A Literary Life

A Long Way Gone: Memoirs of a Boy Soldier is the true story of Ismael Beah, a native of Sierra Leone who was caught up in the violence of the country’s civil war (1991-2002). Separated by a surprise rebel attack from his family, 13-year-old Ishmael runs into the jungle with a few friends. They encounter mostly mistrust, fear and resistance from the villages they pass because the rebels often employ troops of young boys of about the same age. Ironically enough, after surviving in the jungle, wandering a significant way across the country and back, Ishmael encounters a small town defended by the government’s troops.

However, rather than taking the young boys in and shielding them from further involvement in war, these soldiers offer the boys a choice — fight as soldiers by the troop’s side or leave the town into the hands of surrounding rebels, who will likely take them for governmental collaborators. Each boy receives a small dose of training, a large gun and a daily supply of drugs and violence: marijuana, cocaine and a substance they call “brown brown,” a mixture of gunpowder and drugs, plus war movies such as Rambo played on a gasoline-generator-run projector every night.

With plain, simply and un-fussy language, Ishmael tells his whole story. And he doesn’t need any frilly text — his story is so compelling and unbelievable that the reader hangs on every plain and simple word. The book is a journey through the hell of war, about how twisted ideals, adults and circumstances can wrench away childhood, an article that is impossible to regain once lost. This book is about how a human in extraordinary circumstances survived, and how such a person forgives themselves afterwards for how they enacted that survival.

Rating: 4 out of 5 stars – Book club selection

Tom Wolfe is known as a journalist and a chronicler of his times, and this book had been on my list for some time because it is one of his best-known works and, frankly, it has a really awesome title. True to the reputation of the novel and its author, it is a creative piece of non-fiction that stays true to its time even after that time has past, recreating the environment and the emotions (the aura, man, do you see the aura?) of that hippie existence so often satirized but so little understood.

Wolfe speaks in this book about Ken Kesey, the author of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and one of the founders of the psychedelic movement, and Kesey’s group of friends and fellow travelers who name themselves The Merry Pranksters. They’re the first to travel the country on a magical mystery tour (yes, before the Beatles) and one of the first to try to make acid and the ensuing mental expansion related to the drug a cultural and philosophical movement.

Tune in, drop out. Tune into the wholeness, the interconnected nature of the universe and drop out of square (meaning live to day to day with your head down) society. So long Mom, Dad, John and Jane Doe. Hello the true world, which is more than your parents with their antiquated notions of what is right and wrong, what the future should be, with their stuck-in-a-rut daily lives. In this book, you begin to see the “hippie” notion of expanding yourself rather than fitting into a conformist mold, or seeing the world in a new way, a spiritual journey of discovery rather than an oft-traveled path of marriage, career and death.

The Pranksters spread the message of LSD through parties known as Acid Tests, which in the media, are often thought of as multi-media experiences (think light shows, trippy music and such) that replicate the acid experience without the actual drug. But yeah right, the LSD was there! On the other hand, Wolfe brilliantly recreates the acid mindset, varying his prose and descriptions, making the reader feel as if they truly have the trip without the drugs.

It’s a great history of the sex, drugs and rock and roll of the time period told from the naive point of view of the time period, the perspective that they were doing something that had never been done, feeling emotions that had never been acted upon. And though the world has changed since the time the book was written, that idealism and spirituality shines through. It’s a fun jaunt back in social history, and it’s even more fun now that we are older, wiser and knowledgeable about the effects of the “hippie” movement.

While I didn’t imbibe the LSD, I feel I have learned a small bit of truth about history, about how it felt to be present in a certain time and place in American history. And, most importantly, I have been entertained.

Rating: 4 out of 5 stars – Book club selection

You know, it’s strange how life likes to intersects random themes, making it seem as if you see/hear/read/experience one thing over and over over a period of time, as if something is cropping up everywhere all of the sudden where you didn’t see it before. I first remember this happening when I was a kid and a cousin taught me the meaning of the word “porous,” and suddenly it was all over the TV and grown-up speak for a few days or weeks afterwards. Currently, I seem to be stuck in a cycle of homosexuality.

No really. Listen: I recently read a soft-core lesbian romance, some military big wig got in hot water for calling homosexual acts immoral and I recently attended a function where the Colorado Gay and Lesbian Fund was a main sponsor and was honored. There were more instances of homosexuality being hyperactive on my radar, too, that I can’t think of right now.

Anyway, so imagine my sense of coincidence and confluence when I opened this book, which got onto my list thanks to a review in Time magazine. It is the tale of a young girl, a lesbian, coming to grips with herself and her strange, dysfunctional family who happen to run a small-town funeral home. (I know, it’s all very Six Feet Under.) The funeral home = the FUN home. It was just all too ironic given the strange theme of gay-ness permeating my atmosphere recently. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Really.)
There was also something incredibly unique about this book, however: the fact that it is not only words but illustrations. In fact, it reads like a comic book from pane to pane with detailed black and white ink illustrations. I love something that blows my expectations out of the water like that and the technique was a breath of fresh air, as were the drawings, which were neither the overly masculinized comic stereotype (think large breasts, bulging pecs and muzzle flashes) or all sappy and girly comic stereotype (think puppies and Disney cartoons). They were realistic, even lewd or awkward when necessary, and the comic style made the book read incredibly fast.

Allison Bechdel tells a very interesting story using this method, the story of her life in fact. And despite my introduction, homosexuality is not its only theme or value. There’s also the power of family and of genetics, the struggle of the individual to choose and strive toward their own future, the universal themes of literature in everyday life and the struggle to make sense of the past, a struggle that is not as neat and tidy as the frames of a comic book. If your interested in Bechdel, you can check out her work via the comic strip Dykes to Watch Out For.

Rating: 3.5 out of 5 stars – A book club selection for vacation reading

… as Kitchen Slave, Line Cook, Pasta-Maker and Apprentice to a Dante-Quoting Butcher in Tuscany. Whew. That’s a title, alright. It’s also a very good book in the foodie tradition, which I figured I would wallow in for a few more days after finishing Julia Child.

As with quite a few authors of books I enjoy, Buford makes me green with jealousy–In a good way, I promise. He is a writer and former fiction editor of The New Yorker whose life changed when he did a profile on Mario Batali, the Italian-American chef made famous by the Food Network. (Red hair, baggy patterned pants, kitchen clogs, Iron Chef – You know who I’m talking about.) Always a foodie, Bill decided to go undercover to witness the life of a kitchen first hand at Mario’s famous restuarant Babbo’s, where he is so drawn into the culture of food, the chaos of the kitchen, the satisfaction of working with his hands, etc. that he quits the illustrious day job to persue his newfound addiction, to continue his education in the true nature of food.

Hey Ma! Wanna know what I (via Buford) learned?

1. That Mario Batali is quite a party animal (drinking a case of wine in an evening, admiting to partaking in the cocaine explosion of the 1980s, cussing like sailor and making racy comments to women the moment the camera is turned).
2. That you should never order pasta after 10 p.m. (Noodle water is starchy thanks to the pasta, and makes an excellent, flavorful thickener for sauces… and therefore the water doesn’t get changed. Ever. Well, until the next day, after it has acquired a purple hue. Purple?)
3. That random people often stick their fingers in your food before it arrives at your table, and that you should probably thank them for caring so much.
4. That eggs in pasta dough and tomatoes in Italian sauce are historical landmarks in the history of… everything, and that they can be tracked down and footnoted if you care enough. Buford does care enough. Be careful. He’ll make you care, too.
5. That you can buy a whole pig without the USDA getting involved if you buy it while it’s alive.
6. That everyone should drop everything and learn a dying art, reclaim the disappearing past. (And if not that, at least eat those dying arts.)
7. That French food is just ripped-off Italian food, brought over the Alps by that loose-lipped Catherine de Medicis.

And after this journey of a thousand miles, Buford taught me – or at least reiterated my own thoughts on the matter – that:

“For millennia, people have known how to make their food. They have understood animals and what to do with them, having cooked with the seasons and had a farmer’s knowledge of the way the planet works. They have preserved traditions of preparing food down through generations, and have come to know them as expressions of their families. People don’t have this kind of knowledge today, even though it seems as fundamental as the earth, and it’s true, those who do have it tend to be professionals–like chefs. But I didn’t want the knowledge in order to be a professional; just to be more human.”

And no, I don’t think that’s a spoiler. I think it’s good incentive to go pick up a copy.

Rating: 4.5 out of 5 stars – A hardcover book club selection

There’s a lot I didn’t know about Julia Child. Sure, we all know her for her boulebaise and buerre blanc sauce; we all know her tall, squarish shape and the familiar (and oft-imitated), sliding cadence of her voice. But this book fleshes out her six-foot frame with the flesh of a real woman–her history, her love of her husband and the unexpected way she found her true calling in her 40s.

Speaking only school girl French and lacking the knowlege of what something as simple as a shallot was (a small type of onion, for those not in the know), Julia arrived in France with Paul, her husband of two years (she was 37 and he 47 when they married). Paul worked for the USIS managing government exhibits that would facilitate artisitc and cultural communication between the French and the Americans during the post-WWII Truman Plan era. Their first meal off the boat was truly one to remember, one that opened Julia’s eyes wide and set her about mastering this strange and beautiful, surprising art of French cooking. Though it is amazing for me to think of, her husband Paul–a foodie by nature–once thought there was no hope for his wife in the kitchen, and he was surprised and pleased as she began to improve thanks to her studies at the Cordon Bleu cooking school and the help of their gourmand friends.

This book doesn’t cover Julia’s whole life. It only encompasses the time she spent abroad, and it includes many pictures her artistic husband snapped and snippets of the many letters they sent home to family and friends. Therefore, her television career is only covered where it overlapped with her travels, which makes the book refreshingly humble and human. Written with the help of her great-nephew, Alex, Julia’s personality still manages to shine through with her stereotypical insertions (i.e. Hooray!, Yuck, or Hmmm). The writing style may be simple and straight-forward–nothing to get all excited about–but the simple, straight-forward story the words tell keep you involved from cover to cover.

If you are a foodie of any calliber, this book is a meal that is worthy of Julia’s unquestionable culinary seal of approval. Devour it as you would an excellent canard a l’orange and, as she was so famous for saying, Bon Appetit!

Rating: 4.5 out of 5 stars – a hardcover book club selection

Witty gay man tells stories: A great cocktail party or a great book by David Sedaris, whose talent is for taking the ordinary or the embarassing and turning the tables, painting over the black white and gray with a rainbow of colors. Though he hates the rainbow flag being associated with “alternate lifestyles” (read: alternate sexualities) and swears he wasn’t asked to vote on that one.

I didn’t enjoy this book quite as much as Me Talk Pretty One Day (read that review here). The stories in this book were more “a day in the life” tales, whereas the other colelction (his first, I believe) were more the stories he had been accumulating over a lifetime, refining and analyzing to comic perfection. The cast of characters, which includes Sedaris’ unique family and his long-time boyfriend, is still both funny and human, light and yet often moving.

Case in point. One story regards his visit to his sister’s, where she vents the family-wide annoyance with Sedaris’ work and how it puts them on display for the world to see–at their most vulnerable, naked to their core personalities.

“We stopped for gas on the way home and were parking in front of her house when she turned to relate what I’ve come to think of as the quintessential Lisa story. ‘One time,’ she said, ‘one time I was out driving?’ The incident began with a quick trip to the grocery store and ended, unexpectantly, with a wounded animal stuffed into a pillowcase and held to the tailpipe of her car. Like most of my sister’s stories, it provoked a startling mental picture, capturing a moment in time when one’s actions seem both unimaginably cruel and completely natural. Details were carefully chosen and the pace built gradually, punctuated by a series of well-timed pauses. ‘And then… and then…’ She reached the inevitable conclusion and just as I started to laugh, she put her head against the steering wheel and fell apart. It wasn’t the gentle flow of tears you might release when recalling an isolated action or event, but the violent explosion that comes when you realize that all such events are connected, forming an endless chain of guilt and suffering.

I instinctively reached for the notebook I keep in my pocket and she grabbed my hand to stop me. ‘If you ever,’ she said, “ever repeat that story, I will never talk to you again.’

In the movie version of our lives, I would have turned to offer her comfort, reminding her, convincing her that the action she’d described had been kind and just. Because it was. She’s incapable of acting otherwise.

In the real version of out lives, my immediate goal was to simply to change her mind. ‘Oh, come on,’ I said. ‘The story’s really funny, and, I mean, it’s not like you’re going to do anything with it.’

Your life, your privacy, your occasional sorow — it’s not like you’re going to do anything with it. Is this the brother I always was, or the brother I have become?”

Telling a story–telling a true story–can be a powerful thing, which is naturally why we love them so much, especially when someone like Sedaris is the story-teller. Those tales are real, real people, real circumstances… of someone who is not us, who we don’t feel bad about laughing at. In Sedaris’ case, though, he often makes sure we are laughing with him, with his family and friends. We laugh because we see ourselves there. And that is no mean feat.

Read this book. Read this book if, especially if, you don’t usually read books. It may just give you the bug.

Rating: 4 out of 5 stars – Book club selection

So I received a reading list in the mail from a writer’s organization I used to be involved with at ASU, one that was too expensive for me to continue to be involved with, sadly. Sigh. They were putting together an online book club of sorts and, though I didn’t really feel like paying any money to be a part of such a group, I have no problem using their free list for my own purposes when I can’t seem to think of what I want to read next. This book was the October 2006 selection.

I guess I should have heeded the red flag in my head when I picked up the reserved book from my library and noticed a bright, green “Teen” label on the spine. Teen? I thought. Really? But I dismissed the thought because, after all, the recommendation had come from a reputable, college organization who wouldn’t have me reading childish bullshit. And there are quite a few good novels that cross the border between adult and chidlren’s lit. In my opinion, this did not turn out to be one of them.

The Burn Journals is the autobiographical tale of Brett Runyon, who set himself on fire when he was 15 in an attempt to commit suicide. He then survives a lengthy recovery and a change of heart about the purpose of his own life. While Brett is all grown up now, he still writes in the stilted and simplistic style of an adolescent boy, where he dismisses most emotional concerns in order to remember what then-popular program was on television. I think that Runyon is trying to explain why he would do such a thing with this book–I was wondering that too. Aside from some generic remarks about being “sad,” I am still wondering. There are emotional currents beneath the surface, currents I wanted to explore but that the narrator supresses (out of vulnerability? embarassment?).

It was like a real, teenage boy was stitting there telling me this story, brushing off my questions, trying to be cool about it all. And I wanted to wring his neck and have him tell me what was really going on, even if he didn’t quite know himself, even if the thoughts were incomplete and conclusionless. The book does serve a purpose within the genre so neatly stamped upon its spine: Every teen needs to know that they are not alone in having these nameless, unknowable, apocalyptic feelings and that, yes, they do pass. Things do get better, if not easier, with age because you have more control over yourself and your environment.

Runyon is doing the right thing reaching out to that group, especially the boys, who are under-represented in literature. But I have no idea why ASU would want me to read such a book or why they thought it would be worth discussing and critiquing as a group. I think the conversation would have only one basic thought and direction, something along the lines of:

“That was sad. I wish he hadn’t done that to himself. But now, he can help other kids not set themselves on fire, plus he graduated college. Good for him.”

To summarize, fire and depression bad. Helping others and sharing feelings good. Any questions?

Rating: 1 out of 5 stars = paperweight