I think I need to put myself on a book-buying moratorium. To that effect, I am going to make a list of all the unread books that I own. The resolution is to not buy any more books (with four exceptions) until I have finished 75% of the list.
Read MoreHelen DeWitt, The Last Samurai
Your Republic Is Calling You, by Kim Young-ha
In addition to the two Austen novels and The Possessed, I finished rereading yet another Terry Pratchett book, Eric.
I’m currently absorbed in Qiu Xiaolong’s Death of a Red Heroine, which is the first book in his Inspector Chen series. Quite wonderful. I’m fascinated by the setting, and the characters are intriguing. There’s a lot of historical and cultural background information provided within the text, and I’ve been wondering whether:
1) Qiu’s original intended audience was the younger generation in China that might not recognize cultural references that date back to Mao or earlier.
2) Qiu’s original intended audience was foreigners or diaspora.
3) The translator did a very good job of seamlessly integrating in explanations into the text.
ETA: Meril informs me that in fact Qiu writes in English, which explains everything. Should have realized from the lack of translator name on the cover.
I picked up this book in the University Press Bookstore because I was drawn to its subtitle, “Adventures with Russian Books and the People Who Read Them”. I spent many of my formative years devouring Russian novels and short stories, and since the book itself is about a graduate student narrating funny incidents of her graduate studies, I couldn’t help purchasing it. From the get-go, it’s quite humorous in a very Russian way: at times sardonic, at others absurd.
I’m not sure how much of this book is memoir and how much is fiction. Certain events do coincide with a tidiness that suggests some artifice in rearranging memory, and at least one footnote led me to believe that Batuman has at the very least filled in the gaps in the manner most convenient for her narrative. The chapters of the book initially seem like disjointed episodes but pull together thematically in what is actually a very cohesive structure. Still, I don’t doubt that the raw material for the book came from Batuman’s real experiences; there are too many personal details.
I found the book funny, but I was also surprised to find it quite moving. I especially liked the chapters on her summer in Uzbekistan, where she studied Uzbek language and literature. The stated reason is to get out of the Russian teaching requirement and apply for a Uzbek teaching position instead, but it metaphorically functions as her attempt to mediate between her Turkish identity (Batuman is Turkish-American) and her passion for Russian literature. This part of the book was not only interesting for all its information on Uzbek literature—which I knew nothing about previous to this book—but also its perspective on Russian language and culture from the periphery.
I’ve read all of Jane Austen’s other novels before, but I held off on Mansfield Park for the longest while because the summary sounded quite depressing, and I’ve heard from many critics that Fanny is the least likable of Austen’s heroines. Indeed, Fanny is quite passive, and it’s easy to interpret her quiet disapproval as prudery. My sympathy for Fanny came in because of the constraints of her situation as a dependent who cannot practically defend herself or assert her desires; in that respect, at least, Austen drew a realistic portrait of many women who live their lives in such circumstances without respite. I could see parallels with my mother and the women of her generation, and while Fanny does not know the words to utter her frustrations—may even be conditioned to believe that her frustrations are invalid—I suspect that those frustrations do exist.
Still, sympathy aside, Fanny is not charming, not the way that Elizabeth Bennet or Catherine Morland or Emma Woodhouse is charming. She doesn’t have Elinor Dashwood’s quiet presence of mind nor Anne Elliott’s steady passion. She loves Edmund but can barely express her affection or jealousy. Moreover, her love interest, Edmund, is hardly ideal, and she only gets her happy ending with him after he becomes unable to marry his first love. We never see Edmund falling in love with Fanny and are left to suspect that he settled for her as the comfortable choice.
Nabokov’s Lectures on Literature convinced me to finally read Mansfield Park, and I must say that approaching the book from a critical angle did increase my appreciation for the book. He analyzes Austen’s techniques of characterization, and I firmly believe that the appeal of Mansfield Park lies in its full cast of characters. They are not admirable or likable, but they are all very complete and very real, even the more comic figures like Mrs. Norris.
Around the same time, I set about rereading Sense and Sensibility. The first time I read this book, I was convinced that Edward Ferrars was going to turn out to be a cad toying with Elinor’s heart and was quite surprised to find that he was devoted to Elinor after all. So upon reread, I paid special attention to his scenes and interactions with Elinor and felt more satisfied, though I still think his relationship with Elinor remains on the undeveloped side.
I was sobered by how much I have started to notice the hidden presence of colonialism in Austen’s novels; even last year, I don’t think I would have been quite so aware. The offhand references to the colonies and to goods acquired from overseas stood out to me where before they would have glided by unnoticed. I don’t think they take away from my enjoyment of the novels but they do stop me from romanticizing the era. Though I will add that Austen’s novels are not romantic; in some sense, they are anti-romantic. I’ve often read them for the love story and found them unsatisfying; that’s because her stories are not meant to be about love itself but the obstacles to love, such as money and social conventions. She doesn’t dwell on the reasons for affection but rather its consequences for human relations. Austen’s perspective is quite pragmatic—and I find that rather refreshing. Thus, Edward Ferrars’ decision to honor his engagement to Lucy Steele—even though he no longer loves her—is heroic, not frustrating, and Willoughby’s jilting of Marianne is tragic but also one of those everyday tragedies of life, not a Romeo-and-Juliet-style hyperbole. There’s something quite real about the way Austen portrays relationships, even to my modern perspective.
The Calligrapher’s Daughter, by Eugenia Kim
The Lost Books of the Odyssey, by Zachary Mason
The Lemoine Affair, by Marcel Proust
Shoplifting from American Apparel, by Tao Lin
The Death of The Author, by Gilbert Adair
The Girl with the Golden Eyes, by Honoré de Balzac
Reread Year of the Griffin and The Dark Lord of Derkholm by Diana Wynne Jones. I read them in reverse chronological order, same as the first time I picked up this duology. I still prefer Year of the Griffin—I think the school setting appeals to me—although I like the way the women are the ones to really organize and rebel against Mr. Chesney in The Dark Lord of Derkholm. I wish we’d get a sequel someday; I want to know what happens to Claudia and Blade, although knowing Diana Wynne Jones, a sequel would probably cover an entirely different subset of characters altogether.
I also finished It Must’ve Been Something I Ate by Jeffrey Steingarten, lent to me by my friend C.(P.). Debated whether or not to write a separate reaction post for this book, but mostly I can sum up the book as effectively hunger-inducing. It’s a collection of food essays he wrote for Vogue, accompanied by several intriguing recipes for the meals he describes in loving detail. We tried a few recipes already (the gratin dauphinois, which turned out delicious, and the pizza bianca); I bought a used copy of the book for myself in order to try the rest. Steingarten can get annoying on occasion: e.g. he begins his introduction by talking about his campaign to get Americans to eat more cephalopods, without acknowledging that for most Asian-Americans, eating squid/octopus/cuttlefish/calamari is quite normal. Another example: at one point, he uses the phrase “weird ethnic group”, which I did not find charming or amusing. Not terribly pleased by his exoticization of the Thai people either. But when he’s not assuming his audience is monolithically white and upper-class, his obsession with food and his willingness to try all sorts of cuisine is quite entertaining.
I am still reading Sontag’s journals. Will probably note down memorable quotes, as it is very quote-worthy. Have also taken to rereading the first few passages of Zhuangzi (I have A.C. Graham’s translation). Also tempted to start the anthology of Best European Fiction that Kara so kindly sent me, although I am trying to stop myself from starting new books. (Not to mention buying new books! I already have enough to read for a year without obtaining any new ones, although that hasn’t stopped me from making impulse purchases…)
Death of a Red Heroine, by Qiu Xiaolong
