Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Annoyance of Amazonian proportions
When people ask me if I dislike Amazon, I find myself struggling to explain my issues with the website that for so many years has been my primary source for books, discs, and DVDs (as well as potato peelers, utensils, bedsheets, and more). I can't easily go into my dislike of their pricing methods, or the way I've always felt the reviews are slightly skewed (in this, though, I suppose I have only myself to blame). Disliking their "Best of the Month" feature is a matter of my own personal taste, and my personal views on the Kindle are perhaps not singular, but are not shared by most. Then, of course, a story like this comes along (via A Momentary Taste of Being).
Friday, September 24, 2010
The internet, touch screens, and personal preference
A couple weeks ago, I got a phone call from a relative asking me about eReaders. The relative, knowing my interest in the matter, wanted to know if it was worth it getting a Kindle. Then, a few days ago, I found myself discussing the matter again, looking at the development of the market over the past year. Finally, later that evening I saw this article detailing the price drops in Sony Readers (I own a Sony PRS-600; now known, I suppose, as an "old Sony Touch Edition"). So now, a recap of the last year in eReaders.
Since I purchased my Sony Touch Edition a year ago, the eReader market has changed drastically. The day following my purchase saw price drops in Kindles, from the then-standard $300 to $260-$280. The Nook followed suit, and by March 2010, most eReader prices hovered around the $250 mark. April saw the launch of the iPad, which had for so long captivated the minds of tech enthusiasts, as well as eReader junkies. The iPad proved to be a very different product, though, far more multi-purpose than the single-track eInk eReaders many found to be so useful. And far more expensive, at around $500. Still, following the release of the iPad, eReaders went through another few sets of changes - a few more eReaders on the market, significant price cuts, and a couple months ago prices stood at around $150-$200 for standard eReaders (Sony's Daily Edition remained more expensive). Then the Kindle "3" came out, and now a new set of Sonys. So where do we stand?
Simple. It all depends on your needs, and while eReaders these days are significantly better (and better priced) than they were one year ago when I made my purchase, the products are still far from perfect and each of the major eReaders has its flaws.
Amazon Kindle 3 - The most popular eReader by far (thanks in part to Amazon's ubiquity as an online bookseller, as well as aggressive marketing), the Kindle 3 is a good product alone (internet access, note-taking ability, convenience), but falls short on several counts. First is Amazon's closed format and the refusal to move to the popular, open ePub format. This places a lot of books and digital libraries out of Kindle users' reach, though they for the most part don't know it. Problematic, too, is Amazon's "sticky finger" issue - the ability to wipe books from devices, to keep track of notes made in the margins, etc. The somewhat bulkier design (and difficulty in actually taking notes) adds to a device that is very good, but technologically frustrating.
Barnes & Noble Nook - The Nook gets a lot of press but doesn't actually seem to be that common or popular. As a device, it comes off as a bit awkward - two screens: one for reading, and a touch screen for maneuvering - and also as somewhat simple. It has internet access as well, but reviews indicate that it's clumsy and somewhat slow. I don't know as much about it, but it benefits from having friendlier eBook rules - the ability to lend books, ePub, etc. The Nook costs about as much as the Kindle.
Sony Readers - Sony is still sort of out of the loop. Coming as the only major (if you can even call it that...) eReaders to offer touch screens, it falls short on other counts. The two new updates of the Touch and Pocket Editions leave out internet access (silly, in my mind, if they already have the technology...) but updates screens and maintains the incredibly comfortable note-taking abilities that make the Touch Edition very useful and convenient (hopefully reduce the slight glare as well). Sony continues to embrace ePub and the Overdrive Digital Library, leading the way in digital lending (and thus leading the way in free eBooks!), even as their digital store is awkward and disorganized. Sonys still cost more, but their prices too have dropped significantly over the past year and will likely return to market levels within the next few months.
Apple iPad - Not a real eReader. Used as one, but it still doesn't really qualify. I recent read an article (I can't find it now...) that suggested that the year long price drops in eReaders were as a result of the iPad. While I'm certain the iPad helped, I find myself again needing to point out that the devices aim to do completely different things. People haven't stopped buying eInk eReaders because they can get tablets. I think all that's been said until now proves this.
The gist - As I told my relative (and now you, dear readers), it all depends on what you need and what you want. For readers like myself who refuse to buy eBooks due to ridiculously high costs, the Sonys are still good, even if they annoyingly don't offer internet and demand a higher price (overall it pays off, by the way). Sony's point seems to be that a touch screen is the replaceable equivalent of internet, but they're wrong. The ability to access 3G or wireless internet makes eReaders convenient on a very different level. But that's not important for everyone (especially people who don't want internet access guzzling their battery life...). The Nook is also a good choice, even if in this case the inability to take notes evens out with the lack of internet in the Sonys. Then again, someone might want something simple, organized, and cheap. The standard. In which case the Kindle isn't that terrible - it's just not for me. If you don't care about closed formats, the Kindle is clearly a successful and popular product. I don't believe most Kindle owners actively dislike their Kindles. Then again, I don't believe most eReader owners actively dislike any of their eReaders. I certainly like mine.
Touch screens, open format, internet, price... Buying an eReader today means taking into account many different variables, far more than a year ago. Today would I be so quick to buy an eReader? No. But it's an interesting, growing market. And that, I think, is worth something in itself.
Since I purchased my Sony Touch Edition a year ago, the eReader market has changed drastically. The day following my purchase saw price drops in Kindles, from the then-standard $300 to $260-$280. The Nook followed suit, and by March 2010, most eReader prices hovered around the $250 mark. April saw the launch of the iPad, which had for so long captivated the minds of tech enthusiasts, as well as eReader junkies. The iPad proved to be a very different product, though, far more multi-purpose than the single-track eInk eReaders many found to be so useful. And far more expensive, at around $500. Still, following the release of the iPad, eReaders went through another few sets of changes - a few more eReaders on the market, significant price cuts, and a couple months ago prices stood at around $150-$200 for standard eReaders (Sony's Daily Edition remained more expensive). Then the Kindle "3" came out, and now a new set of Sonys. So where do we stand?
Simple. It all depends on your needs, and while eReaders these days are significantly better (and better priced) than they were one year ago when I made my purchase, the products are still far from perfect and each of the major eReaders has its flaws.
Amazon Kindle 3 - The most popular eReader by far (thanks in part to Amazon's ubiquity as an online bookseller, as well as aggressive marketing), the Kindle 3 is a good product alone (internet access, note-taking ability, convenience), but falls short on several counts. First is Amazon's closed format and the refusal to move to the popular, open ePub format. This places a lot of books and digital libraries out of Kindle users' reach, though they for the most part don't know it. Problematic, too, is Amazon's "sticky finger" issue - the ability to wipe books from devices, to keep track of notes made in the margins, etc. The somewhat bulkier design (and difficulty in actually taking notes) adds to a device that is very good, but technologically frustrating.
Barnes & Noble Nook - The Nook gets a lot of press but doesn't actually seem to be that common or popular. As a device, it comes off as a bit awkward - two screens: one for reading, and a touch screen for maneuvering - and also as somewhat simple. It has internet access as well, but reviews indicate that it's clumsy and somewhat slow. I don't know as much about it, but it benefits from having friendlier eBook rules - the ability to lend books, ePub, etc. The Nook costs about as much as the Kindle.
Sony Readers - Sony is still sort of out of the loop. Coming as the only major (if you can even call it that...) eReaders to offer touch screens, it falls short on other counts. The two new updates of the Touch and Pocket Editions leave out internet access (silly, in my mind, if they already have the technology...) but updates screens and maintains the incredibly comfortable note-taking abilities that make the Touch Edition very useful and convenient (hopefully reduce the slight glare as well). Sony continues to embrace ePub and the Overdrive Digital Library, leading the way in digital lending (and thus leading the way in free eBooks!), even as their digital store is awkward and disorganized. Sonys still cost more, but their prices too have dropped significantly over the past year and will likely return to market levels within the next few months.
Apple iPad - Not a real eReader. Used as one, but it still doesn't really qualify. I recent read an article (I can't find it now...) that suggested that the year long price drops in eReaders were as a result of the iPad. While I'm certain the iPad helped, I find myself again needing to point out that the devices aim to do completely different things. People haven't stopped buying eInk eReaders because they can get tablets. I think all that's been said until now proves this.
The gist - As I told my relative (and now you, dear readers), it all depends on what you need and what you want. For readers like myself who refuse to buy eBooks due to ridiculously high costs, the Sonys are still good, even if they annoyingly don't offer internet and demand a higher price (overall it pays off, by the way). Sony's point seems to be that a touch screen is the replaceable equivalent of internet, but they're wrong. The ability to access 3G or wireless internet makes eReaders convenient on a very different level. But that's not important for everyone (especially people who don't want internet access guzzling their battery life...). The Nook is also a good choice, even if in this case the inability to take notes evens out with the lack of internet in the Sonys. Then again, someone might want something simple, organized, and cheap. The standard. In which case the Kindle isn't that terrible - it's just not for me. If you don't care about closed formats, the Kindle is clearly a successful and popular product. I don't believe most Kindle owners actively dislike their Kindles. Then again, I don't believe most eReader owners actively dislike any of their eReaders. I certainly like mine.
Touch screens, open format, internet, price... Buying an eReader today means taking into account many different variables, far more than a year ago. Today would I be so quick to buy an eReader? No. But it's an interesting, growing market. And that, I think, is worth something in itself.
Monday, September 20, 2010
To love thyself...
A subsection of the gender debate that arose following the raving New York Times review of Jonathan Franzen's "Freedom" is a small aspect of the New York Times bias: the tendency to love - and glorify endlessly - novels that embody the alleged "New York" attitude and frame of mind. It is not surprising that the New York Times unabashedly loves books about itself, books that fit its own view of life. Unfortunately, this does not always pan well for readers. Setting aside the whole discussion of whether or not the NYT dislikes female writers, I have to wonder why exactly it is that they actually like New York authors. Oh, there are the obvious reasons. People like books they can relate to and presumably New Yorkers have some kind of shared experience that makes them more likely to relate to books about... well, themselves.
I recall something I kept encountering in reviews of "Olive Kitteridge" - that the book embodied the "small town" attitude well. Furthermore, this was often mentioned as one of the possible reasons it won the Pulitzer, which states in its mandate something to that extent. The need to have a book actively identify with a certain group of people is not a new concept, but recently I've noticed that with New Yorkers, it's significantly more pronounced, perhaps simply because the NYT carries a lot more weight than most other newspapers. But what does this say about us as readers, if we simply like what is familiar to us in attitude and mindset? Shouldn't we be broadening our horizons?
This is not to say that the NYT (or any publication, for that matter) is exclusive in liking books only from its own region. As Teresa of Shelf Love so eloquently wrote on the matter of the gender debate: "Imbalance may exist, but it’s an imbalance, not an automatic shunting to the corner." In the case of authors like Franzen (and Lethem, and others I don't want to list now because it'll make my head pop), the NYT displays, yes, its absolute bias for books about itself - books that the reviewers can relate to, that speak to them, that they like. Because when a newspaper reviewer raves about a book, it's not actually the paper that loves the book, but the reviewer - a person who clearly has some kind of attachment to the book.
Perhaps this is one of the reasons I like books that don't take place in our modern world - sci-fi, classics and the like. I invariably find myself reading books that do not have defined Anglicized characters. The problem seems much less pronounced with other countries perhaps because I am less familiar with them, but when reading a book like the decidedly mediocre "The Emperor's Children", so highly praised by the NYT back in 2006 I find myself seeing exactly how a NYT reviewer will love the book, even as I - a non New Yorker, amateur (ahem) reviewer - don't.
I have read very, very few books about my own hometowns. The few books I have read have always thrilled me with the sense of self-reference (Hey, that's my high school! I live off that street!) but also turn me off a little. Why should I read about my own existence? I'd much rather see someone else's. I suppose the NYT doesn't agree with that idea.
I recall something I kept encountering in reviews of "Olive Kitteridge" - that the book embodied the "small town" attitude well. Furthermore, this was often mentioned as one of the possible reasons it won the Pulitzer, which states in its mandate something to that extent. The need to have a book actively identify with a certain group of people is not a new concept, but recently I've noticed that with New Yorkers, it's significantly more pronounced, perhaps simply because the NYT carries a lot more weight than most other newspapers. But what does this say about us as readers, if we simply like what is familiar to us in attitude and mindset? Shouldn't we be broadening our horizons?
This is not to say that the NYT (or any publication, for that matter) is exclusive in liking books only from its own region. As Teresa of Shelf Love so eloquently wrote on the matter of the gender debate: "Imbalance may exist, but it’s an imbalance, not an automatic shunting to the corner." In the case of authors like Franzen (and Lethem, and others I don't want to list now because it'll make my head pop), the NYT displays, yes, its absolute bias for books about itself - books that the reviewers can relate to, that speak to them, that they like. Because when a newspaper reviewer raves about a book, it's not actually the paper that loves the book, but the reviewer - a person who clearly has some kind of attachment to the book.
Perhaps this is one of the reasons I like books that don't take place in our modern world - sci-fi, classics and the like. I invariably find myself reading books that do not have defined Anglicized characters. The problem seems much less pronounced with other countries perhaps because I am less familiar with them, but when reading a book like the decidedly mediocre "The Emperor's Children", so highly praised by the NYT back in 2006 I find myself seeing exactly how a NYT reviewer will love the book, even as I - a non New Yorker, amateur (ahem) reviewer - don't.
I have read very, very few books about my own hometowns. The few books I have read have always thrilled me with the sense of self-reference (Hey, that's my high school! I live off that street!) but also turn me off a little. Why should I read about my own existence? I'd much rather see someone else's. I suppose the NYT doesn't agree with that idea.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Name game
We talk about cover art a lot and how that helps determine our opinion of a book ("Don't judge a book by its cover!" even though we all do), but what about the title? How often does the title draw you in and tell you, "Okay, there's a book I need to read"?
If you're me, often.
I recently purchased Isaac Bashevis Singer's "Enemies, A Love Story", several months ago I read a book called "A Honeymoon in Space", and my obsession with Primo Levi began with the title "The Periodic Table". More often than not, I find myself wanting to read a book because of its title, not so much because of its cover art. Even though I know that typically both title and cover are strongly influenced by the publishers, I can't help but feel that the title says more about the book than a picture ever could.
The thing is, a title can also drive me away from a book. Cutesy titles can be endearingly humorous at times, but often it's titles that are too self-referential or pretentious that make me want to throw the book against a wall. Then there are titles that stretch on for too long and have nonfiction subtitles: "Actual title regarding phenomenon or important character: A Blah's Blah-blah with Blah-blah blah" (find the nearest nonfiction book to you, whether memoir or not; chances are it has a subtitle that fits the bill).
There are formulaic titles too, just as there are formulaic, standard covers. I once encountered on a blog (and now unfortunately cannot find...) a list of words commonly found in historical fiction titles. The blogger cynically said you could take just about every combination of two words on the list and come up with an existing historical fiction novel. The same goes for many ambiguously titled "literary fiction" novels (mentioned here and discussed a little more at length).
This time ignoring the lack of wisdom in titling books so in line with formulas, I have to wonder how much other readers are influenced by titles. I find that a book with a punchy title can entice me even as the summary, the cover, or other factors might not. For example, my decision to read Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian before The Road was perhaps strengthened by the fact that Blood Meridian sounds way cooler based on title alone (it should be noted that I still have not read The Road, which kind of has a lame title). This was also the case with my choice of Meir Shalev's A Pigeon and a Boy over the much less intriguingly titled The Blue Mountain (which has a significantly more interesting name in the original Hebrew: A Russian Novel. Still not as good as A Pigeon and a Boy, but not so boring either).
Ultimately, one of the most important aspects of a book is its title. This is how we remember the book, how we classify it, how we categorize it, and how, in a sense, we define it. Too often I find myself forgetting the exact title of a book because it isn't memorable, or doesn't encompass the book well, or simply makes no sense. This in turn affects my feelings toward the book itself - a book that has an unmemorable title is bound to be an unmemorable book. And though a good title doesn't necessarily imply a good book (The Yiddish Policemen's Unit comes to mind...), a strong title can urge me to pull an unexpected book off the library shelf (The Inverted World) and lead me to a world I would have most likely ignored otherwise.
As for me, I intend to continue seeking out cool titled books. Because hey - who doesn't want to read Captain Blood?
If you're me, often.
I recently purchased Isaac Bashevis Singer's "Enemies, A Love Story", several months ago I read a book called "A Honeymoon in Space", and my obsession with Primo Levi began with the title "The Periodic Table". More often than not, I find myself wanting to read a book because of its title, not so much because of its cover art. Even though I know that typically both title and cover are strongly influenced by the publishers, I can't help but feel that the title says more about the book than a picture ever could.
The thing is, a title can also drive me away from a book. Cutesy titles can be endearingly humorous at times, but often it's titles that are too self-referential or pretentious that make me want to throw the book against a wall. Then there are titles that stretch on for too long and have nonfiction subtitles: "Actual title regarding phenomenon or important character: A Blah's Blah-blah with Blah-blah blah" (find the nearest nonfiction book to you, whether memoir or not; chances are it has a subtitle that fits the bill).
There are formulaic titles too, just as there are formulaic, standard covers. I once encountered on a blog (and now unfortunately cannot find...) a list of words commonly found in historical fiction titles. The blogger cynically said you could take just about every combination of two words on the list and come up with an existing historical fiction novel. The same goes for many ambiguously titled "literary fiction" novels (mentioned here and discussed a little more at length).
This time ignoring the lack of wisdom in titling books so in line with formulas, I have to wonder how much other readers are influenced by titles. I find that a book with a punchy title can entice me even as the summary, the cover, or other factors might not. For example, my decision to read Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian before The Road was perhaps strengthened by the fact that Blood Meridian sounds way cooler based on title alone (it should be noted that I still have not read The Road, which kind of has a lame title). This was also the case with my choice of Meir Shalev's A Pigeon and a Boy over the much less intriguingly titled The Blue Mountain (which has a significantly more interesting name in the original Hebrew: A Russian Novel. Still not as good as A Pigeon and a Boy, but not so boring either).
Ultimately, one of the most important aspects of a book is its title. This is how we remember the book, how we classify it, how we categorize it, and how, in a sense, we define it. Too often I find myself forgetting the exact title of a book because it isn't memorable, or doesn't encompass the book well, or simply makes no sense. This in turn affects my feelings toward the book itself - a book that has an unmemorable title is bound to be an unmemorable book. And though a good title doesn't necessarily imply a good book (The Yiddish Policemen's Unit comes to mind...), a strong title can urge me to pull an unexpected book off the library shelf (The Inverted World) and lead me to a world I would have most likely ignored otherwise.
As for me, I intend to continue seeking out cool titled books. Because hey - who doesn't want to read Captain Blood?
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
A couple confusing clichés
Last year before reading One Hundred Years of Solitude, I was told that the book is impossible to set aside. Almost everyone I knew who had read it recommended it wholeheartedly and when I needed a book for a trip I was taking, I decided to bring Gabriel García Márquez's masterpiece. Turns out everyone was telling the truth - I started reading One Hundred Years of Solitude on the afternoon flight home and was barely able to set the book aside for dinner and sleep. I finished the book the following morning.The situation I faced with Love in the Time of Cholera (the predictable, cliched second pick for García...) was quite different. It's García's writing I like, in a way I can't really put my finger on. Few writers make me enjoy language quite so much as García, and I like that. On the other hand, I found myself occasionally struggling with the story of this modern classic. Everybody positively loves Love in the Time of Cholera... so why did I only like it? See, much as I like intricacies and complexities, and time jumps and character jumps... I wasn't too into all the characters. In fact, I suspect I liked some characters more than I was supposed to (for the sake of the narrative, that is). There were short moments (short!) that I even felt like skimming through boring passages.
I suspect that because I liked One Hundred Years of Solitude so much and expected a lot from Love in the Time of Cholera, I was disappointed. It's unfair to judge a book by what it isn't - I've said this before and I'll say it again. Still, it's not that I disliked the book. Heck, I even liked it a lot! Its only problem is that it didn't flow as I hoped it would. How do I judge a book like that?
Friday, September 3, 2010
Numerical update
Almost a year after purchasing my Sony Reader, I have read over 30 digital books thanks to the device. And this not counting essays, poems, short stories, assignments, proofreads, textbooks, newspapers, magazines, etc. All for free.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Censorship, youth, and a few pretentious comments
I think I've mentioned before that I don't like banning books. I don't really thing anyone who claims to truly love the written word can. I don't like the idea of censorship in high schools, and I don't like the idea of hiding bad things. So I should really hate this story, right? (via Guys Lit Wire)
But I want to focus on something else entirely that bothered. Censorship is obviously problematic and complex, but this story rubbed off me the wrong way mostly because of something Hopkins wrote. To highlight the quote that set me off: "I’m an author who is a voice for a generation that faces real problems every day."
Hold on a sec. Again, I've never read anything by Hopkins, but for an author to say something like this is taking popularity and annoyance at an injustice a little too far. Hopkins was essentially rejected by a middle school librarian, one who presumably turned to parents of middle school students, parents of children who really should not be reading Hopkins' books. Yes, the School Library Journal recommends Crank for 8th grade and up, but there's a clear distinction in what a 13-14 year old can read and what a 11-12 year old should have access to. The transition into 8th grade and a true teen mentality is surprising, even as these ages appear close to each other. Problematic, then, that 7th and 8th graders share a library. So yes, the librarian was absolutely wrong for proposing to uninvite Hopkins, but Hopkins is wrong to assume that her books are geared for that audience. And to dub yourself "the voice of a generation" is a little full of yourself.
For an interesting view on the actual matter (not my disappointment in one author's self-love), I hand the stage over to Pete Hautman, an author I quite like and admire. The matter of censorship in this case is complex and confusing, and while I don't always agree with what Hautman and Hopkins say on the matter, I think their takes are important.
Apparently, a middle school librarian saw my name on the roster and decided my presence would somehow negatively affect her students. I’m not sure how that is possible. Maybe she thinks I sweat “edgy and dark.” (Are those things catching?) Anyway, she went to a couple of parents with her concerns. I’m guessing she knew the exact ones who would raise a stink, and they did. They went to the school board, and the superintendent, Guy Sconzo, decided to uninvite me. (He says I was never invited, but I was!)A few things. First, Ellen Hopkins is an author I've never read. Not for lack of awareness - I have long seen her fat, indeed "edgy" looking books perched on library shelves - but simply because her style did not appeal to me and I'd heard that the books were a little in-your-face, not something I typically like. Even so, all I have to do is read Hopkins' post to realize the foolishness in this situation.
[...]
Then Mr. Sconzo went on to say that there are so many authors they could never have them all at their Teen Lit Fests. Like I’m just another author. (Oh, except one that apparently gets under people’s skin.) I am not just another author. I’m an author who is a voice for a generation that faces real problems every day. An author who tries to dissect those problems, look for reasons, suggest solutions, show outcomes to choices through characters who walk off the page. I’m an author who cares about her readership in a very real way. I am thoughtful, respectful of my readers, and not afraid to tell the truth.
But I want to focus on something else entirely that bothered. Censorship is obviously problematic and complex, but this story rubbed off me the wrong way mostly because of something Hopkins wrote. To highlight the quote that set me off: "I’m an author who is a voice for a generation that faces real problems every day."
Hold on a sec. Again, I've never read anything by Hopkins, but for an author to say something like this is taking popularity and annoyance at an injustice a little too far. Hopkins was essentially rejected by a middle school librarian, one who presumably turned to parents of middle school students, parents of children who really should not be reading Hopkins' books. Yes, the School Library Journal recommends Crank for 8th grade and up, but there's a clear distinction in what a 13-14 year old can read and what a 11-12 year old should have access to. The transition into 8th grade and a true teen mentality is surprising, even as these ages appear close to each other. Problematic, then, that 7th and 8th graders share a library. So yes, the librarian was absolutely wrong for proposing to uninvite Hopkins, but Hopkins is wrong to assume that her books are geared for that audience. And to dub yourself "the voice of a generation" is a little full of yourself.
For an interesting view on the actual matter (not my disappointment in one author's self-love), I hand the stage over to Pete Hautman, an author I quite like and admire. The matter of censorship in this case is complex and confusing, and while I don't always agree with what Hautman and Hopkins say on the matter, I think their takes are important.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Guys and girls, part 1 (of many)
All posts relating to the book blogger survey can be found under this tag. A compiled list of results can be found here.
As some readers may remember, the very original question standing behind the book blogger survey was the question of "Male vs. Female", a question seemingly answered by the survey: the dry results found that 83% of respondents were female, and 17% were male. As I mentioned in that post, the numbers vaguely resembled (without matching) my estimations (60% female and 20% male, with the remaining 20% set aside for shared blogs and authors of unknown gender. The immediate question following the simple answer was, however, how does everything break down? Are some bloggers more prone to certain things than others? Are misconceptions (for instance, I have long held the idea that women book bloggers are more community oriented) simply grounded in stereotypes ? Time to find out. (note: some images may be small or unclear. Click on images to enlarge.)
Age:
Compared here are the age breakdowns by gender. The first noticeable distinction is the lack of significantly young men - 18 to 24 year olds account for 10% of respondents, while the majority find themselves in middle age, totaling to 54% between the ages of 30 and 49. Women, on the other hand, are a little more... predictable. The graph shows a simple bell curve, where the largest age group is 30-39 with 35% of respondents. Meanwhile, 16% of respondents are under 25. When looking at the percentages, one must keep in mind that the overall number of male respondents was significantly lower than that of female, and therefore all statistics should be taken with a grain of salt. It's hard to calculate accurate statistics with only 50 respondents that fall into this category, but we shall try anyways.
Literary background:
An interesting thing about men that has little to do with this particular subject - male respondents seemed to offer fewer decline to state answers. Of course this could be due to the fact that far fewer men responded. Carrying on... literary backgrounds. The statistics here are quite interesting, actually. Women follow the general trend fairly reliably - 40% with "literary" degrees, 40% having taken college courses, and 17% having only the basics. With men, meanwhile, just under half took college courses, while again 40% have "literary" degrees. Only 12% come with the minimum.
Memes:
Rather different results. 56% of men never participate in memes, while only 18% of women never do memes. For women, the numbers are fairly evenly spaced with 30% doing 1-2 memes a week, 19% 1-2 a month, and 25% 1-2 a year. 5% participate in memes 3-7 times a week, as opposed to 0 male respondents. These numbers indicate rather clearly that memes are far more common among women book bloggers than men, though men are not entirely averse to it. Still, an interesting distinction.
Book tours:
Interesting to note: these graphs, when looked at in bar graph form, look very similar. 55% of female book bloggers participate in no book tours, as opposed to 88% of men. 4% of men for each of the other options - in this case, 1 respondent for each case. Women, meanwhile, are slightly more varied - 11% participate in 4 or more, 17% in 2-3, and 16% in 1 book tour. Taking into account the significantly smaller number of male respondents, though, the two graphs appear to be quite similar. A clear majority don't participate in book tours while the remaining split up fairly well regarding how many tours they do.
Due to the lengths of these posts, the remaining statistics will be published in further installments. I would also like to apologize for the delay in getting these statistics out - there were numerous glitches and delays in both the analysis process and the process of actually getting these graphs into a readable format. Most of the information is now ready and results should come out at a much quicker rate. Thank you for your patience!
As some readers may remember, the very original question standing behind the book blogger survey was the question of "Male vs. Female", a question seemingly answered by the survey: the dry results found that 83% of respondents were female, and 17% were male. As I mentioned in that post, the numbers vaguely resembled (without matching) my estimations (60% female and 20% male, with the remaining 20% set aside for shared blogs and authors of unknown gender. The immediate question following the simple answer was, however, how does everything break down? Are some bloggers more prone to certain things than others? Are misconceptions (for instance, I have long held the idea that women book bloggers are more community oriented) simply grounded in stereotypes ? Time to find out. (note: some images may be small or unclear. Click on images to enlarge.)
Age:
Compared here are the age breakdowns by gender. The first noticeable distinction is the lack of significantly young men - 18 to 24 year olds account for 10% of respondents, while the majority find themselves in middle age, totaling to 54% between the ages of 30 and 49. Women, on the other hand, are a little more... predictable. The graph shows a simple bell curve, where the largest age group is 30-39 with 35% of respondents. Meanwhile, 16% of respondents are under 25. When looking at the percentages, one must keep in mind that the overall number of male respondents was significantly lower than that of female, and therefore all statistics should be taken with a grain of salt. It's hard to calculate accurate statistics with only 50 respondents that fall into this category, but we shall try anyways.
Literary background:
An interesting thing about men that has little to do with this particular subject - male respondents seemed to offer fewer decline to state answers. Of course this could be due to the fact that far fewer men responded. Carrying on... literary backgrounds. The statistics here are quite interesting, actually. Women follow the general trend fairly reliably - 40% with "literary" degrees, 40% having taken college courses, and 17% having only the basics. With men, meanwhile, just under half took college courses, while again 40% have "literary" degrees. Only 12% come with the minimum.Memes:
Rather different results. 56% of men never participate in memes, while only 18% of women never do memes. For women, the numbers are fairly evenly spaced with 30% doing 1-2 memes a week, 19% 1-2 a month, and 25% 1-2 a year. 5% participate in memes 3-7 times a week, as opposed to 0 male respondents. These numbers indicate rather clearly that memes are far more common among women book bloggers than men, though men are not entirely averse to it. Still, an interesting distinction.Book tours:
Interesting to note: these graphs, when looked at in bar graph form, look very similar. 55% of female book bloggers participate in no book tours, as opposed to 88% of men. 4% of men for each of the other options - in this case, 1 respondent for each case. Women, meanwhile, are slightly more varied - 11% participate in 4 or more, 17% in 2-3, and 16% in 1 book tour. Taking into account the significantly smaller number of male respondents, though, the two graphs appear to be quite similar. A clear majority don't participate in book tours while the remaining split up fairly well regarding how many tours they do.Due to the lengths of these posts, the remaining statistics will be published in further installments. I would also like to apologize for the delay in getting these statistics out - there were numerous glitches and delays in both the analysis process and the process of actually getting these graphs into a readable format. Most of the information is now ready and results should come out at a much quicker rate. Thank you for your patience!
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Up and down
Some unrelated, stupid thoughts on North and South from the first couple of chapters:
- I don't remember the last time a book had a declaration of love quite so early on. And so randomly. And so not related to the actual plot of the book...? Still too early to tell.
- Margaret's dad is kind of despicable. I know I'm not supposed to dislike him, but it's rare for me to want to slap a character in a book. I want to slap Mr. Hale. Really, really hard.
- This book is kind of slow, but my interest is piqued. Let's hope it stays that way.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Novels and short stories
One of the sub-genres I've recently discovered (knowing full well that this has existed for a while) is that of the "novel in stories". I have to admit that I love the idea. Short stories and I have a tentative relationship for the simple reason that I like watching characters develop. I like a long, in-depth introduction to a character, not a simple snapshot and then moving onto a whole new set. But I also love the wholeness in short stories, the way a really good short story can stand on its own and that's that.So a novel in stories should be perfect for me. Some of them are. The White King, which I wrote about last year, was one such book - essentially a novel, watching the development of one central character, but written in such a way that it felt as though I was reading short stories. Enough characters stayed constant that these days I would define it as closer to a novel than a "novel in stories", but it still has that atmosphere. Olive Kitteridge, which I started and finished reading yesterday, is another such book. But my thoughts on it are far less positive. Despite the mountains of praise heaped upon the 2009 Pulitzer Winner (and I absolutely understand why this book won, but more on that later), there were things I learned about "novels in stories" from Olive Kitteridge. Things I will need to keep in mind for the future.
The first thing I realized about Olive Kitteridge was that whereas The White King was more of a novel, Elizabeth Strout's book is much more a short story collection, in the sense that it was at once broader - more characters, not just one story progression, and the wonderful quality of transitioning between worlds, rather than almost always knowing what kind of story you'll fall into - and at once suffering from many of the short story collection downfalls that I'm used to.
There is much to praise in Olive Kitteridge. The cleanness of the writing, the clarity of the characters' voices, the fluid way each story leads into the next while presenting completely different worlds - all these make Olive Kitteridge a nice book. That's the perfect word for it - nice. Not good, because that's too strong. Not fine, because that's too bland. Nice.
And disappointments as well. I had hoped and expected a novel in stories to take the best of both worlds. Long term character development, but small, complete stories. None of the messiness found in constructing complex novels, none of the padding to make a novel "novel sized". Much in the way that Strout's writing is clean, I had hoped the stories would be like this as well. This is not the case. The book is uneven. Not more than the typical short story collection, but still. Some stories are whole on their own and are really good stories. Others are absolutely pointless. Others still are so closely tied to what seems like a larger novel that with the random stories thrown in, they actually seem out of place even if this is precisely where they should be. It makes sense that these problems should arise. On the copyright information page, part of the history of Olive Kitteridge is revealed. Some of the stories were published almost two decades ago, others more recently. It is hard to fault an author for developing with time, but in a collection, it's hard not to notice the different styles and qualities.
As for the matter of the overall story itself, I find myself confused. The book is titled Olive Kitteridge - the book would appear, therefore, to be about her. It is, frankly, not (this is not a spoiler...). Olive stars in 7 out of 13 of the stories, sometimes in more of a supporting role but more often than not as the lead. In the remaining 6, she is a character mentioned casually or a side character - either way, not really worthy of recognition. But that we know her already makes it a strange cameo - not quite a random name drop of an unknown person, but reference to someone we're slowly getting to know.
Maybe it's just that I didn't like this style. I'm not certain, but ultimately I didn't enjoy the way characters couldn't grow, or the way that I liked Olive's character (despite being expected, I suspect, to find her somewhat frustratingly endearing, which was not at all the case - I sincerely liked her) but didn't care about her. 270 pages and I really didn't care about a single character mentioned. That should not be the case.
Again: Olive Kitteridge is nice. That word keeps coming to mind, as well as the description clean, which fits the writing and the clarity of the book perfectly. It's enjoyable to read writing of this kind, and the book does an excellent job of presenting a very different aspect of American life than is typically presented (there lies the absolutely perfect justification for the Pulitzer). I suppose Olive Kitteridge has made me realize that "novels in stories" can be tricky - much in the way that they can take my favorite aspects from novels and my favorite aspects from short stories, they can take good and bad as well. I don't regret reading it and know that many will go on enjoying it despite my relative apathy (relative, I say), but I would have to think carefully about who I recommend it to.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Seriously?
I just searched for "A Pigeon and a Boy" on Amazon (great book, by the way - more on that another time) and discovered that the Kindle version is more expensive than the paperback by almost $2.
Seriously, consumers? You're actually okay with this?
Seriously, consumers? You're actually okay with this?
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Publishing - an exercise in disappointment
After finding and reading Nico Vreeland's great post over at Chamber Four about publishing (at a bit of a delay, perhaps...), I had to add a few words and a couple of personal numbers. Vreeland writes about the "real" death of publishing - not eBooks, not consumers demanding lower prices... not us, but them.
My main problem with this issue is what Vreeland looks at as well - the amount of crap that comes out every year. Publishers are meant to be kind of a buffer zone between readers and books. Sure, I can access tons of free writing online written by amateurs, but I'll most likely find amateur-level writing. Every once in a while, a self-published book can be good, and then what happens? It gets picked up by publishers. Why? For publicity, for sales. To make money. Okay, legit. Those are meant to be rare cases. And for the most part they are, so I'd like to set this matter aside. But publishing seems to forget it's other task, that of keeping the junk away from us. Theoretically, books rejected by publishers are supposed to be the bad ones (more on this in a moment). This means that books publishers do spend money on should be pretty effing good. So why aren't they?
First is the fact that some of the books rejected by publishers actually are good. So why are they rejected? Sales. Publishing, the giant business that it is, aims to sell and make money. A good business model, yes, but ultimately bad for readers. Readers who ultimately drive the book market. So it's a little stupid by this point.
Not every book is always going to be to everyone's tastes. This isn't new. I'm pretty known for disliking a lot of the books everyone else seems to love - whether they're classics that history has deemed worthy, or just plain ol' books-of-the-moment award winners (I'm thinking of "Catcher in the Rye", "Let the Great World Spin" and some others here). That's understandable, that's expected. But to publish books that are almost unquestioningly bad because they'll make you a couple bucks... there's something off to that.
In the past three years, I've read 91 Anglo-centricly published novels published from 2005 and on. Like Vreeland, I decided to run some numbers. Turns out I needed a different scale than the simple "bad okay good great" scale. Mine was "terrible bad mediocre nice good great amazing". 6 books were amazing, 11 great, 11 good, 17 nice, 27 mediocre, 14 bad, and 5 terrible. That's somewhere around 50% books not worth reading, 30% books that were pleasant and had merit, but didn't really blow me away, and 20% worth keeping on the shelves, worth recommending, worth gushing about, worth reading.
Call me selfish, but I want 100% of books I read to be amazing.
No, that's wrong. Life would be so boring without the guilty pleasure books that fell into the bad category. And a terrible ride is wonderful every once in a while. So essentially I want somewhere around 80% of books to be awesome, 15% to be enjoyably bad (or not my style), and a small 5% to be "I'm gonna punch the author in the face for even writing this, and the publishers for making me spend money/time on this". And you know what? I'm sick of it.
I'm sick of being told by publishers that I'm asking for unreasonably low prices for things that are worth less (eBooks!!!). I'm sick of feeling bad for writing bad reviews online when books are bad and don't deserve to be read (and then getting surprised reactions of "how could you not love this? You must be stupid" or things to that extent). I'm sick of suggestions that libraries are bad for publishing or bookselling. I'm sick of feeling like I have to search for good books, that I'm on some crazy holy-grail-esque quest for a novel that doesn't suck. And I'm sick of books that do suck. And guess what? Most of them do. 50% of the contemporary books I read in the last three years were disappointing and not worth my time. What kind of statistic is that?
This week I intend to read good books, like I decide every week. Chances are that won't be the case. More than anything else, that disappoints.
[Publishing is] not a victim, period. Publishing is slowly strangling itself by myopically hard-selling each and every title it cranks out, instead of nurturing the readers who sustain it. [...] It seems, in short, like publishers aren’t culling bad novels like they should be, and then readers have to do it, which means sifting through dozens or hundreds of published novels to find just the few worth reading. And that gets old.I recommend reading the entire piece. Vreeland raises a lot of really good points, ones I could only hope to verbalize. But I'll take a stab anyways.
My main problem with this issue is what Vreeland looks at as well - the amount of crap that comes out every year. Publishers are meant to be kind of a buffer zone between readers and books. Sure, I can access tons of free writing online written by amateurs, but I'll most likely find amateur-level writing. Every once in a while, a self-published book can be good, and then what happens? It gets picked up by publishers. Why? For publicity, for sales. To make money. Okay, legit. Those are meant to be rare cases. And for the most part they are, so I'd like to set this matter aside. But publishing seems to forget it's other task, that of keeping the junk away from us. Theoretically, books rejected by publishers are supposed to be the bad ones (more on this in a moment). This means that books publishers do spend money on should be pretty effing good. So why aren't they?
First is the fact that some of the books rejected by publishers actually are good. So why are they rejected? Sales. Publishing, the giant business that it is, aims to sell and make money. A good business model, yes, but ultimately bad for readers. Readers who ultimately drive the book market. So it's a little stupid by this point.
Not every book is always going to be to everyone's tastes. This isn't new. I'm pretty known for disliking a lot of the books everyone else seems to love - whether they're classics that history has deemed worthy, or just plain ol' books-of-the-moment award winners (I'm thinking of "Catcher in the Rye", "Let the Great World Spin" and some others here). That's understandable, that's expected. But to publish books that are almost unquestioningly bad because they'll make you a couple bucks... there's something off to that.
In the past three years, I've read 91 Anglo-centricly published novels published from 2005 and on. Like Vreeland, I decided to run some numbers. Turns out I needed a different scale than the simple "bad okay good great" scale. Mine was "terrible bad mediocre nice good great amazing". 6 books were amazing, 11 great, 11 good, 17 nice, 27 mediocre, 14 bad, and 5 terrible. That's somewhere around 50% books not worth reading, 30% books that were pleasant and had merit, but didn't really blow me away, and 20% worth keeping on the shelves, worth recommending, worth gushing about, worth reading.
Call me selfish, but I want 100% of books I read to be amazing.
No, that's wrong. Life would be so boring without the guilty pleasure books that fell into the bad category. And a terrible ride is wonderful every once in a while. So essentially I want somewhere around 80% of books to be awesome, 15% to be enjoyably bad (or not my style), and a small 5% to be "I'm gonna punch the author in the face for even writing this, and the publishers for making me spend money/time on this". And you know what? I'm sick of it.
I'm sick of being told by publishers that I'm asking for unreasonably low prices for things that are worth less (eBooks!!!). I'm sick of feeling bad for writing bad reviews online when books are bad and don't deserve to be read (and then getting surprised reactions of "how could you not love this? You must be stupid" or things to that extent). I'm sick of suggestions that libraries are bad for publishing or bookselling. I'm sick of feeling like I have to search for good books, that I'm on some crazy holy-grail-esque quest for a novel that doesn't suck. And I'm sick of books that do suck. And guess what? Most of them do. 50% of the contemporary books I read in the last three years were disappointing and not worth my time. What kind of statistic is that?
This week I intend to read good books, like I decide every week. Chances are that won't be the case. More than anything else, that disappoints.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Charge!
This is interesting. Over at Survival of the Book, Christopher raises the idea of instating subscription fees for local libraries.
Two or three years ago, a library I tend to frequent (not in the U.S.) revoked its subscription fee (which I had been paying). For many years (indeed, as long as this library had existed), subscription fees were part of the package. Children got cheaper deals, while adults were forced to dole out quite a bit of money in exchange for books and resources. Then a law passed to end this practice. Residents have free access to any library in their city. Meanwhile, if you want access to a bigger, better library one town over... no problem. Pay up.
The fact of the matter is that having subscription fees did not really keep most people from using library resources. Checking books out may have been impossible without a card, but people still used the libraries. On the other hand, they had no other choice and the policies were unfair towards those with fewer means. Ultimately, I don't know if libraries have seen significant changes in patronage or funds since the policy was revoked. It's probably too soon to tell. And, keep in mind, this was all abroad.
Still, to imagine now that the opposite would happen in the U.S. disturbs me. I am lucky to have had many library cards throughout my youth - I have seen good libraries, better libraries, and libraries that were... shall we say... bad. For the most part, though, the libraries I encountered all had one thing in common. They all always had lots of people. Lots of kids checking out books. Lots of teens working in study rooms. Lots of unemployed or retired adults looking for various forms of entertainment (or jobs). These people come in, check books, music, movies, knowledge out and then they return it. That's what a library is - the government funding free access to knowledge for its people. Is there anything more democratic than that? Sure, it may not have started as that originally, but that's what libraries are today.
It always makes me a little sad to see things that seem like regression. While there may be a lot of cold logic behind the idea of charging for libraries, as someone who has stood on the other end of it I have to say that it's not recommended. Paying for libraries feels like someone is keeping knowledge from me. And in today's economy, libraries are more important than ever before: keeping kids well educated and entertained after school, allowing adults to learn, and making sure that knowledge is provided equally to everyone. This is not the time to cut back on library budgets. It's also not the time to start charging people for subscriptions.
For now, I understand the value of the free public library system but sometime in the not too distant future there will be a reason to start instituting a yearly membership fee to guarantee the survival of these institutions. The notion of government support-from local to national-is under siege and it is not out of the realm of possibility that one day libraries won't be supported by the municipalities in which they are located.Christopher's right that libraries are facing serious budget setbacks and issues. There's also a point to the idea that volunteering to pay off fines (raised earlier in the post) will help libraries immensely. But I wanted to add a few thoughts to this idea, ones that may seem in favor and also vehemently against.
Two or three years ago, a library I tend to frequent (not in the U.S.) revoked its subscription fee (which I had been paying). For many years (indeed, as long as this library had existed), subscription fees were part of the package. Children got cheaper deals, while adults were forced to dole out quite a bit of money in exchange for books and resources. Then a law passed to end this practice. Residents have free access to any library in their city. Meanwhile, if you want access to a bigger, better library one town over... no problem. Pay up.
The fact of the matter is that having subscription fees did not really keep most people from using library resources. Checking books out may have been impossible without a card, but people still used the libraries. On the other hand, they had no other choice and the policies were unfair towards those with fewer means. Ultimately, I don't know if libraries have seen significant changes in patronage or funds since the policy was revoked. It's probably too soon to tell. And, keep in mind, this was all abroad.
Still, to imagine now that the opposite would happen in the U.S. disturbs me. I am lucky to have had many library cards throughout my youth - I have seen good libraries, better libraries, and libraries that were... shall we say... bad. For the most part, though, the libraries I encountered all had one thing in common. They all always had lots of people. Lots of kids checking out books. Lots of teens working in study rooms. Lots of unemployed or retired adults looking for various forms of entertainment (or jobs). These people come in, check books, music, movies, knowledge out and then they return it. That's what a library is - the government funding free access to knowledge for its people. Is there anything more democratic than that? Sure, it may not have started as that originally, but that's what libraries are today.
It always makes me a little sad to see things that seem like regression. While there may be a lot of cold logic behind the idea of charging for libraries, as someone who has stood on the other end of it I have to say that it's not recommended. Paying for libraries feels like someone is keeping knowledge from me. And in today's economy, libraries are more important than ever before: keeping kids well educated and entertained after school, allowing adults to learn, and making sure that knowledge is provided equally to everyone. This is not the time to cut back on library budgets. It's also not the time to start charging people for subscriptions.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
We should be discussing more than the blurb
Something that recently made the rounds is the blurb author Nicole Krauss attached to David Grossman's forthcoming novel, "To the End of the Land", first published in Israel in 2008. Bloggers and readers find the quote over-done, and even the Guardian finds the whole situation rather ludicrous, making a game out of it (or, as they call it, an "outblurb" challenge).
But we should be discussing more than the blurb. We should be discussing the book.
"To the End of the Land" doesn't really deserve this bad press. When first published in Israel, it was more than just a bestseller - it was a fairly monumental part of the daily culture. Popular books in Israel are split according to origin - abroad and home-grown. Here was a home-grown author, though, that went beyond simple bestseller. Grossman is known for more than just his books. He's known for his politics, and even for the fact that his son was killed in the 2006 Israel-Lebanon conflict. "To the End of the Land", contrary to popular belief, was not written following the death of Grossman's son. Though it looks at many subjects through a lens that fits this theory, Grossman even discusses in interviews the fact that the book was conceived long before his son was killed. And, he adds in the interview, the manuscript wasn't edited afterward either. The book itself is complex and difficult to describe, even more so when taking into account culture differences between Israel and the rest of the world. And all this without getting into stylistic issues (or topics, to be more diplomatic).
Reading "To the End of the Land" is a bit like cheating at all times, because you can't, can't disconnect yourself from Grossman's reality. It's hard to read this book without looking at Grossman's personal story and taking something from it. This works well for some people. For others, less so. For me, reading Grossman's book was a little like an attempt at rock-climbing, trying to swallow this tome in large gulps, when really it should have been treated with more care. It was letting Grossman slide with stylistic things (like an incredibly abrupt, teetering-at-the-edge-of-a-cliff-seconds-before-falling ending), accepting things that might normally seem a little "out there". It was suspending belief for 600 pages, and coming down to earth feeling like something really had changed.
I would not define "To the End of the Land" as a book entirely built on one clear story. It's built of small stories that define characters, these little vague entries in a larger story that make up life. Easily split into two parts (the first presents youthful characters, while the second revisits these children middle-aged), the bridge between the two parts is, again, abrupt. Even awkward. It's hard to shift gears so suddenly in the midst of a story, but once passing that hurdle... the book is good. Good like most of Grossman's writing is. Good like you'd expect from literature. Just... good.
When Krauss writes that the book touches your essence, she's taking a serious point too far. "To the End of the Land" did affect me. Reading it caused me to shift my point of view just a little, to look at certain subjects from a slightly different angle. It made me appreciate aspects of my life, educated me a bit more about Israeli history (though rather subtly), and got me so into the lives of these characters. That's what a book is supposed to do, and Grossman does it well.
I wasn't thrilled with the translation of Grossman's "Someone to Run With" (a good book in its own right, but translated somewhat sloppily), but Jessica Cohen's work flows in a manner that seems much closer to the original (and is altogether more satisfactory). It's a book that's hard to classify. On the one hand, I didn't exactly love it: it has flaws such as the abruptness, such as vagueness, such as the occasional awkwardness... On the other hand, it's not a book I see myself getting rid of so easily. I have grown quite attached to it and someday when I revisit it, I suspect I shall learn quite a bit.
Don't judge this book by its bland, rather ugly cover. And don't judge it by the "over-wrought" quote. Judge it by Grossman's incredible writing talent, by the cultural importance, the historical context regarding Israel, and by the wonderful way Grossman builds a world out of a small cast of characters. This is not a cheerful romp through flowered fields (as the current Amazon cover indicates) - it's a rather bleak view of life.
"To the End of the Land" does not deserve ridicule for a poorly picked blurb, but rather deserves serious discussion for its literary merit. I hope this has helped.
But we should be discussing more than the blurb. We should be discussing the book.
"To the End of the Land" doesn't really deserve this bad press. When first published in Israel, it was more than just a bestseller - it was a fairly monumental part of the daily culture. Popular books in Israel are split according to origin - abroad and home-grown. Here was a home-grown author, though, that went beyond simple bestseller. Grossman is known for more than just his books. He's known for his politics, and even for the fact that his son was killed in the 2006 Israel-Lebanon conflict. "To the End of the Land", contrary to popular belief, was not written following the death of Grossman's son. Though it looks at many subjects through a lens that fits this theory, Grossman even discusses in interviews the fact that the book was conceived long before his son was killed. And, he adds in the interview, the manuscript wasn't edited afterward either. The book itself is complex and difficult to describe, even more so when taking into account culture differences between Israel and the rest of the world. And all this without getting into stylistic issues (or topics, to be more diplomatic).
Reading "To the End of the Land" is a bit like cheating at all times, because you can't, can't disconnect yourself from Grossman's reality. It's hard to read this book without looking at Grossman's personal story and taking something from it. This works well for some people. For others, less so. For me, reading Grossman's book was a little like an attempt at rock-climbing, trying to swallow this tome in large gulps, when really it should have been treated with more care. It was letting Grossman slide with stylistic things (like an incredibly abrupt, teetering-at-the-edge-of-a-cliff-seconds-before-falling ending), accepting things that might normally seem a little "out there". It was suspending belief for 600 pages, and coming down to earth feeling like something really had changed.
I would not define "To the End of the Land" as a book entirely built on one clear story. It's built of small stories that define characters, these little vague entries in a larger story that make up life. Easily split into two parts (the first presents youthful characters, while the second revisits these children middle-aged), the bridge between the two parts is, again, abrupt. Even awkward. It's hard to shift gears so suddenly in the midst of a story, but once passing that hurdle... the book is good. Good like most of Grossman's writing is. Good like you'd expect from literature. Just... good.
When Krauss writes that the book touches your essence, she's taking a serious point too far. "To the End of the Land" did affect me. Reading it caused me to shift my point of view just a little, to look at certain subjects from a slightly different angle. It made me appreciate aspects of my life, educated me a bit more about Israeli history (though rather subtly), and got me so into the lives of these characters. That's what a book is supposed to do, and Grossman does it well.
I wasn't thrilled with the translation of Grossman's "Someone to Run With" (a good book in its own right, but translated somewhat sloppily), but Jessica Cohen's work flows in a manner that seems much closer to the original (and is altogether more satisfactory). It's a book that's hard to classify. On the one hand, I didn't exactly love it: it has flaws such as the abruptness, such as vagueness, such as the occasional awkwardness... On the other hand, it's not a book I see myself getting rid of so easily. I have grown quite attached to it and someday when I revisit it, I suspect I shall learn quite a bit.
Don't judge this book by its bland, rather ugly cover. And don't judge it by the "over-wrought" quote. Judge it by Grossman's incredible writing talent, by the cultural importance, the historical context regarding Israel, and by the wonderful way Grossman builds a world out of a small cast of characters. This is not a cheerful romp through flowered fields (as the current Amazon cover indicates) - it's a rather bleak view of life.
"To the End of the Land" does not deserve ridicule for a poorly picked blurb, but rather deserves serious discussion for its literary merit. I hope this has helped.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Amazon review of the week
This one is entertaining with no additional comment. Reviewer "Mao Ze Dong" writes a review for "The Amulet of Samarkand":
London needs more communism in that book. In other words, the book really sucked.
Friday, July 16, 2010
...but you have
I firstly want to thank all readers who commented on my recent post about "The Passage" - a book I have not read, but apparently, the vast majority of readers have. The responses are varied and fascinating, and I feel this subject deserves further discussion.
Most of you don't think "The Passage" is sci-fi. A few examples of other "non sci-fi" comparison books were offered, books like "The Road" or "The Stand", books that are described as "post-apocalyptic" or "horror". While horror may fall into its own category, post-apocalyptic or dystopian novels do, in my mind, fall under the vast science fiction genre. This explains why I keep seeing people explicitly excluding science-fiction from the description of "The Passage" - we have different definitions of science fiction. This makes a lot more sense now.
Another somewhat recurring sentiment is that the book can be split into sections with different genres. This is really interesting to me, mostly because I never think to divide books like this. And, again, it further explains the gap between my mentality and the majority. By dividing the book into sections, readers see parts without any obvious science fiction as purely "literary" or horror, or romance, therefore explaining the fact that this book is many genres in one.
And a lot more fascinating thoughts you raised. Thanks to all who commented - though I'm not fully convinced that "The Passage" does not technically belong to the sci-fi genre, I do realize that everyone looks at things differently, and ultimately the genre shouldn't be defining the book quite as much as I assumed it to be. I do, however, get the impression, that "The Passage" is a good book. That should probably be enough.
Most of you don't think "The Passage" is sci-fi. A few examples of other "non sci-fi" comparison books were offered, books like "The Road" or "The Stand", books that are described as "post-apocalyptic" or "horror". While horror may fall into its own category, post-apocalyptic or dystopian novels do, in my mind, fall under the vast science fiction genre. This explains why I keep seeing people explicitly excluding science-fiction from the description of "The Passage" - we have different definitions of science fiction. This makes a lot more sense now.
Another somewhat recurring sentiment is that the book can be split into sections with different genres. This is really interesting to me, mostly because I never think to divide books like this. And, again, it further explains the gap between my mentality and the majority. By dividing the book into sections, readers see parts without any obvious science fiction as purely "literary" or horror, or romance, therefore explaining the fact that this book is many genres in one.
And a lot more fascinating thoughts you raised. Thanks to all who commented - though I'm not fully convinced that "The Passage" does not technically belong to the sci-fi genre, I do realize that everyone looks at things differently, and ultimately the genre shouldn't be defining the book quite as much as I assumed it to be. I do, however, get the impression, that "The Passage" is a good book. That should probably be enough.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Vintage, California
I read "The Grapes of Wrath" on a summer visit to an Eastern European country, an apt setting for this novel. Alongside the grim stories are beautifully written chapters about nature and land. The book went well with the corn fields flying by.
I reread it perhaps a month or two later. I was worried that my impression of the book had been altered by the way I'd read it, something not unheard of. The experience was, indeed, quite different, but actually more positive. Since then, I've only ever reread two very specific parts of Steinbeck's novel and have largely ignored the rest.
The first revisited part is, unsurprisingly, the end. At the risk of spoiling the book for those who haven't read it, I won't go into what exactly it is about the ending that called me back again and again. Just know that it's a good ending. At first I didn't like it. Even before I reread the whole novel, this one scene, these last few pages kept pulling me back in, first in annoyance, and later, growing respect and appreciation. Each revisit explained something new and made me like the book a little more.
The other part is at once more complicated and simpler. As I mentioned earlier, "The Grapes of Wrath" has descriptive chapters amidst the meat of the book. These are beautiful "literary" chapters, ignoring real characters and looking at nature and at the land. These are chapters to build the world, adding a level of descriptive depth to it.
Chapter 25 epitomizes this. This chapter lends the book its name and stands as some of the single greatest writing I've ever read. From its pure, idyllic opening ("The spring is beautiful in California."), to the title-giving final line ("In the souls of the people the grapes of wrath are filling and growing heavy, growing heavy for the vintage."), it travels the state and sums up much of the story indirectly.
These two snapshots don't make up the book. In fact, they paint a picture of a completely different type of novel, one that focuses too much, perhaps, on the aesthetic qualities of words and less their meaning. Now, a few years later, they serve as an excellent reminder that I liked this book, and this (coupled with how well "The Grapes of Wrath" grew on me) proves that I must revisit it. Preferably soon.
I reread it perhaps a month or two later. I was worried that my impression of the book had been altered by the way I'd read it, something not unheard of. The experience was, indeed, quite different, but actually more positive. Since then, I've only ever reread two very specific parts of Steinbeck's novel and have largely ignored the rest.
The first revisited part is, unsurprisingly, the end. At the risk of spoiling the book for those who haven't read it, I won't go into what exactly it is about the ending that called me back again and again. Just know that it's a good ending. At first I didn't like it. Even before I reread the whole novel, this one scene, these last few pages kept pulling me back in, first in annoyance, and later, growing respect and appreciation. Each revisit explained something new and made me like the book a little more.
The other part is at once more complicated and simpler. As I mentioned earlier, "The Grapes of Wrath" has descriptive chapters amidst the meat of the book. These are beautiful "literary" chapters, ignoring real characters and looking at nature and at the land. These are chapters to build the world, adding a level of descriptive depth to it.
Chapter 25 epitomizes this. This chapter lends the book its name and stands as some of the single greatest writing I've ever read. From its pure, idyllic opening ("The spring is beautiful in California."), to the title-giving final line ("In the souls of the people the grapes of wrath are filling and growing heavy, growing heavy for the vintage."), it travels the state and sums up much of the story indirectly.
These two snapshots don't make up the book. In fact, they paint a picture of a completely different type of novel, one that focuses too much, perhaps, on the aesthetic qualities of words and less their meaning. Now, a few years later, they serve as an excellent reminder that I liked this book, and this (coupled with how well "The Grapes of Wrath" grew on me) proves that I must revisit it. Preferably soon.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
I have not read this book
Following the massive buzz surrounding South African stadiums--er, Justin Cronin's incredibly well-publicized book "The Passage"-- I have found myself reading many, many reviews of the book. Most are positive. Some are not. But one book blogger sentiment that seems to crop up again and again is that the book has an "undefined" genre, that it's a difficult book to classify. Finally curious to know a reader's take on the matter, I posed to the question to Rachel of "A home between the pages", who kindly responded in full. The response:
Elements of romance, "literary" fiction, etc. - these things do not disqualify a book from being science fiction. There is no contradiction. Depth to characters and writing... also not contradictory to the genre science fiction. And as I discovered in Sci-Fi Month, the science fiction genre covers just about everything.
I can't really discuss the book because I haven't read it, but something about this response seems to come from the wrong angle. It's as though (and I interject here to invite any and all other interpretations, especially those of the author) to justify the popularity, one has to distance the book from the "standard" sci-fi genre. Yet what exactly does that mean? Elements of horror, romance, deep characters... this all still sounds strictly sci-fi, but as though to detract me from ignoring the book (because the label "sci-fi" is still something bad to many readers...), readers who themselves would have otherwise ignored the book find themselves calling it genre-bending. And of course, I may be entirely wrong.
But I can't shake this feeling that the reason this book defies genre isn't really because it's actually falls into multiple genres (very possibly because I've grown to believe that most genres blend together and are virtually indistinguishable - a different topic for another day), but because publicists (and subsequently, bloggers, readers, reviewers, etc.) do not want it defined. The term "science fiction" doesn't do much for the intended audience, especially when it has grown to mean much more than its official, you know, genre.
Rachel's response indicates this as well. There is an impression that once labeled "sci-fi", "The Passage" will also be labeled as "not for general public", as though describing the book as precisely what it is will deter readers. I am curious to hear more views on the matter from readers of the book, and from those like me who have only read numerous reviews. There are so many reviews and thoughts on this book that it's hard to keep track, but it could be that I'm wrong in my impression, and that I entirely misunderstood Rachel's response. I open the floor for discussion.
It’s difficult to understand why I would say that it doesn’t fall into a category if you haven’t read it, and I can see how, with the plot synopses out there, why it would be easy to say it’s strictly sci-fi. The problem with that is that, yes, it does have elements of sci-fi or paranormal, but there are elements of literary fiction, romance, fantasy, scientific drama (think Michael Crichton), history, horror and many more. I think because Cronin’s background is in literary fiction, there’s depth to the writing and to the characters that’s unexpected and unusual for a straight sci-fi novel. There are things about it on the surface that would place it in sci-fi, but it bends that genre so drastically that it’s hard to keep it with two feet planted under just that umbrella.However.I understand that not every buzzy book is going to be a hit for everyone. But I caution people from staying away from a book just because of the buzz. Everyone will read the same book differently, and this is certainly outside my normal comfort realm, but for me, it paid off. Even going by the official definitions of sci-fi — good sci-fi — I still think it’s a good book. I loved it, and that doesn’t change just because of the genre it may or may not fall into.
Elements of romance, "literary" fiction, etc. - these things do not disqualify a book from being science fiction. There is no contradiction. Depth to characters and writing... also not contradictory to the genre science fiction. And as I discovered in Sci-Fi Month, the science fiction genre covers just about everything.
I can't really discuss the book because I haven't read it, but something about this response seems to come from the wrong angle. It's as though (and I interject here to invite any and all other interpretations, especially those of the author) to justify the popularity, one has to distance the book from the "standard" sci-fi genre. Yet what exactly does that mean? Elements of horror, romance, deep characters... this all still sounds strictly sci-fi, but as though to detract me from ignoring the book (because the label "sci-fi" is still something bad to many readers...), readers who themselves would have otherwise ignored the book find themselves calling it genre-bending. And of course, I may be entirely wrong.
But I can't shake this feeling that the reason this book defies genre isn't really because it's actually falls into multiple genres (very possibly because I've grown to believe that most genres blend together and are virtually indistinguishable - a different topic for another day), but because publicists (and subsequently, bloggers, readers, reviewers, etc.) do not want it defined. The term "science fiction" doesn't do much for the intended audience, especially when it has grown to mean much more than its official, you know, genre.
Rachel's response indicates this as well. There is an impression that once labeled "sci-fi", "The Passage" will also be labeled as "not for general public", as though describing the book as precisely what it is will deter readers. I am curious to hear more views on the matter from readers of the book, and from those like me who have only read numerous reviews. There are so many reviews and thoughts on this book that it's hard to keep track, but it could be that I'm wrong in my impression, and that I entirely misunderstood Rachel's response. I open the floor for discussion.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Downhill
One of the more commonly used methods to figure out if an unknown book is for you is the first page test. Or first chapter. Or, occasionally, the first sentence test. It's this little bit of security before buying a book - can I even read a little of it without puking? It works pretty well, for the most part. I'm a fan. But sometimes... sometimes it goes wrong.
I'm reading a book now that passed the preliminary test. And it was on sale. An unheard-of publisher (possibly independent or self-published?), a book I'd never heard of before, a strong opening chapter, and an interesting synopsis... I bought it and immediately dove in. The thing is, for the first two or three chapters, I was really into it. The topic is something very relevant to my life right now, but from a different angle - at once something I know nothing about and something that consumes my day-to-day life. In other words, a seemingly perfect combination for a novel that is clearly very much based in fact.
But the book, like so many others, began to go downhill. Whether or not it will ultimately disappoint, I don't know - I have another quarter left to read out of this fairly small book. Another evening or two, I expect to be done. But now, approaching the end without approaching the feeling of an ending (there is no sense in the writing that a climax is to come), I find myself angry at the author. Because when you start out so strong, it's infinitely more disappointing to see the inevitable downfall.
Sometimes books go bad because of their characters. The characters are flat and don't evolve throughout the book. Sometimes it's the plotting that kills a book, just going nowhere. And sometimes, a few sad, painful times, it's the writing. And not all the writing, just small parts. Take the above example - the writing is good when describing situations and actions. Characters are believable, easy to imagine. Two problems:
1. The characters all, with a single exception, speak in the same overly fancy, unrealistic voice. They speak unnaturally, using stiff phrases and drama to emphasize their emotions. Ultimately hard to swallow. Only one character (a friend of the narrator) sounds different, most likely because he fits a common stereotype - humorous, casually charming, loyal, kind. He sounds like one would expect him to sound. The narrator, and every subsequent character, sound like they're having too much fun using vocab words.
2. Plot points and scenes that serve no purpose in furthering the story. Intentionally explicit scenes are clearly meant to spice up the story, but the impression is one of awkwardness and sensitive subjects are completely ignored for in-your-face sexual style story-telling.
Two examples for one specific book, but every book that finds itself going downhill has different frustrating points. Most books have it, but sometimes it really jumps out - the small things that turn a book from great to simply mediocre. On rare occasions, you can set aside the downsides, chalk them up to style or say they pale in comparison to the glaring positives, but sometimes there's just a downfall and every time I find myself disappointed like new.
I'm reading a book now that passed the preliminary test. And it was on sale. An unheard-of publisher (possibly independent or self-published?), a book I'd never heard of before, a strong opening chapter, and an interesting synopsis... I bought it and immediately dove in. The thing is, for the first two or three chapters, I was really into it. The topic is something very relevant to my life right now, but from a different angle - at once something I know nothing about and something that consumes my day-to-day life. In other words, a seemingly perfect combination for a novel that is clearly very much based in fact.
But the book, like so many others, began to go downhill. Whether or not it will ultimately disappoint, I don't know - I have another quarter left to read out of this fairly small book. Another evening or two, I expect to be done. But now, approaching the end without approaching the feeling of an ending (there is no sense in the writing that a climax is to come), I find myself angry at the author. Because when you start out so strong, it's infinitely more disappointing to see the inevitable downfall.
Sometimes books go bad because of their characters. The characters are flat and don't evolve throughout the book. Sometimes it's the plotting that kills a book, just going nowhere. And sometimes, a few sad, painful times, it's the writing. And not all the writing, just small parts. Take the above example - the writing is good when describing situations and actions. Characters are believable, easy to imagine. Two problems:
1. The characters all, with a single exception, speak in the same overly fancy, unrealistic voice. They speak unnaturally, using stiff phrases and drama to emphasize their emotions. Ultimately hard to swallow. Only one character (a friend of the narrator) sounds different, most likely because he fits a common stereotype - humorous, casually charming, loyal, kind. He sounds like one would expect him to sound. The narrator, and every subsequent character, sound like they're having too much fun using vocab words.
2. Plot points and scenes that serve no purpose in furthering the story. Intentionally explicit scenes are clearly meant to spice up the story, but the impression is one of awkwardness and sensitive subjects are completely ignored for in-your-face sexual style story-telling.
Two examples for one specific book, but every book that finds itself going downhill has different frustrating points. Most books have it, but sometimes it really jumps out - the small things that turn a book from great to simply mediocre. On rare occasions, you can set aside the downsides, chalk them up to style or say they pale in comparison to the glaring positives, but sometimes there's just a downfall and every time I find myself disappointed like new.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Young folk
The last couple of weeks have seen the rise of two lists that have been making the rounds, two lists not of books but rather of authors: the New Yorker's 20 Under 40, which was promptly followed by a Telegraph British equivalent.
One of the main differences between the two lists is the issue of "origin", a reflection of the respective country and culture. The New Yorker, for instance, feels the need to point out just how diverse the origins of its authors are:
The Telegraph, meanwhile, downplays its own efforts at creating such a list, assuming because it does not resemble the American counterpart, it is less effective:
One of the main differences between the two lists is the issue of "origin", a reflection of the respective country and culture. The New Yorker, for instance, feels the need to point out just how diverse the origins of its authors are:
The fiction being written in this country today is not necessarily fiction set in this country, or fiction by writers who were born in this country. Although all the non-native writers on our list have made a home for themselves in North America—some moved here as children, some as adults—the diversity of origins is striking: Nigeria (Adichie), Peru (Alarcón), Latvia (Bezmozgis), China (Li), Ethiopia (Mengestu), Yugoslavia (Obreht), and Russia (Shteyngart).These authors write of their diversity from a very American viewpoint, at once a huge plus and equally limiting. Much in the same way, it's written to an American audience (though the list includes Canadian authors). Nonetheless, they're doing what literature needs more of - diversity. It is worth noting the New Yorker's particular insistence to emphasize this notion - a magazine choosing to highlight the fact that their top American 20 Under 40 authors are from varying backgrounds (though all are, essentially American).
The Telegraph, meanwhile, downplays its own efforts at creating such a list, assuming because it does not resemble the American counterpart, it is less effective:
So with these potential problems in mind and in the hope of unleashing a debate similar in ferocity to the one triggered by the New Yorker, we are pleased to unveil our list of writers. We have used the same selection criteria as the New Yorker – all these writers are under 40 and all, with two exceptions, live in Britain – at least most of the time. But we haven’t controlled the types of writing, or worried about whether writers stand in some way for different experiences of Britishness. And we have frankly failed, if it matters, to achieve a gender balance – 13 out of the 20 are men – and most of these writers are white. But in other ways we have striven to be diverse, refusing to overlook excellent science fiction and genuinely good thrillers.
And yet that last sentence is key. The Telegraph includes authors that aren't just "genre-bending" (as the New Yorker puts it), but authors that do not strictly write in the so-called "literary fiction" category. Or perhaps it's just China Miéville who doesn't strictly fall into this category (or any category, for that matter...), but even the presence of this 100% not "literary fiction" writer makes the Telegraph's list diverse in a way that the New Yorker's just... isn't. The Telegraph offers the possibility that true talent might lie beyond the established novel and "literary" format. It's an important distinction.
The next difference is raised by the Telegraph itself:
The lists generated by the New Yorker and Granta are interesting as much for what they reveal about a country’s fiction as about the concerns of a writing generation. Though creative writing courses such as the pioneering one at the University of East Anglia have taken off in Britain, their presence is nothing like as pervasive as that of institutions such as the Iowa Writers’ Workshop in the States. [...] It is notable that most of the writers on the New Yorker list came though a creative writing programme – and many now teach on one.The question of creative writing courses is a fairly interesting one in itself and deserves individual attention. Still, the notion that creative writing courses are far more established in the U.S. doesn't actually show a difference in the writers, but in the culture and the accepted writing style. Again, this deserves its own discussion, but the rise of widespread creative writing courses, degrees, workshops, programs, etc. is clearly reflected in the style of books represented by the New Yorker as opposed to the Telegraph.
There are smaller, finer issues to be found in each list. Ultimately, these are two lists that paint a fairly broad picture of North American and U.K. authors. The authors' youth is both a help and hindrance to them - while some of these authors are established, their reputations are far from set in stone. Both lists are have merit, and while I don't take to heart too much of what is said (I will not be surprised if some of these authors publish, shall we say, bad books), I recognize some great names already. For that, kudos.
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