Catching Up

Oh Lord. I've completely neglected this blog for far too long. I literally did not stop doing school work throughout the months of April and May, but I managed to squeeze a few books in. Unfortunately, I'm way behind everyone. Until I can actually catch up on the posts, here's a short list of what I can remember I've read:

13 - Bonk, by Mary Roach
14 - The Interesting Narrative and Other Writings, by Olaudah Equiano
15 - Into the Wild, by Jonathan Krakauer
16 - The Man of My Dreams, by Curtis Sittenfield
17 - The Fortress of Solitude, by Jonathan Lethem

Hmm. There have been more. Many more, in fact, but I haven't been keeping close track at all. Damn. I'll try to get these reviews up; it's summer now, and when I'm not working I literally do nothing with my life.

12/100: Everything is Illuminated, by Jonathan Safran Foer

Post coming soon!

11/100: The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Klay, by Michael Chabon

I know this book has been on a few peoples' lists for the CR. Personally, it's one I've been meaning to read for years. It's one of my brother's favorite books, and lately I've been encountering a lot of people who've read it and recommended it.

It's really pathetic to admit this, but it took me three months to read it. Three. That's horribly embarrassing. It's really embarrassing to think that it took me three months to read anything. It wasn't for lack of interest that I didn't devour K&K as I usually do; I was literally too busy with school and my personal life to read anything but what's been required of me this semester, as well as the Times every day (well, I try for every day...I don't always finish). It's really a shame, though, because I feel like this book would've had a bigger impact on me if I'd read it in a more cohesive manner. By spacing out the narrative over three months, it didn't quite pack the emotional punch I was anticipating, but again, I really think this had more to do with the fact that I spent so long away from the characters that I couldn't help but feel somewhat disconnected.

Michael Chabon is one of my favorite writers, though. His writing is intelligent without being alienating; I love that after reading one of his works, I've learned about 30 new vocabulary words while still feeling like I've absorbed and retained the contents of the story. Overall, Kavalier and Klay was a great read, I only wish I had devoted a proper amount of time and attention to it.

Um?

Huh. I haven't been on this thing in months. Funny how a cross-country move and an 18-credit semester at a new school cuts into your reading (for fun) and blogging about reading (for fun) time. I have managed to finish a few books (actually, make that like, 2) since I last posted, and with spring break coming up in a few weeks I'm sure I'll get around to the stack on my desk I've been intending to finish. I'm literally not doing anything for break - like, not even going home - so hanging out inside an empty dorm for ten days will be motivation enough to catch up to the other Cannonballers.

10/100: Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim, by David Sedaris

This essay collection might be my favorite Sedaris book to date. There really isn't a whole lot else to tell you; Sedaris is hilarious and he writes with obvious affection about his family and friends, which makes his books highly entertaining and overall pretty easy to read.

9/100: The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, by Junot Diaz

I'm really tempted to just say "This book is amazing, so please, do yourself a favor and go buy a copy of it right now," and leave it at that. No amount of praise I heap on The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao could adequately convey to you just how fucking good this book is.

I might as well try, though.

Wao is funny. It's smart, both streetwise and philosophically. Most importantly, though, it's honest. It unflinchingly describes the characters, the trials they face, and social and political unrest of the Dominican Republic in the past 50 years as well as the United States' implicit role. The narrative weaves in and out of the 1940's through the present day, though not in that order, and not always from the same person's perspective. The story itself is a brilliant mix of heartbreak and triumph and more heartbreak, pain, brutality, and hilarity. It's a coming-of-age-story not only about the titular Oscar, but also his sister, mother, and best friend, but to dismiss it as only that would be a huge disservice to Diaz. In The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, Diaz crafts one of the most impressive narrators, an incomparable voice who bulldozes through generations of history to explain the fuku that has haunted Oscar's family for decades, and just why our hero's life was so brief, yet wondrous.

I don't want to give away too much of the plot; as someone who started the book with literally no clue what it was about, I loved the way the story unwound without knowing what was coming next. I skimmed over the back cover, which is almost misleading given the depth of the story, but the basic premise is this: Oscar is an overweight nerd growing up in a New Jersey ghetto who dreams of writing the next sci-fi classic novel. He has terrible luck with girls and can't get a date to save his life, much to the chagrin of his Dominican family. His situation is blamed on the family curse - the fuku - that follows him to college and beyond, and finally back to the Dominican Republic. All the while, the family history is recounted by the primary narrator, Oscar's friend (and older sister's more-than-friend) Yunior.

If you're looking for an anecdote to all of the sugary sweetness you ingested over the holidays - a book that takes a smart, biting, tender look at familial and first love - The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao is perfect. I could go on and on and on, but the only thing I need to tell you is that this book is amazing, so please, do yourself a favor and go buy a copy of it right now.

8/100: The Handmaid's Tale, by Margaret Atwood

Small confession: I've read this before. That's a fact I've decided to overlook in its inclusion on my list of 100 books for the Cannonball Read though, because the first time I read it was the summer before my senior year of high school. It was also required reading back then, another fact I've decided to overlook, because when I re-read The Handmaid's Tale last week it was for fun.

I love dystopic literature; it's probably one of my favorite themes. By the time I picked up The Handmaid's Tale, I'd long considered Animal Farm, 1984, Brave New World, and The Giver to be among my favorite books (I know The Giver is a kids' book, but it's incredibly powerful when you consider the major issues it confronts and makes digestible for younger readers). I was intrigued by Handmaid though, because Gilead, the society in which this story takes place, is a theocracy based completely on the Bible (or rather, gross misinterpretations of the Bible), whereas the aforementioned novels are primarily totalitarian regimes without a unified religion. Or, the state is the religion, whereas in Handmaid, the religion is the state (I know that doesn't sound like a distinction, but it is).

The Handmaid's Tale is pretty disturbing. Imagine a new society ordered into classes based entirely on one's reproductive ability, ruled by an elite few who are in total power. Those elite few have managed to infiltrate ordinary American society and upend the government, media, and pretty much every single aspect of daily life by brute force and inhumane tactics. Oh yeah, they're also fucking crazy and justify every reprehensible act they commit as a return to the original order of life, that is, one that attempts to follow a pretty perverted version of The Old Testament, with some St. Paul thrown in for good measure (he's the only New Testament figure I can think of that's mentioned in the book). The book is a critique of religious extremism that reduces women's roles to servitude; I'd contend that its aim is not to criticize any one specific religion, or even religion in general.

The story is told through Offred, a woman who is a Handmaid. As a handmaid, Offred belongs to a class of women designated to have sex with the military officers of the ruling class whose wives are unable to conceive. The Ceremony, as it's referred to, is the most depressing sex scene ever described on page: it involves the Handmaid, the Wife, and the Commander, but it is by no means a wild kinky time. It's an interpretation of the biblical story of Abraham, Sarah, and Hagar. If you aren't familiar, Abraham is remembered as the father of Hebrew lineage. His wife, Sarah, was unable to conceive, so with God's permission, Sarah gave her Egyptian handmaid, Hagar, to Abraham to use as a concubine. Hagar bore Ishmael, who played a pretty big role in the start of Islam. In the time just before Gilead was instituted, infertility seemed to be becoming a widespread problem in America. Handmaids are an invaluable but subservient class of women in Gilead; they live in the house of the Wife and Commander to whom they serve, but they are allowed virtually no personal freedom and are under constant watch by everyone else in the household. Handmaids aren't even given real names - the names they have are a composite of the word "Of" and the first name of the Commander they serve. Hence, "Offred" is a servant of Fred and his wife, Serena Joy, a woman who was a televangelist in the time before Gilead.

Have I lost you yet? A lot of this information is revealed slowly over the course of several chapters (fear not, I'm not spoiling anything - this is all back story that's explained as it's interwoven with the plot). Margaret Atwood is an incredibly skilled storyteller; she immerses you in this horrific world where hope for a normal life is all but forgotten, yet there's just enough plot development to keep the reader guessing where the story will go. The Handmaid's Tale has several chilling aspects, but the most frightening part is that the transformation from America to Gilead is an all-too-recent memory for several of the characters.

You see, The Handmaid's Tale does not describe a culture that's been ingrained in the population for several decades, or even years; when the story opens, it has been roughly 3 years since the new regime was implemented. Offred's longing for the way things used to be is palpable. She misses her husband, her daughter, her feminist mother, her lesbian best friend, the ability to hold a job, to read and write, human touch, communication beyond the accepted formalities of Gilead, having an opinion, and being regarded as more than a viable set of ovaries. Offred misses choices, freedom, her real name, and a million other things she took for granted in her former life.

The Handmaid's Tale is, in a word, excellent. Even though it was written over 20 years ago and heavily references the 80's, it manages to avoid feeling dated. It touches on so many issues still pertinent to women today, the most obvious one being the argument that the extent to which a woman controls her body determines the amount of control she has over her life. I feel that abortion is harped on so frequently and the argument is often relegated into two mutually exclusive groups, the larger picture - namely, society's treatment of women - is oft ignored. There are glaring similarities between the conservative politicians who act in the best interest of unborn children rather than the personal rights of women, and the ways in which Gilead reveres the womb yet ignores the person who actually carries a child. It's a little appalling that the critique of religious fanaticism still feels entirely relevant, but that's a reflection of our current culture, not the book.

7/100: Loving Frank, by Nancy Horan

*I'd like to apologize for the poem in the last review. I could not think of a single thing to say about that book and was getting desperate to just be done with the review. I'm obviously not much of a poet, but I saved you the boredom of reading a really awful review.*

Loving Frank tells the story of the love affair between architect Frank Lloyd Wright and Mamah Borthwick, one of Wright's clients. My interest in this book was initially piqued because of the Frank Lloyd Wright aspect. As a Chicago native, I've been familiar with Wright since early childhood; the houses he designed in the late 19th and early 20th century are all over the Chicagoland area. I also recall watching a documentary on him in 4th grade for social studies, and being completely fascinated with his somewhat eccentric ideas that homes are extensions of nature. For a long time, I wanted a tree growing straight up through the middle of my family's living room, an enthusiasm my parents surprisingly did not share. Still, I was somewhat apprehensive about Loving Frank; I had somehow gotten the impression that reading it would be akin to reading a Bronte novel (pick any Bronte, I hate them all. No offense, Bronte lovers, they just aren't my cup of tea). I have absolutely no idea where this idea came from, the fact that it was about a love story in a vaguely Victorian era probably made me think it would be all stilted dialogue and furtive glances followed by hurried, stifled copulating. I also sort of recalled that there wasn't a happy ending to Wright and Borthwick's romance, and I feared the novel would just be dry, boring, and depressing. For the record, none of this judgment came from the cover.

I was so wrong.

Loving Frank is a thoroughly engrossing read. Mamah (pronounced May-muh), who starts the story as the wife of one of Wright's clients, is the central figure of the story, not Frank. She's a woman nearing her late thirties and profoundly unhappy in her marriage. Her husband, Edwin Cheney, is a loving father to their two children, a good provider, and supportive of Mamah's intellectual pursuits, yet Mamah can't help but feeling that something is lacking from their marriage: a deep, mutual love. Ironically, it is Edwin who brings Mamah to Wright's home in an attempt to convince her to agree to building a new house, which is the catalyst for Frank and Mamah's affair.

The affair builds slowly over the course of several years. It starts off as an innocent enough friendship, with Frank stopping by the Cheney household on the pretense of going over some detail of construction. Frank and Mamah end up conversing for several hours over art, nature, literature, each others' beliefs and dreams, and inevitably, their unhappy marriages. A great deal of the conflict arises from the fact that both Mamah and Frank are married with children; Mamah and Edwin have two, while Frank and his wife, Catherine, have six. Despite the risk of ruining their reputations, the two begin a secret affair.

What makes the book so interesting, though, is not merely the affair, which is gorgeously reconstructed yet realistically flawed - it is the narration of Mamah Borthwick. Parts of the story are intersected with bits from her diary, much of which has been imagined, due to the sadly small amount of personal writing left after her death, but Mamah's voice feels organic nonetheless. She is fiercely intelligent, witty, and passionate. She is also, at times, painfully self-aware, and her inner turmoil over doing the right thing is as much of a conflict to the story as leaving her marriage is. Mamah isn't a purely selfish woman, throwing away her marriage on a whim - she examines her motives (and Frank's) every step of the way, and often acts on her principles more than her passions. Her affair with Frank leads to a great deal of self-discovery; the novel is much more than a love story.

Mamah and Frank's affair is discovered, but not before each presents the truth to their spouses. In a vein weirdly reminiscent of today's paparazzi-fueled tabloids, the press in Chicago jumps on the scandal and the opportunity to exploit their romance. Frank and Mamah's relationship is constantly under scrutiny, which adds to the stress of the affair, and sometimes threatens the fabric of the relationship itself. In addition to fighting the public opinion of the morality of what they've done, there are fights between the two lovers, too; each has sacrificed something to be with the other, and both question if the sacrifices were well-founded or foolish mistakes.

Loving Frank is first and foremost, a love story, but it is far from ordinary. All of the relationships in the novel, even those between major and minor characters, are given significant depth and complexity - the reader never forgets that Mamah and Frank's affair doesn't exist on some otherworldly plane, but is firmly rooted in reality, and affects nearly everyone the two come in contact with. Also, this story is as much about love as it is about defying convention - in your personal life or in your career - and holding your personal beliefs to a higher standard than the norms society imposes. Finally, Loving Frank is about the happiness one derives from loving oneself as much as the object of ones' affection, and coming to terms with that realization.

6/100: Gentlemen and Players, by Joanne Harris

This wasn't quite bad,
Nor was it quite good.
I laughed at some parts,
Unsure if I should.
The story was lame:
The villain a bore,
And obvious plot "twists"
Abounded galore.
The writing was fine
The hero was fun
The plot, however,
Had me reach for my gun.
Our antagonists'
Motivation was crappy.
It meandered from vicious
To awkward and sappy.
I tried hard to care!
I tried hard to relate!
Alas I'm completely
Unsympathetic to date.
But if you like chess
And murder mys'tries
And books about
Private boys' academies
You might find this book
Thrilling and grand,
Or chilling, suspenseful
An absolute must-have!
Though if you prefer
Plots with substance and pith,
There are far better books
To spend a few hours with.

Apologies!

I am waaaay behind in the Cannonball Read.

I haven't read a real book - meaning a non-required, non-Aristotelian philosophy, non-Shakespeare play book - in what feels like well over a month (it's really only been 2 or 3 weeks, but still). I probably could've blogged about my past three books a lot sooner, but I really hate the blogging aspect of this whole thingamajig. (OK this has nothing to do with this post, but why doesn't my spell check go berserk over "thingamajig"? Since when is thingamajig a legit word? Seriously, someone let me know.) I have a new-found respect for bloggers - I'm pretty sure nobody reads this and I get all worried and stressed out about how I sound in my lame book reviews - I can't imagine blogging for a job or anything where there's the possibility of a wide audience. I'm definitely too self conscious.

But yeah, anyway, school is killing me. That, and work. There literally isn't enough time in the day for me to accomplish everything I need to. I've always been terrible with time management, but this semester has gotten a little ridiculous. I'm just looking forward to break, when all I plan on doing is going to yoga, reading, and visiting with my family and friends. I hope everyone had a lovely Thanksgiving!

5/100: The Liar's Club, by Mary Karr

God, I loved this book. There are actually very few books I read that I end up disliking, you’ll find, but that’s because I take a lot of care in choosing them. This is another one I hijacked from my mom’s bureau, and I can’t say I regret it (she has some really terrible ones on there...like 5 Jodi Picoult books. So clearly, borrowing a “good book” from her is always a gamble). I actually forced myself to stop reading every few chapters or so because I wanted to prolong the characters’ life spans -- and I never put down a book I’m enjoying if I can help it.

Mary Karr’s beautifully written memoir is the kind that stays with you long after you finish it. The facts of her childhood are memorable enough (grew up in the 1960’s in a miserable, barren town in East Texas; her mother had psychotic episodes; she was molested at a heart-sickeningly young age; the list goes on and on…) but her writing style is what truly makes The Liar’s Club a standout from other memoirs. Karr is, by profession, a poet – a fact that is evident in her stark yet languid prose. She tells the story mostly from her viewpoint as a 7 and then 8-year old child, a girl who was as apt to enact revenge on a neighborhood boy by sniper-ing his family with her BB-gun, as she was to winning the school spelling bee or skipping two grades. As the heroine, Mary Marlene practically leaps off the page. She's a child with a bad temper who's isolated because of her family's eccentricity, and learns from an early age how to avenge herself in a world that is, more often than not, unusually cruel.

There isn’t much I can give away in terms of plot – it’s pretty much a given. Like all memoirs, The Liars Club offers a glimpse into what life was like for a certain person as they grew up. Karr’s childhood wasn’t as grossly bizarre as Augusten Burroughs’ (chronicled in Running With Scissors), but she often depicts seriously sad situations with the same blend of pathos and humor. The Liar’s Club put me in mind of Jeannette Wells’ The Glass Castle, in that in both women were no doubt loved very much in their childhoods, but they were still victims of well-intentioned but not entirely stable parents.

I highly recommend The Liar’s Club. It is one of the few books I’ve read in a while that has the ability to make me laugh out loud over a single sentence before bringing me to tears in the following paragraph. Karr has created something truly unique in retelling her experiences as a young, confused, fiery child – a girl who grew up to create beauty out of something so seemingly dark and miserable.

4/100: The Year of Living Biblically, by AJ Jacobs

The Year of Living Biblically chronicles Esquire writer AJ Jacobs' year-long project to follow every single rule set forth in the Bible as literally as possible. I picked up the novel in a bookstore in a Metra station, which gives you a pretty good idea of what to expect from the book. It’s a quick read, chock-full of interesting anecdotes, has loads of historical nuggets, and I can personally testify that it’s entirely suitable for your morning or evening commute. However, enlightening it is not. Profound it is not.

Honestly, I found it pretty annoying at times. Now, after speaking with people who read the book and loved it, I’m pretty sure I’m in the minority with this opinion. After letting the book sink in for several weeks (I finished it back in October), I think I’ve finally pinpointed exactly what bothers me. It’s not that the book itself is bad, it’s just horribly misguided in what it tries to be.

The Year of Living Biblically has a fantastic premise. I mean, the mere idea of a secular New York journalist adhering to the most miniscule rules set down by the Good Book is comedy gold in itself. However, the full title of the book is The Year of Living Biblically: One Man’s Humble Quest to Follow the Bible as Literally as Possible. Now, this book is anything but humble, and I mean that in the best possible way. It is obnoxiously self-indulgent. It is very funny – at times hilarious – because while Jacobs’ complies with the Bible’s rules, he does so with a knowing wink and a grain of irony. Whatever quasi-religious experiences he has are accompanied with witty ripostes – he never lets the reader forget that he is, above all, an Agnostic-Secular-Liberally-Educated-New York-Based-Journalist. Because of this, one knows that Jacobs isn’t actually absorbed in whatever religious fanaticism he’s studying at any given moment – and that cheapens the sacredness for those who do practice whatever respective religion he’s describing. The sincerity of him following the Bible is pretty questionable, because a majority of the time it seems like he’s in it for shits and giggles, as well as the book deal and presumed riches it will bring him.

I’m probably being too harsh of a critic. After all, nearly everything I’ve expressed here is at least partially mentioned in the book itself. However, even Jacobs’ self-critiquing seems a little odd; it's just a little too cute. I do recommend the book for the background it gives on Christianity and Judaism in the context of the 21^st century – it’s gives a nice over-view of things like theories as to how the Bible was written (the J and P traditions, etc, for those of you familiar with historical Biblical texts), and a lot of background regarding prominent laws that a lot of Jews and Christians still follow today. It’s nothing that a college Old Testament course wouldn’t cover, but still fascinating nonetheless. Jacobs is a very engaging and talented writer, and if questionable motives don’t inhibit your ability to enjoy a book, The Year of Living Biblically is definitely one to check out.

3/100: The Last Convertible, by Anton Myrer

I could give you ten reasons off the top of my head as to why I loved this book, but the biggest and best and hardest one to explain is this: The Last Convertible makes me nostalgic for an era I have never known.

I know that sounds a little ridiculous. I am, after all, a child of the 80’s. However, I’m also a product of my parents – two people who unwittingly and unrelentingly defied standard convention throughout my childhood (and who continue to on a daily basis). What I mean by that is I was pretty much raised with an appreciation for things that people four decades my senior enjoy. It’s true that I’ve never cruised around in a 1930’s convertible, nor do I have any memories of the day Pearl Harbor was bombed, but I have vivid memories of my sisters and I maniacally dancing to records of Benny Goodman, Count Basie, and others. I recall – with clarity not usually accredited to 8 year olds – poring over newspaper clippings and the original Life issues announcing Kennedy’s assassination saved from my grandmother’s attic. I’m not recounting these experiences because I think they’re singular to my life; I’m just trying to give you a sense of why and how deeply I felt a connection to Anton Myrer’s novel.

The Last Convertible is, if nothing else, one of the most loving tributes to the 1940’s ever put to page. It details the year and a half leading up to America’s immersion in WWII and the decades that follow through the eyes of George Virdon. After a brief introduction to George as an older man in the 1970’s, the novel moves backward as he recounts his experiences as a young man to his daughter’s boyfriend. The story really begins with George as a freshman at Harvard. His group of friends constitutes the Fusiliers – a fivesome of boys from varying backgrounds whose friendships anchor the plot of the book. One of the greatest strengths of the novel lies in Myrer’s ability to flesh out his characters so wholly – while the story is told through George, it’s clear to see that The Last Convertible is something of an ensemble piece. The Five Fusiliers, their girlfriends (and later, wives), enemies, classmates, and ultimately, children carry as much weight as does George. Better still, each is imbued with distinct realism. No one in Myrer’s world is perfect, yet it is often the flaws and mistakes every character makes that brings so much tenderness to the story.

While the book can be seen as a coming-of-age story, it continues long after the characters’ innocence has been lost. The story follows George and his friends’ lives well into their respective adulthoods, as friendships change, families begin to grow, and the country reacts to the ramifications of the tumultuous war years. As often as characters mourn the loss of their childhoods, there is a touching adherence to the loyalty humans are capable of selflessly giving in crisis, and above all, love even in the bleakest of times.

2/100: Towelhead, by Alicia Erian

I was planning for Dr. Zhivago to be book #2, but I had to pick up a copy of a play that I needed for my Shakespeare class last night, so I stopped in the library. I ended up leaving with 4 more books than I really needed, so be prepared to hear a lot about post-WWII Germany in the upcoming week: 3 of the books are by Heinrich Boll, one of my all-time favorite writers. If you haven’t read The Clown before, go out and get yourself a copy of it. Now. The only way I can describe it to people is that it’s sort of like a grown-up version of The Catcher in the Rye, except that it deals with the hypocrisy of religion and politics, and has an incredibly heartbreaking love story. Thematically, the two don’t have a whole lot in common, but certain elements (for instance, the loss of a sibling to each narrator affects their story a great deal) and character traits of the main characters are somewhat similar. The narrative of The Clown is quite beautiful; Holden Caulfield doesn't hold a candle to Hans Schnier, the clown himself. I could go on and on about the novel, and German literature in general (it’s my favorite genre – I’m a nerd) but I’ll have plenty of time for that when I cover the Boll books. So, before I go off on another tangent, I should get down to business. The 4^th book I picked up (and literally did not put down until I’d finished) was Alicia Erian’s disturbing and darkly funny Towelhead.

Towelhead is about Jasira, a 13 year old girl who is physically mature for her age but is vastly emotionally underdeveloped. This is mainly due to the fact that her parents seem incapable of responsibly raising their child. This becomes largely apparent when Jasira is sent against her wishes to live with her father in Houston. Gail and Rifat have been divorced since Jasira was 5, and they each take turns manipulating Jasira in order to get back at one another. Gail sends Jasira to live with Rifat after Barry, Gail’s boyfriend, behaves inappropriately with Jasira. Gail takes the side of her live-in boyfriend, claiming that Jasira purposely paraded her developing body in front of the older man, and therefore, the 13 year old is more liable for Barry’s actions than Barry himself is. Gail hopes that Rifat, a strict Lebanese man, will have more control over his daughter and will raise her to behave modestly. Unfortunately for Jasira, her father is often cruel and abusive, rarely displaying any affection towards her. He treats her developing sexuality with both frankness and repulsion. Hence, Jasira is often lonely and desperate for attention in any form, including the kind she receives from her 36 year old neighbor, army reservist Mr. Vuoso.

There is a lot of sex and violence in Towelhead. While a majority of it is truly disturbing, Erian injects enough tenderness into the story that one almost understands why Jasira never quite asserts herself against those who are manipulating and mistreating her. I was constantly bothered by Jasira’s passivity about her sexuality – she has moments of emotional clarity, but ultimately reverts into a very child-like view of the events happening around her. I suppose that’s forgivable because she is still very much a child, and even though she has mature desires and wishes to be treated like a woman, she is abused and kept ignorant of any kind of decent relationship (either with adults or other kids, or the ways in which both interact). There are hints of this kind of ideal relationship though, when Jasira meets Gil and Melina, another neighbor couple who show more concern for Jasira’s well being than her own parents ever have.

It’s uncomfortable to read the graphic sex scenes – after all, they involve a 13 year old. I often wanted to stop reading (I can’t help it, I’m a little squeamish, and not so far removed from my Catholic upbringing that sex is still regarded in some tiny corner of my mind a Very Bad Thing.) However, the ending is a soothing salve to the mind-burn you get from everything leading up to Jasira’s revelation. It also manages to get away with being somewhat unrealistically happy without becoming too cloying and saccharine.

1/100: The Cider House Rules, By John Irving

The Cider House Rules is a book with characters so memorable and endearing, I was quite sad to come to the 552nd page of my copy; that is where the story of Homer Wells ends. John Irving fleshed out with incredible detail the world in which Homer lives, including several major and minor characters so thoroughly human, that their fates often made me genuinely happy or genuinely upset at the cruelty allotted to them in their small, fictional lives.

The novel spans (roughly) the years from the 1880's - 1960's, and tells the intertwining histories of two men. The protagonists are Dr. Wilbur Larch and Homer Wells. Dr. Larch is a physician who founds St. Cloud's hospital and orphanage - the site of Homer's birth, and subsequently, his childhood. At the hospital, Dr. Larch provides illegal - but medically safe - abortions and delivers unwanted children, who then spend a part (or all, in Homer's case) of their early years in the orphanage, where they are cared for by Dr. Larch, Nurses Edna and Angela, and Mrs. Grogan. John Irving spends the first 100 pages or so describing Dr. Larch's life before he came to St. Cloud's, the founding of the hospital, and Homer's childhood. The writing is beautifully detailed, poignant, and made me laugh out loud as often as it made me cringe. There are some very gruesome, graphic passages about illegal abortions, but they are crucial because they provide historical context as well as explain Dr. Larch's personal mission to ensure that every woman who comes to him has access to proper care, regardless of her personal decision.

Homer Wells, after several attempted adoptions, comes to call St. Cloud's home. When he reaches a somewhat mature age and it becomes apparent that he will not be adopted another time, Dr. Larch, who's grown fond of Homer despite his best efforts to remain unattached, decides that Homer will be of use as long as he's around. Homer becomes Larch's assistant, and after being educated by Gray's Anatomy and Larch himself, becomes something of a quasi-obstetrician. Homer's unease regarding abortions - he believes that fetus' have souls - forces a wedge between the two men, who have acquired something of a father/son relationship. When Homer is 20, the opportunity to see more of the world beyond St. Cloud's presents itself in the form of Candy Kendall and Wally Worthington, a young couple who seek Dr. Larch's skills in abortion. Dr. Larch, who's known for a while that the time for Homer to leave the orphanage is coming, encourages Homer to leave St. Cloud's and travel to the Worthington's coastal apple orchard.

At Ocean View, Wally's family's orchard, Homer makes somewhat of a home, and is sort of adopted by Olive and Senior Worthington. Incidentally, World War II is approaching, and Wally, to whom Candy is engaged, volunteers. Homer, who has been in love with Candy since the day she arrived at St. Cloud's, is unable to fight due to a congenital heart defect (or so he believes; Dr. Larch altered Homer's medical record without Homer's knowledge because he was afraid of losing the boy, who'd become a son to him). When Homer and Candy receive the news that Wally's plane has been shot down over Burma, they presume him dead, and have an affair. I know that sounds very callous when written like that, but in the novel it's a lot more complicated. I'm just over-simplifying for the sake of condensing this review.

SPOILER ALERT
The short version is this: Candy hides her pregnancy by traveling with Homer to St. Cloud's for the winter and spring. When the two return with a baby in May, they tell everyone that Homer adopted one of the children of the orphanage. Wally returns from Burma, where he did not die, but spent 10 months MIA. He and Candy marry, and Homer raises his son to believe he has been adopted. Homer and Candy eventually tell Angel (Homer's son) and Wally about their affair. Wally has known the entire time but has accepted Homer and Candy's story out of his love for them both. Homer ends up returning to St. Cloud's, where Dr. Larch, who has been quite present in the story (although I've sort of omitted him, which is a shame, because he was my favorite main character), has falsified an educational history for Homer, thus allowing him to continue Dr. Larch's work in St. Cloud's. Homer comes to realize that abortions are necessary to have as a choice for women, and he cannot abstain from performing them because of his personal beliefs. Dr. Larch, who has been addicted to ether for several decades, dies of an ether overdose just before Homer comes to this conclusion.
END SPOILERS

This isn't a very analytic review, and I didn't really add a whole lot of insight, but I really enjoyed this novel. It was a pretty easy read, and for as heartrending as the story was as a whole, I found it ultimately uplifting, and as corny as this may sound: triumphant. I must warn you though, if you're pro-life, you'll no doubt take issue with the strong pro-choice sentiments that permeate the entire book. However, if you're pro-choice, it'll make you incredibly grateful that Roe V Wade was passed; also, you'll want to throw a (hardcover) copy of this book at anyone who makes the argument that it should be repealed.