Falling for Keats

Winter in Korea is not easy, especially for a Californian. It snowed on Tuesday and the stuff, instead of melting away to nothing as it does in Albuquerque, has gone from charming white fluff to hard, menacing ice. Navigating sidewalks is dicey, no matter how practical my footwear is (I wore sneakers to work yesterday).

What with the weather in its dismal state (-20 degrees Celsius? How does that really actually happen?) and me with my warm, cozy little nest, I haven't felt the desire to do anything, least of all blog. I'm sorry about that, to all four of you that read my blog.

However, I ran across a poem by John Keats today that tugged at me. I'm not really great with reading poetry- I allow my emotions to dictate whether or not I like something, and I don't really pause to analyze or delve into the poem until I've read the thing a few times.

This poem got me upon my first reading, to the point that I read it again, aloud, because I wanted to hear the words:

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art -
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors -
No - yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft swell and fall,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever - or else swoon to death.

It's a little overly dramatic (he wasn't a Romantic poet for nothing) and even, perhaps, juvenile, but it still grabbed me, took my interest, and actually made me feel something. I'm thinking that I should watch "Bright Star" this weekend, though I haven't heard great things about the movie.

I just love the feelings that this poem evokes, so I'll tentatively hope for a similar outcome from the film.

No internet and no TV in my apartment (officetel) yet, but I have a bed, table, and chairs. Still a rather empty place, no decorations to speak of ... but it's easy to clean and I don't really need more stuff, other than broadband. Having no internet is like chopping off a leg, but this winter weather makes me lethargic and incapable of doing more than the most menial of tasks. Seriously, why don't humans hibernate?

Work is a stormy. The company is in flux. I don't think I should blog about it, so I won't. My workdays, for the moment, are confined to (less than) eight hours, so I'm going to be content with that.

Randoms:

- I was a little stunned and sad to read about Heather and Jon Armstrong's marriage breaking up. It's irrational, I know, because I don't actually know those people, but I've been reading Dooce for years, and I felt like those crazy kids would make it.

- Just learned this week that Daniel Craig and Rachel Weisz got married. What the what?

- Haven't watched American TV in months and am not missing it. Not even "Glee" or "House" or "Boardwalk Empire." There may be something wrong with me.

- Have been reading a ton of P.G. Wodehouse and Arthur Conan Doyle, because when one has no TV in one's house, one resorts to reading e-books to pass the time.

- Also been playing Tiny Tower and Pucca's Restaurant. Ridiculously addicted to both.

That's it. I have some phone photos to post ... next week. The weekend is for lazing about and avoiding the outdoors (and the tundra-like temperatures) as much as possible. Whee!

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Inspired to Read

I have books on the brain!

First of all, I am currently reading "The Season of the Witch," by Natasha Mostert. I'm in LA, I needed a bit of a mental reprieve from anything too thought-provoking. It's good so far, full of just enough angst and weird witchy incidents to keep me interested. It's fluff, nothing life-altering, but fun- something like a beach read, but for dark and gloomy days, when staying in is so much nicer than going out.

Plus, she gets bonus points for having games on her website. Any author committed enough to figure out how to get two themed games onto their website is okay in my book (har, har).

Second of all, my sister and I had a very nice, relaxing dinner at home last night, bunny hopping about underfoot, and then watched "The Jane Austen Book Club." It's actually based off a book (of course) of the same name, about a group that gets together and starts up a book club, solely reading six books by Jane Austen. (Yes, I plan on reading the book.)

The film is very simple, very easy, but still sweet and cute. These six people decide to read one Jane Austen book each month, then gather to discuss it. And as the movie proceeds, we see that each person becomes the embodiment of an Austen character (my favorite being Mario Bello as Emma).

Nothing insane or completely cliche really happens- it does a pretty good job of portraying everyday life, with the mundane things that happen to us all. There is a montage in the beginning of the movie that's very ho-hum and really set a great mood- things like credit cards not working, and having to slide the card over and over again in the card reader.

Each character is, out of necessity, rather a caricature of someone. Exploring the depths of six people is near impossible in a film, after all- but the caricatures were done well, with a delicate touch. I liked each character, flaws and all, which is pretty impressive, since I'm a very critical movie watcher and have been known to instantly dislike a character based off their voice or their opening line.

Most importantly, this book reminded me of the existence of Jane Austen. I've read "Emma," "Pride and Prejudice," and "Sense and Sensibility," and I enjoyed all of them. I think at the time, I had also read "Jane Eyre" and was much more into the drama of that book, but I distinctly recall laughing during "Emma." So why haven't I read them again? Me, the stubborn re-reader of books?

I'm not sure, but I have no good reason not to pick them up again. I will read all of Jane Austen's books this year- my first resolution of this year, and one that is quite easy to keep.

I'm having a bit of a faltering of faith in my personal life at the moment, concerning some people around me. It's been made worse by my visit to LA, since they are in this city, so I'm struggling to deal with that in a logical way before I leave. Once I get back to Albuquerque, I feel like things will settle.

Who knew that I would actually miss Albuquerque?? Here I am, missing it!

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Ten Influential Authors

A while back, William and Diana posted their lists of books that influenced their views of the world. Of course I'm going to pilfer the idea, why wouldn't I??

I tried to narrow this down to ten books, but I really couldn't (it almost became a list of 100 books!), so I stuck with ten authors (well, not counting #10, but let's not split hairs).

Here's my list:

1. The Fountainhead and Anthem, by Ayn Rand.
I can't even begin to describe what I felt while I was reading The Fountainhead for the first time. It changed my views on what it means to be "right," what it means to be "happy." I didn't know angst could be such an integral part of adult life. I still have a copy of both books, and I re-read them pretty regularly, every time I need a dose of that odd mixture of despair and hope. Ayn Rand has a very distinctive voice, and I appreciated the message of Anthem- a call for independence and individuality, for a divorce from hive logic.

2. Books by P.G. Wodehouse.
Notably, I love the Jeeves and Wooster books. How can anyone not love dry English humor? I love the spare language, the crisp sentences. These books are funny without even trying, which makes them even funnier. They're light and easy but also have genuine messages, and they just tickle my fancy. I love, love, love these books. I feel energized and ready to tackle the world after reading them.

3. Books by Agatha Christie.
The definitive detective stories of my youth. I love her language, the unique way that she constructed her tales. This was a thinking woman that had to remain pretty much a straight-laced Englishwoman throughout the life, and I think that kind of strain comes through in her books. I love Miss Marple, I adore Hercule Poirot, and I thoroughly enjoy how everyday and commonplace she made gory crimes like murder.


4. Sherlock Holmes, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Lots of English writers on my list, I don't quite know why. They have a defter touch with language, I think, and I appreciate that.
I love the whole idea of Sherlock Holmes. Somebody without superpowers, but with an iron will and an obsession, an obstinacy, to get to the bottom of things. I think "House" is the modern-day equivalent, which probably explains why I love that show so much. I like how flawed the hero is, how completely unlikable, and yet, by the mere powers of his abilities, he will always be respected and sought after. That's both Sherlock Holmes and House, to me.


5. A Wrinkle In Time, by Madeleine L'Engle.
No, I do not appreciate the sequels as much as I love the original. The following books being A Wind in the Door, Many Waters, and A Swiftly Tilting Planet- I recommend reading them once, but once is enough.
The original book was magical, something that made me dream and wonder and fantasize as a child. I think I first read this book when I was about eight, and every time I re-read it, I got something new. Now, reading it as an adult, I can still appreciate the magic, but also see the darker undercurrents and the reality of fear in this book. Also, I really love how food is described, for some reason, with such simple words but such perfection. I am not a dog person (I'm a cat person), but this book made me want a dog. That's how good it is.

6. The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho.
Over-hyped, yes. But still a great, great book. It's blasphemous for me to say this, I'm sure, but I think this is almost like a condensed version of the Bible. I like books about journeys, about getting to a destination only to realize that said destination is not paradise. I enjoy books where characters very obviously grow and discover new things (this is probably why I liked The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao), because I think that it gives me faith that I will also grow and find new things. Maybe it's just that I enjoy books that give me a sense of hope, no matter how false that sense may be.

7. Ender's Game, by Orson Scott Card.
Yes, indeed, another children's book. Its sequel, Speaker for the Dead, was not nearly as good as the original. This book is so weird in that it is literally about a small child playing a game. Somehow, there is a lot going on during this game, things that are implied but never stated outright, and that fascinated me. People overuse the analogy that life is a game, but this book proved to me how life could be a game, and why. I love the characters, even the "evil" ones, and I love that the main characters are children. Children are the undiluted versions of adults, without censors, without a strong sense of propriety, and this book really displays how true that is.

8. The Sandman, by Neil Gaiman.
I admit, these are a series of graphic novels. My excuse is that first of all, this is my list! Second of all, I went to art school. I think I'm entitled to admiring graphic novels and comic books.
The characters intrigued me, right off the bat. The idea of a group of siblings called The Endless, each with their own domain, reminded me of Greek and Roman gods, an interest I have always had. The siblings are Destiny, Death, Dream (the Sandman), Destruction, Despair, Desire, and Delirium (who used to be Delight- a whole separate tangent). The siblings are all interesting, all fascinating in their own ways. I love the countless storylines used, the many plots woven, and the base idea of it all. The art is (generally) beautiful, as well. Fantastic.

9. The Princess Bride, by William Goldman.
A classic! The movie actually is almost as good as the book, which I cannot say for any other book/movie that I've watched (Harry Potter, I'm looking at you). A funny, irreverent book that makes no sense, breaks all rules of properly written fiction, and yet manages to be a sweet love story. Can you ask for anything more than that?

10. The Bible.
Of course.

I absolutely love books. If this was a longer list, I would have mentioned more children's books, like Roald Dahl, Dr. Seuss, Shel Silverstein, Philip Pullman, Donald J. Sobol, and others that I can't think of off the top of my head. Not just children's books- I also love Roald Dahl's books for adults, O. Henry, Edgar Allan Poe, David Sedaris, William Gibson, Michael Crichton (don't knock my crap taste), Stephen King, Lawrence Sanders, Charles Dickens, Jane Austen, the Bronte sisters- the list could go on for days. And comic books or graphic novels, too!- Frank Miller, Bill Watterson (oh, Hobbes, how I love you!), Brooke McEldowney, Kyle Baker, so many more.

Limiting the list to ten authors was tough, but I'm happy with the list above. They have definitely informed my viewpoint, have shaped the way I look and think about words. I love words (I have a blog, after all) and I love paper. Books are a wonderful combination of the two, and there is nothing that feels quite like breaking open a brand new book, with hard black letters on crisp pages. The smell of ink on paper is so lovely, and there is nothing more solidly comforting to me than carrying a stack of books, just waiting to be read.

I am re-reading The Fountainhead at the moment, because I unpacked it recently and whenever I see it, I can't resist reading it. This is probably why I don't read new books very often, because I'm so often enticed by my old standbys.

Happy reading and happy weekend!

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The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, by Junot Diaz

Hey-o, William and Kate, I actually have been reading the blog, I promise- just behind on commenting, that's all. Also, I refuse the read posts about books I plan to blog about, so that I can't be unduly influenced. I'm very easily swayed by others. (I'm not going to read Waiting, not just this minute, anyway.)

I read The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao in Korea, while my cousin abandoned me (just kidding, 오빠- mostly) and I was stuck in a town (Seoul) I didn't know, on Lunar New Year weekend, when not much was open. (It is so bizarre, but it feels like I went to Korea about three years ago. Hawaii must have a numbing effect on the mind. Or I pickled my brain with rum.)

I distinctly remember being rather cold while I read this book, and warming up when I read it. Not because the story is so warm and cuddly and sweet (it's NOT), but because Diaz describes hot, humid weather so well that I could feel it. As a child of the desert, I break into a sweat whenever someone even mentions the word "humidity"- that's how much I loathe it.

First off, the footnotes and the Spanish:

- Footnotes: let me be clear. I might work in films now, but I am still and will always forever be a nerd. I like footnotes, because I like being overwhelmed with information. There is no such thing as knowing too many facts. However, footnotes hinder the flow of reading, in a way- it interrupts the story to insert generally relevant and often amusing snippets.

- Spanish: I understand a bit of Spanish, enough to just skate by. Anyone that grew up in Southern California has a rusty knowledge of Spanish. But my grasp on the language was not nearly enough for this book, especially because of all the slang. I read this entire book with my phone by my side, to Google any unknown Spanish words. That doesn't really work well on colloquial phrases, let me tell you. I also found the abundance of Spanish to be a hindrance in the flow of reading. (It did make me wonder if there will ever be a book written in Konglish, with Korean sprinkled into the English without any explanation. There are plenty of books written in Spanglish, after all, and even Franglish. I hate myself for using these stupid portmanteaus, I promise.)

That's out of the way, whew.

Though the footnotes and the Spanish were a bit on the distracting side, I found that Diaz is such an engrossing author that I was easily caught back into the narrative. I loved the style- a bit unconventional, far left of proper prep-school English, and with rather broken grammar- and I loved the characters. A lot. I had a very clear picture in my head of what these people looked like, how they were dressed, and the tics and mannerisms that would characterize them.

Yes, there were some cliches and rather a lot of what I thought was stereotyping, but it worked for this particular book. The nerd, the cool guy, the Latina with attitude, the overbearing mother- all things that have been written before. (Especially the overbearing mother, which reminded me of a vastly different Spanglish (Spanish translated to English, this time) book, Like Water for Chocolate, by Laura Esquivel- no, I have not watched the movie, don't ask.) Esquivel took a more gentle approach, with soft references and rounded allusions, whereas Diaz took a harder approach, with rough words, rougher actions, and a lot of in-your-face circumstances.

I guess I should get to what the book was actually about. Oscar Wao is a fat nerd. It's about his life and his visits to the Dominican Republic.

Seriously.

Yes, based on the plot alone, this book is interesting. But I think the character development, the unveiling of the truth in each character, really made this a great book. I define "great book" as one that makes me think, that stays on my mind, and that I want to read again. This one was great- I reread random portions of it, I think about what nighttime in the Dominican Republic would look like, and sometimes, I can almost taste the blood in my mouth, though I've never been beaten up in my life.

I know that I would never be able to think up a story like this one, which makes me appreciate Diaz's work even more.

The words of warning, though: This is not an easy book to read. There are footnotes and Spanish, remember? Also, there are acutely uncomfortable events and horrible things that happen to mostly innocent people. I think that if I had read this book in high school, it would have given me nightmares. Once you get through all that, if you can, you're left with almost an exhaustion, as if you've lived through Oscar's life yourself.

Great. Book.

(Great choice, Overdue Fines!)

As for Book #3, I really did read The Devil in the White City, by Erik Larson. I just didn't remember that I had already written a post on it until ... now. Forgetful, thy name is Jeanny.

Current reading material is nowhere near as literary as Oscar Wao, but it's fun and it's kind of mesmerizing- The Bourne Identity, by Robert Ludlum. I picked it up at the Honolulu airport. Much better than the movie, and I really like the movie! Another two hundred pages to go, then I'll think about the next book.

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Burton-y Christmas

Lots of posts today. Busy Saturday!

We received crew gifts today for the holidays. And they couldn't be more amazing:

"The Art of Tim Burton" is a hefty book full of pretty and creepy pictures. It's very Tim Burton, with his silhouette on the cover, wild hair and all (yes, his hair, it really does look like that).

I love it.

Also, if you look at the list of contributors on the publisher's website, scroll down. See that name? No, not Helena Bonham Carter, keep going... no, not Deep Roy, you went too far! See Ken Ralston?

That is a person that I see every single day, the man that is at the top here at Sony Imageworks. He's been in the industry a long time, and most people in visual effects know his name. He's also published in Tim Burton's book!

Makes it seems that much more real ... this movie's coming out in less than three months. I usually don't have these realizations until much closer to the release date, but this show's been different in many, many ways.

Back to work I go.

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The Gift of the Magi, by O. Henry

One of my favorite short stories of all time is by O. Henry, or William Sydney Porter. My father was an English major in college, and he had an old, yellowed book of O. Henry's short stories. I believe I picked it up and read it for the first time in sixth grade, then again in junior high school. And then I kept re-reading it, because the stories are so good, so unbelievably succinct but poignant.

For the past couple weeks, I have desperately tried to start reading "The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao" for William's quasi-book club. It has not worked at all. I've been so consumed with work lately that I don't even have time to check out my favorite websites, something that doesn't even take very long. Taking time to change into pajamas feels wasteful- that's how immersed into work I have become.

I'm too tired to do much, and I'm in disbelief and shock that tomorrow is Christmas Eve (technically, it's now Christmas Eve- it's past midnight already!). I'm certainly not ready for Christmas. We're doing a secret Santa gift exchange at work tomorrow, and my level of desperation is such that all I did was buy $25 worth of See's Candy. Literally.

This evening, driving home from work, NPR suddenly aired a piece that gave me pause and forced me to look up from my breakneck pace. It was a woman with a lovely, mellow, slightly creaky voice reading "The Gift of the Magi."

I almost broke down in tears. What a fine kettle of fish that would have been- me, sitting in my car on Venice Boulevard, almost midnight, crying because of a short story. That's my mental state right now, though, and honesty is good, I hear. Something about bottling up emotion leading to something bad?

I stayed in my car for the brief (I think it was only fifteen minutes) broadcast, driving around the city, seeing what changes have taken place in my neighborhood that I have been too busy to notice. I haven't read the O. Henry short stories in a few years, and they all came rushing back to me. Not just "The Gift of the Magi," but also "The Last Leaf," which always made me cry, "The Cop and the Anthem," which always made me laugh, and "A Retrieved Reformation," which always made me think.

"The Gift of the Magi" is wonderful and perfect for Christmas, of course, but also great for those times when we forget how much we have. We, as human beings, tend to forget all that we have, all that we take for granted, and dwell on what we can't get, no matter how much we try. Though the characters in "Magi" are certainly not disadvantaged to the point of poverty or absolutely uninhabitable lives, they are challenged in a very real way- financially.

I sometimes forget what life was like just a few short years ago, when I lived paycheck-to-paycheck and worried constantly about money. It's been such a brief time since I have not worried about how I would pay my bills, but already, my fickle brain has forgotten what that worry felt like.

This story brought all my initial "adult" hardships rushing back to me and made me truly realize- Christmas is here.

The Gift of the Magi
O. Henry

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty- seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.

There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.

While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James Dillingham Young."

The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.

Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling--something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.

There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.

Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.

So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.

Where she stopped the sign read: "Mne. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie."

"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.

"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it."

Down rippled the brown cascade.

"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.

"Give it to me quick," said Della.

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation--as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value--the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.

When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends--a mammoth task.

Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.

"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do--oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty- seven cents?"

At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.

Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please God, make him think I am still pretty."

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two--and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.

Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.

Della wriggled off the table and went for him.

"Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again--you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say `Merry Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice-- what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."

"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.

"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?"

Jim looked about the room curiously.

"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.

"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you--sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?"

Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year--what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.

"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first."

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.

For there lay The Combs--the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims--just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.

But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"

And them Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.

"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.

"Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on."

The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.

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Books, Books, Books!

I am so amazed by Nina Sankovitch. She's doing a sort of Julie Powell, but more specific. Whereas Julie Powell had the rather loose (but immensely ambitious) goal of cooking through Julia Child's "Mastering the Art of French Cooking" in a year, Nina Sankovitch's goal is very, very specific: Read one book every single day. No repeats- each author only once, no books previously read before the year started.

I thought perhaps she was reading Sweet Valley High books, or some other such inane dribble that wouldn't require much thought, but no. She's reading some intense books, some very long books, some literary classics- a bit of everything.

I wish that I had the time to commit to a project like this. I love books with a passion that I have for very few things. Something about the paper, the serif-y font crawling across the pages, the smell of the binding glue ... it's magic between a front and back cover, with a spine holding it all together.

I know that I knock my profession a lot, but here's another sound wallop: Books convey more than movies ever could. Books can and often do encompass all five senses. The description of tastes and flavors, the prose used to describe scents, the words dedicated to the feel and textures of things- none of these can ever be properly captured on film.

People (ahem, students) often cheat and watch the movie version of a book that they are supposed to read. It is never the same, and unless that person is some whiz kid, they will never get the same impressions from the movie that they would have from the book.

Two words: Harry. Potter.

I just finished "Life Expectancy," by Dean Koontz. I don't generally like Dean Koontz books, but it was sitting on the bookshelf, courtesy of my roommate, so I picked it up.

I devoured that book whole. Well, in two gulps- it took me two nights to finish it. I have a job and (sort of) a life, after all.

It was much better than I thought it would be. It was an easy read, kept me engaged, and I enjoyed it. I don't know if I really enjoyed it because the last books I read were by William Gibson, and therefore made me go through a mini-existential crisis after every other chapter, or if I just legitimately liked the book, but I'm willing to accept either scenario.

When I read a book, regardless of whether or not I liked it, the thing rattles around in my head for a few days, or even for a few weeks, depending on how memorable the book was. "Geek Love," for example, still catches me off-guard every so often. I find my thoughts wandering back towards Oly ... and invariably, where "Geek Love" goes, "Middlesex" follows.

I like these wanderings that my mind takes when I think of books. And I'm not above any type of book- it's true that I won't read those "Twilight" books because I am just vehemently opposed to the brouhaha surrounding those movies, but I loved all the "Harry Potter" books (some more than others) and I read fluffy beach books with no shame (Michael Crichton, Stephen King, Candace Bushnell, and Sophie Kinsella all fall under the "fluffy" category).

I also love biographies (not so much autobiographies, for some reason) and books about, of all things, wars. I appreciate the Bronte sisters but re-read "Ender's Game" with no compunction. I can read cookbooks the same way I read novels, and have very much the same reactions. I love children's books, like "Harold and the Purple Crayon," as much as I love Anne Frank.

All of the books, magazines, newspapers, pamphlets, blogs, articles, and cereal boxes that I have read throughout my life have contributed to who I am now. I am grateful that I loved reading and still love it, so that my brain can refer to all those words.

Nina Sankovitch must have a very zen focus or a very single-minded brain, because if I read an entire book every day, my mind would turn to mush and all I would do is draw and write all day long, to try to get the trapped ideas out of my cranium.

Her year is up at the end of this month, and I am so excited for her. She's been through a lot (read about it on her website) and she deserves the sense of accomplishment that I am sure she will have.

Now I'm off to find my next book. Or maybe I'll re-read a William Gibson book, since I've been thinking about "Spook Country" since I first typed his name...

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The Devil in the White City, by Erik Larson

I first read "The Devil in the White City: Murder, Magic and Madness at the Fair that Changed America" a couple years ago, while I was on a spa vacation with my best friend.

We took a few days and went to a beach town in Orange County (Balboa Beach or Newport Beach, I think) to just ... relax. We got massages, facials, had brunch on the beach-front terrace; it was lovely and serene.

In between spa treatments, we laid out by the pool and read whatever magazines and books my friend had brought along. I needed something to distract me from the horrible, burning sunshine (she's a bronze goddess and I am Snow White, dragged out into the light only under extreme duress), so I decided to go for the gorier book, which happened to be "The Devil in the White City."

I have a strange fascination with murderers and serial killers-- not because I want to be one, but because I cannot fathom why anyone would want to kill someone else or how someone could physically kill someone else. The how really gets to me and gives me the shivers. I think that if I hadn't found visual effects, I might have become a criminologist (certainly not a crime scene investigator- crime scenes are far too dirty).

So, on a sunny California day, lying out on a deck chaise, between a gently rippling blue pool and a slightly choppy Pacific Ocean, I started reading about a disgustingly innovative and freakishly cold serial killer.

I still remember how much my eyes stung, with the sunshine beating down on the cream-colored pages, making the text blur so that the serifs stood out but the remainders of the letters softened. It didn't matter how much I teared up; I couldn't stop reading.

The book is quiet, a clean, spare depiction of America in the 1880s and '90s. I loved Erik Larson's tone, his adjectives. I can't imagine the endless hours of research that he had to do, delving into the actions and mind of a monster- can't see how that didn't make Larson go insane.

He kept his sanity (thankfully) and turned out a book that is part novel, part biography, part history lesson. The World's Columbian Exposition has never been so intriguing before! I actually learned a lot (the man who invented the Ferris wheel, the politics of architecture back in the day) and was kept riveted by the gruesome true story.

This book is not for the squeamish- though it doesn't go into gory detail, just the plainly worded descriptions of some of his actions are despicable.

The way that Larson weaves together the life and times of H. H. Holmes and the architects of the World Expo is amazing. How he could come up with something like that is beyond me- it's weirdly coincidental and alarming how such an event of citywide and nationwide goodwill could be the stage for something so terrible.

Perhaps not the best read for a poolside vacation, but still a great book. I've read it a few more times since and it's still good, still hooks me every time. More fun than a biography, less sensationalist than a novel, perfect for a brain craving a lot of substance with a little sugar to make it go down easily.

Now if only I could find time to re-read this book ... or pick up any number of new books just sitting at home, waiting for me...

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Girl With A Pearl Earring, by Tracy Chevalier

I recall a lot of hype around the film version of "Girl With A Pearl Earring," which came out in December, 2003. I never watched the movie because I didn't think that Scarlett Johansson would be very believable as a Dutch maid. I still don't think I would find her convincing as a Dutch maid, and I know that I won't watch the movie unless someone brings it over and makes me.

Because I didn't know the movie was based on the book (silly me, I thought it was just based on the painting), when I started seeing the thing in bookstores everywhere, I was turned off by the re-vamped covers, with Scarlett's face staring out at me, absolutely nothing going on behind her eyes.

I guess I judged yet another book by its cover, as I am wont to do, and I never even had an ounce of interest in reading this one. Scarlett Johansson, while gorgeous, doesn't really evoke the spirit of a quiet little Dutch girl in the 1600's. (She got more of a club queen in the 1980's thing going, but that's neither here nor there.)

Picking up "Girl With A Pearl Earring" was a complete accident. My sister had bought it, read it, and left it on my bed. She mercifully bought the version with the real painting on the cover, so Scarlett didn't give me her doleful gaze- Vermeer's work gave me that thoughtful gaze instead.

I was sleepy but not able to fall asleep one night (as on most nights) so I picked up the book and started reading. If it makes any sense, I have three types of reading:

1. Full concentration, with the intent of memorizing what I'm reading.

2. Skimming, generally for work, to get the main gist of the generally badly written blabber I'm reading. (It's called spell check and it's already on your computer, people, so USE IT.)

3. Idly, for entertainment. Magazines, paperbacks, the packaging of cosmetic products, that kind of thing.

I picked up "Girl" and started reading idly. I didn't concentrate on it, I just thought it would bore me enough for sleep to come my way.

Completely the opposite- I was hooked.

Tracy Chevalier writes in a manner that I would call "demure" if "demure" didn't seem so prissy. Her writing in quiet, not overly introspective, yet somehow very descriptive. More than once, I re-read a passage and felt a stab of envy. How can such simple words be so evocative?

Griet is a deceptively simple and calm Dutch maid that comes to work for Vermeer and his houseful of complex women and children. Her feelings are never explicitly stated, but I thought they were quite apparent. She doesn't emote, she doesn't chatter, but it's almost like the author intended for the reader to be just on the cusp of Griet's id- I felt Griet's emotion, I knew what she would say if propriety would have allowed.

The story doesn't have a neat path. It doesn't have plotpoints that it tries to hit. It doesn't follow a strict story arc. I liked that aspect, as it felt real and free, rather than contrived. (I also felt that what works so well in this book would not at all work in a movie, furthering my conviction that I won't be watching this film anytime soon.)

I've already read the book twice (some portions more than twice) in the past week, and I know that I'll be reading it again. I love it. Tracy Chevalier's economical, lissome words were exactly what I needed to renew my faith in contemporary authors.

I cannot wait to read her other books, and I cannot wait to re-read "Girl" yet again.

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Fortune's Daughter, by Alice Hoffman

Despite my insane work schedule (more intrusively, my inability to stop thinking about work), I have managed to get some reading in. The past week has exhausted me and made me crave some sense of normalcy. I feel normal when I read, so I've been reading, mostly at the expense of sleeping.

The first book I picked up and read, about a week ago, was "Fortune's Daughter," by Alice Hoffman. I didn't think much of it at first glance. The saying, "Don't judge a book by its cover" is completely correct but also impossible to follow, I've found. How does one not judge a book by its cover? Its design and color palette and author photo? Can it be done? Certainly not by me.

I wasn't much impressed with the cover of "Fortune's Daughter," nor did the title appeal to me. Sounded like it would be the story of a hooker that has a heart of gold, or some other such inane babble. Since I was in a hazy sort of mood, I just started reading without allowing myself to convince my critical side that this book was bound to be a disaster.

I was pleasantly surprised. The book, though easy to read and quick, was poignant and lovely. I empathized with both female characters and one of the male characters. (The other male character left me completely cold.) I could almost feel this book winding up my biological clock, and though it's not ticking yet, it feels like the ticking will commence shortly. Frightening thought, and a testament to how much this book impacted me emotionally.

Alice Hoffman's writing style is spare but lovely, in the way I think is similar to Katherine Dunn, but not quite as bleak or gritty. Though the subject matter and the events of "Fortune's Daughter" are not optimistic or rosy-tinted in the least, I found hope and even strength in the honest, stark way events were described.

I enjoyed this book and plan to read it again, but perhaps when I'm in a better place. With my nerves currently stretched tight and my patience wearing thin, I know that I was far more critical of Jessup (the character I hated) and that single opinion really took away a lot. I zoned out a bit when Jessup's parts of the story came up and daydreamed about a herd of miniature ponies stampeding over him (makes sense in context, I swear).

Rae, smitten with Jessup, warranted a tinge of sympathy from me because of her circumstances. But I did not appreciate or admire her loyalty to (that jerk) Jessup, and that made me dislike her. I didn't feel as much sympathy as I feel I should have. I think if I were less tired, less irritable, those characters wouldn't have gotten to me so much. Maybe.

I'll re-read this book again in July or August, once I'm somewhat rested up, and see how I feel then. My memory being what it is, I'll probably still dislike Rae and Jessup without quite knowing why, other than the vague remembrances of having guinea pigs dancing through my head while I was reading this book the first time around.

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Sweetness in the Belly, by Camilla Gibb

I've been reading rather slowly lately, due to the fact that I don't have any time for leisurely reading. I used to be able to finish a book in a day or two, stretched over lazy evenings spent sprawled on the floor, book splayed out in front of me.

Because of my lack of time, it's a bit miraculous for me to finish any book in less time than a week, snatching fifteen minutes here, half an hour there, and basically squeezing in reading time wherever I can. I'm loathe to give up the only time I have- time spent sleeping- for any other activity, including reading.

The fact that I finished "Sweetness in the Belly" in three days is, to me, proof that the book was well worth the time. I'm not saying that it was the best book I've ever read, but it was an engrossing book.

"Sweetness in the Belly" provoked a few false starts for me. It's been sitting on my bookshelf, forlorn, for months. I kept picking it up and re-reading the jacket, hoping that it would catch my interest. It never did, continuing to turn me off with its description about a white Muslim woman, struggling in life. I mean, really. If that doesn't sound depressing, what does??

I finally gave it a try three days ago. First of all, I hate it when there are unread books around me. Second of all, it's called "Sweetness in the Belly." How dour can it be??

It's dour. It's depressing. It's severe. It's self-flagellating.

It's a great book, wonderfully written. That doesn't mean that it's a fun book. It's certainly not easy to read.



















Camilla Gibb went to live in Ethiopia while she was doing her research for this book, and I think it's very apparent (and appreciated). She describes places and people and attitudes with ease, an ease that comes naturally to someone who's spent time in those places with those people, facing those attitudes.

Her writing, to me, flows best when she's writing about love. Specifically, romantic love. When she talks about love between fellow Muslims, love between fellow countrymen, filial love, the words seem slightly stilted, the cadence slightly off. It's in her writing about the main character and the love she feels that Camilla Gibb really hooked me.

A hugely distracting factor of this book, though, was the complete lack of explanations. I don't mean explanation for the politics in Ethiopia or anything like that- I mean some sort of definition for words that Camilla Gibb tosses in, apparently thinking that I would know what 'qat' is or what 'dorro wat' might be or what sort of word 'muezzin' is.

Some of the words I picked up through context (which is actually how I even remembered the three things I listed above), but other words, which I expected to figure out at some point, I never did. It bothers me not to know what the words are (a dictionary, perhaps? Just in the back, the last two pages ... would save hours of Internet research) because I feel that I am probably missing key points that Ms. Gibb is trying to make. I think if I were to look up all the words I didn't know and then re-read this book, I might have a completely different understanding of it.

After finishing this book, I am still thinking about it, dwelling upon it. I finally figured out why that is. The book is about Lilly, an English-born girl that is raised as a nomad, traveling the world until her parents die. Then she's transported to Ethiopia, where she grows up on a strict diet of prejudice, discrimination, and the Qur'an. She becomes an avid Muslim, filled with the type of pure religious furor that zealots only dream about, and gains acceptance in the Ethiopian community by teaching children the Qur'an. When the political situation in Ethiopia escalates into violence, Lilly runs off to her homeland of England. Instead of feeling at home, she is once again an outsider, trying to figure out her place and her life.

**Spoilers! Maybe ... not too spoiling ... but if you want to read the book with fresh eyes, don't read any further!**



The only constant through most of the book is Lilly's love of Aziz. There is a wonderful paragraph in the book that I read and then immediately thought, "I need to remember this."

... I have begun to wonder if Aziz has, in some ways, always and only ever been an apparition. It is his absence that is part of me and has been for years. This is who I am, perhaps who we all are, keepers of the absent and the dead. It is the blessing and burden of being alive.

For all of the pretentiousness I feel in Ms. Gibb's writing, that one passage made me really love this book.

As a transplanted Korean, I have two feet firmly planted in the modern Los Angeles where I work and spend most of my waking hours. However, I most definitely have my heart in the land where I was born, my ideals shaped by the neo-Confucianism permanently stamped on my DNA, in my upbringing, in the way I think and feel. I am two wholes and I am also two conflicting halves, and it is a difficult but wonderful position to be in.

The confusion that Lilly goes through, traveling from England and taking a winding road to Ethiopia, made the character and the book totally real to me and very credible.

Despite the many sentences that I had to read repeatedly (Ms. Gibb does love her some crazy long sentences with all sorts of tongue-twisting words in them), despite the use of many non-English words I still don't know, despite the slight whiff of self-importance ... I liked this book.

Any book that forces me to think and to feel and to confront my own self is a good book, in my opinion.

Even the way the book ended was, to me, real.

Don't know if I'll ever this this book again, because it was a hard read the first time. If I ever find myself with some time and I need a literary character to relate to and feel sorry for and root for, I'll reach for "Sweetness in the Belly" and re-acquaint myself with Lilly.

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"The Raven," by Edgar Allan Poe

For me, the name Edgar Allan Poe will always bring to mind just two of his many works: "The Tell-Tale Heart" and "The Raven."

I don't know if it's because those are the first two of his writings that I read (at the impressionable age of 13, helping make me the weirdo I am) or if it's because they are so staggeringly depressing.

I have an odd love for both those works, but it's all about "The Raven" today because it was published on January 29, 1845. It's amazing that one hundred and sixty four years ago, a man wrote something still relevant in a completely different culture.

Edgar Allan Poe is fascinating to me, not just because of his work but also his personal life. He seems to have this air of melancholy surrounding him, and he looks like a downtrodden puppy in most of his photos. Exhibit A:

























The man has a positively gloomy look on his face. His face is so perfectly odd ... possibly the least symmetrical face one can have while still looking "normal." His life seems, on the surface, like a novel (or a Korean drama):

- Orphaned early.
- Separated from siblings.
- Taken by sometimes brutish foster parents to England.
- Boarding school in Scotland.
- Move back to the U.S.
- Become engaged to pretty Sarah.
- Attend college for a year.
- Accumulate lots of gambling debts.
- Drop out of college.
- Pretty Sarah has married another!
- Begin writing under a pseudonym.
- Enlist in army, lying about his age.
- Leave the army before his enlistment is up.
- Move in with aunt, cousin Virginia, and brother Henry for a while.
- Attend West Point.
- Disowned by foster family.
- Purposely get court-martialed to leave West Point.
- Move to New York.
- Return to Baltimore.
- Brother Henry, an alcoholic, dies.
- Marry cousin Virginia- she is 13, Poe is 27.
- Move to New York with cousin/wife Virginia.
- Cousin/wife Virginia dies of consumption at 24.
- Poe begins drinking heavily.
- Returns to and becomes engaged to former childhood fiance Sarah.
- Dies before he can marry Sarah.

And none of that includes his writings, the many projects he undertook. The man led an extraordinary life, but not an easy one. He was deeply troubled and lost most of the people he loved.

Great artistic genius may be helped along by great emotional upheavals, but Poe couldn't have wanted to lead the life he did merely so his writings would be incredibly good.

"The Raven" made me want to get a raven and teach it to talk. And also teach it to perch on my scepter, like the witch's raven in "Sleeping Beauty." I've always been drawn to Disney villains rather than hero(ines), and I blame Edgar Allan Poe for that (plus the fab black clothes they wear).

THE RAVEN.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore —
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visiter," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door —
Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore —
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore —
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"'Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door —
Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door; —
This it is and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you" — here I opened wide the door; ——
Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" —
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore —
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door —
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door —
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore —
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door —
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered — not a feather then he fluttered —
Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before —
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore —
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never — nevermore'."

But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore —
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee — by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite — respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil! —
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted —
On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore —
Is there — is there balm in Gilead? — tell me — tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us — by that God we both adore —
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore —
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting —
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted — nevermore!

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The Virgin Suicides; Middlesex, by Jeffrey Eugenides

Yes, I am reviewing two books at the same time. Why? Because I feel like Jeffrey Eugenides has a distinct voice that, while unique, is also unchanging, unchanged. If I had read The Virgin Suicides and Middlesex one after the other in the same week, I would feel like I had read one long book that changes plots midway through.

Not that the books are bad- quite the opposite; they're amazing. I enjoyed both of them thoroughly, and spent a lot of time thinking about each one. I think that's the greatest gift an author can give: thought-provoking words that force people to contemplate and reflect and, hopefully, come to realizations (they don't have to be huge realizations- even small ones are victories).



















I just looked it up and saw that The Virgin Suicides was published in 1993 and Middlesex was published in 2002. That's quite a gap between the two only novels Jeffrey Eugenides has ever written. The amount of time (I was in elementary school in 1993 and working in commercials in 2002!) between the two books makes me feel as though he's one of those authors that writes, revises, re-writes, thinks, re-writes, scraps the whole thing, and re-writes again. I appreciate that kind of thought, because I think a reader can always feel it.



















For me, Suicides left a deeper impression. Not because I'm particularly suicidal or anything, but because I really somehow related to the crazy girls, albeit without the suicidal tendencies. Plus, I read Suicides when I was in junior high school, full of angst and agony and hormones.

Middlesex, though about femininity in a way, was less relatable. It seemed ultimately lonely to me, almost despairing.

Oddly enough, despite the suicides in Suicides, I would rather be among people I love (sisters, in this case) than alone and possessing full knowledge of my identity and my place. (Middlesex). I think it's that Asian family/community mentality that makes me feel that way. We do all freakishly stick together.

I know that the subject matter for both books is rather grim, with Suicides being about multiple suicides (did I spoil the story??) and Middlesex being about transsexualism, but they were uplifting, hopeful. I don't know if that's intentional, because I'm not sure that the purpose of either book is to imbue the reader with a sense of possibility ... but that's how I felt after reading them, the same feeling I had when I first read Suicides thirteen years ago (13 years!).

For me, Suicides, Middlesex, and Geek Love will always be associated. They feel somehow related, maybe third cousins. Katherine Dunn and Jeffrey Eugenides were both drinking the same brand of genius water.

I wish I could convey my feelings like Dunn and Eugenides, that I could be so spare and yet so painfully full of emotion.

For now, I'll settle for reading what the pros come up with.

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Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim, by David Sedaris

I finished reading Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim a couple nights ago, but refrained from posting anything about it.

I think that's the sign of a good, though-provoking book. It remained in my head for the past couple days, sort of percolating. Simmering in the back, while I began reading The History of Love: A Novel, which is taking me forever to get through. ForEVER, for reasons I will explain once I've actually read the whole thing (... in a year).

Back to David Sedaris! I really love Me Talk Pretty One Day. It was funny, irreverent, hopeful, sweet, and had this pure voice. Not that it was virginal (by any means), but that it held one true note, and I got the theme of it immediately. Maybe I just like being spoon-fed the message, but Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim was a harder read for me.

It felt a little jagged and disjointed. Don't get me wrong, it was still a good book. But after Me Talk Pretty One Day, I felt deflated. The few essays in which Sedaris discusses Hugh, his long-time boyfriend, made me glad I was single. Isn't that sad??

Sedaris didn't give me the hope and the wistfulness that I got after Me Talk Pretty One Day. It's true, it's not like all books by one author are the same. And perhaps he's over his hopeful phase. But I read the book anticipating that I would be smiling and laughing, and it didn't happen.

I think it was a case of mistaken expectations, and that's my fault.

I hope to read this book again someday, when I'm in a better place and not depending on authors to lift my spirits. Then, perhaps, I'll fully enjoy it.

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The Misadventures of Maria O'Mara, by Deborah Skelly

I recently (last week, perhaps?) bought four books, specifically to leave on my nightstand so that I can read before I fall asleep. Didn't do any research- just popped into a store and bought books based on either their covers (how can you not judge a book by its cover?!) or the (self-lauding) descriptions/blurbs printed on them

For bedtime reading, I prefer light, fluffy books that will slow my mind down, either from the amount of adjectives (usually describing shoes) or from the predictability of the plot. For instance, The Devil Wears Prada (I refuse to link to this book. It's gotten enough linkage). Perhaps a chapter or two from The Lovely Bones, (which, despite the rather grim setting, is essentially a quiet book that calms me down).

I thought that The Misadventures of Maria O'Mara was going to be such a book. Something easy to read, something light. It has a comic-ish cover, a pretty title ... how serious can it get, right??

It took a few chapters for me to realize that I wasn't going to be getting a completely breezy read. The opening was just light enough for me to continue ... but the middle and the end of the book forced me to stay up and finish reading it in one go. Until 4:00 a.m., when I have to be awake at 8:30 a.m. to go to work (by the way, work is getting busier and busier! On the plus, I met Tom Cruise last week. On the minus, I have a meeting tonight that starts at 8:30 p.m. Which means I'll get home around ... 11:00? Ugh!).

All in all, I appreciated this book. It showed (in a simplistic way, but pretty effectively) how easy a downward spiral can be, and how one can come to terms with one's own life.

It's no longer on my nightstand, but has been placed in a bookshelf. Bedtime reading it is not, but I do want to read it again.

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100 Books

The UK Guardian's list of the top 100 books, sorted by alphabetical order of the author's name:

Chinua Achebe Things Fall Apart
Hans Christian Andersen Fairy Tales and Stories
Jane Austen Pride and Prejudice
Honore de Balzac Old Goriot
Samuel Beckett Trilogy: Molloy, Malone Dies, The Unnamable
Giovanni Boccaccio Decameron
Jorge Luis Borges Collected Fictions
Emily Bronte Wuthering Heights
Albert Camus The Stranger
Paul Celan Poems
Louis-Ferdinand Celine Journey to the End of the Night
Miguel de Cervantes Don Quixote
Geoffrey Chaucer Canterbury Tales
Joseph Conrad Nostromo
Dante Alighieri The Divine Comedy
Charles Dickens Great Expectations
Denis Diderot Jacques the Fatalist and His Master
Alfred Doblin Berlin Alexanderplatz
Fyodor Dostoyevsky Crime and Punishment; The Idiot; The Possessed; The Brothers Karamazov
George Eliot Middlemarch
Ralph Ellison Invisible Man
Euripides Medea
William Faulkner Absalom, Absalom; The Sound and the Fury
Gustave Flaubert Madame Bovary; A Sentimental Education
Federico Garcia Lorca Gypsy Ballads
Gabriel Garcia Marquez One Hundred Years of Solitude; Love in the Time of Cholera
Anon The Epic of Gilgamesh
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe Faust
Nikolai Gogol Dead Souls
Günter Grass The Tin Drum
Joao Guimaraes Rosa The Devil to Pay in the Backlands
Knut Hamsun Hunger
Ernest Hemingway The Old Man and the Sea
Homer The Iliad; The Odyssey
Henrik Ibsen A Doll's House
Anon The Book of Job
James Joyce Ulysses
Franz Kafka The Complete Stories; The Trial; The Castle
Kalidasa The Recognition of Sakuntala
Yasunari Kawabata The Sound of the Mountain
Nikos Kazantzakis Zorba the Greek
DH Lawrence Sons and Lovers
Halldor K Laxness Independent People
Giacomo Leopardi Complete Poems
Doris Lessing The Golden Notebook
Astrid Lindgren Pippi Longstocking
Lu Xun Diary of a Madman and Other Stories
Anon Mahabharata
Naguib Mahfouz Children of Gebelawi
Thomas Mann Buddenbrooks; The Magic Mountain
Herman Melville Moby Dick
Michel de Montaigne Essays
Elsa Morante History
Toni Morrison Beloved
Murasaki Shikibu The Tale of Genji
Robert Musil The Man Without Qualities
Vladimir Nabokov Lolita; Njal's Saga
George Orwell 1984
Ovid Metamorphoses
Fernando Pessoa The Book of Disquiet
Edgar Allan Poe The Complete Tales
Marcel Proust Remembrance of Things Past
Francois Rabelais Gargantua and Pantagruel
Juan Rulfo Pedro Paramo
Jalalu'l-Din Rumi The Mathnawi
Salman Rushdie Midnight's Children
Sheikh Saadi of Shiraz The Bostan of Saadi (The Orchard)
Tayeb Salih A Season of Migration to the North
Jose Saramago Blindness
William Shakespeare Hamlet; King Lear; Othello
Sophocles Oedipus the King
Stendhal The Red and the Black
Laurence Sterne The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy
Italo Svevo Confessions of Zeno
Jonathan Swift Gulliver's Travels
Leo Tolstoy War and Peace; Anna Karenina; The Death of Ivan Ilyich and Other Stories
Anton Chekhov Selected Stories; Thousand and One Nights
Mark Twain The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
Valmiki Ramayana
Virgil The Aeneid
Walt Whitman Leaves of Grass
Virginia Woolf Mrs Dalloway; To the Lighthouse
Marguerite Yourcenar Memoirs of Hadrian

The books that I have managed to read in the past 26 years are in green.

I can't actually imagine having the desire to read some of these books. And the thing is, there are no recent publications on this list. What is it about all the "Top 100" lists that makes the editors feel that things must be old in order to be important? Do books need to be at least 50 before they become classic? Books aren't cars...

I do want to read Rumi, Whitman, and Tolstoy, but have no desire to read Shakespeare again. I've had my fill of Shakespeare, thank you, and the only play of his that I found palatable was "The Tempest."

Also, I've only read The Book of Job if we're talking about the Bible. Not if it's some obscure tome by an anonymous scholar.

There are always new lists out, but I think I'm going to try to slowly make my way through this list. I also have a list of movies that I need to watch ... that will have to be posted at a later date, when I can actually find the list!

Happy Friday, Internet.

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