Books, Man
Three mini book reviews. Let’s do this.
Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang by Chelsea Handler: Most people who know me know I love Chelsea Handler on Chelsea Lately. This is her first book I’ve read, and I’m sad to say I’m still someone who says I love Chelsea Handler on Chelsea Lately (and presumably her standup). I didn’t realize this before, but her humor really pops thanks to her deadpan delivery, her responses to her guests, and her foul-mouthed criticism of celebrities. In this memoir the profanity remains but her humor, in written form and concerned with her personal life, falls flat. Love you Chelsea, but I’ll stick with you IRL.
The Rehearsal by Eleanor Catton: This debut novel from was first of these three books I started reading and one, I’m sorry to say, I didn’t finish. It’s quite interesting and nicely literary (the author is supposedly the “next Joshua Ferris”): the story moves back and forth between a young boy attending acting school and a girls’ class rocked by scandal (the stories tie together in the end). The twin narratives allow for lots of interesting situations to arise and provoke thoughts on on how acting relates to life; the meaning of representation; the power dynamic between teachers and students and other, older students; the struggle of being a teenager and young adult. And Patton’s voice is fresh and unusual. My problem with this book was that these good qualities were buried by the philosophical riffs that distract character and literary voice alike. All books need not have the page-turning pace of, say, a thriller, but they should strike a balance between style and plot progression and not feel repetitive; for me this book “pauses” too often to ruminate on the issues raised above, seeming to revisit them all over and over without any spark of new interest. As I read further into the book it started to feel tiresome, and in particular the riffs on acting felt indulgent—although actors talking about acting can feel that way at the best of times. I think this book may really appeal to readers who have a particular interest in theater or performance, but for me 2/3 of the book was enough.
Walks With Men by Ann Beattie: I devoured this (forthcoming) novella from Ann Beattie. This is literary fiction of a much different style from The Rehearsal: sparse, simply told, tantalizingly aloof. The characters that appear (and disappear) throughout this short novel are vividly realized—so vividly that, even though the novella takes place in NYC, in my mind’s eye the world consists of just these characters in an empty city, everyone else fading completely into the background. Still, I’m continuing to chew over their fates days later. Great subway reading.
Now: on to Wolf Hall (finally!).
The Girl With Glass Feet by Ali Shaw
I heard about The Girl With Glass Feet in this NY Times review and immediately got a copy (thanks to the good people at Henry Holt!). And while the Times’ reviewer says it much better than I can, I agree—this is truly an unusual and lovely book.
The title is literal—Ida Maclaird’s feet have turned to glass—and she has returned to the misty islands of St. Hauda’s Land to seek a cure, before the crystallization consumes her. St. Hauda’s Land, where Ida contracted her condition, is, as the Times’ reviewer points out, the land of Once upon a time. Misty, forested, populated (maybe) by unusual, magical creatures that flit among the trees—this is a place we think we recognize, but, one gets the sense, could never find on a map.
Aiding Ida in her quest is Midas, a profoundly awkward local who nevertheless possesses some kind of charm—at least, he didn’t annoy me, so there must be some sort of charm (grace?) there. Ida and Midas seek Henry Fuwa, an elusive man who seems to know the island’s secrets, and also take on the help of Carl Maulsen, a Maclaird family friend, as well as several others. The main characters’ back stories connect them all in ways that, in a normal book, would be ridiculous, but here, in this otherworldly land, it feels fated, and right. The complexities of Midas’s relationship with his father seem a bit overwrought, at times, but this is a minor complaint.
For a story about a supernatural affliction, this is a remarkably simple novel—not all that much actually happens, and the cast of characters is small. And Shaw’s writing is restrained but luminous, moving the story along crisply but pausing for moments that visually dazzle or make your heart ache.
In fact, in certain ways this reminds me of Elizabeth Kostova’s The Swan Thieves. Both writers seem extraordinarily gifted when describing their fictional worlds and characters, and both books rely heavily on back story for their force. But where Kostova’s book felt a little bloated, Shaw’s feels economical, giving both the story and the rhetorical beauty of his writing more weight.
When I finished this book I wished it wasn’t over, but I loved how it ended. I couldn’t agree with the Times reviewer more: “The end of the book, saturated with color and emotion, is risky and brave like the message it imparts. Only a heart of glass would be unmoved.”
The Girl With Glass Feet by Ali Shaw
Henry Holt & Co.
287 pages
The Swan Thieves by Elizabeth Kostova
I read lots of books. It’s about time I share some thoughts about them on my blog.
I was lucky enough to get a copy of The Swan Thieves by Elizabeth Kostova a few weeks before it pubs (thanks, Little, Brown!). I’ve been meaning to read The Historian forever, but I’ve heard that, while the lush descriptive passages occasionally hinder the narrative, The Historian is a great read.
So, too, is The Swan Thieves. The book opens with a violent attack of a painting by an artist, Robert. Following his arrest he is passed into the care of a psychiatrist, Marlowe, and refuses to speak about the attack—or anything else, in fact. Marlowe tracks down important people from Robert’s past to uncover his motivations, and it is the conversations between these sources and Marlowe that form the bulk of the narrative. Although I found it a little odd that the narrative voice seems to change little despite coming from multiple speakers, it seems to me that this conversational structure, as well as the book’s thematic focus on painting, play to Kostova’s strengths by shifting the focus from plot to description. Her prose is so richly detailed that although there is a mystery unfolding, the slow revelation of the person behind Robert’s silence is the real pleasure of the novel. Her luminous writing never feels like a hindrance because it is precisely what makes the story work.
Interwoven with the main narrative is the story of a female painter in late 19th century France. Initially rendered as letters and then as straight narrative, this story concerns Beatrice de Clerval as she struggles with her art and her feelings for a man who is not her husband. These vignettes, I found, were something of a distraction; lacking the richness of the main narrative and unfolding somewhat predictably, I often wanted to skim them. The end of the novel ties this narrative to Robert’s story in a meaningful way, but I admit I didn’t find it all that compelling. However, Kostova spends considerably less time with this narrative thread than the one concerning Robert, so I wouldn’t say it greatly took away from my enjoyment of the book.
The novel’s conclusion, while satisfying on certain levels, to me left something to be desired. I won’t reveal anything here, but Kostova makes an interesting choice with respect to Robert; on an intellectual or literary level I think it makes an intriguing statement, but as a reader I was a little disappointed. This, along with a couple of strange intrusions of Marlowe’s sexuality, are my main quibbles with what is largely a gorgeous, engrossing book. Deliberate in its leisurely pace, this is a story that explores love, obsession, art, and loss in a voice that makes it difficult to turn away, even as things fall apart.
