October 2009

• The Turn of the Screw by Henry James
• Her Fearful Symmetry by Audrey Niffenegger
• Burning Down the House by Charles Baxter
• American Indian Stories by Zitkala-Sa.
• Henry V by William Shakespeare
• Cane by Jean Toomer
• The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven by Sherman Alexie
• The Torrents of Spring by Ernest Hemingway
• A Doll’s House by Henrik Ibsen
• The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K. Le Guin
• The Best American Short Stories 2009
• Going Postal by Terry Pratchett
• Quicksand by Nella Larsen
• The End by Salvatore Scibona (abandoned p. 98)
• Othello by William Shakespeare
• The Victoria Vanishes by Christopher Fowler

Which totals three full-length plays, five novels and a book of essays for class, one abandonment, one reread, and five novels for fun.  An unprecedented sixteen this month (though two were Very Short).  But it looks most impressive.  My favorite was the Fowler, with Pratchett a close second.

Love and guilt monkeys to everyone beginning NaNoWriMo at midnight on November 1.  I can’t wait to read your novels in December.  I will add them to my Stuff I’ve Been Reading list.

The Victoria Vanishes

I know, I can’t believe it either.  A book review post written before I’ve finished the book.  The Victoria Vanishes by Christopher Fowler is the sixth in his Peculiar Crimes Unit mystery series, featuring the octogenarian detectives Bryant and May.

Since I’d been anticipating this book since February, my husband and I went to the bookstore to pick it up yesterday on its release date.  As soon as we got home, I tore through the first chapter…and the second…and so forth.  He asked me, “Is it good?”

“Comfortably familiar,” I answered.  Which is why we read series.

Yes, The Victoria Vanishes is good so far, but primarily because there are so many repeated tropes – and even phrases – from the first books.  Bryant must be described as wearing a ratty old scarf.  May must be described as dapper and three years younger.  Bryant must play tricks on Raymond Land and dredge up some very strange people to ask about local history.  May must play damage control and keep an eye on his agoraphobic granddaughter April.  The mystery must threaten the continuance of the Peculiar Crimes Unit.  It must also be personal.  At Chapter Eleven, all the promises have been fulfilled.

It’s a contract.  The author of a series promises to write a book mostly like her other books, and the reader, who wants to read more of the same (because she likes it the way it is!), will keep buying, keep reading.  Christopher Fowler keeps his promises.

And so will I.

10.0 / 10.0.

Go Away

The rain, not you, O Reader.  Tomorrow there’s a 100% chance of heavy showers before 10:00 AM.  Which means that I’m going to get rained on while waiting for the bus.  And while getting off the bus and walking to class.  And while walking from one building to another building.  And while walking from another building to a third building.  And back again.

I will have to wear my rain shoes and bring some extra socks with me, just in case.  And the hardcover 2,624-page Anthology of Theory and Criticism, which does not fit in my bag?  Looks like I accidentally left it on my desk.

Going Postal

I like Terry Pratchett.  I’ve read about twenty of his Discworld novels, though none recently, until last week.  Pratchett’s perfect wordplay makes me laugh when I read his book Going Postal on the bus to and from campus.  In the middle of the semester, laughter is exactly what I need.

I wish I could live in Discworld.  I would like to be a witch, I think.  Or a member of the Watch.  Or I could be Discworld’s first Watch witch.  Yeah.

9.0 / 10.0.

The Good Old Days

Today the Shakespeare students had an exam.

They had fifty minutes to write about four out of eight passages from Henry the Fourth, Part One and Henry the Fifth.

They were permitted to have their books with them.

I look back fondly on the days of exams, when all I had to do was study, show up, and trace out my thoughts in a Blue Book.

Now I have two 15-20 page essays to write before the second week of December.

One of them is about American literature, and the other about literary theory.

These subjects are not my specialty.

Not to mention Shakespeare tests to grade.

I envy the Shakespeare students.

Alas for the good old days.

Grammar Joke

At the writing lab where I work, we are preparing worksheets that spotlight a particular part of speech, punctuation mark, or common problem. (I wrote on adjectives and adverbs.  It was as boring as you might imagine.)  Before I started to prepare my handout, I took a survey of the existing worksheets, sitting down with one to study so that mine might be comparable.

“What are you doing?” a coworker asked me.

“Learning about colons,” I answered.  Then, before I could help myself, I heard myself saying, “Because, you know, everyone’s got one.”

::edit

Today was even worse.  I spaced out during my lesson on Henry V, and said, “This really establishes a strong comparison between King Henry and…  You know, the guy that Prince Hal defeats in that other play.  The What’s-His-Face.”

And a student, bless her, said, “Hotspur?”

“Right, Hotspur.  ‘What’s-His-Face’ is just a technical term that TAs use in lectures.”

At least they laughed.

Anastasia vs. the Plastic Cup

Anastasia won.

Unfortunately, the plastic cup was filled with water and sitting atop my particle-board three-shelf bookcase, which serves as my nightstand.  And bookcase.  Filled with books.  Which I love.

So Anastasia got shut out of the bedroom for a while, while I tenderly mopped up the mess.  I’m sad to say that no fewer than thirteen paperback books were dampened at the spine, two hardcovers with dust jackets were affected, twenty books or more received a minor spotting of one or two drops on the spine or covers, and one book was altogether ruined.

My recently acquired (used, half-price) copy of The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood was destroyed in the deluge.  The cover and front pages are completely wrinkled, the pages all along the side and back are stuck together, and the back cover was wet to the glue.  I’ve doctored it as best I can – it might just dry readable – but it will never be the same again.

I hope your ferret curiosity – and thirst – was satisfied, Anastasia.  But knowledge comes at a cost, and what it will cost you is an evening staring mournfully out of your cage while I blow on the pages to make them dry faster.

RIP