Bonus

Score, just realized that number 529 is Catcher in the Rye, and that I have already read that.

Movin' on up the list without any work or effort.

4/2/2012 Update
Over the weekend I realized that I had already read #427. Cat's Cradle before. Maybe within the past year? And yet even looking at it, I hadn't remembered this fact until I started reading it.
What does that mean about the impact of Vonnegut to my mind?

My laziness has gotten the best of me

...but at least I'm still reading. And hey hey, news, my name is acknowledged in a published book (The Essential New Art Examiner) as recently as last December!

Two more books to cross off the list since I've been AFK...numbers 90, Veronika Decides to Die by Paulo Coelho and 116, The Reader by Bernhard Schlink are done and done.

I'm feeling a bit dreary as of late and am finding solace in having page-bound friends who feel the same. Anyway, call me emo, I always prefer to read of sadness than anything too bright.

The two books were similar, I think, though I would have to favor The Reader a little more heavily. I had seen the film before, and loved it (it only strengthened my lesbian love for Kate Winslet), and was hoping the same for the book which gave birth to it. I wasn't disappointed...and in that, I have to applaud the movie for capturing the poignant echo that resounds in one after closing the book, or shutting off the screen. I am oddly drawn to the Holocaust, and this book expresses a quiet, simplistic beauty in a haunting way without being at all vulgar. The characters too, because mysterious, are stronger and more realistic than most. Life is not black and white, and this is a masterful display of those complexities. I simply love this story.

In comparison, I think that Veronika was an elegant concept, and was executed fairly well, though not as pitch-perfectly as the former. There were definitely some moments that I felt grew tiresome, but overall I do think that I could relate to the characters and appreciated the humanity which pulled all pieces together. Love is a tricky subject to tackle, and though I think that Coelho did stumble into a few potholes of overly dreamy/"gorgeous" imagery and tones, I wasn't turned off. It felt more that I was being carried through this story along with Veronika, rather than being completely engaged in it - which isn't bad in itself, it's just another way of experience.
I do agree with Veronika pre-suicide attempt though, and feel similar. I am in my prime, and perhaps it can technically only get worse from here. Aging is frightening...but who knows what the future brings? It's at least worth waiting and finding out (what else is there to do, anyway?).

I bought two more books this past weekend ripe and ready to be read: #641. Miss Lonelyhearts by Nathanael West and #629. The House in Paris by Elizabeth Bowen.

On Dec. 23rd Carl Sagan will come back from the dead via satellite messages.

I hope.

My initial reaction to Contact was of disappointment. Sagan's writing style seemed unpolished, unprofessional, and quite frankly, reminded me of my own writing (much to my dismay). Ellie Arroway came off as (and I am convinced still is) Sagan's ideal...and the way that he was poring over her in the first chapters to me was unpleasant. But as the story broke away from Ellie and refocused onto the actual "contact", I have to say I more than warmed up to it.

To me, Sagan's intellect is displayed not in the scientific content in this novel as much as in his understanding of cultural and human patterns and thinking. The reactions of the public to the idea of extraterrestrial life were (I think) beautifully thought through, believable in a way that reflects a deep understanding of our world. His undertaking of what we might find in the event of finding a higher being too, was mature and thrilling, and I'm glad that he characterized it in a quiet way.

I must say Carl Sagan is no novelist - though his writing style did seemingly improve as he worked through the novel, it was still riddled with specks that needed improvement. Sometimes one sentence too far, it seemed like he struggled against using elegant and beautiful words against over-explaining. This is most obvious at the closing of the novel - he shouldn't have added the italicized prologue...one can never say what we will find, and it would have been a better route to leave that mystery open, and to confess to the fact that even he cannot provide the answers to that question. Sagan was a master of many things, but not of suspense, it seems. It's okay considering who he was - he wanted to understand as much as possible, and wanted to share those discoveries.

As an added note, I happened to be provided with the possibility of watching the movie on the day after I finished reading the book. All of the intricacies of the original novel had been stripped away in the film production, and it had been altered into the usual drama of a blockbuster film. I did not finish watching the movie in its entirety, but I though, how sad to rework something so much to turn something rich into something so bald and lifeless.

Tis the season for face shooting murders

I was a little weary about reading a true-life suspense/thriller (can I classify it as such?) genre, but In Cold Blood was not what I was initially imagining. What I was thinking it would be, was something along the lines of Dateline with stock photo-esque imagery meant to illustrate generic small town settings, with a syrupy voiceover. Instead, from the very first sentence, Capote had me respecting the difference. Though the story is non-fiction, it read like any well-written novel. The author took care to understand every character so that the reader was able to trust the facts as accurately depicted. There is emotional depth, and no biased finger-pointing in any direction but to state the facts as they were given.
I thought the first few chapters before the murders were artful. Chapters weaved in and out, trading perspectives between the killers' and the victims', which was a very successful way to keep the reader interested and attached. It is also interesting to me how much I liked the Clutters...their clearly religious (and fairly virginal), Southern ideals would most certainly ordinarily have bothered me, but I felt nothing of the sort. I do admit that perhaps Capote went too far into idealizing the members of this family, but perhaps it's true that this is the way they were perceived by the community.
I'm very attracted to the way Capote writes, and am interested in reading more of his books. I can see very beautiful stories coming in the context of lighter subject matter, but for him to have executed a story of murder in such a gentile way lends a favorable eye to his talents.

As for the next book, I've finally gotten a hold of Contact and I'm very excited. While meeting a friend after work, I stopped by the Barnes & Noble which, for some reason was filled with teenagers at 8.30pm. Is that the cool thing to do these days? There could be much worse things, I suppose. Anyway with the loss of Borders it seems as though I'm going to (regretfully) have to become a B&N fanboy.

In other news, over this Halloween weekend I have caught a terrible cold/flu(?). I'm pretty sure it's from touching things on the el, which is a very disgusting thought that I try not to dwell on. My throat is terribly angry with me, and I feel like dying. It has deprived me of sleep and this morning on my ride to work I almost fell asleep on 94 a number of times. Misery. This may in fact be the death of me if this persists.

50/1001!!

It's cause for a little celebration! I have reached 50 books read from the list, boosting my confidence a smidgen to the possibility of actually completing all of the books at some point in my lifetime.

The fiftieth book was The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera. The novel fit in with the usual style in the interest of the person whom I received it (one such previous book received is most notably, Saturday) -- minimal plot pervaded by a stillness short of despair. Loneliness blanketed every aspect of Kundera's characters and my reaction was a pitied distaste at their incapabilities of being happy. It isn't that I needed them to be in fanciful relationships, I appreciate that there was turmoil in even the truest of "love", but I think mainly I just couldn't agree with most of the ways that the characters reasoned. Tereza, especially, did not appeal to me as I was incredibly turned off by her weakness. In Sabina I found the most connection and her hold on Franz as an idealic ghost resounded in me of its purity and beauty.
It was striking to me that the most emotional part of the story was represented by Tereza's love for a dog. I'm not quite sure how I feel about this...at first I was displeased by it because it seemed to me ill-fitting and reaching out to some sort of niche category of melodramatic (though powerful) stories about man's love for animals, but now I find value in the dog's role. He is, after all, the only character without any ugliness whatsoever. That is true to life.

For my next read, I was dead-set on reading Carl Sagan's "Contact", but having gone to both a used and new book store today (which, as a sidenote, reaffirmed my infinite love for bookstores which have the magical power to inflate me with the warmest of happiness) and was unable to find it, I think I am going to have to order it online. I didn't want to waste valuable reading time while I wait, however, so I bought Truman Capote's In Cold Blood. I see at least a few nights of being scared alone in my apartment coming on.

#445

While I am still reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being, I was simultaneously enjoyingFranny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger over the past few days via internet. I chose it for its brevity, which I assumed would be more readily available for online viewing (especially since I am technologically inept and have a hard time finding anything for free. sad face).

I had been interested in the book for about a year because a favorite professor of mine had recommended it, but could not bring myself to buy it due to its thinness in comparison to many of th

e other books on the list. Therefore I am happy to have been able to find it online, especially as I did enjoy it and am glad to have been afforded a free fulfillment of entertainment in my time of dire need (I am at the poorest I have ever been in my entire life. The times are not lending themselves very well to the youth in terms of being able to claim these years as the best of our lives).

I think penning a boy named Zachary as Zooey to be quite charming and fitting of his East-Coastian academically high-brow nature. I did, however, have an erroneous pre-conception that the stories were about two girls, and therefore had to keep reminding myself that Zooey was the brother.

"Franny"-the first story-reminded me of Hemingway's Hills Like White Elephants in its style and tone, which I have a certain fondness for that I have no idea wherefore (perhaps for its ability to unsettle me? Anyway, I do love me a short story without a visible plot. I used to yearn to write in such a way as that story while I had short story classes in college, in the face of a teacher who adamantly preached otherwise). This first story actually had me missing university (mind you, not college, as I attended art school and not a real university), but in the sort of way that I was missing experiences that I never actually had. Strange, really, because I was feeling like I actually did have those memories. I do find it interesting though how vividly the story leaves an impression of pregnancy. I read a few criticisms of the work after I was through and they all shared that feeling with me, which I find queer.

I like both parts, but emotionally, "Zooey" was a bit more captivating. Stronger dialogue and deeper revelations. I think Salinger successfully illustrates familial love and personal uncertainties here, in the way of young people. Franny goes from being a sort of annoyingly juvenile young person, to a snotty well-to-do student, to a relatable young person contemplating her values. I encourage this read wholeheartedly.

"It's pleasant sometimes to detain a holiday midnight for a while,"

said Woland.

I've finished The Master and Margarita (translation by Mirra Ginsburg), which proved itself to be one of the leisurely activities that I looked forward to during my downtime, as I have gotten a bit busier than I had been. Bulgakov's Satan is a rather charming and cultivated gentleman, who is more readable as human than any others of his sort I've ever come across. The reader becomes unassumingly attached to the evil group, and it is a wonder that though Woland and his crew's inner feelings are never mentioned, they carry more depth than any of the other sympathetic characters (though another part of it may be that I am terrible with names and had a hard time connecting with, let alone keeping straight the many long Russian names that were introduced).

I have to share, as it won my heart over ultimately, my favorite excerpt of the book;
"The tom, covered with dust and standing on his hind legs, was in the meantime bowing to Margarita. Now he had a white evening bow tie around his neck; a ladies' mother-of-pearl opera glass dangled from a ribbon on his chest. Besides, his whiskers were gilded
"What's this now?" cried Woland. "Why did you gild your whiskers? And why the devil do you need a tie if you have no trousers?"
"A cat isn't supposed to wear trousers, Messire," the tom answered with great dignity. "You will tell me to put on boots next!...But have you ever seen anyone at a ball without a tie? I don't intend to make myself a laughing stock and risk being kicked out!..."

A cat with gilded whiskers, imagine. How darling. And yes, I am a child for being amused so by that.

In short, the novel lives in the realm of the fantastic. I cannot say that I got all that I should have from it based on my frequent confusion, which renders this reading somewhat useless. I definitely need to go back and read it again in between some other readings to grasp its full merit, and so I will only really comment on its blatant surrealism, and my appreciation for its success in depicting an antagonist as both protagonist in the minds of the reader, as well as one that is emotionally favored.

It is also necessary for me to acknowledge my despair at the closing of Borders. Oh it is like my childhood love dissipating. Heartbreak. If it means a step toward the death of paper books it is a very sad thing indeed.

Next on the agenda, #256. The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera. Another book that was charitably given to me.