The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins

The Moonstone began rather slowly, "mawkishly" even, as someone on amazon.com described it, with a sensational account of the theft of the eponymous stone from a sacred Hindu temple. The story then skips to a succession of first-person narrators, each relating their part in the mystery that surrounds the presentation and subsequent disappearance of the Moonstone on a young lady's birthday.

The narration gains traction as the novel progresses. Many characters are woefully two-dimensional, but somehow this did not diminish my delight in the book. By the middle of it, I was actually reluctant to put the book down, a rarer and rarer experience for me. No, the characters were not credible, nor was the plot, but I was entertained nonetheless.

And perhaps that is exactly why I was entertained. It has always been a maxim of mine that good fiction consists of ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances, or extraordinary people in ordinary circumstances. Ordinary people in ordinary circumstances are beyond boring, and extraordinary people in extraordinary circumstances can sometime be a bit over the top.

I am sure there is something wrong with my fiction-is-only-as-good-as-the-level-of-entertainment-it-provides philosophy on literature. Nevertheless, I shall persist in it until I can convince myself of something more intellectually forthright.

But it was a fun book. The Moonstone, at least, can only be worth as much as it entertains, for by any loftier measure it would not register very highly. Still, T.S. Eliot did call it "the first, the longest and the best of modern English detective novels," which has to lend the book some credibility.

The Warden by Anthony Trollope

I don't know who or why or how or what, but I just did not like this book. I suppose it was a character study. That is often a good way to say a book was plotless and incredibly boring- as this was.

Perhaps I am not doing The Warden justice. It did have a romance, and the prose was not nearly obscure. It is just that everything was so flat. The book was like a children's primer. Of course, it did not help that my edition had a rather large font and cute little illustrations.

The Warden is a clergyman appointed to oversee some aging, retired field workers. A young activist-type decides the Warden is paid too much, and that more of the money he receives should go to the old men. So the kid conjures up a lawsuit. Unfortunately, he loves the Warden's daughter, and she pleads for him to give up the suit. Alas, it is too much for the Warden. He resigns his post, the girl marries the young guy, and everyone is moderately happy at the end, except for the old men, who have lost the best master they could have over greed for money they never got.

"Pedestrian" is the best I can do to describe the book. "Dull", "flat", "uninteresting" are close contenders. What more is there to say? I am sure the book had some sort of merit as social and political commentary at some point, but now even I, an unabashed Anglophile, can derive little of enjoyment from it. It is so hard to say intelligent things about a boring book

Don't Eat This Book by Morgan Spurlock

Subtitled "Fast Food and the Supersizing of America," this expose of sorts written by the guy who ate only McDonald's for thirty days and filmed his ordeal, kept me entirely enthralled. I've retained an overarching disdain for fast food for many years, and Spurlock's testimony and barrage of facts only fortified my aversion for the stuff. Indeed, I disregarded the title and devoured his writing.

Spurlock jumps conversationally through the many facets of processed food, citing studies and experts and weaving in his own expericences and observances. He thoroughly destroys any appeal McDonald's could have for anyone, tracing the demise of its food quality, detailing the ingredients and the processes they go through, and demonstrating the inability of the average American to eat there constantly, burn off all the calories he consumes, and receive all of the nutrients he needs.

Spurlock goes even further into America's nutritive deficit. He scrutinizes the meat industry and its infatuation with hormones, antibiotics, and cutting costs at the expense of quality. He visits schools and finds many have cut P.E. while offering lunch fare no more nutritious than fast food. He examines the shelves of grocery stores, decrying the abundance of hydrogenated oils and high fructose corn syrups. He meets gastric bypass patients and marvels at how the world's one billion overweight inhabitants mirror the one billion starving ones.

The book is filled with devastating facts. An obese corpse being cremated fills the incinerating room with the smell of McDonald's as it burns; a man forgets a hamburger in his pocket one spring and finds it next fall in perfect condition; one McDonald's CEO dies of a heart attack and the man who replaces him dies of colectoral cancer. It is disgusting.

Spurlock's basic exhortation is for people to eat real food. Real, honest-to-goodness food that has no filler and that actually spoils. What is more, he calls for people to exercise and burn more calories than they take in. It doesn't take much to be healthy.

I have become more stringent lately, trying to maintain a standard of purity about what I consume. Even restaurants make me leery. I want to know exactly what is in everything I put into my mouth. Because of my resolve, I enjoyed the book that much more. I felt like I was on Spurlock's side. My only quarrel with him is over his sometimes too-leftist politics. The government can only be responsible for so much. Citizens need to make the effort to educate themselves, rather than have information dictated to them.

My Life and Hard Times by James Thurber

Short and sweet. Thurber recounts incidents from his early life through to his post-college days, leaving off there for "the confusions and the panics of last year and the year before are too close for contentment."

The book is divided into self-contained commentaries in essay form. One describes "The Night the Bed Fell." It is an absurd account of a series of event blown entirely out of proportion. Another, "The Day the Dam Broke," is much the same. In both stories, the eponymous events never actually take place; rather, they are perceived to have, and so, choas ensues.

The stories are all entertaining and well-written. Thurber retains the qualities of his journalistic profession with a straightforward and concise style aimed to keep the reader's attention. He joyfully commemorates the colorful characters of his family and his fellow citizens of Columbus, Ohio. If anything, the book was too short. I completed it within two cardio sessions at the gym.

I am rather divided over Thurber's illustrations. They are certainly iconic, a style unto themselves. They're like life reduced to its most basic elements- childlike in execution, but endowed with an adult sensibilty. But they remind me of rendering problems I've had when attempting to portray something from real life accurately on a page, something about the perspective and proportions and whatnot. Still, the antithetical nature of his drawings is quite appealing.

Swann's Way by Marcel Proust

Turn-of-the-century French experimental literature: not one of my favorite genres. Not by a long shot. But I saw Proust's work alluded to twice in the Wall Street Journal, and it was another book I could cross off my College Board-recomended list of novels to read before college, so I committed to perservering through Swann's Way, the first installment in Proust's monumental trilogy, In Search of Lost Time. I will not, however, be perservering through the latter two any time soon.

I have little love for stream-of-consciousness writing. Unfortunately for me, that is exactly what this entire book is comprised of. Proust's narrator recounts his entire childhood after the taste of a madeleine and tea sets off his memory. As a young boy in late 19th-century France, he grows up in the countryside and the narration meanders along with him. Detailed, detailed, detailed descriptions abound, with many involving flowers, which I found rather effeminate. The childhood narration is interrupted by the section "Swann in Love," which involves an acquaintance of the boy's family and takes place before he is born. "Swann in Love" is merely a chronicle of Swann's desperate, possessive obsession with some courtesan-type woman. She is shallow and promiscuous, and what Swann terms his "love" for her, is really just a desire to subdue and control her, to make himself "indispensable" to her.

The novel then switches back to the young boy, who grows to love Swann's daughter in much the same way Swann loved that woman. He has married her in the meantime, and the girl is the product of their union. The end of Swann's Way is not a decisive conclusion, for the story continues in the next two volumes.

I am sure the text suffered in translation, for it has that inordinately stuffy tone common to foreign works. Even the style that survives hinders the readability, though. Proust's sentences are endless, and one forgets the subject by the time one reaches the verb. The descriptions, which describe everything into oblivion, are tedious and pointless. There is little to call a plot, which eliminated any motivation I may have had to continue turning the pages.

I can see some merit in Proust's ability to represent elements of the human experience, especially the concept of memory association. Just as Swann was flooded with memories when he heard Vinteuil's sonata, so have I been ambushed by particular songs. But it was just such a long book, and I do not agree with the underlying philosophies behind it. I don't see a purposeless pleasure-seeking existence as particularly profound. Or correct.

How Right You Are, Jeeves by P.G. Wodehouse

Truly, there is something to be said for reliable consistency, for serial continuity. When one runs across delightful characters whom one is loath to part with, who can express one's joy when one discovers there is so much more where that came from?

I know I am being slightly verbose here. But perhaps there is no better way to expound upon the merits of How Right You Are, Jeeves, for verbosity is in fact one of the more endearing aspects of the protagonist and his associates. I revelled in the early-twentieth-century British vernacular. The accents from this period give a distinct impression of rapidity of speech, and this text conjures up that sound. It is almost as if the book is meant to be read quickly, and that is, of course, how I always go about it.

The characters' antics are beyond ridiculous, but that is all part and parcel of the Wodehouse ethos. Bertie Wooster is inevitably involved with a woman he was previously engaged to, or at least thought to have been engaged to. He usually has a lovestruck friend, and an aunt makes an appearance. Wooster gets tangled in others' affairs, and Jeeves is there to untie the knots. It's all here.

The farcical allusions are hilarious. A dachshund is described as "sound and fury signifying nothing," a reference which I readily understood after a lengthy study of Macbeth in school earlier this year. Wooster also employs a singular device of abbreviation, declaring, "[I] buried my f. in my h." when he was distraught, "f." being "face" and "h." being "hands." I've never encountered such a thing, nor do I believe I ever will. The fashion of writing seems to be a delightful little Wodehouse original.

The plot was rather meandering, but it defers to the characters and dialogue. The conversations are rapid-fire and truly comic. The characters play off of each other as if they were performing a sketch. The lines are concise, polished, and air-tight, snappy and clean. Wodehouse was a master of bons mots.

The Cherry Orchard by Anton Chekhov

The Cherry Orchard was a Russian play representing the fall of the country's serfdom. An old family, whose lineage dates back interminably, has lost its fortune. To avoid backruptcy, they are forced to sell their sizable home and land, including the beloved cherry orchard. The auction comes about, and the highest bidder is a man whose own ancestors were subservient to the affluent family's for just as far back as they can remember. He had begun life as a peasant, but had slowly amassed enough wealth to buy out the lords of the land.

The new owner begins razing the orchard as soon as the impoverished former owners depart. The sound of axes falling offsets the sobs of those leaving. For them, the cherry orchard was the embodiment of their prosperous past, a monument to deceased relatives who still seem to inhabit it. Now all of that is gone, their aristocratic birthright usurped by some low-blooded upstart.

All right. That is enough of that. Less esoterically, I thought the play incredibly tedious and was unable to conjure up pity for the protagonists. Of course, that is part of the inherent flaws involved in merely reading a play, silently, to oneself. The voices of the characters are muted and distorted by the one in the reader's head. The aesthetic is non-existent, for in writing for the stage the playwright omits the detailed narrative of the novel. Essentially, the effect is ruined. Translated works, too, retain a tincture of formality and lose the original sound and rhythm the author intended.

Bachelors Anonymous by P.G. Wodehouse

I am shocked that it took me so long to discover Wodehouse. That such wonderfully accessible British humour should have evaded my notice until recently is incomprehensible.

Bachelors Anonymous was quite short, and relatively modern, as it was published in the 1970s. A playwright falls in love with a reporter, but is continually hampered in his wooing by circumstances and members of the eponymous self-help group. Modelled after Alcoholics Anonymous, Bacherlors Anonymous attempts to keep its members from becoming ensnared in the perilous trap of marriage.

Ridiculous plotlines ensue, with a serendipitous inheritance, fortuitous encounters, and coincidental connections. But Wodehouse mocks his own story even as he tells it, comparing the lives of his characters to extraordinary romance novels and the like with a self-awareness that is delightfully refreshing.

It is all conducted in exquisitely good taste. The bachelors are automatically assumed to be celibate. No one does anything more than kiss. It is as if they all live in a marvellously sanitized, detached, innocent world. That seems to describe, in fact, the entirety of Wodehouse's literary world. It is a happy, wonderfully safe place rife in humour, good will, and well-being.

The Lady and the Unicorn by Tracy Chevalier

The author of Girl With a Pearl Earring doesn't fix what isn't broken, as it were, as she tackles another masterpiece of art history. I am glad, however, that I had no concept of the eponymous work in The Lady and the Unicorn when I read the story, for it was much prettier in my mind than it is in real life. The work is a tapestry, a symbolic depiction of seduction woven in garish reds and blues and yellows, with impersonal, stylized figures and a general simplicity that I found too primitive to be engaging. Reading the book, I imagined a lush, complex composition so realistic it was absolutely arresting, which was due largely to Chevalier's descriptions.

Because the tapestry was all about sex, the novel was, too. I found it extremely titillating, if rather risque. Nicolas des Innocents, the designer of the tapestry, conquers all kinds of women as he travels between Paris, where he lives, and Brussels, where the tapestry is woven. His patron's daughter falls in love with him, and he captures her likeness in the work. He also includes his patron's wife, a tragic, unloved woman who failed to produce a male heir. In Brussels, Nicolas loves the weaver's blind daughter who, to avoid an unsavory marriage, sleeps with him and gets pregnant. Her story is quite touching. Nicolas adds her to the tapestry.

The narrative point of view jumps from character to character, but not haphazardly. Rather, it begins with Nicolas, and moves through a roster of characters twice before ending again with Nicolas. I thought it a beautifully fluid way to proceed.

The tapestry is declared a success in the book. I viewed it on the Internet, and was not as enthralled. But it was an engaging story. Of course, Chevalier did write some of the novel from a male point of view, an action of authoresses that I find inexcusable in its presumption and incapable of producing a male character free of effeminate or idealistic elements. Still, much of fiction is entirely fantasy. I'm afraid I am going to lose my opinions in qualification.

The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka

It took some mulling, but I believe I have alighted upon the meaning of this work, or a portion of it at least. Gregor Samsa lives with his parents and sister and provides for them through a rather grueling job in sales. But one morning, he awakes to find he has morphed into a sort of giant beetle. He is repulsive like this, and so confined to his room. His family scambles to support themselves, taking jobs and letting out a room. The boarders discover the "vermin," and threaten to leave. The distress of the situation, coupled with the malnutrition he has incurred from depression, kills Gregor. The family finds him shriveled up, and they are relieved. They discover that, because of their jobs, they are fairly well-off and can now get a smaller apartment to save even more. The sister has become a useful, beautiful young lady, and the future is filled with hope for all.

I think the moral, or message, or point, or what have you, is that though Gregor felt he was an indispensable provider for his family, he was in fact stifling them, and they could not truly flourish until he was gone. He was almost no better than vermin before his transformation, and it needed only the metamorphosis to make this apparent to all.

But somehow I feel that doesn't quite encompass all that this novel is meant to convey. I suppose I should have read the textual criticism in my version more closely. Much of it is filled with "greatest book of this century" sorts of sentiments. Naturally, I'd like to know why. I was fairly surprised at the brevity of the work. I'd imagined it to be much longer, and that is why I did not pick it up for quite a while. In fact, what prompted me to read it was a Final Jeopardy question I saw on my trip to Ohio. It referred to the first paragraph, and I could not for the life of me come up with even a decent guess. I certainly did not want that to happen again.

Well, now I've read it, and have at least cursory knowledge of it, if not an extensive understanding. If nothing else, I'll be able to answer that question on Jeopardy.

The Necklace and Other Short Stories by Guy de Maupassant

It is a funny thing, the enduring elements of literature. What remains relevant and what loses its immediacy to obscurity is often separated by finely drawn nuances. Certainly in this collection, the potently pertinent and the disappointingly antique are inextricably intermingled. De Maupassant apparently invented the modern concept of the short story, and many of those featured in this book display a universal sensibility.

"The Necklace" follows a young woman who belongs to the middle class but believes she deserves better. She borrows a rich friend's necklace and loses it, then buys a replacement on credit, and works for a decade to pay off the debt, only to discover the original was only worth a fraction of the one she bought. Thus, a woman whose previous aspirations were meaningless, works for years for something equally meaningless. The uppity upstart gets what she deserves.

A melancholy narrative tells of the stifled, uncontrollable affections of a middle-aged spinster- the tragedy of her existence, and her tragic end. An uncomfortable horror story of sorts chronicles the deterioration of a man haunted by an invisible being. Here we begin to find bits of antiquity. The story makes all sorts of "metaphysical speculations" that could only have been made in the nineteenth century.

Other stories focus on Franco-Prussian conflicts, peasant life, and prostitutes, the profundity of which is entirely lost on me. What someone hailed as technically the greatest short story ever written, "Boule-de-Suif," or "Ball of Fat," had no special merits that I could see. A rotund prostitute refuses to sleep with the occupying Prussian captain, but her compatriots, desperate to escape, convince her to override her patriotic scruples. The end finds them on a departing wagon, the prostitute, now shunned by all, weeping. I failed to sympathize with the protagonist. But from what I understand, de Maupassant was obsessed with prostitutes, and seeing how as he died from syphilis, he evidently had a deep sympathy for them.

Incidentally, de Maupassant seems to have actually gone crazy from the disease. He was committed to an asylum, and he died there. A fascinating end for an author, I must say.

Some of the stories really dragged, while others kept me going with a sort of morbid fascination. I do not believe a single story had a redeeming ending, but of course, that is too much to ask. I must merely content myself with a superb command of language and an emerging sense of irony.

I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith

I have to say, I identified with the protagonist in the beginning. Seventeen-year-old Cassandra is an aspiring writer who adores Austen and the Brontes, but finds little in her life to inspire her own literary contribution. Our similarities, however, ended with the first chapter. Cassandra lives in an old castle in England in the 1940s, with her author-turned-hermit father, nudist model stepmother, bored and dreaming older sister, studious younger brother, and a deceased servant's orphan son who loves her in his simple and unworthy way.

The owners of the castle, two conveniently handsome, engaging brothers, come to claim their inheritance, and all their lives soon become intertwined. Rose, the older sister, becomes engaged to one of the brothers, Simon. But as Rose discovers she does not truly love him, Cassandra discovers she herself does. Unofortunately, Simon does not feel the same about her. But after Rose elopes with the younger brother Neil, Simon impulsively proposes to Cassandra. Nevertheless, she refuses, knowing he would never love her as he loved Rose.

Symbols and elements of loneliness are prevalent. Cassandra finds herself alone quite often. Sometimes she welcomes it, and sometimes she does not. The denouement leaves her single. The book is not a chronicle of courtship, but a coming-of-age sort of thing, a showcase of development that follows Cassandra as she acquires the qualities that will ultimately enhance her adult life. She finds independence, and apparently she is the better for it.

Cassandra briefly explores religion but concludes it is just a way to avoid the events of life. The town vicar is described as baby-faced and golden-haired, as if he had never grown up and never really lived life. Cassandra's conclusion is mystifying to me. Why God is avoidance, rather than solace or purpose, is not truly established.

Cassandra begins as a worthy protagonist, but she devolves into someone less worthy of the reader's sympathy. She blunders through servant son Stephen's emotional attachment to her, she pursues her sister's fiance, she analyzes everything into oblivion, and she continues tediously and self-centeredly until the end. For most of the book, she is unhappy, and there is not celebratory ending to countermand that. One American brother comments on how melancholy England seems to be, much as the novel as a whole is. But perhaps that is the author's aim- to capture the melancholy of adolescence in a searingly accurate manner.

Stiff Upper Lip, Jeeves by P.G. Wodehouse

I loved the title, so as my introduction to Wodehouse I selected Stiff Upper Lip, Jeeves. Wodehouse's name was mentioned on amazon.com lists and in Arthur & George, which piqued my curiousity. I am quite glad I discovered him.

Apparently with this book I jumped right into the midst of a very funny series. Bertie Wooster is an English gentleman in the early 20th century, and Jeeves is his encyclopaedic butler. Wooster gets himself into compromising situations, and Jeeves gets him out through his veritable treasure trove of knowledge and his relentless deadpan delivery.

The story is almost incidental beside the rollicking narration. Wooster's first-person voice is a linguistic exercise in absurdity. He begins adages but never finishes them, he uses fabricated abbreviations liberally, and he toys with conventional usages.

The supporting characters are merely two-dimensional caricatures of anything resembling real people. In this way, Wooster appears to be the epitome of sanity in a mad world. It is a very funny world, all the same.

Serendipitously, I came across a Jeeves and Wooster DVD at the library. I was not aware any such thing existed. The DVDs feature episodic adventures of the duo, and the series is as excellently done as the books. The characters are captured perfectly; Hugh Laurie and Stephen Fry are incredible.

Arthur & George by Julian Barnes

I enjoyed the aesthetic qualities of the author's quintessentially British name, and selected this book partially on that basis. Julian. Very nice.

The book itself was definitively British, often endeavouring to establish the nature of a "true Englishman" and then differentiate the main characters from such a definition. Arthur, of course, is Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, painted as I am sure he truly was- worlds away from his ubiquitous protagonist. It is such situations that make me wonder whether genius is actually an autonomous, lightning-strikes-once sort of individual entity that manifests itself in all kinds of forms.

But that is a separate consideration. George is the Indian-Scotsman whom Arthur really did exculpate from a wrongful conviction. The book deals with the trial and the events surrounding the ordeal. The plot was well-paced, and the narrative was absorbing. Barnes examines Doyle's increasing fascination with spiritism, and he treats such a silly belief as respectfully as possible. Of all the belief systems out there, why Doyle would alight on such a ridiculous one is baffling.

George was a very sad character, but as the author was certainly bound by history's outcome, the character must have been very close to the real man. The book is rather melancholy and inconclusive, but it provides an insightful analysis of the man behind Holmes. Barnes is a talented narrator and he has crafted a contemporary book that features a superb use of language, a complex plot, and a thoughtful composition.

Tristan and Iseult by Rosemary Sutcliff

Sutcliff skillfully wove this retelling of the epic legend. She retained an element of archaic sensibility, while writing in language the modern reader has no trouble understanding. Kudos to her for that.

The story itself is fairly captivating, as it would almost have to be considering how long it has lasted. It forms an instantly recognizable archetype: young, beautiful lovers estranged forever because of circumstances and destined to end tragically. Romeo and Juliet, anyone? I suppose such plots capture audiences because of their uncertainty and suspense, and the exquisite sadness of it all. I think there is also some schadenfreude in seeing insanely privileged individuals suffer for their own folly.

It truly is the protagonists' folly that leads to the tragic end. Sutcliff makes a poor case for their uncontrollable ardour for each other, merely attributing it to a moment in which each gazed into the other's eyes and felt some sort of intangible bond. They had no true points of connection that they could not have had with their respective spouses. She is gorgeous and he is handsome, but that does not mean they are irrevocably destined for each other.

Marriage is for procreation and the spurring on of one another towards righteousness, if you've biblical inclinations. It is not just the satisfaction of lust. Pleasure is an essential component, but it is not the only one. Relationships need to be established upon something more than just physical attraction. Not that any of this was given any consideration here. It was a romance, after all. They die in the end. How romantic.

The Black Arrow by Robert Louis Stevenson

I read the introduction to the book (after I had finished the story so it wouldn't influence my opinion, like I usually do) and I completely agree with it. The Black Arrow was definitely one of Stevenson's "minor works" and not entirely a classic in its own right, but a good story nevertheless.

It is really just a boys' adventure novel- simplistic, fast-paced, and fun, with a convenient moral at the end. Richard Shelton discovers his place in society during the War of the Roses in England in the 1400s. Accuracy and authenticity are not the author's major concerns, as there are numerous curiously prescient allusions to a yet-to-be-born Shakespeare, and many speech conventions contemporary of Stevenson.

Dick, as the protagonist is often called, rescues a young lady from an undesirable marriage, and revenges himself upon his father's murderer. He learns about right and wrong, and the far-reaching consequences of his actions.

The characters are rather simple, and their internal development merely superficial. But it makes for a good leisure read. Nineteenth-century "tushery," or books where authors use "tush" and other uncommon words often, a term Stevenson himself coined, is exceedingly diverting. What was perhaps considered unworthy then is highbrow compared to most of today's escapist fiction.

I found this book to be a lot of fun. The plot kept me turning the pages eagerly to the end. It was much more enthralling than say, Ivanhoe, a similar but infinitely more tedious novel. The adventure was, for lack of a better term, higher- more exciting and epic, like a medieval romantic adventure should be.

The Mayor of Casterbridge by Thomas Hardy

Thomas Hardy's writing was as dark and melancholy as I'd heard it was, but The Mayor of Casterbridge had a happy ending, and that always redeems a book in my eyes. The story was riveting, and the style was comprehensible. A man, in a drunken impulse, sells his wife and daughter to a passing sailor. The rest of the book chronicles the results of this, the ensuing tangle and and confusion of relations as the years progress, and the final state of affairs after all the threads have been sorted out.

The characters are interesting, but not terribly engaging. Henchard is the faulty man whose overly impulsive nature ultimately destroys him. Elizabeth-Jane is supposed to be the daughter whom Henchard sold, but is actually the offspring of Henchard's wife and the sailor. Elizabeth-Jane, through tenacious self-discipline and a strong sense of propriety, develops into a sensible, well-informed girl. She eventually marries well, forming the happy ending I mentioned before.

Most of the story is the interplay of the various connected people, and it is fun to follow. Because the reader does not form much emotional attachment to the characters, due perhaps to the author's intent, one can just stand a distance and events resolve themselves into a cohesive narrative. A lot of the novel is rather sad and pathetic, but not all of it. Elizabeth-Jane begins with the view that life is mostly a tragedy punctuated intermittently with moments of happiness, but by the end such an outlook is modified a bit, because her situation has become one of complete satisfaction.

A Passage to India by E.M. Forster

Forster was a fairly insightful guy. A Room with a View involved fascinating character development and apt observances of the human condition, and A Passage to India did too. Still, his worldview was unabashedly atheistic, and his main conclusion was merely a cry for universal brotherhood. Nevertheless, the narrative was enjoyable.

Forster himself seems to enjoy complex relationships and broken engagements, common subjects in the two books of his that I have read. I think he also saw travel as a venue by which a person's character is thrown into relief and magnified. Perhaps, and especially for the early 20th-century Briton, when one is removed from the confines of conventional society, one is able to act how one would without that outside control.

The book gained a new level of realism for me when I dined at an Indian restaurant. The cuisine was fabulous, and it felt as if I could taste and feel the novel, after having read it. Eating unfamiliar food is a singular joy: one does not exactly know what one is dining on, but as it is delicious and exquisitely exotic, it makes for a culinary adventure. So, in that way, I took my own little passage to India, and the experience of the Imperial British visitor became that much more real to me. In fact, I would go so far as to recommend that one should immediately make reservations for the nearest Indian restaurant as soon as one has finished the book. It makes a delicious accompaniment.

Admiral Hornblower in the West Indies by C.S. Forester

The admirable admiral triumphs again in the penultimate installation of the Hornblower saga. I'll admit I approached this book with trepidation, unsure whether it could attain the level of the previous books, but, barring one minor flaw, I need not have feared. It was a complete success.

Horatio is patrolling the Caribbean, not unlike Commodore Norrington in Pirates of the Caribbean, cracking down on piracy and slave trading. He risks his "honour as a gentleman," but retains it with a fortunate coincidence. He and his secretary are kidnapped by pirates, and they have a delightfully touching scene reminiscent of Sam and Frodo's on the path to Mordor, incidentally what I consider to be the consummate scene of the trilogy.

Horatio and his secretary escape and destroy the pirates. Horatio's wife comes to accompany him home, for his commission is over. Just before they leave, a young man in the marine band refuses to play a note he believes is incorrect, objecting on artistic grounds. For that, he is sentenced to death. Herein lies the sole flaw of the book. For Barbara is distraught over the situation, and when she asks Horatio for money, he does not even suspect that it is to aid the young man's escape. The revelation of her motives serves as the denouement of the novel, but I found it anticlimactic. I had figured it out long before.

Nevertheless, the majority of the book is superb. On the return home, Horatio's ship is caught in a hurricane. In the despair of the moment, Barbara insists she never loved anyone but Horatio, putting to rest his self-doubt on account of her first husband. Horatio saves the ship and most of the crew, and they make it safely to land.

Horatio's final reconciliation with his wife is nice and happy, and his final satisfaction with her after years of philandering indecision is an exceedingly appropriate ending.

One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest by Ken Kesey

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest was a truly tragic book. Stories of mental wards aren't typically happy, and this one did have bright spots, but it was altogether very sad. Chief Bromden, the narrator, tells the story of McMurphy, a man who gets himself admitted to an insane asylum to avoid a work camp. Through McMurphy's antics, it is revealed that the hospital is not designed to make the patients better. In fact, it often makes them much worse.

McMurphy draws many of his fellow inmates out of their antisocial neuroses. He arranges a fishing trip, which for some is their first outing in twenty years. He defies the controlling nurses, and, as retribution, is subjected to shock treatment and then a lobotomy. This surgery renders him a vegetable, and so Bromden smothers him out of compasssion.

The mercy killing at the end was fairly disturbing, but mostly understandable considering the men and their situation. Much of the inmates' inabilities to function stemmed from a sort of desexing, as Kesey repeatedly pointed out. They were forced to rescind any form of masculinity they may have retained. They were left men in name only, with no power or virility, unable to assert themselves and so unable to live sanely.

McMurphy served as a sort of sacrifice for these men, losing his life in an attempt to restore such to them. I found the story riveting, and I was in suspense until the end. It was excellent, but again, so tragic.

The Tent by Margaret Atwood

Atwood's name is a fixture on standardized exams and her poetry is prevalent in schools, so when I saw a new book of hers at the library, I thought it would be worth my while to check it out. The chapters of The Tent were short and rife with symbolism. I was relieved to discover each section was an autonomous essay. I thought Atwood may have deliberately designed them to form a coherent whole, and if that were so I am not astute enough to rise to the daunting task of finding the connections.

It was all deep, mutlilayered symbolism, the sort that is so ambiguous, it can be taken and interpreted in many different ways. I have been wondering lately about the nature of profundity. If a piece of literature causes me to think on some esoteric subject, though the author did not outright state such a concept, nor perhaps originally meant anything of the sort, is the author considered to have written something with penetrating insight?

Think on that. In the meantime, my review. I caught some allusions in the book, but I am sure not all of them. Atwood's illustrations were cute, especially the one that played on that art nouveau composition involving Salome.

Some of the essays were fairly graphic. I was disappointed. I think my favorite of all of them was the eponymous "The Tent," in which Atwood reckoned her literary endeavours as a frantic scibbling upon a paper shelter- the only barrier between her and a scary, dark world. It was interesting, if nothing else.

To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf

To the Lighthouse was a fascinating, but meandering and melancholy, exercise in stream-of-consciousness prose. The first section of the book introduces the characters, whose lives are intertwined and connected commonly by matriarch Mrs. Ramsay. The inner thoughts of the various characters are revealed intermittently as they all vacation in the Hebrides. There is little outer dialogue, and no indication of a switch in narrator.

An abrupt chapter following this heralds the passage of ten years. Many, including Mrs. Ramsay, have died. The concluding chapter returns to some of those present in the beginning, and accompanies them as thry revisit the vacation home.

The relationships between all these people are hashed and rehashed. Mr. Ramsay is a distant philosopher-type whose children harbor resentments against him because of his emotional coldness. Lily Briscoe is a single painting dilettante for whom Mrs. Ramsay tries unfruitfully to find a partner. Mrs. Ramsay is reputedly beautiful, and she attempts to smooth out the lives of everyone around her. She becomes some sort of symbol of perfection for Lily, and inspires her to paint despite the fact that her work will just rot in an attic some day.

I did not particularly care for any of the characters. I find most complex character studies tedious and pointless. I am not sure I have a complete grasp on what Woolf was trying to say with this, either. I know she had a philosophy describing humans' inability to ever truly know one another, and I can see that here. Her characters would be complete mysteries to the outside observer, but the inner dialogue reveals so much more. I also caught the do-what-you-want-and-forget-posterity thing at the end, which is always a healthy perspective. But I feel like I may be missing something. I feel that way about literature often.

Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison

The African-American's experience is so remote from my own. It is not an experience I envy, either: having to overcome racial prejudice, impoverishment, stereotypes, and ignorance. I also find it fairly counteractive to establishing equality when a category is created based on what the author looked like. Geographical or chronological bounds are easier to defend.

I was able to muster up sufficient admiration for this book, though. As my English teacher Mr. Rossi said, the search for individuality is a universal one. The protagonist was more or less understandable and likable. He gets kicked out of college over an indiscretion involving race, and he must fend for himself in post-Renaissance Harlem. He joins up with "the Brotherhood" and tries to help in the fight for equality, but everything turns sour. He finally discovers that the only way he can find his individual identity is through himself.

I thought it was a fine message. I was glad the protagonist did not find his identity in an organization, but rather in a disillusioned solitude. I could sympathize with his attempt to rid his culture of ignorance. I had to write an essay on a famous African-American, so I chose Frederick Douglass, and I enjoyed the correlation in the book between him and the protagonist.

The Zoo Story by Edward Albee

This is a testament to my English teacher, in that I would never have appreciated this play to the extent that I do if I had not experienced it with him. The Zoo Story is a fairly short play, happening in one act, on one day, near one park bench. It is, in fact, a single conversation between two people. Peter is relaxing on the park bench one afternoon, reading a book, when Jerry comes up and begins talking to him. His comments are bizarre from the beginning. "I went to the zoo today," he starts.

All that follows is basically an unfolding of Jerry's life and how it contrasts with Peter's- one is married, with children, an apartment, and a decent job; the other lives alone, devoid of human connection, finding the neighbor's dog a sorry excuse for a companion.

The story turns abruptly when Jerry tries to start a fight with Peter. It ends with Peter, in self-defense, grabbing the knife Jerry wields, and then Peter standing bewildered as Jerry impales himself upon it, with a thank-you for the assistance.

Jerry is one of those who get lost in society, whose troubled childhood leaves them ill-prepared to deal with the world. Peter is the moderately successful well-adjusted citizen who never truly finds himself uncomfortable. Jerry changes that. He puts Peter in a position of severe discomfort, forcing him to see where Jerry was coming from when he babbled on and on for pages and pages. It was a well-done play, and my teacher's rendition of Jerry was fantastic. I was fascinated by the story for its entire duration.

Persuasion by Jane Austen

Well, I am very proud of myself. I managed to make the canon of Austen literature last for over a year. But tragically, I have finished the last one. I guess I'll have to start all over again.

Persuasion was superb, both in its predictability, and in its innovation. The female lead loves the male lead, and there is lots of uncertainty until they get together in the end. That is a given. But this heroine is older. She spurned the advances of a young sailor in her youth at the advice of a friend, and now she is "seven-and-twenty" and still single.

The sailor, now Captain Wentworth, shows up again because of common acquaintances, but he has eyes only for younger, livelier girls, not "bloom"-less Anne Elliot. Anne just hangs out doing the whole Austen forbearance thing, and simply by being her normal, tactful, modest self, persuades the sailor to renew his love.

The eponymous concept is also manifest in Anne's decision to initially refuse the offer of marriage. Her friend had persuaded her to change her mind, and this is a major objection for Captain Wentworth.He thinks such a changeable mind exhibits weakness. But, of course, he is soon persuaded otherwise.

It was a very pleasant book. The story gives hope to quiet, untoward, unexceptional-looking girls. Apparently their better qualities will nevertheless shine through eventually. After all, Anne had no less than three potential suitors and certain admirers, in just six months. And, moreover, while in her late twenties in Regency England.

Austen made some great observations in this book, and I copied down some of the best:

"Anne always contemplated them as some of the happiest creatures of her acquaintance: but still, saved as we all are by some comfortable feeling of superiority from wishing for the possibility of exchange, she would not have given up her own more elegant and cultivated mind for all their enjoyments..." (Chapter 5)

"Anne had not wanted this visit to Uppercross to learn that a removal from one set of people to another, though at a distance of only three miles, will often include a total change of conversation, opinion, and idea." (Chapter 6)

"She felt that she could so much more depend upon the sincerity of those who sometimes looked or said a careless or hasty thing, than of those whose presence of mind never varied, whose tongue never slipped." (Chapter 17)

Lord Hornblower by C.S. Forester

The war is over! Oh wait, no it isn't. Napoleon somehow escaped from Elba. Oops. Horatio is in France visiting the Count and his daughter-in-law Marie, who sheltered him in Captain Horatio Hornblower, when he is suddenly changed from celebrated, decorated war hero, to fugitive. Horatio organizes a guerilla warfare band, but they are too few, and after a few weeks of running, are disbanded.

Reduced to Horatio, his steward Brown, the Count, and Marie, the group is soon overtaken by Hussars. There is an excellent scence in which Horatio thinks the thoughts of a man destined to die, and then fights like one. It was better than a movie.

Marie dies, which was sad, but really a very convenient way to solve Horatio's lover conundrum. It was a spectacular way to get rid of her, I must say. The morning the Count and Horatio are condemned to die, the hand of fate is stilled. Napoleon has been defeated at Waterloo, and Horatio is, once again, free.

Bush died in the beginning, but I never especially liked him, so I have nothing against Forester for doing away with him. Barbara becomes rather self-centered, abandoning Horatio to host foreign diplomats in Austria. She almost asked for the whole Marie-the-mistress thing. Not that that excuses Horatio's infidelity, of course. Bad Horatio.

Incidentally, the opening paragraph of the book involves Horatio admiring the ceiling of Westminster Abbey as he sat listening to a sermon. It was only the day before I read this that I was showing my sister a picture of that very ceiling in my art history book because it was not only beautiful, but strikingly Tolkienesque. Great minds truly do think alike.

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

Oscar Wilde was the master of the epigram, the maxim, the aphorism. His characters sometimes held conversations consisting entirely of them. His text is riddled with them, and it is by Lord Henry's that Dorian Gray lives and dies. Dorian is a young, beautiful man whom a painter immortalizes on canvas. When Lord Henry sees it, he comments that the picture will stay the same, though Dorian will age. Dorian is appalled at the idea. He rashly wishes it would be the other way around.

Fast forward some years, and Dorian's wish has come true. Though he adopts Lord Henry's "new hedonism" and spends his time chasing pleasure at the expense of his reputation and numerous people's lives, his countenance is as pure and innocent as ever. However, the painting has become grotesque. Dorian keeps it hidden, even as he tries to conceal his own inner depravity. Eventually, he attempts to destroy the painting, and by doing so, inadvertently kills himself.

Altogether, the book was a disparagement of a life of doing things solely for the pleasure of oneself. Dorian does whatever he wants, and he ends up unhappy and dead. He examines his own motives and discovers that even his attempts to do good are selfish. Of course, Wilde presents no alternatives here, but I hardly expected him to. Just having debauchery and dissipation decried is enough for me. That is not a theme I've often encountered in literature.

The prose was quick-paced, and, as I said, epigrammatic. A lot of people died, which was slightly creepy, but it was a very engaging story. Still, I can always find common ground with the reviewer quoted in the preface: "Why go grubbing in muckheaps?"

The Know-it-All: One Man's Humble Quest to Become the Smartest Person in the World by A.J. Jacobs

The title appealed to me. I couldn't help myself; I had to read this book. I did not raise my hopes too highly, because it was written in 2004, and so it does not qualify for the "time will separate the wheat from the chaff" philosophy that I adhere to. So, my experience with the book was not too painful.

The story is a sort of memoir based on the author's actual foray though the entire Encyclopedia Britannica- all 33,000 pages of it. The plot involves the year it took him to get through it, as he simultaneouly joins Mensa, tries out for "Jeopardy!", and actually appears on "Who Wants to be a Millionaire?"

Jacobs includes all sorts of personal information, such as how he feels about his brother-in-law, that lends the story its authenticity, but also makes me wonder how the people featured reacted when they saw themselves on the printed page. Does that lady at the Mensa meeting really want to be portrayed as a loser with no job? Does Jacobs' father want his real-life relationship with his son dissected and displayed before millions of strangers?

I suppose the basis of good writing does lie in its resemblance to reality. Still, I don't think Jacobs even changed any names. But maybe he likes having his whole life broadcast to the world. It is very much like blogging, actually. Slightly narcissistic but sometimes entertaining.

The writing itself was very average, and too much like a journal. The story dragged sometimes, and Jacobs used way too much of the present tense. I hate the present tense. It unfailingly sounds like first-grades narratives do- simple and childish. It is fine for the six-year-olds, but unacceptable for an adult novelist.

In the area of worldviews, the author is an agnostic, but he acknowledges that there seems to be some moral absolutes, and he admires the book of Ecclesiates for its philosophical merit. Go figure.

The Family Reunion by T.S. Eliot

After a rather extensive research report on his life and works, T.S. Eliot is now officially one of my friends. I mean, his moral and spiritual development coincided so perfectly with my 1920s-centered topic requirement ("From The Waste Land to Ash Wednesday: A Moral Regeneration from 1922 to 1930"). How could I not love him?

The Family Reunion was a play in which a cast of characters related to one another realize that most of their problems stem from the matriarch's desperate and ineffectual, though sincere, attempts to make them happy during childhood. At least, that is how I interpreted it.

Eliot is a truly fantastic writer, no matter what he is writing about. His is the most poetic prose I think I have ever read. I would like to see a play of his performed, to see how the lines are translated upon the stage. Even when his meaning is not clear, Eliot's words are still mesmerizing. In fact, the hypnotic effect is probably heightened by the obscurity. But a play always reads flatly without the human voice to illuminate it. In that way, plays are much like poetry- best when read aloud.

The Stranger by Albert Camus

Meursault, a Frenchman, gets caught in a murder mess in The Stranger. He shot a man out of self-defense, but during his trial he is judged cold-blooded because of his apparently callous reaction to his mother's death, and so is considered capable of premeditated murder. He is condemned to the death penalty.

A striking aspect of the narrative is how logical Meursault's reaction to his mother's death seems at the beginning. For when it is examined in a courtroom, it really does appear condemning. Meursault was fascinating- a resigned, indifferent individual, concerned mostly with sensual pleasure when concerned with anything at all.

He was one of those who just go through the motions of life, not caring about the past, not anticipating the future. He was quite a peculiar sort of atheist, countering the chaplain calmly, asking what God had to do with anything, quite unperturbed. He really had no concept of God at all. I was as unsure of how to react to such measured indifference as the chaplain was.

Altogether, the story was that of a man's response to his imminent death; or, at least, it culminated in that. Meursault just reasons he was going to die eventually, and if it happened thirty years before he had expected it to, what then? What difference did it make?

And yet, one would think it made all the difference in the world. For how could Meursault know he had got the meaning of life, or the lack thereof, right? Isn't it presumptuous to assume one has absolute knowledge when one has experienced such a neglible fraction of all there is in the universe? Maybe another thirty years would have revealed a more concrete conclusion than that all that there is, is nothing.

The Collected Poems of T.S. Eliot

Poetry has always been a thing despised by me. But, once again, my AP Lit and Comp teacher's instruction has proved horizon-expanding. We went through "The Hollow Men" when we read Heart of Darkness, and I was intrigued by the depth of meaning manifest within the poem. In my other English class, a brush with The Great Gatsby warranted a five-page essay on a topic from the 1920s. Seeing how as I find most of that decade as vapidly decadent and unworthy of study as F. Scott Fitzgerald's novel itself, I decided to take a risk and immerse myself in a subject completely unknown to myself- T.S. Eliot and his poetry.

The research and composition of my paper was an unprecedented success (my five-minute class presentation was not as wonderful, but that is another story). Though much of Eliot's message was obscured to me on my primary readings, subsequent commentaries, rehashing, and invaluable audio files of the author reading "The Waste Land" undoubtedly as it was meant to be heard, gradually filled in the subtler shades of meaning for me. I was able to trace Eliot's journey from a disillusioned, dispassionate commentator on the dissipation and dismemberment of modern society, to an enlightened, rejuvenated Christian, full of calm hope.

His "Choruses from the Rock" were gorgeous expressions of an intellectual Christianity. "Knowledge of words, and ignorance of the Word" takes one "nearer to death/but nearness to death no nearer to God." The first chorus contains those lines, and ends with these:

And we thank Thee that darkness reminds us of light.
O Light Invisible, we give Thee thanks for Thy great glory!

Twelfth Night by William Shakespeare

I'll commence with a caveat: most of my perspective is probably my senior AP Lit and Comp teacher's, so buyer beware.

Twelfth Night was fairly funny. It was largely far-fetched, and really only enjoyable when acted out, but the humor was still apparent in the text. Mr. Rossi's pantomines also helped.

The underlying message was an intriguing one. "Dost thou think because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?" Sir Toby asks Malvolio, the self-righteous Puritan. Can religion and pleasure exist together? Perhaps Shakespeare thought so.

I'm not typically a Bardolator, but I was able to muster up some appreciation for Shakespeare with a teacher to elucidate the finer points and bring to light the essential themes. Maybe, as T.S. Eliot said, Shakespeare is a better companion as one gets older. It might be that youth cannot tackle the Bard on its own.

Fathers and Sons by Ivan Turgenev

I do not know what the general consensus is on this book. I personally am divided. I am not particularly fond of Russian literature. I got maybe three-quarters of the way through War and Peace before the people at the Jeopardy! tryouts told me to just shelve it and watch the movie, and so I gleefully returned the book to the library. It was that novel that introduced me to the more benign 19th century definition of "make love," so I suppose it had some merit. It's just that I can't forget the picture of the pregnant lady with the "beautiful" downy upper lip.

Anyways, Fathers and Sons was modestly enjoyable. The young Arkady brings home his idol- his nihlist friend Bazarov to meet his family and visit for a few weeks. Incidentally, the footnotes said Turgenev coined the term "nihilist." Arkady eventually loses his illusions of his friend's depths of enlightenment and abandons such a sad, deficient philosophy. Bazarov dies of typhoid fever, still resigned to his beliefs.

Everyone in the book seemed to be controlled by their personalities. Bazarov was congenitally predisposed to universal condemnation, and so he espoused it. Arkady was a simpler, "romantic" type, so he could not adopt Bazarov's mindset. The "intelligent" girl was cloying and unattractive; the beautiful, stately woman could never quite grasp Bazarov's sayings.

One image that has stuck with me is that of Bazarov's final illness. While conducting an autopsy, he accidentally punctures his finger. He calmly waits as infection sets in, and as a doctor, he observes himself and can trace his subsequent demise. To a lesser extent, I can relate, for when I first sense a cold coming on, I can only sit in doleful resignation as the symptoms progress. It may not be life-threatening, but just as Bazarov with his typhus, there is absolutely nothing I can do to halt the virus. So I sympathize with him.

I am not sure what the final judgment on this one should be. The contrast of nihilism and romanticism was intriguing. From what I can tell, the former is shown to be impractical. If that is the author's intent, then I commend him.

Commodore Hornblower by C.S. Forester

It is true talent that can write the same story over and over again, retaining the essentials, and yet making it all seem completely different. Every time I open a Hornblower book, I know Horatio is going to triumph, I know he is going to distinguish himself, and I know he is going to make it home, and yet the novel is still captivating from start to finish.

Commodore Hornblower followed this wildly successful formula as Horatio traveled to Russia and dined with the Czar, successfully held off French advances in the Baltic, and caught typhus and survived. An extraordinary story, but fun nonetheless.

I think it is Forester's amazing grasp of, if I can say this without sounding pretentious, the human condition, that makes the books so enjoyable. The illustrious adventure is secondary. If the stories consisted merely of Horatio going about his daily life in England, they would be just as enthralling.

The Diaries of Adam and Eve by Mark Twain

Mark Twain was rather anatagonistic towards religion, and, according to the afterword of this book, he regarded the story of Adam and Eve as merely a fable. While he took some liberties with the story, he was very compassionate to the couple, although he did not have much love for the God who made them.

In The Diaries, Adam and Eve never have any direct contact with their creator. They are basically left to fend for themselves. Twain postulates that because they had no knowledge of good and evil, they could not know that it was evil to eat of the tree, and so they are not to blame for doing so. Herein lies his error. They might not have known good and evil, but certainly they had knowledge of obedience. God told Adam to name the animals, and he promptly did so. They had knowledge of death, for Eve did not eat of the tree until the serpent told her she would not die. In this way, they also had knowledge of consequences. All they were lacking, really, was this knowledge of good and evil, the only one that could hurt them. For once they knew what it was to do wrong, they would.

On another note, the afterword said that much of the story was a picture of Twain's marriage, and of how much he loved his wife. I found that satisfying. Many authors had horrible, or non-existent, relationships. It is pleasant to know Twain had a wonderful marriage, with kids, and an excellent literary career

Walden by Henry David Thoreau

I spent two weeks on Walden Pond, figuratively, but it felt like I spent two years, literally, as Thoreau did. It wasn't a bad time, though. In fact, it was quite enlightening. It is not often a book actually alters the manner in which I think. It is also not often I consider a classic novel worthy of the adulation it is showered with by the academic who wrote the introduction. Walden is an exceptional book.

Thoreau employs a loose, meandering, but ultimately cohesive style. He expounds upon all the elements the time he spent on Walden Pond, essentially just living. He proved his assertion that one could easily provide for himself through subsistence farming and living simply. He was exceedingly quotable: "As if you could kill time without injuring eternity!" Or, "The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation." When he said he could be satisfied anywhere as long as he had his thoughts, I read in awe.

I appreciated Thoreau's perspective immeasurably. I find applications for it everywhere I go. Driving down the 91 recently, I marveled at the sheer number of people in southern California, and I thought of how few take the time to immerse themselves in nature for a few hours. Goodness knows I don't do so enough, and I do it far more often than most.

Thoreau's thoughts pervaded mine as I toured some acquaintances' new tract home. It was profane, truly. The house was so large, and yet not big enough. There was never a better example of Thoreau's house-as-a-prison concept. It was all so generic. The same house was repeated for miles, squeezed immorally close together. The neighbors' windows faced each other directly; the builders had not even the courtesy to stagger them. From the second story, one could see all of the surrounding yards, and the people in them. There was a convenient ledge situated underneath the windows, ostensibly to assist one when one desired to jump off.

When my acquaintances suggested we buy the house for sale down the street, I almost choked. The thought of exchanging our twenty undeveloped acreas for a concrete box with barely a patch of sky visible between towering masses of manufactured nothingness...

Captain Horatio Hornblower by C.S. Forester

One's view of the Hornblower books only improves as one becomes more acquainted with them. Horatio just gets better and better. Originally published in three separate stories, Captain Horatio Hornblower's thread of continuity is Lady Barbara.

In "Beat to Quarters," Hornblower is forced to take Lady Barbara aboard because of fever in Panama. The two become enamoured with each other, but, pity of pities, Hornblower is married. Barbara gets married herself in "Ship of the Line." At sea, a defeated Hornblower surrenders to the French, and is taken prisoner.

A commentary I once read compared Horatio to Sherlock Holmes in terms of their audiences' adulation, but I've found another similarity. In the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, many cases illuminate the detective's powers of reasoning despite his occasional inability to solve the mystery or save his client. Likewise, Horatio's naval defeat illustrates his indefatigable resolve and ingenuity.

In "Flying Colours," Horatio escapes from French captivity and manages to return to England by commandeering a prize ship. Once home, he finds Maria dead of childbirth, and Barbara a naval widow caring for his infant. Things resolve themselves serendipitously.

I found Forester's habit of epithet intriguing. It was a delightful way to characterize characters. Maria was often "cloying" with her affections; Horatio was continually plagued with his "cross-grainedness." Great, great stuff.

Hornblower During the Crisis by C.S. Forester

It is a credit to Forester that he was able to skillfully resume a tone he had achieved years before. The overt allusions Forester employs are really cute. I love it when he does that. Hornblower During the Crisis, merely a fragment, was the last product of Forester's pen before his death. Chronologically, it comes between Hotspur and Atropos, and the continuity is commendable.

This unfinished novel is actually appended by two short stories, "Hornblower's Temptation" and "The Last Encounter." The first involves Horatio defusing a potentially explosive situation. He has to carry out the execution of an Irish rebel, a job he abhors, sensitive, thoughtful, anachronistic protagonist that he is. After examining the man's belongings he finds incriminating papers and money meant for the Irish dissenters. Horatio nobly decides to throw it all overboard, preventing further strife with Ireland.

The second story visits Horatio years after the wars. It serves as an overarching conclusion to the Hornblower saga. It presents the hero as a satisfied man, enjoying the end of a long and successful life. He has come to terms with just about everything there is to come to terms with. He appreciates his wife for being a woman, and not a goddess. He has adjusted to prosperity, and has only fleeting doubts about its permanency. he even looks at himself with a bit of humor.

I've always found it just a bit creepy to read the last words of a dead man, but, I suppose, most writing is that of now-dead men. I guess that makes reading in general really creepy. No, I know. Everyone dies eventually. Besides, all literature was written when the authors were alive. Anyways.

I truly enjoyed the Hornblower books. They were consummate adventure-romance with a complex, endearing, flawed, forthright protagonist. Forester crafted a masterpiece of a series. Horatio Hornblower is one of the greatest literary characters it has ever been my pleasure to know. I'm not with Hemingway on a lot of things, but I am totally behind him with this: "I recommend Forester to everyone I know."

Girl with a Pearl Earring by Tracy Chevalier

The mysterious girl featured in Jan Vermeer's famous painting is given a story of her own. The author weaves a narrative around her while illuminating Holland circa 1660, and she embellishes upon the artist, imbuing him with an artfully piquing personality.

Griet, the eponymous girl, must find employment, for her father was blinded in an accident and can no longer support the family. She becomes a maid in Vermeer's household, and she catches the eyes of both him and his patron. She is entranced with the process of painting, and soon she is a subject of Vermeer's muse. But the portrait of her causes strife, and so she is dismissed. Ten years later, she is married, with children, and Vermeer's death leaves her with the pearl earrings central to the composition, tokens of the artist's regard for her.

Altogether, it was a finely wrought book. The prose was delicately modern, but not obviously so. The plot was subtle, but substantial enough to sustain this reader. The romance between Griet and her husband was forced and almost non-existent, and the relationship between the artist and his subject was tension-filled, but it skirted illicitness. Mostly, Griet just stood in awe of Vermeer and his genius. The book was a rather tactful portrait of the artist and his portrait.

A post-script on a related subject: the movie with Colin Firth was excellent. One of the less purposeful movies I've seen, but definitely one of the most beautiful. It was like much art is- perhaps devoid of any meaningful purpose, but certainly overflowing with aesthetic merit.

The Jane Austen Book Club by Karen Joy Fowler

The Jane Austen Book Club was The Eyre Affair all over again. It is so gimmicky and preposterous to use classic literature as a ploy to lure readers in. Don't these authors have any original ideas? Do they have to steal from the more talented and worthy?

Fowler follows a bunch of women and a man as they read through all six Austen novels and discuss them. Many ridiculous soap opera-like events ensue. Many characters' childhoods are analyzed, revealing the roots of their neuroses. One is a token lesbian, another is a token crazy old lady, another a young Madame Bovary. The man is interesting, but he seems to be an idealized rendering, one of those woman-author fantasies.

Worst of all, the characters are as flat as the pages they exist on. Fowler is far too fascinated with her creations. They're all so creative, and witty, and destined for a super-sweet happy ending. In other words, as far from real life as one can get.

In some peculiar attempt to update Austen, all Fowler achieves is a liberal fantasyworld with little basis in the literature it uses for publicity. As if Austen needed to be updated in the first place! Her stuff is superb, all of it gorgeously crafted portraits of her society and time. She wrote what she knew, and her success is unsurpassed. Moreover, the satisfaction found in reading her novels comes not only in the masterful writing, but in the propriety of the society itself. The permissive relativistic ideal of Fowler's is not romantic in the slightest. Her attempt to evoke Austen's fantastic prose falls flatly.

The Dharma Bums by Jack Kerouac

As if I did not get enough of Kerouac in On the Road, I embarked on this virtually identical account. Well, not identical in content, but identical in conclusiveness. Kerouac espouses a sort of Buddhism in which one prays constantly without knowing to whom, one meditates and writes poetry and tries to be kind to all, and one continually keeps in mind the fact that everything is nothing, that no one is anything, that all of existence is just part of the Void. One also drinks and sleeps around and has orgies whenever one feels like it.

As far as I can tell, Kerouac bases some of his philosophy on ancient Buddhist writing, but much of it comes from within him, as he fancies himself a sort of god. I do not understand how one can form an entire belief system from his own line of reasoning, for as limited beings humans are intrinsically faulty. And while Kerouac's character reads from the Bible and has happy feelings toward Jesus, his friend and mentor derides Christianity and mocks a "Dharma Bum" who turned Christian in his last days.

Frankly, I cannot comprehend the anatagonism toward Christianity. Perhaps it is the moral restraint. No more orgies, don't you know. But intellectually, these "bums" should have no qualms. If one is willing to accept the authority of ancient manuscripts as truth, the Bible is certainly more reliable and verifiable. And philosophically, it is beautiful. "To the pure, all things are pure." (Titus 1:15) I could easily imagine Kerouac writing something like that. He could retain his esoteric poetry and adhere to the true incident of God reaching down to man. The Gospel is, unequivocally, more intellectually honest than "everything is nothing."

A Room with a View by E.M. Forster

A Room With a View was an altogether fascinatingly and tersely written book. Lucy Honeychurch visits Italy with her spinster cousin, Miss Bartlett. Lucy is surreptitiously kissed by a passionate, unconventional, handsome young man, but their relationship ends when she leaves the country. She meets up with a more conventional acquaintance and becomes engaged to him back in England. She is kissed by the first man again and the experience causes her to break off her engagement.

She eventually marries her primary love, but before she commits to him, she discovers who she is and what she wants in life. Her dilemma was such: should she marry Cecil, a well-to-do traditionalist with stifling views toward women, or should she choose George, the middle-class paradoxical non-conformist with more liberal outlooks on a woman's place in society? Forster puts it excellently: "It is obvious enough for the reader to conclude, 'She loves young [George] Emerson.' A reader in Lucy's place would not find it obvious. Life is easy to chronicle, but bewildering to practice, and we welcome 'nerves' or any other shibboleth that will cloak our personal desire. She loved Cecil; George made her nervous; will the reader explain to her that the phrases should have been reversed?" (Chapter 14: How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely)

Lucy, in fact, comes very near to emulating Miss Bartlett's spinsterhood. Ironically, thought, it is Miss Bartlett who essentially saves her from this fate.

I caught an allusion and felt wonderfully intelligent about it. "...Nothing in his love became him like the leaving of it." (Chapter 17: Lying to Cecil) A Macbeth line if I ever heard one. There were myriad references to subjects canvassed in my Art History class, which also made me feel smart. That's always fun, reading a book that flatters one's intellect.

Hornblower and the Hotspur by C.S. Forester

Horatio Hornblower is one of the few literary characters who do as well cinematically as they do textually. The story reads much more enjoyably through the eyes of Horatio than it does through the eyes of Lieutenant Bush, as in Lieutenant Hornblower. Forester's psychological analysis is superb. He narrates Horatio's thoughts and reactions as if he is thinking them, and it makes a beautiful companion to the story action.

Horatio's dutiful, unequal marriage is skillfully wrought, lending tension, conflict, and imperfection to an otherwise charmed naval life. It makes for a fascinatingly original plot point, as the heroic protagonist is more often destined for blissful, happily-ever-after relationships, than something so unsatisfying to both the reader and the character.

Horatio's actions and reactions in the light of battle are sympathetically and compassionately portrayed. He wavers over decisions that ultimately lead to the deaths of his compatriots, though they might be in his country's best interests. He scorns praise and adulation, believing his fears and uncertainties discredit his heroics. He is unceasingly unsure of himself.

It all makes for a riveting story. A self-conscious hero constantly facing death, preoccupied with both his intrinsic and domestic inadequacies, ashamed to promote himself to further his career, despite his overt merits- that is Horatio Hornblower.

Cyrano de Bergerac by Edmond Rostand

A debonair poetic genius loves a woman but refuses to court her because of his insecurity over his nose. Ingenious storyline, where have you been all my life?

Cyrano de Bergerac is an excellent work overall. It is ridiculous to the point of hilarity. Sadly though, the end is much like Vanity Fair's, but without the final marriage. Cyrano should have gotten a happy ending. The story was really going that way.

I appreciated the well-timed poetic forays, especially Cyrano's detailed list of insults about his nose, and his fencing ballad ("Wait! Let me choose my rhymes."). The romantic tension was palpable. The sacrifice-in-the-name-of-love thing was noble, but Cyrano would have done better by his love if he had attempted to woo her himself. Then she would not have had to grieve for fifteen years before learning she had even more to grieve over- the fact that she didn't have to have grieved.

Nevertheless, the humor was aptly conveyed, even through the sterilization of translation, and the starkly stoic form of a play. Truly delightful.

The Man Who Was Thursday by G.K. Chesterton

A man goes undercover to infiltrate a dangerous group of anarchists in Europe, but he soon discovers the men he is supposed to expose are undercover too, and even the evil mastermind is not an anarchist. The story ends with a sumptuous banquet at the supposedly evil guy's house, and then the main character loses consciousness and finds himself out walking, where he was at the beginning.

I can make a few connections, but I fear the deeper meaning of the work is above me. I do not understand why Chesterton felt the need to rail against the anarchy of the rich and powerful. Since when are the aristocracy anarchists? Maybe they were then. I have no way of knowing. I think the serial revealing of the true identities of the alleged members of the anarchal society symbolizes the fact that these rich revolutionaries believed all their associates thought as they did, but really did not. I'm not sure that last sentence makes sense. I'm not sure this entire book made sense.

I just do not know what Chesterton was trying to say with this, but I enjoyed his prose nonetheless. He has been compared to C.S. Lewis, and I see similarities, especially in his quotability. The concept of the intellectual anarchists was interesting, if nothing else. I don't think there are many people who want to destroy just for the sake of destruction, nor do I think there are lots who consider all forms of government a direct threat to their well-being. I've found that the atheism linked to the anarchists here is usually paired with a political outlook that is liberal to the point of Communism.

The Razor's Edge by W. Somerset Maugham

As far as I can tell, much of literature in general chronicles man's search for the meaning of life. The Razor's Edge does precisely that. The narrator follows a young man over a period of ten years, and watches him as the latter seeks purpose and meaning and truth. That young man asks all the right questions and he seems to be looking for the right answers, but his conclusions are woefully inconclusive.

Summarily, Larry, the young man, has an insatiable desire to read and discover and learn. He travels across Europe and devours all the philosophies he can. His time in a monastery is disappointing, for he has questions that the monks cannot answer. He wrestles with the ubiquitous problem of pain and whether man is actually at fault for the depravity manifest within him.

From there, Larry travels to India and ultimately falls in with the mystic Hinduism there. He mumbles some jargon about connecting with the "reality of the Absolute" or some such nonsense, and that is it. Apparently the world is infinite and we have all been reincarnated infinite times and will keep on being reincarnated until we have reached a state of transcendence. The transcendence is the ultimate reality, and it is possible to reach this place while alive through meditation and whatnot.

What is so frustrating about it all is the utter lack of concrete evidence. There is nothing trustworthy on which to base Larry's philosophy, and there is no rational way to prove it. The entire theory is merely the mumblings of a Hindu mystic with no credentials to speak of. Why choose this worldview over any other? Because of some feelings one has when meditating, and a dream one has about one's "previous lives"? The book was entirely unsatisfactory, and pathetically irrational.

Frankenstein by Mary Wollestonecraft Shelley

Let me just say that this book was utterly unlike anything I could have imagined it to be. Primarily, it was terribly unfrightening, and surprisingly long-winded. Moreover, the writing was not nearly of the caliber I've come to expect from revered 19th-century writers. And ultimately, Shelley's insight into human nature is uninspired and minimal.

The most intriguing part of Frankenstein was a soliloquizing moment in which narrator Robert Walton laments over his lack of peers and desperately desires a companion with whom he can share his intellectual interests. My heart went out to him. Goodness knows I've felt that way many times myself. But the book, of course, was written by a woman, and I suppose there is something decidedly effeminate about all that.

There was also an excellent minor character whom Shelley had the gall to kill off. Henry Clerval was this paramount literary type who gallivanted across Europe "having the best time" (credit Mr. Herold, the local high school art teacher, whom I fear I will be quoting for the rest of my life). The book should have been about Clerval. He was compassionate, devoted, adventurous, and well-read. Come to think of it, he was another obviously feminine creation. Let me take this opportunity to rehash my antipathy for novels written by women from a male perspective. The flagrant audacity involved in such an undertaking is incomprehensible.

The bulk of the book was sordid and verbose, lurid and vague. Shelley's argument for the inherent innocence of the human race was disappointing and unconvincing. Horror stories are a baser form of literature in the first place, and second-rate ones are that much worse. Shelley had a moderately good premise, and that accounts for the longevity of her book. She didn't run with the myriad possibilites the story was capable of, but others did.

Candide by Voltaire

Voltaire was fairly witty for a crazy French atheistic ranter. Candide was a satire attacking the common understanding of Gottfried Leibniz's assertion that "everything is for the best in this, the best of all possible worlds." It is a rather ridiculous statement in the first place, and naturally lends itself to all sorts of mocking. The story follows characters as all kinds of bad things happen to them, effectually proving the premise untrue.

Of course, ours is not, in fact, "the best of all possible worlds," but instead a horrible, twisted, depraved world augmented by billions of people's free wills wreaking what havoc they must when so many are acting outside of perfection. Truly, just a tiny deviation from a life of continually flawless behavior would have far-reaching consequences, and would permanently mar an otherwise perfect world. In actuality, we have innumerable deviations from perfection every moment, and this world is hopelessly removed from "the best."

And that is just the way it is. Candide is an exceedingly diverting read with few, if any, biblical indiscretions to speak of. I liked it.

Catriona by Robert Louis Stevenson

Ah yes, David Balfour. Happily cliched, morally uplifting adventure-romance hero. Thank you, Mr. Stevenson. I cannot say enough how wonderful a romantic action-adventure novel set in Scotland, with a happy ending, is. Literature is seriously lacking in this department. Thankfully, Stevenson has taken up some of the slack. After wandering the Scottish moors on Alan Breck's heels in Kidnapped, our protagonist, the young, noble, forthright David Balfour, moves through society and comes into his own in Catriona, the sequel.

There is a delightful portion of the story in which David is forced to house a young woman, Catriona of course, in his lodgings, for her father had essentially abandoned her abroad. He loves her and eventually marries her, and it's great. Let me tell you, there is nothing more romantic than repressed feelings not acted upon until the proper time. After all, that was the driving force behind Jane Eyre and Austen's novels, and there is nothing better than those.

But back to Catriona. So there is some adventure and sufficient peril for the protagonist. But most of all, there is a happy ending. I cannot help it. That reassurance that everything turns out all right in the end- I need it. Otherwise, I begin to feel very vulnerable and threatened. I know, I know. All that sad, inconclusive, depressing stuff has a prominent place in the canon of classic literature and is probably more lofty and thought-provoking and whatnot. I just suppose I am as of yet unable to relinquish my juvenile fears and inhibitions.

The Human Comedy by William Saroyan

I was talking to a guy at school, and he mentioned The Human Comedy as his favorite book of all time, so I decided to check it out. Honestly, though, I was not completely impressed. It was a sweet book, but it was a tad simplistic. The simplicity wasn't entirely a detractor, for it rendered the book devoid of any objectionable content, but I think its view of the world was somehow too small to present an accurate depiction of universal truths.

For The Human Comedy tried very hard to be a philosophical book. Characters spontaneously recite speeches of truisms, spouting that's-the-way-life-is phrases. The truisms don't seem to be particularly true, though. The prevailing theme of the book is a universalizing one that reiterates a mantra of brotherhood and fraternity among all men, taking the concept so far as "we all are everyone else." It's a slightly relative view, and it transfers the blame of wrongdoers indeterminably to the next person and the next, until no one is to blame for anything. And the plot involves an implicit trust between strangers that feels fairly rash.

Nevertheless, I could appreciate the characters. My favorite was perhaps Mr. Spangler, a telegram man whose policy of polite, universal kindness saves him, and a few others, from harm. Others were enjoyable as well- the older brother in the army, the middle brother supporting the family and learning how life is, the pleasant sister, and the youngest brother who is discovering joy as it comes to him. The mother did a lot of philosophizing (it reminded me, for some reason, of that scene in The Importance of Being Earnest in which Algy and Jack banter about the former's invented truism), and she talked to her dead husband, so I did not like her as much.

I am not sure why this book was that guy's favorite. Nothing really made it stand out; nothing in it seemed particularly extraordinary. Who knows.

The Canterbury Tales by Geoffery Chaucer

I had to go with a thoroughly modernized translation because the original language was Middle English, and I didn't particularly feel like torturing myself. I mean, the untouched version would be worse than Shakespeare by, like, hundreds of years. So, I got the gist of the stories, even if I didn't get the flavor and feel of Chaucer's language.

This means, of course, that I can really only evaluate the stories on their narrative merit. Many could only be described as bawdy, the dirty jokes of the Middle Ages, and not stuff one would neccessarily summarize out loud. Others were cute and romantic, and some were satires. I enjoyed this glimpse into medieval life. It is not often I read a book actually written in the time it speaks of, especially this far back in history. It is almost like learning history firsthand, from someone who was actually there. A writer's material is so personal that it becomes a sort of conversation with the reader. It was quite pleasant to hear voice from such a distant time, even if the sound might have been distorted through the translation.

One point that struck me when reading the tales was that nothing has truly changed. People, no matter their location in time, are still people. They still have the same sense of humor (imagine- a joke almost one thousand years old, is still funny), there is still infidelity and idolatry, girls are still embarrassing flirts, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Fascinating stuff.

Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradbury

Ray Bradbury is rather dependable. Whenever I pick up a book of his, I know I'll get a beautiful, thoughtful, sci-fi commentary on society. I selected Something Wicked This Way Comes for its allusory title towards Macbeth, the play I had just finished in AP Lit and Comp. I was curious as to how it would all fit together.

I'll admit I probably do not grasp the full import of the allusion, but I think I have part of it. Within Macbeth, this line precedes the entrance of the hero-turned-villain. Bradbury's book also featured a sort of good-turned-bad element in the carnival that comes to town. Two young boys are excited by the impending carnival, but are soon mystified by the creepy, occultist characters it brings with it. The boys discover the sadistic aims of the man in charge of it all, and eventually they triumph over him. People in this novel die or disappear mysteriously, just like in Macbeth.

The book features a Tuck Everlasting-like convention, and so philosophizes nicely over the ramifications of living forever.

I particularly enjoyed a line by one of the boys' fathers. "God, how we get our fingers in each other's clay. That's friendship, each playing the potter to see what shapes we can make of the other." I thought it was beautiful imagery. That father was an excellent character. He was a library janitor who had read most of the books he swept around. What an incredible picture.

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.