Epic fantasy, as defined by Harry Potter

Adam Whitehead over at The Wertzone asks an interesting question: is Harry Potter epic fantasy? Reading the comments, opinions are various and varied. Everyone defines choice fantasy differently, looking at a number of popular fantasy epic-potentials and comparing their properties.

In Adam's points for and against Harry Potter's epicness, there are a few that rubbed off me the wrong way, perhaps in continuation of my struggle to accurately define fantasy books. The question comes down to how each one of us splits up the fantasy definitions. In my post from January, I proposed two general groups: high fantasy and modern fantasy. It's thus much simpler for me to ask the question of whether or not Harry Potter falls into the epic fantasy category: it's epic and it's fantasy, therefore it is epic fantasy. But this is easy for me because in my mind, Harry Potter is clearly defined as modern fantasy - anything else is an additional categorization, not the larger subgenre.

Let's take a step back, though. Adam, in his post, offers several arguments that could be used to justify (or dismiss) the epic qualities to Harry Potter. There's the silly one (that a lack of maps in Harry Potter could disqualify it from being epic fantasy...), but there are a few quite interesting ideas (that Harry Potter does not take place in a secondary universe, the lack of sword-fighting battles). In the comments, readers propose other arguments: the episodic nature of Harry Potter might disqualify it, but the presence of a "dark lord" with a noble hero out to fight him justifies the definition. That the young adult focus of the book doesn't fit "epic", but that according to the origin of "epic" (Greek epics), Harry Potter certainly fits.

Commenter Wastrel offers a few words of wisdom that I found particularly interesting:

"Epic Fantasy" isn't a definition, it's a family resemblance. I'd say core characteristics were things like:
- a battle that can lead to good or evil consequences for an entire world, or at least a very large chunk of it, and that is the focus of the story
- a secondary world
- improbably influential everyman characters.
Around that core, there are various other common features - but many epic fantasies may lack one or more of them.

I like this assessment because it falls in line with my own modern-vs.-high fantasy definition. That is, it allows for multiple definitions of fantasy, while placing the "epic" quality of fantasy as a possible characteristic of fantasy, rather than a genre. The list of possible features is where the differences between the commonly touted epic fantasies lie, but also the similarities. Even outside the simple question of Harry Potter's epicness, the list is certainly worth noting. For that matter, the whole discussion is worth reading. The vast range of opinions is impressive, but unsurprising - it really is that difficult to define most fantasy books.

Dissmissing Némirovsky - the influence of the author's personal life

When my mother says she wants to boycott a specific musician for his politics, I find myself getting annoyed. "Separate the man and his art," I say, justifying my admiration for the man's talent. But place a book by Irène Némirovsky in front of me and chances are I'll say "No thanks". Why? Because the author made a pivotal choice in life that has since been endlessly touted... and I just don't feel like it.

I just don't want to read it

A few weeks ago, Sarah at Bookworm Blues raised the fascinating discussion prompt of how much an author's personal opinions influence our desire to read (or not read) his/her books. And while I wondered at what my own policy is, I realized how utterly inconsistent it is.

I'm using Némirovsky as my example for a reason - as a wildly popular and well-respected author, it would make sense for me to have read her novels. But one small blip on Némirovsky's biography makes me take a step back and say, "Wait, if I can choose... why should I choose her?"

There are two ways to look at it and it turns out I'm a hypocrite. On the one hand, I listen to musicians and composers with dubious backgrounds. On the other hand, I avoid authors who may have made specific choices that don't quite fit in with my personal beliefs. Némirovsky only vaguely attracted me as a reader the first time I've heard of her and the more I learned about her history, the less inclined to read her novels I became.

Ultimately, I think the difference between music and literature is in the presentation. When a pianist has a controversial opinion, it doesn't really come across in his interpretation of Beethoven's sonatas. Meanwhile, authors can (and do) present their own lives and opinions easily in literature. So much of an authors personal experience ends up embedded in the story, imbued in the personalities of the characters. I've encountered very few books that included none of the author in their characterizations, enough to realize that when I greatly disagree or sincerely dislike the author, I am far more likely to dislike the book as well.

The problem is that it's not at all clear-cut. There are authors who say dumb things who I still love (Philip Pullman, I'm looking at you!) while there are authors who I don't feel like bothering with because of footnotes in their histories. And then there are authors who have said completely controversial and idiotic statements (V.S. Naipaul!) who I still might consider reading. Why? Why not! It's my choice. At the end of the day, I don't have to justify it for anyone.

So in answer, readers can be influenced by whatever they want. Sometimes it's the fact that an author sounds lame, sometimes it's the fact that an author writes in a funky style that doesn't sit well with the reader, and sometimes it's because the author has expressed certain personal opinions that turn them off for the reader. In the end, we can't read everything. If this is another weird and inconsistent way for us to sort through all those books out there, so be it. And if I'm missing out on a brilliant writer in Némirovsky... well, I think I'm okay with that. For now, at least.

Thoughts on a semi-literary week

During this final week of vacation, I finally got the opportunity to do two things I don't normally have the time (or the correct country code) for: buy books at Borders' "Everything must go!" sale and read.

I've completed six books this week, most of them short or easy-to-read young adult books. In addition, I acquired almost 20 books to bring back home with me in a few days. Among these books, the clear preference was for sci-fi and some fantasy. The remaining books are, for the most part, novellas in translation. These purchases are fairly in-line with my recent literary identity crisis.

I've been thinking for the past few months about how I'm an incredibly uneducated reader. Actually, I've been thinking that for years, pretty much from the moment I started reading in an organized and adult manner. I've read neither the famous books, nor do I have a particular niche that individualizes my literary tastes. When blogging (and reading other blogs), I repeatedly get the impression that I'm not "reading right". That I'm not reading enough. And then I start to get stressed and nervous. Then I stop enjoying the books I'm reading. I start over-analyzing books and whether or not I "understood them properly" and whether or not I'm "missing" something.

But this week - reading a wide variety of books, well-known and less - made me realize that it's all in my head. That is, the reason I haven't been enjoying books as much recently is because I've been building up unfair expectations. By mentally hyping every books I read (through the obsessive following of reviews and blogs and author interviews, etc.), I set myself up for disappointment. Meanwhile, when I stumble upon books with little fanfare or expectations I enjoy the experience much more.Set alongside this my ever-shifting literary taste (the pendulum swings back towards sci-fi...), I'm finding that it's harder and harder to "do it properly". Writing reviews and blogging and reading suddenly becomes too much.

So why not do it not-properly? I keep having to remind myself that reading is supposed to be fun - if I make work out of it in my free time, it shouldn't influence that original intent. Sure, I didn't read many books in translation this week... but do I have to? I read some very enjoyable books, as well as some very thoughtful ones. Isn't that what counts? And like my realization last week of the joys of the impulse buy, not knowing what lies in store, I'm learning that maybe my extensive research and analyzing tendencies are harming my reading experience rather than helping it.

Bad cover of the week

I read Breathing Underwater by Alex Flinn years ago, swallowing the book in one go at the library one summer afternoon. The book surprised me for taking the side of the boyfriend in this boyfriend-hits-girlfriend story. It's a good book about violence and anger*, one that breaks out of the typical victim cliche and successfully conveys the inner turmoil the book's main character Nick is faced with. This was the cover I knew:

Shows the turmoil, right? A rather appropriate cover, if somewhat weird and also clearly more geared towards young men than women (and indeed, the content is also more guy-oriented that girl-oriented, what with the male narration and the male frame of mind repeatedly on display). It's a strong cover, one that stuck with me for many months after I'd finished reading Breathing Underwater, particularly the crudely drawn monster who shares a head with Nick.

And then I accidentally (unfortunately) came across this reissued cover:

If I knew nothing about this book, my guess would be teen romance. Heck, even knowing the story, my assumption is that this a book told from the girl's perspective (though this may be my own generalization... in my experience, when there's a girl on the cover, she's the centerpiece). Even the tagline is somewhat misleading: "He promised he wouldn't hurt her. Was his anger bigger than his word?" It again paints the picture that the focus is on the victim, the girlfriend.

This reissue highlights one of the most frustrating trends in young adult fiction today, and that's the constant need to make everything a teen romance. Because publishers see little purpose in marketing towards young men (who, according to various studies, read far less than young women...), they try to market books as effectively as possible to girls. I guess they must think romance sells. A book with such strong messages about violence and rage like Breathing Underwater gets a bland, romance-oriented makeover. With a pretty bad cover photo, no less.

* To be fair... in my 15-year old review I wrote that the book was "too short, with not enough information and feeling". I think this was during my classics phase, when I expected every book to be like War and Peace. Whoops...

Bookstores, here and there

This vacation has me seeing bookstores all across the world, and I have to say that the experience is quite eye-opening. Bookstores may typically have the same books wherever you are, but they almost always have their own personalities... and that even includes some of the chains. It's lovely, seeing the various types of stores and the different content. But more interesting than that is seeing the different takes each country has regarding bookselling and books.

I noticed, for instance, that in Spain blurbs aren't printed on the books, but are reserved rather for slips of paper that are placed around the book. The reader can discard the slips if desired, but those who like blurbs can always keep it on. Waste of paper? Yes. Brilliant way to avoid stupid blurbs? Definitely.

Or in Quebec. As is my habit, I walked into the bookstore, expecting to find a standard chain bookstore. I was impressed (though unsurprised) to find the small Quebecois fiction section, specially printed by various local presses (or so I presumed). Not being able to read particularly good French, it was difficult to figure out what the printing habits of this province but I noticed that several of the fiction and thriller titles seemed to be printed in France. Does this mean that the books are imported? Doesn't this make book prices unreasonably high? Anyone living in Canada who can shed light on this matter... please. I'm quite curious.

And now back in the U.S., in Boston, just about everywhere I walk I find myself passing a bookstore. Sometimes it's a B&N, sometimes it's a going-out-of-business Borders, but more often than not it's an indie with its own style and its own personality. It's nice, walking the streets and seeing the bookstores. Added to the pleasure of a calm vacation and the lovely sites, this is truly a great feeling.

What did people used to do?

When I first got a cell-phone at the ripe old age of 14, I found myself suddenly in possession of a great deal more freedom than I'd even known. Pretty soon, though, I was forced to use the phone. Leaving the house without it suddenly became "irresponsible". Walking around without any form of instant communication became unthinkable. Now, on vacation abroad, I find myself walking around without a cell-phone. When my family gets annoyed that there's no way to contact me, a common (and bitter) sentiment pops into my head: "What did mankind do before cell-phones were invented?!"

When I walk into a bookstore, I buy mostly based on reviews and author familiarity. Though I've begun to branch out in recent years, I'm still fairly adamant about only buying books I know I want to read and keep. I'll rarely buy a book that I only just discovered. First I'll research the book on Amazon, I'll read reviews and I'll try to figure out how worthwhile the book might be (and if there isn't maybe another book by the same author that would be better suited to start with). Even in the case of books I've heard of or authors I like, I do careful research before picking the next read.

But rather like cell-phones, I find myself wondering what it used to be like. I barely remember an age without the internet, without this marvelous tool that allows me to look up books and book reviews within minutes. I've been using Amazon since I was eight, and various other book-cataloging sites since I was maybe nine or ten. To be honest, most of my reading life has been grounded in the internet and the research process it has enabled. It's hard for me to imagine anything else.

Yesterday, while browsing in a used bookstore, I came across A Place of Greater Safety by Hilary Mantel. When I'd considered reading another book by Mantel (after being completely and absolutely blown away by Wolf Hall), I'd sort of pushed the idea to the side, not finding any clear indicators of what the next book should be. I'd heard of The Giant, O'Brien but that was all. Though Mantel wrote the best book I've read in the past two years (hands down), I never bothered to look for more. A Place of Greater Safety came as a complete surprise, having never even heard of the book*. At that moment, I had no form of researching the title and I was desperate to buy any book. It looked interesting, it was cheap, so off the shelf it went and into my hands.

Which leads me back to cell-phones. Today, with information almost always at our fingertips (particularly for those people who, unlike me, have smartphones), it's possible to know everything you need before making your purchase. But what did it used to be like? What did people do before there was the internet, before there was easy access to book review? Obviously newspaper book supplements were a lot more common, but was that enough for the masses? Was everything based on name recognition and bookseller recommendations? How would you know exactly which book to buy? Maybe my extensive research is my own bizarre little quirk...

The older among us can shed light on this matter. Though I obviously have no idea what it used to be like, I have to say that almost every time I buy a book without extensive research and based purely on my gut feeling, I enjoy the experience that much more. Even when the book itself is terrible, it feels fresher and cleaner. I'm much less aware of the plot and of the characters and I have far fewer expectations, making for an overall more carefree and enjoyable reading experience.

Maybe I should also get rid of the cell-phone. Life is so much calmer this way.

* In retrospect, I see that A Place of Greater Safety was recommended in a comment left on my Wolf Hall post. My memory is truly terrible...

Earthsea early thoughts

A few months ago, when the idea of reading Ursula K. Le Guin's Earthsea cycle seemed distant and unrealistic, I came across a colleague reading the books. Flipping through a few pages, I noted the fairytale-like writing - it felt like Le Guin was sitting next to me and telling me a story in the most simple and straight-forward fashion. At the time, I concluded that the Earthsea books must be the kind that were best read in childhood. Despite loving Le Guin's writing and wondrous imagination, I felt that I had missed my opportunity.

This past Thursday, an old, clearly read copy of the Earthsea Quartet (the first four books, through Tehanu) was given to me as a stepping stone into the wider world of fantasy. On Friday I began to read, and by Saturday afternoon, I had completed the first two books and was ready to start the third.

The weird and wonderful thing about this specific edition of the Earthsea books is that it's a compilation. Normally, I dislike reading sequels one after the other (to avoid the stories blending), but with the Earthsea books, the time periods jump so drastically between books that there was no problem. I finished A Wizard of Earthsea, ate lunch, and immediately began to read The Tombs of Atuan. A few hours later I was done... and itching to read more.

My original assessment stands - I probably would have loved the Earthsea books as a kid. And yet even now as a relatively young adult, I'm completely into the story, appreciative of the characters, and enthralled by Le Guin's method of presenting it. I'm eager to find out what happens, excited and entertained. Yes, there's something childish, or child-geared to the writing, but this doesn't detract from my adult-mind appreciation.  It's just good storytelling.

Spoiler alert expiration date

I recently saw that a few months back, Unshelved had a Friday comic which raised a rather interesting and relevant question. While reviewing a graphic novel version of The Odyssey, one of the characters calls out "spoiler alert". The response is amusing but also thought-provoking: "This story is thousands of years old. The statute of limitations for spoilers has expired."

It's a very interesting question... at what point (if any) does a story's main plot become part of the public domain? When does it become legitimate to tell the whole story, end included?

Original comic here

I have to wonder about the classics. Who doesn't know the end to Hamlet? Or Pride and Prejudice? There are modern books as well: are there very many people who haven't had aspects of Harry Potter spoiled for them? Many of the most popular stories inevitably get told and retold so often that it becomes almost impossible to avoid having it "spoiled". At the end of the day, though, we do try to avoid spoiling books. We keep our blurbs to a relative minimum (though we really need to instate the 10% rule) and we typically keep our reviews spoiler-free, or at least include a spoiler alert to ward off readers who might not want to know what happens.

There's a level, though, when the surprises in the story cease to be the driving force of the book. It's a bit like watching the movie after reading the book (or the opposite) - you already know the story, but you're experiencing it for the nuances and the way it's told. The plot - the actual occurrences - aren't the only reason for enjoying the story. By this point, you're expected to know what happens. You're reading the book (or watching the movie) for everything else - the writing, the character building, the clever one-liners, the complexity... whatever it may be.

I don't know at what point we hit that expiration date but I think it does exist in some form. It's not necessarily correlated to the age of the story, but perhaps to the popularity and the ubiquity. I'd never consider telling someone the development and ending of All Quiet on the Western Front, but no one really hides Lord of the Rings' ending - in fact, you're almost expected to know what happens (vaguely, at least). The more people discuss a good story, the more likely others are to be exposed and that exposure doesn't mean that you'll necessarily enjoy the story any less. Look at retellings, look at the classics.

I think there is a spoiler alert expiration date. For most books, at least (there are obviously a few books that hinge on certain surprises or lose some of their power once you know the end... All Quiet on the Western Front comes to mind again). It changes from book to book and it isn't set in stone, but I believe it's there. What do you guys think?

Out of your Plane you go!

Image from Wikipedia

Disclosure: I tried to read Flatland a while back but somehow stalled, despite quite liking it. I never really forgot about it but earlier this week I started reading it from the beginning and... whew. What a hilarious, interesting, confusing and bizarre little book. For the first time in a very long time, I found myself constantly highlighting paragraphs and taking notes (on Artemis, my Sony Reader). In part thanks to that extensive notetaking and the very nature of the book, this might be an almost-review scale ramble.  

***Profanity warning
***Also, some readers may consider the following (fake) summary of the book as a spoiler, so be warned.

To merely describe Flatland as a math book is only doing it a service. If someone had told me that Flatland had so much philosophy and satire, I'd have probably said, "Uhh, no thanks." But instead, I was pretty much given the following description of Flatland by someone who read the book for math class as a teen:

There's like, this line or something, and he's taken to the second dimension. At first he's like, "WHATTHEFUCKNOWAY" but then he realizes it's true, so he goes to tell his friends, "Hey, there's a second dimension!" and all the first dimension people are like "WHATTHEFUCKNOWAY". Then he tells the second dimension people, "Hey maybe there's a third dimension too!" and all the second dimension people are like, "WHATTHEFUCKNOWAY."

To say the least, this description had me sold. Then again, I won't pretend I wasn't disappointed by the lack of profanity (though "Fool! Madman! Irregular!" is pretty splendid in itself). But it turns out Flatland is a lot more than just a book about geometry (and the plot doesn't quite follow the above description, but that's irrelevant for all intents and purposes). It's a book bursting more with ideas, some mind-bending concepts, and the very concept of the mind-bending.

One of the first things I noticed was the notion of the "Irregular", essentially a significantly deformed perversion of the Flatland mentality. In a world where everyone is perfectly angular, where the number of sides you have indicate your social class, anyone "irregular" is:

from his birth scouted by his own parents, derided by his brothers and sisters, neglected by the domestics, scorned and suspected by society, and excluded from all posts of responsibility, trust and useful activity. His every movement is jealously watched by the police till he comes of age and presents himself for inspect; the he is either destroyed, if he is found to exceed the fixed margin of deviation, or else immured in a Government Office as a clerk of the seventh class[...]

This subclass intrigued me, particularly after it became obvious that Flatland has a strict and rigid hierarchy. Take, for instance, the position of women in Flatland. It's... not particularly good. Because women are straight lines, they are also sharp (and dangerous) points. Therefore, laws like this exist in Flatland:

Any Female, duly certified to be suffering from St. Vitus's Dance, fits, chronic cold accompanied by violent sneezing, or any disease necessitating involuntary motions, shall be instantly destroyed.

And then, sentiments like these exists:

[S]ince women are deficient in Reason but abundant in Emotion, they ought no longer to be considered as rational, nor receive any mental education. [...] My fear is that, with the best intentions, this policy has been carried so far as to react injuriously on the Male Sex.

So the problem isn't that women are no longer educated at all, but rather that it might harm men. At the end of the chapter, our narrator proposes reinstating education for women. But the reasoning is so that it may benefit men. So not so noble after all...

It's only in the second part of the book that the math takes over. In a lot of senses, it reminded me of A Wrinkle in Time, probably because it goes into trippy dimensional explanations. It made my head hurt, but it also made me think. Which is kind of the point. The end of the book is frustrating, in that I was frustrated (like our narrator) that the citizens of Flatland did not realize the truth about the dimensions. It's hard not to feel a sense of disappointment.

But this is only ever internal disappointment. Setting aside the questionable morals of the Flatland world, Flatland as a book is excellent. It's cool quasi sci-fi (or particularly mathematical fantasy), it's a fascinating social satire (at least, I hope it's satire... sometimes it's so seriously done it's hard to know...), and is full of interesting philosophical questions. It's an easy enough book to read (being very short and very plainly written), but it's bursting with complex ideas that are just as relevant and confusing today as they may have been in the 1880s.

Stumble and surprise

One of the things I've only recently learned to love about Gutenberg.org is the potential for surprise. If years ago when I first discovered the site I was amazed by the mere idea, and more recently, by the ability to download classics, I now relish the availability of less-known titles. In this internet age, when browsing Amazon "recommended" lists always shows the same titles, Gutenberg is an utterly refreshing shift in perspective.

Because here, there's no agenda. When I browse a list of most recent releases, it's literally the titles that were most recently released, not a selection of recently released titles that will benefit the site if pushed. This is how I find myself browsing truly different and weird titles, often by authors who were once a lot more significant than they are today.

Look, for instance, at Mór Jókai. A Hungarian author with a vast bibliography (and a very detailed Wikipedia entry, oddly enough), and yet I've never even seen reference to him. Or Christine de Pizan, one of the earliest feminist writers (and we're talking early - 13th century!). By coming across these books, I find myself learning much more than I might have expected just from simple browsing. There's that magic of newly discovered knowledge, of something different.

Though to be honest, it's that difference from last year's mentality that has me most interested. In a year and a half, I've gone from wanting to standards to wanting the random and the obscure. I realized that I'll always be able to find and download War and Peace if I feel like it, but I might never again come across Xavier Hommaire de Hell again. In the same way that I semi-stumbled upon A Honeymoon in Space, I want to stumble upon other books with obviously silly titles and equally embarrassing old covers.

You know what it is? I want to relive some of that childhood joy of just finding a book and not knowing what it's about or where it came from. I've kind of missed that.

Please like the BPL... or something

Can someone explain this one to me? I recently got my I-have-no-idea-how-often-it-comes eNewsletter from the Boston Public Library (BPL) and the following paragraph caught my eye:

Thank you to all who helped the Boston Public Library reach 5,000 likes on Facebook last week. Now, it's time to set our sights on 6,000 and beyond. Like the Boston Public Library's Facebook page and enjoy updates on library events, behind-the-scenes photos, and the opportunity to interact with other library fans.

Huh?

What in the world does the BPL need Facebook likes for? (I can justify the reasons for the BPL having a Facebook page in the first place) I'm not going to get into the general question of the purpose of Facebook likes, but I really want to understand what possible benefit it could have for a public library. People aren't going to become fans of the library and then buy more of its stuff. Likes have, until now, been used as a sort of gauge for the popularity of certain artists, organizations, politicians, etc. The BPL is none of these things. Please explain.

I can understand that maybe the BPL want to increase library attendance and solicit donations, but this feels like the completely wrong approach. Asking people to "like" their Facebook page just makes them seem childish and silly. Also, kind of lame. 5,000 likes... cause for excitement? Even Henrik Ibsen has more Facebook likes than that!

It ended, but it will never end

I've been reading too many blog posts and articles recently about Harry Potter. And seeing the giant posters everywhere. "It all ends" - this is the claim the final movie posters are trying to sell, this is Rowling's own point, this is the feeling going 'round Harry Potter fans' minds. Except mine.

Because guys, Harry Potter ended in 2007.

Back when the movies first started coming out, it felt almost premature. I remember wondering how they could be making movies of a series that wasn't even complete yet (the same feeling I get, by the way, when thinking about A Song of Ice and Fire). It felt rushed, it felt passionate, it felt... exciting. There was an excitement because I wanted to see how it lived up to my expectations. I wanted to see the actors and the sets and the exciting scenes (as well as the cool stuff, like the characters figuring things out for themselves).

But they were separate. Though the movies became a thing I cared about, I never let them take over my reading experience. I continued to imagine the characters as I had before, never for a moment thinking of them as the actors. These were two worlds I cared about that were tied together at their core, but split so clearly in my head.

"It's the end of the franchise," people tell me, but I'm unconvinced. I recently read the first few pages of Harry Potter to my young cousin and it looks as though I might even convince him to read further. Though he has grown up in a world that has always had Harry Potter - though he is clearly not of my own generation, that which was completely enchanted and won over by the whole phenomenon - he wants to read the books because they tell a good story. That will never end.

The 10% Rule

I'm really sick of this.

You know when you're reading the back cover of a book, and it references something? And you're like, "Oh, that must be something pretty basic and simple! I mean, it's not like the back cover would have spoilers, right?" So it turns out that back cover blurbs actually have spoilers. Often.

Recently, I've found myself reading books that go into immense detail in the back cover blurbs. Now, I don't have any problems with the concept of a blurb. I don't think it's inherently bad to have a short, summarizing introduction. But giving away plot points or revealing character traits that aren't introduced in the book until very late...? Here I must draw the line.

A few weeks ago, I finished reading a novel that hammered home this problem. In the overly descriptive back cover blurb, it's casually mentioned that the main character lies about her name. This fact, it turns out, is only revealed on page 89. Even in a 500 paged book, that's pretty flipping late. Annoyed by this revelation, I wondered what could be done to avoid this in the future. Then it hit me: the 10% Rule.

Basically, the 10% Rule would state that the back cover blurb cannot include any reference to plot points, characters, ideas or concepts not mentioned in the first tenth of the novel. This would mean that a novella could have only a simple background description, while an epic fantasy novel could probably squeeze in a lot of information. We're so concerned about spoilers all the time but ultimately these blurbs can do more harm than a somewhat spoilery review. The reader spends so much time expecting events and characters and revelations, often times realizing that their effect is significantly diminished by the prior knowledge.

So readers, writers, publishers... let us join together to make our reading world a much more enjoyable and fulfilling place. Let us implement the 10% Rule and enjoy the surprises as they hit us. Because for heaven's sake: if the book spoils itself, what's the point?

Translations, cultural ubiquity and Anglo-American superiority - a rant

Unfortunately, I can't find a translation of the interview into English, but a few weekends ago I read a very interesting (and very frustrating) article in the Ha'aretz weekend supplement. Not, I must stress, my typical source for book-related news. The interview is between Israeli author Nir Baram and The Paris Review editor Lorin Stein. At first, the interview was curious and somewhat pretentious - Ha'aretz is known for its attempts at raising its nose high - but then I hit the following (unedited) question and answer (my translation from Hebrew):

BARAM: This is obviously not the fault of authors, but it's interesting to note that in the Anglo-American world, very few books get translated. The differences between the number of translations in the U.S. and countries like Germany, France and others are very large. There's even a publisher called "3%", in defiance of the U.S. translations policy. As a French translator and as the editor of The Paris Review, a literary magazine that has always sought to present authors and literary works from across the globe, how do you explain this phenomenon? Is the impression that because of the vast range of cultures included within the Anglo-American literary field, they cover experiences from all over the world and effectively present all potential voices?

STEIN: I don't think it's possible to truly discuss a "policy" regarding literary translations. If put crudely, one can say that Dutch publishers translate American literature because they like it and it sells well. Why do they like it? Why does it sell well? First of all, Dutch editors and reviewers grew up in a culture heavily influenced by American products and they feel it's within their ability to review and assess our books. And it's true that many of them also studied English in school (because English is still more useful internationally than Dutch). Furthermore, the Dutch are serious readers, but they live in a small country and want more serious literature in addition to their own. Finally, if we return to your earlier question: it's possible that Dutch readers feel, rightfully so or not, that there's something more "universal" to American literature, that to read about Americans is, to a certain extent, like reading about the greater world. 150 years ago, American readers felt this way about English and French literature.

Now let's flip the equation. American publishers didn't grow up in a setting with Dutch films, television, Barbie dolls, etc. They've never studied Dutch in school. American reviewers are hesitant to write about literature they barely know. And let's admit it: the problems likely to be discussed in a contemporary, ambitious Dutch novel - the tension between Christians and Muslims, for example - aren't necessarily interesting even for the more serious San Francisco reader. In my mind, this isn't a sign that Americans lack curiosity or are intellectually lazy as compared to others, but rather that we and the Dutch are live in the same metaphor: the U.S. is the cosmopolis.

Let's begin with a nod and shake of my head at Baram. I appreciate his question incredibly, but I also have to gently point out that the publishers aren't called "3%"... that's just the name of their blog. But hey - thanks for pointing it out, especially to Israeli readers who probably had no idea that publishers like that even existed. Kudos!

Now I begin to take issue with Stein's remarks. Throughout the interview, I was a little put-off by Stein's pretentious and assured attitude, but it made sense - the guy is editor of a very respected literary magazine, he's been editor to some big names, and he has access to some of the most impressive literary-minded folks in the U.S. It wasn't until the above exchange that I truly got annoyed, first by the stupid use of the Netherlands as an example in an Israeli newspaper (I mean, seriously, couldn't you think of your audience?) and later, by the excuse that Americans don't actually need to read translations, because it can all be found in the Great United States.

I think I'm most angered by the flippant comment that even the most serious of American readers won't be interested in issues from around the world, as long as they aren't "relevant" to them. I'm honestly trying to figure out what Stein was trying to say here, after attempting to paint a picture that it isn't that American readers are lazy or uninterested. Um, isn't that exactly what you're saying? Or our cultural non-exposure... is that also so easily forgivable and ignored?

It's Stein's attitude that's so frustrating. He's trying to avoid answering the question with the real answer: publishing is an industry, economics works according to supply and demand, no demand for translations means no supply... end of story. In the next question, Baram coyly raises the Bolaño factor, pointing out the immense popularity that this modernist foreigner has garnered. The conversation thus shifted to discussing specific authors and moved away from the translations question, leaving it rather unanswered. Why is Stein made so uncomfortable saying outright that publishers don't want to publish books they think people won't want to read? That's the impression I get from his long Netherlands-U.S. analogy. Why beat around your own stupid bush?

At the end of the day, I just disagree with Stein. I don't think that serious readers of literature won't identify with a book that takes place in a different culture for the simple reason that human nature is universal... and that's one of the main reasons we read. Also, we read sci-fi and classics and fairy tales and historical fiction... why would we have trouble relating to different worlds? Meanwhile, I think the ubiquity of Anglo-American culture around the world is a curious and even troubling phenomenon, one that shouldn't be the basis for assuming that other cultures are essentially inferior (again the impression I got from Stein's comments).

It's also kind of funny when put into context. Stein is touting this American "we don't need your foreign lit'rature" stuff in an Israeli newspaper. The Israeli literary market is flooded with Anglo-American titles, often comprised of seriously hyped books that don't necessarily deserve the immortality of translation. You can pretty much count on a popular U.S. book coming out in Israel within a few months of its U.S. publication, whether it's high quality or not. Israeli authors, meanwhile, struggle and wait years to get their books to English (which is almost considered the highest honor a foreign author can get, if you listen to some people...). Nir Baram himself, for instance, has not been introduced to the American market, but authors with much less literary capital than he that hail from the U.S. of A. have made it to Israel...

I won't pretend to be an expert in the field of literary translations. As my family and friends know, I'm just an overly obsessive amateur who follows Three Percent almost religiously. I've grown to understand more about translations in general over the past few years in part thanks to my job as a translator (though, granted, not a literary translator by any means...) and though I've made it a point to educate myself on the matter, I can't say I necessarily know what I'm talking about. But I know what pisses me off. I know what things sound like they're being spoken of without thought and what things sound like they're being spoken of without care. Stein's comments come off as aloof and full of Anglo-American superiority. Granted, this is likely a translated interview (unless Stein speaks Hebrew)... who knows what he said in the original?

I'm fascinated to know what others think of the topic and Stein's comments. Am I misunderstanding Stein? Is he just telling the truth as he sees it? What do you think?

Update: I found the official Ha'aretz English version of the interview but it's a bit messy and is somewhat edited (for instance, it doesn't include the reference to Three Percent but includes a bit about Stendhal and Hawthorne that was excluded from the Hebrew version).

HBW vs. BEA, or, Am I missing something?

Every year around the end of May, the book blogging world is abuzz with news about BEA: bloggers reporting that they're attending, bloggers reporting that they aren't, literary magazines condemning or praising the events, librarians excited, booksellers eager, publishers nervous... everyone is talking about this one single event: Book Expo America.

But for me, the end of May symbolizes the start of June, and thus the approaching Hebrew Book Week (HBW). Suddenly I realize that the publishers are getting ready. Suddenly I realize that it's been a while since I last purchased a book. Suddenly it's time to do my homework and figure out what I'm going to buy this year.

For the past three years, it's been difficult not to compare the two book-related events in my mind. Though I've never attended BEA, I've been able to build a pretty good image of what it must look like, based in part on blog posts and summaries. Meanwhile, I attend HBW with the enthusiasm and obsessiveness only a rare few can match. The comparison is difficult to make - the book cultures in Israel and the U.S. are completely different - but also somewhat necessary. Here is the difference. Here is the true literary world.

HBW is for everyone. BEA isn't. It doesn't matter if almost anyone who really wants to go and can afford it can find a way in. It's exclusive. It's a localized, exclusive event for a very specific group of people. HBW is wonderful in its diversity - children, teens, adults, the elderly, the religious, the secular, the foreigners, the techies, the nerds, the intellectuals, the bored... There is no clear definition of an HBW attendee because it's just an Israeli. While the prospect of attending BEA is mildly appealing (if only for the free books), the impression I get of the environment and the vibe is of a lot of industry insiders. Which isn't a bad thing. It's just not for me. HBW is.

I'm not trying to take away from the BEA experience by saying this, but the diversity thing has always been my problem with it. It's a publisher event in one location for one group of people. Part of the experience demands of the reader to a) live nearby or spend money to get into town, b) pay for registering, and c) be part of the culture BEA wants to maintain (one that supports publishers through indirect advertising). Not all of this is bad, but it's the complete opposite of HBW. Instead of bringing books to everyone, BEA wants everyone who helps publishers to come to them. Something about that rubs me the wrong way.

I've never been to BEA, but a lot of you have. Obviously there may be many things I'm missing. My impressions from HBW have always been positive, of this grand event that does something completely normal (bookselling), but in a way that not only profits all the publishers (small and large alike), but also consumers. It's an experience anyone and everyone can take part in (and close to half of the country does, so what does that say?) and it really is just fun. In my mind, HBW wins every year hands down but who knows? Maybe I'm missing something.

June 25th: You are now leaving HBW... see you next year!

Five conversations with booksellers at HBW, part 3

Parts 1 and 2.

But what of the smaller publishers? Was I only talking to the publishers who felt safe at Hebrew Book Week, those who knew they'd sell well no matter what? Did I forget those smaller booths, tucked away between the giants?

Nope. I didn't forget them.

Babel

Babel books

Babel is one of those publishers I only recently really discovered, once I noticed that they were Wolf Hall's publisher in Israel. I knew of them beforehand (my high school writing teacher published a poetry collection with them), but I'd never really paid attention. Suddenly, I became interested. Then I read Michel Houellebecq's Le Carte et le Territoire (not yet translated into English, but it's awesome). Suddenly I realized that maybe I should be paying them a little more mind.

It's somewhat cheap to include the Babel bookseller, because the conversation we had was exclusive. And pretentious. I pointed towards the books I'd liked, discussed Houellebecq's literary status, raved about Wolf Hall, dismissed The Patience Stone (one of those books I really disliked) and asked for advice regarding a few others. After a few moments, a middle-aged woman standing at the booth beside me turned and asked, "Excuse me, but did I hear you say earlier that you liked Wolf Hall?"

"Best book I've read in the last year, hands down," I told her. Together, the bookseller and I began to tell the woman about the brilliant storytelling, the wonderful characterization, the clever writing... As I turned to leave, the bookseller gave me a funny sort of look. "You're doing a lot of my job, you know?"

Graph
The kids at the Graph booth seemed genuinely pleased to see me. The younger, who was maybe ten or eleven, immediately said hello and stared up at me. The older, who was in his late teens (my guess would place him at sixteen or seventeen) likewise followed my movements closely. Despite publishing the translations of Rick Riordan's books, Graph is still relatively small, best known for its focus on sci-fi and fantasy.

Percy Jackson, on sale at Graph

I won't pretend that we had the most mind-blowing or witty conversation. It was mostly about the books on display, a few words about the popularity of Rick Riordan with kids and about the book I ultimately bought. What's worth noting is the use of kids as booksellers, a fairly common phenomenon at HBW. The younger was mostly just grinning at potential customers, while the older was a genuine lover of books. He opened up to talking quickly and easier, and this being a smaller publisher, had less of an agenda. We talked about sci-fi's status in Israel's book culture (completely sidelined) and about some of the authors Graph publish. A recent survey found that only 5% of HBW attendees are aged 14-17, implying, perhaps, that Israeli kids and teens don't read. It's always nice to see evidence to the contrary.

Even Hoshen
"I remember you from last year," the bookseller at Even Hoshen admitted. She handed me my purchase (adding several bookmarks and stickers with the awesome motto "I'm a bibliophile and I even know what that means" once she noted my enthusiasm for them). "Do you work for the publishers?" I asked her. "I'm the selector," she explained. "I pick which books we publish."

The whole booth

If there's one Israeli publisher I always want to tip my hat to, it's Even Hoshen. Literally one of the smallest booths in HBW, this small publisher sticks to its point: books for bibliophiles. Lovely editions, dedication and care make them different from most publishers, who seek blockbuster, bestselling titles. Furthermore, their focus on poetry make them, again, somewhat less standard.

"So what's it like?" I asked. "You guys are so small... isn't it hard?" The selector nodded. "Yeah. Well, Tsomet Sfarim [Book Juncture] is owned by [two of the biggest publishing companies in Israel], Steimatzky [the largest bookstore chain in Israel] works with the other major publishers. They push sales for those publishers. It's not that they don't sell us, but they're a lot more likely to move us to the back room and we're never part of the sales and the deals." She shrugged and smiled. "But it's okay, we make do."

Five conversations with booksellers at HBW, part 2

For part 1, see here.

Am Oved
Years ago, at a bookstore, my father saw me eying an Am Oved (Working People) novel. "Take it," he told me. "It's Am Oved. It's bound to be good."

Red, black and yellow

On Am Oved's website, I once saw the description that this publishers strives to be like the Penguin of the Hebrew world - Am Oved titles have a distinct (often red) symbol on their spine, often in a prominent and obvious location on the front cover as well. One of Israel's largest publishers, well known for its quality, I was looking forward to hitting the stacks.

Once I grabbed the first choice (Dubravka Ugrešić's The Museum of Unconditional Surrender), I started scavenging for further books - the deal being 2 for 1 (plus an additional gift book, it turned out). The bookseller noticed my search and came over to help me. "What kind of book are you looking for?" he asked politely.

The new reds

"Something different. Something weird." He began to toss out recommendations, showing me books translated from various languages - Spanish, Chinese*, Polish, Greek... As I began to flip through them, a somewhat older woman came to stand next to the bookseller

"That one's excellent," she told me, pointing at one of the books. Casually, we struck up a conversation, discussing some of the books in that particular booth (mostly foreign literature, with very little translated from English). She was quick to realize that I wasn't looking for anything translated from English (obviously preferring the originals) and seemed eager to help in my search for the "weird" and "different" books. Turns out she's the foreign literature selector** for the publishers. Once I told her that translations pretty much fascinate the heck out of me, she said, rather sincerely, "Well... it doesn't pay very well..."

The two Bolaños

After a few more minutes of talking, she pointed at the original bookseller I'd spoken to. "This guy here, he's a translator. He'd recommend Bolaño, obviously--" The bookseller began to grin emphatically and tapped the two Bolaños in front of him. "I've actually read him," I admitted. "Well, have you read By Night in Chile?" he asked. I nodded. "I've read both." His eyes widened. "What?! Seriously? You're my hero!"

When I think of Am Oved's booths, I'm not thinking of the six books I purchased (while only paying for two and a half). I'm thinking of its staff and the wonderful book dialogue they encourage and engage in. Once again, the literary experience trumps the actual books acquired.

* Chinese is very rarely translated into Hebrew. Until recently, all translations of Chinese novels passed through English first, making them doubly translated. Even today, when you have a few translators out there, many Chinese books are translated to Hebrew through English. So are Icelandic books, as well as a few other languages...
** Is this the official English publishing phrase? Does this job fall under "editor" in the Anglo publishing world?

Five conversations with booksellers at HBW, part 1

If on Thursday I commented that Hebrew Book Week (HBW) is an event that's enjoyable even without purchasing books (enjoyable for the "literary experience"), my experience from last night stands on another end of the spectrum. For what now rests on my desk if not twelve books that I'm quite excited about? And a further eight or so that are officially "shared" and so will come to me after passing through yesterday's partner in book-purchasing crime?

It'll sound weird, but the fact is that buying books at HBW is actually completely in line with everything I've already said about the events. It's all about the experience. At every booth - whether this was a major publisher or one of the smallest - I struck up a conversation with the bookseller. Some were more forthcoming than others, yes, but at the end of the day, even the booksellers at the big publishers are readers. Once steered past the predictable titles, they offered some bizarre and awesome things.

Kineret, Zmora-Bitan
One of Israel's most prominent publishers (and part owners of its second largest bookstore chain, Tzomet Sfarim), it's not hard to find Kineret's representation at HBW. It's right there are the entrance, bold, bright and really big. So it was actually rather surprising to find myself entering a conversation with one of the booksellers - the big publishers typically just try to shove the new bestsellers down your throat and that's it.

I'd already determined that I was going to buy Sofi Oksanen's Purge (this was the deal-breaker review). As I scavenged around for the remaining books (3 for 100₪), one of the booksellers looked at me curiously. "Did you ask for Purge?" he asked. "Yeah," I responded. "I know it's supposed to be a difficult read, but I'm really curious..." I continued with my usual comment. He nodded. "Oh, it's brilliant. Really difficult, but brilliant. I have something to show you, though. If you think it's weird, then this book isn't for you." He pulled out his cell-phone and began to flip through his photos emphatically. Finally he showed me a photo of the author. "This is what she looks like."

I laughed. "If anything, that makes me want to read the book even more." The bookseller nodded, somewhat relieved, and turned to assist another reader. I meanwhile waited for my mother to finish picking her books. The bookseller suddenly reached over to the neighboring booth (still within the same publisher) and told the man next to me in a low voice, "Look, on the down-low, here's a brilliant book, not many people know about it, it wasn't a bestseller or anything, but it's really great." Nodding next to them I added, "Yeah, it's really interesting and I still think of it sometimes, a year and a half after reading it..." Excited, the bookseller turned back towards me. "Really? So, listen..." He looked around furtively. "This author has a great book sold over at another publisher. You have to read it." "So is that the secret?" I asked.

The bookseller grinned and nodded. "Yeah. But it's a really good book, who cares who's selling it?"

On not buying anything today at the wonderful HBW

"I'm a bibliophile / and I also know what that means" - Even Hoshen

Hebrew Book Week or HBW (Hebrew site) is... awesome. Once a year, for a week and a half, my book-loving self finally gets to drag the others around me into the insanity of book-buying. There's nothing quite like it. A normally literate but unenthusiastic country turns into a gushing bibliophile within a few hours. Advertisements for the two leading bookstore chains line the bus stops. Signs point to the nearest fairground. Almost everyone in the street carries a plastic bag from either the bookstores or the publishers.

Instead of buying books, I collected catalogs

I could ramble about the many practical and beautiful aspects to HBW (and I will), but I want to focus on today's visit and that one, glorious fact: I did not purchase a single book.

This is, of course, a bizarre and unheard of notion. What's the point, one might ask, of a week and a half of book fairs and sales (3 for the price of 2! Buy 1 get 2 free! Buy 2 get 2 free! All books half price!*) if I didn't buy anything now?

I recently read an article about HBW that asked how relevant it is now that the bookstores offer year-round sales and deals (in response to a statistic that showed that only** 44% of Israelis plan to attend the events). My answer is simple: you don't go to HBW just to get cheap books. You go for the experience. You go for the crick in your neck from bending down to stare at so many books. You go to chat up the teens and adults who try to push you the popular bestsellers but after a few moments break down and recommend the really good books. You go to see authors signing books one minute and patiently listening to their kids' excited gush about a book they just discovered the next. You go for the joy of finding like-minded folk - people who love books, love literature and love this culture of reading we're working so hard to maintain.

"Reserved for HBW 2011" ad as mentioned here

Only after all these do you actually go to buy books. The books are the cookies on top of the ice-cream sundae. And boy, do I want those cookies.

Today I walked around with a small notepad. Because I went with a friend, I didn't have quite as many opportunities to talk to authors and the booksellers*** but I managed to scribble down a long and thorough list of books that interest me. Do they all fall in line with the deals? Probably not. But I'll buy more books than I really want and at the end of the day, I'll probably find some gems hidden in the stacks of bestselling thrillers, religious texts and wonderfully nostalgic kids books.

Really heavy, but the back ache was worth it...

By not buying anything today, all I had "going for me" was the experience. And you know what? It was worth it. Even though I didn't get that author signature I was hoping for, even though I didn't make it to all the publisher booths (my friend isn't quite as obsessive as me and after a long day, grew rather tired), even though I didn't get into any in-depth conversations with booksellers, even though I didn't buy anything... there's no doubt about it. HBW isn't about the sales. It's about the literary experience. Isn't that just wonderful?


* Real sales
** "Only" being, of course, a relative term. I'm sure if 44% of Americans attended such events, it would be considered monumental. Israel prides itself in HBW's influence and wide-spread appeal - 44% attendance is a somewhat embarrassing decrease, apparently.
*** I don't like using the term "bookseller" because the association is of a seller in a bookstore, but that's the most accurate description of these guys. They're sellers... of books.

The start of a good week (and a half)

Yesterday marked the launch of one of my favorite yearly events - Hebrew Book Week. The morning opened with the now-familiar writers/poet takeover of Ha'aretz's news pages and continued onto... well, nothing. I didn't attend any events yesterday. But you know what one of the greatest things about Hebrew Book Week is? It lasts a week and a half.

So I turn to my shelves (reminded of a great ad I saw that showed packed bookshelves and a small gap, with a sign that read "Reserved for Hebrew Book Week!"), thinking about these past months. I've decreased my book-buying incredibly, only purchasing two books in eight months. Meanwhile, I've knocked several titles off my guilt list, making my shelves look a lot less threatening.

All that is going down the drain this week. And I'm so very excited.