The Power and the Glory by Graham Greene

The Power and the Glory was essentially Death Comes for the Archbishop without the cool title. A priest in Mexico wanders around the various parishes before dying. He feels guilty because he fathered a child, and because he is a drunkard. He is shot to death in the end because the Mexicans are purging the country of Catholicism, an effort that was obviously not successful.

A minor character, a precocious preteen girl, had some real potential, but she was merely mentioned in passing. The rest of the book was sordid and tepid. Sinful priests are a dime a dozen- read the newspaper. Strangely, the author supports Catholicism in the conclusion. The whole book deprecated the religion, exposing all the corruption and hypocrisy inherent in the church. And yet, the sight of the priest at the end invokes piety and deference in a previously jaded, indifferent boy. No comprendo.

Perhaps it was all to say that Catholicism is mysterious and nonsensical, but still the true religion. I don't know. The case was not made for me.

Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert

Madame Bovary was actually a fairly timely read. I was perusing an article online that presented the concept of "female pornography," pornography literally being that which fosters unrealistic expectations in the opposite sex. For men, that manifests itself physically, while for women the fantasy comes in the realm of the emotional. Trashy romance novels and second-rate chick flicks cultivate the concept of the flawless tall-dark-and-handsome knight-in-shining-armor, sonnet-spouting and continually pledging his undying love. Obviously, this can have damaging effects on women's relationships with, and expectations of, men.

Madame Bovary is a case in point. She grows up in a convent, filling her mind with these very fantasies derived from novels and such. When she eventually marries, she is disappointed. Why doesn't her husband love her with that intangible passion of her books? Why doesn't he constantly romance her? How could she have so unluckily united herself with such a dull, unfeeling man?

In search of sexual fulfillment, therefore, Madame Bovary commences upon an affair. Her husband is completely unaware. The affair lasts for some time, but eventually her paramour jilts her. So, she arranges another affair, one she is sure will be more satisfying than the last. But with this second man she soon falls into a comfortable and not particularly romantic routine, and so Madame begins dreaming of yet another man, a real romantic. But she amasses some serious debt and commits suicide before she can alight upon another tryst.

Madame Bovary's unrealistic expectations ruined many, many lives. Her eternally forbearing husband adored her despite her innumerable caprices, and he succumbed to grief after her death. Her daughter, whom she never showed affection towards, was sent to a workhouse upon the successive deaths of her parents. And Madame's own life, of course, was destroyed by her passions. The novel was a graphic illustration of the damaging effects of irrational fantasizing.

On the Road by Jack Kerouac

A kid I worked with at summer camp had a copy in his cabin of just about everything Kerouac ever wrote, and my art teacher rambled on and on about how revolutionary On the Road was, so I figured to be considered educated, I had to read it.

I am not entirely sure what my final verdict on this book should be. From what I can tell, it was just the typical quasi-philosophical, drinking-smoking-sleeping-around searching for the meaning of life but never doing anything productive, let alone finding answers for the questions everyone asks, sort of novel. Pointless, in other words.

I think I can see what appealed so much to that kid at camp, though. Hitchiking repeatedly across the country, meeting scads of eccentric people, exploring the world, doing whatever whenever, would all be quite attractive to a teenaged boy, I think. But not to me. I would react similarly to the women in the book. They were more apt to settle down and stay in one place after a while. On the Road was an interesting social experiment, but ultimately a faulty one. The nomadic Buddhist lifestyle doesn't really answer anything.

Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston

Their Eyes Were Watching God was a typical woman-released-from-the-chains-of-man, chronicle of burgeoning sexuality sort of thing. How sad that there actually is that kind of literary category. Janie is a black woman in the South who marries three times before finding a husband she likes. Unfortunately, he gets bit by a rabid dog and tries to kill her, so she has to kill him self-defense. Nice.

I do not find infidelity and social defiance laudable. I guess I have no soul, but I did not like this book.

The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway

I would never willingly pick up Hemingway after reading The Old Man and the Sea, but The Sun Also Rises was assigned literature in school. Jake Barnes and his expatriate friends wander across Europe, disconnected and disenchanted, dissatisfied with their lives and their relationships. They end up in Pamplona to witness the running of the bulls. Jake does not hook up with the girl he likes. The end.

Hemingway just seems frustrated and apathetic. He was so troubled, and his literature reflects that. I can't read him and enjoy it. It is just not going to happen. Everyone drinks, smokes, and sleeps around. Nobody is ever satisfied. The prose rambles meaninglessly for pages and pages. He never gets anywhere. It leaves me frustrated! I do not see how he had any special insight into the human condition. He was so lost.

Daisy Miller by Henry James

Let me tell you a quick story. I was working at a summer camp, and just as I was sitting down to lunch, my cell phone rang. It was my mom, calling to inform me that I would not be able to return to my charter school because apparently I had amassed too many credits and should have graduated the previous June. School started in two weeks. Unwilling to graduate fully two years early, I assured my mom I would go to the local high school and finish my senior year there.

Well, I signed up a week before the first day of school for two AP English classes, which I could do because I'd never taken them before. I had five books to read, a college to visit, a play to see and seven essays to write. Desirous to see out my camp job to the end, I dutifully set to work during my breaks. A few days later, I broke my ankle.

When school started, I was on crutches, but I had completed every single summer assignment. Besides Daisy Miller, I had read Their Eyes Were Watching God, The Sun Also Rises, The Crucible, and Brave New World for the second time.

All this is to say I hated Daisy Miller. Its only redeeming feature was its brevity- short and sweet. Well, not particularly sweet, but certainly short. Daisy is a flirt, society does not approve of her, her imprudence gets the better of her, and she dies. How sad. My tears are palpable. Really.

The Crucible by Arthur Miller

Oh, McCarthyism. Because it has no bearing on me, I absolutely do not care about any of it. Horrible as it may sound, this is true. So blacklist me.

The Crucible was not as bad as Death of a Salesman, but it was still Arthur Miller. Obviously a product of his partially impoverished upbringing, Miller's politics were ridiculously leftist, and therefore irrational. People should not have to rely on the government to take care of them. Freedom means being able to do that for oneself. Why don't people see that?

In the play, Puritan girl Abigail sleeps with otherwise law-abiding John Proctor. In an effort to throw attention from herself, Abigail accuses Proctor of dealings with the devil, and soon the entire countryside is in hysterics over supposedly satanic happenings. Lots of Puritans are hanged under suspicion of occult loyalties. Abigail gets off scot-free. The end.

McCarthy was a terribly misguided man and he wreaked havoc on quite a few individuals' reputations with his alarmist legislative tactics in a manner similar to that of the rabidly self-righteous Puritan authorities. Thank you, Miller, for attempting to exculpate yourself with this play that makes that connection. Your politics were bad, but that does not justify McCarthy's campaign against you. The political sphere is so interwoven with ambition and emotion, that we may never have a national platform for rational discourse, and so literature may be one of the few arenas in which such a conversation can occur.

Mansfield Park by Jane Austen

Ah, Jane Austen. A breath of fresh air in a stifling, polluted literary world. I have to hand it to her this time. She really made me think that maybe, just maybe, the female protagonist would not marry the male protagonist she was obviously destined for. Of course, she does end up with him in the end, but there was real drama in between there.

Mansfield Park was a very nice book altogether. Fanny is the main girl, quiet and meek, mistreated and pitiable. She holds fast to her convictions, though, and by the conclusion she is loved and admired. Austen is fairly diverse, for all the similarities her books have. Each of her novels seem to involve a slightly different facet of early 19th-century British middle-to-upper-class daily life. I applaud her for that.

Truly, the comforts in reading a Jane Austen novel are innumerable. There is always just enough predictability, coupled with some unexpected turns, to delight and reassure the reader. I love Austen. Once you get to know her, you find she is unparalleled.