steven Beattie of That Shakespeherian Rag fame to email him a list of my fave reads of 2007, so he could post them on his blog. Many people took part, but of course, disorganized and stressed-because-it's-almost-Christmas person that I am, I never got around to writing up a list. So that's what I will attempt to do in the next few weeks – write up about the books (fiction, non-fiction, short stories, picture books, etc) that I really enjoyed last year. I'll also mention some of the duds and disappointments, too (thankfully there weren't too many). So, without further ado, the first of many books that rocked my 2007:

The Line Painter
Claire Cameron
HarperCollins 2007

I have Steven Beattie to thank for bringing this gem to my attention. And really, I should have got off my ass and mentioned this book months ago. Because  author Claire Cameron deserves so very much praise and attention. This is her first book, and I cannot wait to read anything else she writes, including grocery lists and maybe even especially her secret diaries. (Care to share, Claire?) She's ten years younger than me, and has lived 10 lifetimes more than me. She studied history and culture at Queen's University, and has worked as an instructor teaching mountaineering, climbing and white-water rafting. She also managed to found a company called Shift Media while living in London England – a company that has some pretty impressive clients like the BBC and Oxford University Press. And of course, she has written this amazing novel. Oh yes, the novel. It seems like a rather ordinary story at first – Carrie's car breaks down on a highway late at night somewhere in the Canadian North, and the only person who can help her out is this guy Frank, who is a line painter. You know, those guys who actually paint the lines on the roads. They do exist. But very soon you realize that both Carrie and Frank are carrying some pretty dark secrets, and the demons that they are battling slowly begin to come to the surface, which affects their relationship in a not-so-pleasant way. This book is a gripping and extremely suspenseful study of human frailties at their most honest and unpleasant levels. Claire's writing is clean and concise and cuts to the bone with it's almost at times shocking authenticity. Carrie and Frank are real people, and as ugly as they both become at times, you still care for them, and hurt for them. This is a must read book. You will not be able to put it down. I love the recommendation that Canadian author Andrew Pyper wrote on the cover: "The Line Painter fires along on it's lean language and propulsive suspense, the kind of story you could swallow whole." Yeah. What that guy said. And on top of the extremely suspenseful story and great character development, you learn all about the fascinating world of line-painting. Definitely worth the price of admission. Oh, and check out this excellent interview with Claire on Steven Beattie's blog. But seriously, get the book. You will devour it whole and be screaming for more at the end.

Quick Picks

I'm starting to get busy with work again, but I wanted to mention a couple of books that I have recently read and thoroughly enjoyed. You will notice that once again I'm behind the times – picking books that were discussed at least a couple years ago. What can I say? Paperbacks are cheaper and easier to cart around!

The Girls by Lori Lansens
At first glance I had serious doubts that a story about craniopagus twins (joined at the head) who live in a small Ontario town and work part-time in a library could sustain my interest for 457 pages. But as soon as I read the first line of the book, I knew I was about to enter into an amazing world.

I have never looked into my sister's eyes. Don't you want to read more? Thankfully I did, and I discovered the touching, heart-breaking world of Rose Darlen and her sister Ruby, through their personal entries, documenting all their dreams and heartaches.

Rose, the more literary sister, loves books and wants to be a writer, and in her 29th year decides to write the story of her life. No small feat, especially if your head is attached to the head of your sister. It doesn't take very long for Ruby to want to be a part of this creative project, and so the reader learns about the fascinating life of the 'The Girls' through two very strong and distinct voices. Initially one assumes that Rose is the more insightful of the two, but over time one discovers that it is often Ruby's no-nonsense perspective which reveals long-hidden truths about their lives.

The Girls is an extraordinary story about family and love, alienation and deep human connection. I will never think of the word "You" in the same way ever again. And I kept having to remind myself that this was fiction, not a true memoir. That's the sign of a truly gifted, authentic writer.

On Beauty by Zadie Smith
I was really hesitant to pick this one up when it first came out, once again because I was slightly distrustful of all the hoopla surrounding Ms. Smith's latest novel. And then she went and won the 2006 Orange Prize for Fiction for On Beauty, so I guess I just wanted to wait until the dust settled a bit before I took a taste. I had read her first novel, White Teeth, when it first came out, and was simply blown away. How could someone so young be so damned clever? I have a copy of her second novel, The Autograph Man, but haven't been motivated yet to read it. I'm sure I will one day.

Once again, for the most part, I tried to stay away from the reviews of this book, just so that I could have a fairly fresh view of the story. I was aware that Smith was paying homage to E.M. Forster's Howard's End in writing this novel, but I had read Forster's novel long ago as a teenager, and my memory of Howards End was pretty hazy, which I think was a relief, because I didn't want to tire myself with comparisons instead of just enjoying the novel. And what a novel! Sharp and tender – a satirical yet loving and forgiving look at two feuding families, the Belseys and the Kippses. In both families the fathers are academic men who are battling opposites in so many ways – economical, political, racial and intellectual – and through events beyond their own control, are often forced to face each other, and in turn, their conflicting, confusing families. As far as I am concerned, this is a tour de force for Ms. Smith. The story is extremely entertaining, and at the same time very insightful, touching on so many compelling ideas about family, love, race, art and friendship. I'm beginning to overuse this word I know, but what really impressed me with this book was the authenticity of the writing. All of the characters were so real to me, so painfully flawed and yet still lovable, fascinating and attractive. I dare you not to enjoy this book.

The End of the Alphabet

I almost wish this book hadn't come out just before Valentine's Day. This day, though full of good intentions, falls flat in my opinion – weighted down by all the tired clichés and heartless commercialism. The End of the Alphabet deserves more than that. Much more. Yes, it is a love story – not of young lovers, mind you, but of a seasoned,  middle-aged couple, happy and comfortable in the life they have created for each other. But everything changes for Ambrose Zephyr and his wife Zappora ('Zipper') Ashkenazi, when a doctor informs Ambrose near his fiftieth birthday that he has a month to live. What to do?

Thus begins a slightly frenzied adventure of travel to far away places with the assistance of the alphabet – coffee in Amsterdam, a night train to Berlin, the cathedral of Chartes...all the destinations that Ambrose has longed to see and explore. But is this really how someone should be spending the last month of one's life, with the the love of their life? Will Ambrose and Zipper finish the alphabet in time? You'll have to read this beautiful story to find out, won't you?

A little bit about the author, CS Richardson. This is his first novel – in his other job he is a very talented and respected book designer in Canada, and has won quite a few design awards over the years. I'm very familiar with his work, because well, I've made it a habit to notice the names of the book designers whenever I am intrigued by a cover design. Mr. Richardson is not the first book designer to make the leap to published author – Chip Kidd ventured inside the pages a few years back with his book The Cheese Monkeys, which though cleverly designed by the author did not live up to the hype. Cliché storyline and two dimensional characters worthy of a highshcool attempt, in my opinion. So what of CS Richardson? Thankfully his talents in design have translated perfectly for this novel. Here is a man who understands that words have colour, texture and weight, and need to be treated with reverential care. Mr. Richardson's writing is very minimal and clean, yet he manages to say so much with so little (the book, novella really, is only 139 pages). One cannot help but think of that somewhat tired phrase heard over and over in design school: Less is More. In this small book, with so few carefully chosen words, CS Richardson manages to tell us so much about Ambrose and his wife Zipper, and the world they have made for themselves. It's not only a delicate love story, though, since Richardson is a designer – he cannot help but pay homage to art and design, books and writing throughout this magical tale. This is a gift to be read slowly and deeply.

For those interested, here's a interview with the author at Torontoist. I do so love CS Richardson's perspective on books:

A book is as pure an invention for the transference of information as possible and has been that way for 500 years...anyone, anywhere, at any level of societal progress, can use it. No wires, no power, no satellites, no re-boots required. Just a pair of hands and sometimes a pocket in your pants.

And an even better interview here on the CFRB web site.

Mr.Richardson will be reading from his book The End of the Alphabet at Harbourfront on Wednesday, March 14th, 7:30pm, in Toronto.

Finally, a little bit of personal trivia about the author. I actually met CS Richardson quite a few years ago, not long after I graduated from design school. Using my creative smarts, I managed to get an interview with Mr. Richardson at Random House Canada, hoping to get some freelance work as a book designer. That was my dream, you see, to work in book design. At that point in my life I still didn't have the courage to admit that illustration was really the path for me. Graphic design was so much more respected, you see, and more than likely more stable (how wrong I was about that one!) Mr. Richardson was very attractive and charming and seemed positve about my work and at the end of the interview he told me to call him at the end of the month to see what he could give me. With my sad little portfolio in hand, I danced home, certain that my new career was about to begin. And so...at the end of the month I phoned, I emailed, and...nothing. I tried for about two weeks before giving up. Boy was I furious. Mr. Richardson was just being nice to me. I obviously did not have what it took to work for Random House, or any publishing company, for that matter. So when I read that he had written a book, my first thought was something along the lines of well, we'll just see if Mr. Fancypants can write, won't we? Well. This man can write. And he also knows talent when he sees it. And thank goodness he didn't see any in me, because cartoons and illustration is really what I should have been doing all along. So thanks, Mr. Richardson, though I really could have taken the cold hard truth. Really.

Swept Away by The Sea

Good heavens what a gem. Beautiful, lush, exquisite writing. A haunting story that lingers inside you long after you've put the book down.

I'm a bit late in coming to this book, I know, but I much prefer to purchase books as paperbacks, and if I can get them on sale, all the better! (Sorry, Mr. Banville). And I suppose I was a bit hesitant to read The Sea because of all the fanfare – too often I've been let down by an author due in part to the abundance of media hype and accolades that sadly  rarely live up to the actual novel. In fact, lately I've been making a habit of not reading book reviews before I pick up a book, so that my mental palette is somewhat 'clean' when I dive into the story. Does anyone else do this? Anyway, the main reason I chose to read The Sea was because the delightful young lady who works at at Book City in The Bloor West Village raved about it, and her taste in books is exquisite (though we did part ways with Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. Ugh).

I don't want to go into too much detail about the story, and really, for some there may appear to be not much of  a story at all. Max Morden is a middle-aged Irishman who is grieving over the recent death of his wife. He decides to go back to the seaside town where he spent his summer holidays as a child, as a means of coping with the loss of his wife, but also to travel back in time to the one summer when he met the Graces, an intriguing family who had a powerful hold over him as a child, and in fact the events of that one summer with the Graces changes Max forever. But really, this description of the story does it no justice at all.

This is not a novel full of action-packed detail, but rather a deep internal dialogue of one man's struggle to cope with the many disappointments of his life. Personally, I love this kind of novel more than any other, I think. The phrase based on a true story really turns my stomach. Give me fiction in all its beauty and lies, because that's where I can find the truths that I can really hold onto. Does that make any sense? As I read this novel, I could not help but think of my own life, and my own past, and the secrets and sufferings that haunt me. Max's story is I think the sad private struggle that everyone experiences, for doesn't the past beat inside all of us like a second heart?

How Could I Forget?

Here's one more Christmas book recommendation that slipped my mind – shame on me! In my world, it's not really Christmas unless you're snuggled up in your favourite jammies with a hot drink, a warm blanket and a few fat kitties, and you're reading Christmas At The New Yorker. This was one of my Christmas gifts last year (hugs and kisses, Guido!), and I shall read it every Christmas from now on, as part of my Christmas reading rituals.

The book is a delicious cornucopia of stories, poems, humour and art all about this crazy time of year. Beautiful New Yorker Christmas covers are scattered throughout the book, both old and more contemporary illustrations. I found this one particularly charming, as I've always had a sweet spot for the artwork of Helen Hopkinson:

You will recognize some of the Christmas stories in this collection from Alberto Manguel's Penguin Book of Christmas Stories, but there are many other wonderful contributors, such as: H.L. Mencken, Odgen Nash, Calvin Trillin, E.B. White, Roger Angell, S.J. Perelman, Harold Ross and James Thurber.

At the end of the book is a delightful selection of New Yorker Christmas poems, which may not exactly put you in the traditional Christmas spirit, but will certainly make you laugh and ponder:

Christmas Family Reunion
Peter De Vries – 1949

Since last the tutelary hearth
Has seen this bursting pod of kin,
I've thought how good the family mold,
How solid and how genuine.

Now once again the aunts are here,
The uncles, sisters, brothers,
With candy in the children's hair,
The grownups in each other's.

There's talk of saving room for pie;
Grandma discusses her neuralgia.
I long for time to pass so I
Can think of all this with nostalgia.

One last tidbit from this charming book. Probably my favourite Charles Addams cartoon, ever:

Read Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

The Holiday Season is a very busy time, but I do hope that everyone does try and set aside some quality reading time, as a Christmas present to oneself. I sure plan on it! And what is Christmas, if one does not partake in the reading of stories specifically about this glorious time of year? If you are bored with the usual Christmas reading fare on your plate, or you simply cannot think of anything to read at all that speaks of this festive, and yes, sometimes not-so-festive Season, then please allow me to suggest some interesting titles to add to your Christmas reading list:

Auggie Wren's Christmas Story
by Paul Auster with illustrations by Isol
I'm always attracted to small-sized books, and this is certainly one of the reasons I picked up this gem. It's a small hard-cover illustrated book that sits comfortably in one's hand, and is a visual joy, as well as being a charming Christmas tale. If you  know anything about the work of Paul Auster, then you'll know that he often writes himself into his works of fiction, and this little tale is no different – the author is in a funk because he has been asked by The New York Times to write a Christmas story that will appear in the paper on Christmas morning, but Auster's problem is that he has no idea how to write such a story without it becoming predictably sentimental. Lucky for Auster, his friend Auggie Wren (love the name!) says he will tell Auster the best Christmas story ever, as long as Auster buys him lunch. And so begins Wren's anything-but-sentimental Christmas fable, all about giving and truth and stealing. The collage-like illustrations by Isol are perfect for this tale – quirky and engaging, and, yes, anything but sentimental. Here's one of my fave illos from the book, and if you know anything about me, you'll understand why I like this illo so much!

Holidays On Ice
by David Sedaris
What's The Holidays without some good ol' fashioned Christmas dysfunction? Anyone can write a jolly good Christmas tale, but it takes a special kind of person to look at this Season with a dark, twisted and hilarious eye. David Sedaris' collection of six twisted Christmas stories reminds us that this time of year can often go seriously wrong, and so above all else, we must be able to retain our sense of humour (a few stiff drinks couldn't hurt, either). I especially enjoyed his first tale, SantaLand Diaries about Sedaris' crazy experiences working as an elf at Macy's. Also memorable is Season's Greetings to Our Friends and Family!!! one of those oh-so-familiar-and-damned-annoying family Christmas newsletters that gradually begings to dissolve into a litany of horrid dysfunctional incidences. Good fun for the whole family! And of course, I adore the cover design. Makes me thirsty just looking at it...

Feast of the Seven Fishes:
The Collected Comic Strip & Italian Holiday Cookbook
Written by Robert Tinnell, Art by Ed Piskor & Alex Saviuk,
Cookbook Author/Editor Shannon Tinnell
Now this is not your average graphic novel, to be sure. A story about Christmas, and family, and love and Italian culture and...fish. Lots and lots of fish...eaten at, of all times, Christmas! Ya see, I'm one of those munga cakes who thinks of Christmas dinner in terms of Turkey and stuffing and mashed taters – not...fish!!

Originally created as an online comic strip, Feast of the Seven Fishes developed a loyal audience, and so the creators decided to publish the story in book format, along with recipes of some of the dishes at the end of the story. So not only will you discover what life was like in Greentown, USA for an Italian-American family during the early 80s,  but you'll also find out how to make Stuffed Calamari in Tomato Sauce, Marinated Eel, Baccala, and probably the only thing I could eat from this list, Tiramisu.

Feast of the Seven Fishes is full of warmth and humour and cursing – all of the best things in life. It's close to Christmas Eve, and Tony Oliverio meets Beth, the queen of all munga cakes, and decides to invite her to his family's Christmas Eve dinner, the feast of the seven fishes, which not only involves a lot of drinking and eating, but also includes plenty of playful bickering and cussing from Tony's colourful collection of relatives. Will Beth be welcomed into Tony's family? Will she enjoy herself? Will there be a future for Beth and Tony? You'll have to read the book to find out!

The Penguin Book of Christmas Stories
Edited by Alberto Manguel
Also published under the title The Ecco Book of Christmas Stories, this collection is definitely a keeper. Alberto Manguel, the Renaissance Man of the New Millennium and bonafide Bibliophile Extraordinaire has brought together in this book some of the most charming, beautiful, mysterious, sad and touching Christmas stories every to be found. The warmth and sadness of Capote's A Christmas Memory brought tears to my eyes; Richard Ford's Crèche was jarring and also touched with sadness and a dash of hope; and Muriel Spark's The Leaf-Sweeper was a fascinating mixture of humour and melancholy. Other talented contributors to this collection include Alice Munro, Vladimir Nabokov, Mavis Gallant, Grahame Greene and John Cheever.

This is not a jolly little book of Christmas stories, to be sure, but if one is a fully formed individual, one knows well enough that Christmas, though wonderful for many, can also be a time of pain and lonliness for others. As much as I love Christmas, I myself am often touched with a (thankfully brief) deep melancholy during this time – I find it a bittersweet holiday, for not only am I reminded of how fortunate I am compared to others who are not, but it also marks the last few days of the end of the year. For me Christmas is more about death than birth (please don't think me too morbid), because it is the death of another year, a strange reminder of the mortality of all of us. Perhaps if I believed in the story of Jesus, and what he brings for all of us, I would find more comfort during this time, but alas, I do not. Faith is not something that can be bought at the downtown mall, along with your Christmas lights and wrapping paper. That does not mean that I am a miserable sod during this time, only that my happiness is mixed. And for some odd reason, I like that feeling. I like to be reminded of the sad things in life, how fleeting joy can be, and this collection of stories brings all those muddled feelings of mine to life. Every time I open this book I know I am not alone in my feelings – there are others out there, much more talented than I, who can express the ambiguity of this time of year in just a few short pages.

For anyone else who may feel as I do during this season, I highly recommend this wonderful collection.

Uncomfortable Reading

A cold, wet, rainy long weekend seemed to be the perfect time to pick up Jonathan Franzen's new book, The Discomfort Zone: A Personal History, and delve into some personal discomfort – a bit of mine, and a whole hell of a lot of Franzen's. Rainy weekends always make me more reflective and melancholy, though in a good way. I enjoy this kind of blue, and I suppose Franzen does, too – in a really please stop doing that kind of way.

The book is relatively small (195 pages) and comprises 6 personal essays, two of which have previously been published in the New Yorker. I don't mind recycled writing, as long as it's good. (I still love the Peanuts essay, Two Ponies, but by God that self-indulgent mess My Bird Problem was just bloody awful. First time I've ever skipped paragraphs while reading Franzen, 'cuz it just hurt too much). Don't get me wrong, I still contend that Franzen is a very talented writer (his first essay in Discomfort, House For Sale, is a very touching piece), but where the hell he is going these days, is anyone's guess. (Some have suggested, that he is going straight up his own ass, and part of me is having a hard time refuting that argument). Why is he writing this stuff? Has he nothing else to say in fiction format? That's not to say, of course, that he writes bad essays. How to Be Alone was a fine collection. But Discomfort Zone should never have happened. Do I really need to know the details of how he lost his virginity? Do I care? Do I really want to read personal letters written to him by his emotionally suffocating mother? And sweet Jesus, do I really need to know that up until the age of 18, Franzen had apparently never masturbated? Well, I'm sure that this embarrassing mental jerk-off has sufficiently made up for his adolescent stupidity. I know. I'm being mean. But I'm not the only one who's disappointed, ok?

One thing in the book which pleased me: As I was re-reading his Peanuts essay, I came upon the 2nd last paragraph, and was astounded that I hadn't previously fully taken in the significance of Franzen's words:

And I wonder why "cartoonish" remains such a pejorative. It took me half my life to achieve seeing my parents as cartoons. And to become more perfectly a cartoon myself: what a victory that would be.

Well, here ya go, Franzen. 'Cuz I think you're gonna need all the victories you can get.

Death Delights Me

Like I mentioned recently, I've been feeling a tad blue of late due to my work overload and my inability to play around the house and yard with complete abandon. At times like this when I'm a bit down, I often will revert to reading material that I know will cheer me up. So I put my regular reading on hold, and picked up a couple of P.D. James books: Shroud for a Nightingale and The Lighthouse. I find that a spot of jolly good Brit murder always cheers me up. Am I the only one who finds P.D. James to be comforting reading?

Anyway, once those books were done, I still wasn't quite ready to get back to my regular fare – I needed a little spot more of some deathly good writing. Remember Me: A Lively Tour of the New American Way of Death by Lisa Takeuchi Cullen really hit that death spot.

If you enjoyed Mary Roach's Stiff: The Curious Life of Human Cadavers, then I think Remember Me will be an interesting, if not amusing and slightly bizarre read for you.

I have yet to do anything about planning my end. It's just not high on my list of things to do. And I'm not big on pomp and ritual (the hubby and I got married at city hall, I wore a dress borrowed from my sister-in-law, and the hubby's best buddy drove us in his pick-up truck to the Royal York Hotel for our honeymoon), so I certainly wouldn't want my funeral to be a big deal. But that sure ain't the attitude for a lot of people in America, especially those boomers with all that disposable cash and plenty of ego. Remember Me's Ms. Cullen takes us on a tour of the new vision for deathly rituals – everything from biodegradable "green" burials to turning your loved one's ashes into Diamonds(!) to modern mummification. The standard drop in the box and stone on top is soooo yesterday, honey. Perhaps you'd like your loved one's ashes (or yourself?) to be scattered at sea? For a price, it can be done. Or better yet, why not have your ashes placed in an artificial reef? Your cremated remains (or as they say in the death biz, cremains) will be buried at sea, and you'll become part of a state-sanctioned reef-rebuilding project and within months host an active community of fish and wildlife. Even though you'd have shuffled off this mortal coil, you'd still be doing good for the environment. Hell, that's more than a lot of people do who are still breathing, baby.

Ms. Cullen also turns our attention to how the funeral biz is changing (more and more people are choosing the cremains path), how you can, if you so desire, be plasticized in the name of science (and big bucks) once you meet your end, as well as how much fun you can have at the annual Frozen Dead Guy Days festival in Nederland Colorado. Remember Me is an an amusing, funny, and at times quite heartfelt study of how Americans are choosing to design their ends. It certainly got me thinking a bit more about what I should do once I bite the dust. I kinda like how the over-the-top cheezy author Jacqueline Susann did it – she had her cremains placed in a special container, styled like a hardcover book, with "Jacqueline Susann 1918-1974" stamped on the front-cover side. Buried in a book. I do like that! Just don't try and read me in the bathtub, ok?

Ceased to Enjoy This Pretty Damn Early

I'm swamped. Utterly swamped. But I'm still carving out time for reading; it's just writing blog posts that has become difficult! Before the next big wave of work hits, I wanted to jot down some thoughts on a book I recently read. I know, the blog post title is none too subtle. I did not like this book. Which for so many reasons, is too bad.

First of all, the author, Billie Livingston, wrote a previous novel, (her first) Going Down Swinging, which I enjoyed tremendously. So yes, I was expecting something as clever, insightful and tight as her first work. Not entirely fair, but that's why we readers go for an author's second kick at the can, right? Another reason why I was so looking forward to Cease to Blush was because of the subject matter Ms Livingston chose to write about. In the various blurbs and reviews I read about this book, the story was described as a smart, funny, poignant look at a mother-daughter relationship, as well as a challenging and irreverant look at the women's movement in the past 40 years or so.

I really should just stop reading all those damn reviews.

To be blunt and heartless, this book is a mess. It's starts off in an amusing manner, with our heroine Vivian, the antithesis of her lesbian feminist mother Josie, showing up late for her mother's funeral, and wearing a somewhat skanky red dress, to the shock and disgust of all Josie's die-hard feminist friends. From there, it just falls from one embarrassing cliche to another until the core of this book just crumbles into your hands, unable to support itself from the weight of the embarrassingly predictable dialogue and plot. The predictable plot? The daughter finds out (too late! Sob!) that her mother had a secret past as an exotic dancer and singer, and even hung with all those hip dudes from the Rat Pack in Vegas, baby. So what does Vivian do? Go on a road trip, of course, in search of the real Mom! There are the required flashbacks of Mom groovin' with fellahs like Sinatra and Dean, and even a little trist with the likes of Bobby Kennedy no less! If I had wanted to read about the history of the Rat Pack, I would have gone to the Biography section, or rented a few cheezy movies. I read that whole damn book and found very little mother-daughter drama, not to mention no real insightful discussion of the women's movement, past or present.

And that's the real shame, because I'd love to read some good fiction which looks at the history of the women's movement, in say, the past 40-ish years. Something smart and funny. And maybe a little cynical. Something that might help me define how I feel about feminism these days. I'm definitely one of those women who feel hesitant to call herself a feminist, and I'm not entirely sure why. I certainly appreciate all that has happened in the past so that I can live a pretty darn good life in the present, but I still see around me messages which tell me that all is not ok. I'm not the kind of woman who is a strident feminist; I'm not obsessed with political correctness in the extreme (for example, I don't consider it demeaning if someone calls me a 'girl', nor do I think it is wrong to use the word 'rape' in the context of the destruction of our environment, ie, the rape of our precious resources). But it does annoy me to see women portrayed in movies and TV as nothing but objects of sex or violence. That's certainly one of the reasons I don't watch much TV these days. Every other TV show is about some beautiful girl who has been raped and murdered, and her crime is being solved by some extremely foxy lady. I find that a tad perverse. Am I prudish? Perhaps, in some areas. I'm definitely not a girly-girl; I find conversations focusing on clothes, make-up and jewellry to be deadly dull. In fact, I find girly-girls to be rather annoying, and if I run through a mental list of all my girlfriends, I realize that not one of them is a girly-girl. Quite frankly, I get really turned off by women I encounter who use their sexuality to get what they want in life. Why is Marilyn Monroe so revered? I've never been able to figure that out, and I find it next to impossible to watch an entire movie with her and her beathless bosomy antics bouncing across the screen. Give me Ava Gardner any day of the week. How does Billie Livingston feel about all these issues? I certainly didn't figure it out by reading this book. And Ms. Livingston herself is quite the looker: a former model and still part-time actress who has also become a published author and poet. Interestingly enough, just about every article I have read about Ms. Livingston always mentions her jarring beauty. All part of the package these days, when it comes to selling books. How far have we really come?

So what kind of feminist am I? I'm still trying to figure it out. Unfortunately, Ms. Livingston wasn't much help. Cease to Blush was a great idea, but a very disappointing execution. Sort of like how I sometimes feel about feminism these days.

"Women without principles," the Marquis de Sade wrote, "are never more dangerous than at the age when they have ceased to blush."

I'd say they're never more dangerous than when they have ceased to think.

Bel Canto

I wanted to say a few words about this book because quite a few people enjoyed it and recommended it, and there's been quite a bit of chatter about Bel Canto in the blogosphere.

I gotta say... I didn't like it.

Here are my reasons:
I'm not a big fan of overly romantic, flowery writing, and that's how I found Ann Patchett's writing to be. Her descriptions of music and opera and how Roxanne's voice affects everyone really started to get on my nerves.

The characters were dull, uninspired and two-dimensional. I did not like one single person in that book. But I didn't really dislike anyone either. They were just there. Blah. Other than the fact that yes, remarkably everyone in that house just looooooved opera, what real character development existed? And quite frankly, I thought Patchett portrayed the nationalities of the main hostages in a very cliche manner, which was a real turn-off. I also thought that her knowledge of opera was pretty limited and two-dimensional as well. I would have appreciated more depth in that area, since it was a key element in the novel.

The story was totally unbelievable (Terrorists with hearts of gold? Give me a break). And the ending was ridiculous. Didn't anyone feel that she just kind of threw in a quicky ending just to finish the damn thing? What a disappointment.

I thought that the concept for the novel was intriguing (which is one of the reasons why I read the book), but I just found Patchett's approach to be so juvenile and Pollyanish. I suppose it's the cynic in me. If the book had been harsher and grittier, I might have been able to swallow it.

I recall quite a few people mentioning that this book was based on a true story. Could someone please direct me to this story? I'd like to find out more about the real events and see if they are similar to the novel. Perhaps that will melt my cold, cynical heart.