Roadside Picnic by Arkady and Boris Strugatsky
Translated by Olena Bormashenko
193 pages
Published 1972; English translation published 2012
Read from March 28 to March 31
Rating: ★★★★ out of 5
I've
really slacked off my reading pace the last couple weeks, haven't I?
This book was a good, brisk read, and brief, yet it still took me four
days. Unconscionable.
Anyway, this book has seemingly been
popping up everywhere lately... or at least several times on io9. I
never expected my library to actually have a copy, so when I saw it on
the shelf, I just had to grab it. Comparisons to Chernobyl are
unavoidable, even though the original publication anticipated that
disaster by fourteen years. The early descriptions of the Zone were
eerie in that light, reminding me of footage from the robot cameras sent
into the Sarcophagus. I wonder how much of that atmosphere was in the
original text, and how much was massaged in through translation.
Other
than that, I think I failed to see what was so magnificent about this
book to justify such a brouhaha. It's a solid sci-fi book, quite
enjoyable and vivid, with occasional absolutely chilling moments, but
nothing earthshaking. Maybe I'm just a dull critic. Or maybe Red's climactic rant against vultures and how good people can't win against corruption seemed more daring and pointed when it was written, in Soviet Russia, during the Cold Frickin' War. Context can't be ignored.
Sunday, March 31, 2013
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
2013 read #42: Firebird by R. Garcia y Robertson.
Firebird by R. Garcia y Robertson
320 pages
Published 2006
Read from March 20 to March 27
Rating: ★★ out of 5
This started out as a cute, sweet bit of pseudo-historical fantasy fluff, its charm marred only by lack of focus and cohesion. It presented a thematically inchoate gumbo of influences, borrowing from history, the folklore of Eastern Europe, modern day lycanthropy pablum, steampunk, Arabian Nights, medieval romance, and classical mythology. We got Tartars in airships and Persephone riding a roc. At the center of it we had a standard modern fantasy heroine, plucky and inexplicably attractive to everyone around her. Everyone from knights to nuns to demigods wanted to sleep with her. Despite all that, though, I liked it, at first. The prose, aside from issues with repetition, read smoothly and enjoyably, and despite myself and my cynical attitude, I found myself liking the plucky heroine and her honorable knight, and wanting them to wind up together at the end. That's how it started out, at least.
By the midpoint of the book, sadly, that all changed. Garcia y Robertson inexplicably abandoned the fetching and whimsical fantasy adventure, confining his heroine to a tedious life in a harem right out of a straight guy's most boring and uncreative sapphic imaginings. The pervasive sexuality, at first so cute and even (surprisingly) sexy, turned eye-rolling and dull as everyone continually professed their love for and sought to bed the two leads, and Garcia y Robertson developed a silly love triangle around them, complemented by the most basic and uninteresting of political intrigue plotlines. The rampant male gaze and exploitative atmosphere didn't bother me nearly as much as the sheer boringness of it all. Which is a shame, because for the first 150 or so pages I really wanted to like this book.
320 pages
Published 2006
Read from March 20 to March 27
Rating: ★★ out of 5
This started out as a cute, sweet bit of pseudo-historical fantasy fluff, its charm marred only by lack of focus and cohesion. It presented a thematically inchoate gumbo of influences, borrowing from history, the folklore of Eastern Europe, modern day lycanthropy pablum, steampunk, Arabian Nights, medieval romance, and classical mythology. We got Tartars in airships and Persephone riding a roc. At the center of it we had a standard modern fantasy heroine, plucky and inexplicably attractive to everyone around her. Everyone from knights to nuns to demigods wanted to sleep with her. Despite all that, though, I liked it, at first. The prose, aside from issues with repetition, read smoothly and enjoyably, and despite myself and my cynical attitude, I found myself liking the plucky heroine and her honorable knight, and wanting them to wind up together at the end. That's how it started out, at least.
By the midpoint of the book, sadly, that all changed. Garcia y Robertson inexplicably abandoned the fetching and whimsical fantasy adventure, confining his heroine to a tedious life in a harem right out of a straight guy's most boring and uncreative sapphic imaginings. The pervasive sexuality, at first so cute and even (surprisingly) sexy, turned eye-rolling and dull as everyone continually professed their love for and sought to bed the two leads, and Garcia y Robertson developed a silly love triangle around them, complemented by the most basic and uninteresting of political intrigue plotlines. The rampant male gaze and exploitative atmosphere didn't bother me nearly as much as the sheer boringness of it all. Which is a shame, because for the first 150 or so pages I really wanted to like this book.
2013 read #41: The Ox-Bow Incident by Walter Van Tilburg Clark.
The Ox-Bow Incident by Walter Van Tilburg Clark
220 pages
Published 1940
Read from March 20 to March 27
Rating: ★★★★½ out of 5
"A man ought to keep things to himself," a character says near the end of The Ox-Bow Incident, but that doesn't mean even the most virile and laconic rangehand lacks those feelings. This book was written in a fascinating style, what I might venture to dub "perceptive masculinity." This book is the apotheosis of pulp, refining pulp's terse, masculist sensibilities into something approaching blunt poetry. It might be a disgrace to even assert that this novel derives from pulp stock. It was a solid, powerful read, all the more tragic for its characters' inability to express or even fully define their inner fears, doubts, and emotions.
220 pages
Published 1940
Read from March 20 to March 27
Rating: ★★★★½ out of 5
"A man ought to keep things to himself," a character says near the end of The Ox-Bow Incident, but that doesn't mean even the most virile and laconic rangehand lacks those feelings. This book was written in a fascinating style, what I might venture to dub "perceptive masculinity." This book is the apotheosis of pulp, refining pulp's terse, masculist sensibilities into something approaching blunt poetry. It might be a disgrace to even assert that this novel derives from pulp stock. It was a solid, powerful read, all the more tragic for its characters' inability to express or even fully define their inner fears, doubts, and emotions.
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
2013 read #40: The Good Earth by Pearl S. Buck.
The Good Earth by Pearl S. Buck
357 pages
Published 1931
Read from March 11 to March 19
Rating: ★★★★ out of 5
Buck makes the evocation of an unfamiliar culture -- its ideas, its assumptions, its rhythms -- seem almost effortless. Reading her simple, almost biblical prose, I felt absorbed by the daily life of her version of pre-revolutionary China, as well as the tastes and smells and intimate little details of the land. Personally, I found the depicted culture loathsome in every respect, but that doesn't blunt my appreciation for Buck's descriptive accomplishment, nor did it prevent me from being moved by the small tragedies of Wang Lung's life, selfish idiot I may have found him to be. I wish I could articulate a culture (and a life foreign to my own) so clearly as this. Seriously, I'm impressed.
357 pages
Published 1931
Read from March 11 to March 19
Rating: ★★★★ out of 5
Buck makes the evocation of an unfamiliar culture -- its ideas, its assumptions, its rhythms -- seem almost effortless. Reading her simple, almost biblical prose, I felt absorbed by the daily life of her version of pre-revolutionary China, as well as the tastes and smells and intimate little details of the land. Personally, I found the depicted culture loathsome in every respect, but that doesn't blunt my appreciation for Buck's descriptive accomplishment, nor did it prevent me from being moved by the small tragedies of Wang Lung's life, selfish idiot I may have found him to be. I wish I could articulate a culture (and a life foreign to my own) so clearly as this. Seriously, I'm impressed.
Monday, March 18, 2013
2013 read #39: As Far as the Eye Can See by David Brill.
As Far as the Eye Can See: Reflections of an Appalachian Trail Hiker by David Brill
187 pages
Published 1990
Read from March 17 to March 18
Rating: ★★★ out of 5
I may not be reading this at the tail end of the month, but I think this book makes a nice bookend to The Cactus Eaters, from the beginning of March. Instead of the ennui and small economic crises of the late '90s, which Dan White fled for the Pacific Crest Trail, Brill orients himself as a member of a lost generation, old enough to have observed the upheavals of the '60s and '70s but not old enough to have faced the draft-or-revolution test when he came of age. Here he presents his 1979 journey up the Appalachian Trail (AT) as a substitute test, a self-imposed challenge to stimulate "personal growth" at the cusp of adulthood. It's a predictable story, worn down to nubs and truisms today, but it's probably inevitable in a book like this. Why the sons of the middle class are so concerned about "finding themselves" I'll never know; you'd think spending six months hiking in the woods would be its own reward, without all this late adolescent philosophical mumbo-jumbo. But it comes with the genre.
Even though The Cactus Eaters got weird and far, far too personal, at least Dan White had a way with words. Brill plods through his story with all the grace of an undergraduate writing assignment, shoehorning a clumsy simile into every paragraph as if following some test prep center's guidelines for good writing. Which is hilariously apt, since at the time he published this book, Brill was "Coordinator of the Writing Center at Roane State Community College," something I didn't notice until after I made this comparison. In an additional contrast to The Cactus Eaters, which portrays White descending into poisonous, neurotic obsession with the trail, Brill maintains a tone of bright-eyed optimism and the romance of the backwoods. It makes for syrupy reading sometimes, but to be quite honest, it's exactly what I wanted out of this book. It may not be a particularly good book, but I can't be too hard on it.
187 pages
Published 1990
Read from March 17 to March 18
Rating: ★★★ out of 5
I may not be reading this at the tail end of the month, but I think this book makes a nice bookend to The Cactus Eaters, from the beginning of March. Instead of the ennui and small economic crises of the late '90s, which Dan White fled for the Pacific Crest Trail, Brill orients himself as a member of a lost generation, old enough to have observed the upheavals of the '60s and '70s but not old enough to have faced the draft-or-revolution test when he came of age. Here he presents his 1979 journey up the Appalachian Trail (AT) as a substitute test, a self-imposed challenge to stimulate "personal growth" at the cusp of adulthood. It's a predictable story, worn down to nubs and truisms today, but it's probably inevitable in a book like this. Why the sons of the middle class are so concerned about "finding themselves" I'll never know; you'd think spending six months hiking in the woods would be its own reward, without all this late adolescent philosophical mumbo-jumbo. But it comes with the genre.
Even though The Cactus Eaters got weird and far, far too personal, at least Dan White had a way with words. Brill plods through his story with all the grace of an undergraduate writing assignment, shoehorning a clumsy simile into every paragraph as if following some test prep center's guidelines for good writing. Which is hilariously apt, since at the time he published this book, Brill was "Coordinator of the Writing Center at Roane State Community College," something I didn't notice until after I made this comparison. In an additional contrast to The Cactus Eaters, which portrays White descending into poisonous, neurotic obsession with the trail, Brill maintains a tone of bright-eyed optimism and the romance of the backwoods. It makes for syrupy reading sometimes, but to be quite honest, it's exactly what I wanted out of this book. It may not be a particularly good book, but I can't be too hard on it.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
2013 read #38: My Side of the Mountain by Jean Craighead George.
My Side of the Mountain by Jean Craighead George
181 pages
Published 1959
Read from March 16 to March 17
Rating: ★★★½ out of 5
This is another juvenile lit book I first encountered in one of my brother's English primers. I forgot all about it until I found it while looking for Julie of the Wolves. I didn't like this one so well as Julie. While charming for the most part, in places it gets mechanical, as if written by a real live 12 year old boy more interested in sharing the particulars of his subsistence than in telling a good yarn. Nevertheless, it was mostly charming. My one hike in the Catskills last June primed me to find this book especially winsome. I could picture Sam's woods and gorge perfectly. I'm glad Craighead George made a point of detailing how crowded the Catskills get with hikers and poachers; even a book set in the 1950s would have a hard time pretending the Catskills were outright wilderness. I did find it implausible that so many adults would casually aid and abet a young runaway, especially Bando the teacher, but what do I know? Maybe their indulgence seemed more plausible when this was written. And maybe my own personal sense of adequate parentage is far too civilized and soft, because I kind of felt that Sam was a dick to leave his family for no real reason, and his parents were assholes for letting him. But the author basically proclaimed this was her wish-fulfillment fantasy in her preface, so maybe I shouldn't read into it too much. I just thought Julie was a better book because Julie actually had, you know, a reason to be among the wolves.
I find it interesting that "running away to the woods" is (or was?) a common childhood fantasy, not just mine. The idyll of Tom Sawyer on the island and Huck Finn on the raft were always my favorite portions of their respective books; by the time I was 14 or so I was certain that after I left my father and made a lot of money from my best-selling novels and long-distance hiking narratives, I would retire to build my own shack in some remote corner of the deep woods in the Montana wilderness. I didn't know then that hikers get everywhere, of course, but it was a persistent fantasy. I clung to it for at least a couple years. I didn't plan out the little details, like how I would feed myself and survive the -40°F winters, but it was my little mental refuge for a time. Sometimes the idea still has undeniable appeal, even if I'm more likely to wish for a summer vacation cabin instead.
Now I'm tempted to see if my library has a copy of Krakauer's Into the Wild handy. That would be a funny-ironic pairing.
181 pages
Published 1959
Read from March 16 to March 17
Rating: ★★★½ out of 5
This is another juvenile lit book I first encountered in one of my brother's English primers. I forgot all about it until I found it while looking for Julie of the Wolves. I didn't like this one so well as Julie. While charming for the most part, in places it gets mechanical, as if written by a real live 12 year old boy more interested in sharing the particulars of his subsistence than in telling a good yarn. Nevertheless, it was mostly charming. My one hike in the Catskills last June primed me to find this book especially winsome. I could picture Sam's woods and gorge perfectly. I'm glad Craighead George made a point of detailing how crowded the Catskills get with hikers and poachers; even a book set in the 1950s would have a hard time pretending the Catskills were outright wilderness. I did find it implausible that so many adults would casually aid and abet a young runaway, especially Bando the teacher, but what do I know? Maybe their indulgence seemed more plausible when this was written. And maybe my own personal sense of adequate parentage is far too civilized and soft, because I kind of felt that Sam was a dick to leave his family for no real reason, and his parents were assholes for letting him. But the author basically proclaimed this was her wish-fulfillment fantasy in her preface, so maybe I shouldn't read into it too much. I just thought Julie was a better book because Julie actually had, you know, a reason to be among the wolves.
I find it interesting that "running away to the woods" is (or was?) a common childhood fantasy, not just mine. The idyll of Tom Sawyer on the island and Huck Finn on the raft were always my favorite portions of their respective books; by the time I was 14 or so I was certain that after I left my father and made a lot of money from my best-selling novels and long-distance hiking narratives, I would retire to build my own shack in some remote corner of the deep woods in the Montana wilderness. I didn't know then that hikers get everywhere, of course, but it was a persistent fantasy. I clung to it for at least a couple years. I didn't plan out the little details, like how I would feed myself and survive the -40°F winters, but it was my little mental refuge for a time. Sometimes the idea still has undeniable appeal, even if I'm more likely to wish for a summer vacation cabin instead.
Now I'm tempted to see if my library has a copy of Krakauer's Into the Wild handy. That would be a funny-ironic pairing.
Friday, March 15, 2013
2013 read #37: Julie of the Wolves by Jean Craighead George.
Julie of the Wolves by Jean Craighead George
170 pages
Published 1972
Read March 15
Rating: ★★★★ out of 5
Finally tracked this one down. Embarrassingly, it was in the library the whole time. I was looking in the juvenile section; it turned out to be in the juvenile paperback section. All I had to do was take five seconds to look in the online catalog again. Oh well, it's not like I've been lacking for other things to read. I have twenty-seven other books checked out right now, and mountains of unread books I've accumulated over the years. I'll have enough to read until November without checking out another book, if I so chose. But I'm still glad I got the chance to read this one.
I liked it a lot. Giving books subjective scores as I do, I feel a bit odd rating this more generously than I did Heart of Darkness. No one, me least of all, is trying to imply Julie of the Wolves is a superior work. I just really really enjoyed this one. It was a simple tale fetchingly told.
170 pages
Published 1972
Read March 15
Rating: ★★★★ out of 5
Finally tracked this one down. Embarrassingly, it was in the library the whole time. I was looking in the juvenile section; it turned out to be in the juvenile paperback section. All I had to do was take five seconds to look in the online catalog again. Oh well, it's not like I've been lacking for other things to read. I have twenty-seven other books checked out right now, and mountains of unread books I've accumulated over the years. I'll have enough to read until November without checking out another book, if I so chose. But I'm still glad I got the chance to read this one.
I liked it a lot. Giving books subjective scores as I do, I feel a bit odd rating this more generously than I did Heart of Darkness. No one, me least of all, is trying to imply Julie of the Wolves is a superior work. I just really really enjoyed this one. It was a simple tale fetchingly told.
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