May 18th, 2012
by Meredith Nudo
Gina Barecca, an English and feminist theory professor at University of Connecticut, is hilarious. And I am a big, stupid dummyhead for not knowing this sooner. Babes in Boyland marks my first exposure to her bibliography, appropriately enough. While I lack the juicy brainmeats (and political/economic clout) to win acceptance at an Ivy League college, I am a Sicilian/Italian-American feminist who spent a goodly chunk of her formative years in a WASP's nest where she so often found herself feeling "like a duck in a swan suit" (12) for whom "everything…was bigger, louder, and more conspicuous" (12) than the "willowy and romantic girls" (9) all the menfolk want. Or, as she so self-deprecatingly put it, "I looked like I should be picking escarole from the field with a scarf over my head and a basket tied to my back" (9), meaning further isolation along ethnic and class lines. Departures exist, of course, especially since, by the time I got to college, pioneers like Barreca had already cracked through patriarchal institutions "where boys have held undisputed sway for generations" (28) and de-stigmatized the scandalous notion that women deserve higher educations for reasons other than husband-hunting.
While I believe ladies – and men for that matter – need to know all about the "trial by fire" (28) their foremothers encountered before they could pop onto campus without crouching beneath a carpet bombing of jeers and leers, I think picking up a few books on feminist ideology would help place Barreca's memoir in a much broader context. It's obviously accessible without the framework, but advance familiarization with The Second Sex and The Feminine Mystique go far in explaining the author's determination and necessity of diffusing dark humor in order to "challenge institutions of power from within" (6) and "invent a site for yourself even when no blueprint exists for you inside a granite-hard establishment" (6). Inspiring stuff, no doubt, and certainly applicable today. But, in this case, a little supplementary reading adds nuance and texture to a simultaneously light and heavy – yet exceedingly quickly completed and absorbed – memoir. It places the personal into a wider range of stories and experiences, adding another advocate to the chorus and allowing the benefiting future generations to grasp what had to happen to get them to this point. And, of course, insight into how many more glass ceilings need She-Hulkian smashing before society can boast true equality.
Even without side assignments, though, it's very possible to walk away from Babes in Boyland having learned something. The first woman in her family to venture "beyond the reaches of the clothesline" (124), she learns about "using humor to survive" (50) being "proud of [her] femininity" (50) in an environment which so often painted it as at once threatening and inferior. Her coming-of-age as a feminist receives a full, funny chronicling here, particularly when she comes to the realization that female empowerment doesn't sound the death knell for "steamy flirtations or prolonged shopping trips" (49) or mean she must join forces with "humorless, earnest women" (49). Rather, "any time a woman breaks through a barrier set by society, she's making a feminist gesture of sort" (51), and her pioneering venture into the Ivy League where "you were graded not only by your professors, but also by the boys on Fraternity Row" (5) proved more than enough. She obviously struggled with projecting and accepting her sexual side, countering stereotypes and stigmas, living as a working-class "Bettie Boop" (2) in a community of rich "Barbie[s]" (2) and – most frequently – being seen as a token female first and everything else second. And she relays the serious issues with such warmth, humor, and plenty of self-deprecation, it's impossible to not look up to her as a model of strength and grace.
Well, unless you see equal opportunities for women as a big, scary thing, in which case you probably don't.
Bibliographic Information
Barreca, Gina. Babes in Boyland: A Personal History of Co-Education in the Ivy League. Hanover, NH: University of New England, 2005.
If you have any suggestions for future book reviews, feel free to contact me at mnudo (at) oedb (dot) org! I'm emphasizing reads about education, so try to stick with those particular themes. Thanks!
May 11th, 2012
by Meredith Nudo
Yes, it's possible to be both gay and a frat boy. Campus Pride and Lambda 10 founder Shane L. Windmeyer – who serves as Brotherhood's editor – dismantles many of the heterosexist notions so often levied onto the Greek system without ignoring how much work still needs doing before all LGBTQIA brothers can safely "[break their] personal cycle[s] of invisibility" (xvii). Through a hefty, mostly diverse compilation of personal (some anonymous, some not) and academic essays, the book adheres to a balanced view of fraternities. A few stories confirm the stereotypes of fraternities as heterosexual hegemonies where "homophobic attitudes and behaviors are linked" (272), while so many more offer up encouraging tales of entering into organizations as openly gay or eventually coming out and receiving overwhelming love and support. I wouldn't call this one of the more technically proficient nonfiction works available given the inevitable unevenness inherent to anthologies, but such nitpicks absolutely do not dilute Brotherhood's ultimate message.
Greek participants ought to uphold the same ethical standards as all other students – and people for that matter. Yet we've all stared down the barrel of sensationalism's smoking gun when it comes to the horrifying mental, physical, and emotional abuse perpetuated by fraternities and sororities alike. Serious, nauseating human rights issues that obviously must be quelled, certainly. But also not the whole portrait of what these organizations offer. When they genuinely adhere to values like "service, scholarship, leadership, and friendship" (282), touching tales of tolerance and acceptance result. And Brotherhood overflows with happy endings, albeit many fraught with considerable anxiety, fear, and depression before love emerges. One of the most genuinely encouraging stories, titled "Lovers to Brothers", involves a gay faculty adviser whose "lover and…partner for life" (143) receives an initiation invitation from the fraternity he oversees completely without his knowledge. It's such a sweet little story of a traditionally demonized demographic reaching out and building communities as opposed to using their privilege as a tool of condescension and suppression.
However, the influx of positive stories absolutely does not negate the less-than-loving, cringingly uncomfortable, and downright nasty examples Brotherhood includes as a balancing counterpoint. At worst, these narratives reinforce the fear and denial gay men experience before or after joining fraternities, driving them towards destructive habits and even suicidal thoughts. Clay Cunningham's "The Pledge Jersey" sees him wanting to be seen as "Clay first and then be gay" (56), but the TKE chapter at Texas A&M literally rips the shirt off his back and revokes his membership for no reason other than his sexuality. The viciousness displayed by previously friendly members contrasts scarily and sharply with men who enjoyed positive support before and after the coming out process. Seeing as how even the happy tales involve all-too-human struggles and anxieties, watching them unfold in horrible environments piques compassion – or should, anyways – and illustrates the importance of eliminating heterosexism and establishing safe spaces and equitable opportunities for every student.
In the concluding chapters, straight, gay, bisexual, and questioning Greeks can research everything from the history of homophobic hazing rituals to detailed outlines of how to turn the frat house into a community of tolerance, understanding, love, and, like the title states, Brotherhood. One of the most welcome – and important, depending on the college setting – sees two ministers outlining Bible passages both homosexual and heterosexual members can use to promote togetherness rather than the divisiveness and even abuse organized religion so often heaps upon "ten percent of society" (xi) for something so arbitrary and still fully within ethical boundaries. Just about the only thing I found lacking in Windmeyer's anthology was an exploration of bisexuality and transgender experiences. The former receives a few mentions, with the latter almost entirely ignored. While I understand that the focus lay largely on gay perspectives, at least touching upon both a few times would've offered up an even more comprehensive look at the commonalities and departures between the dominant heterosexual, cisgendered culture and the orientations and identities that all too often wind up pushed to the sidelines.
Bibliographic Information
Windmeyer, Shane L., ed. Brotherhood: Gay Life in College Fraternities. New York: Alyson, 2005.
If you have any suggestions for future book reviews, feel free to contact me at mnudo (at) oedb (dot) org! I'm emphasizing reads about education, so try to stick with those particular themes. Thanks!
May 4th, 2012
by Meredith Nudo
Fun fact: Before I'll Take You There, I had surprisingly never read anything by Joyce Carol Oates.
Please don't kill me.
Also a fun fact: After I'll Take You There, I seriously want to rent every single Joyce Carol Oates novel out of the library, neglect my paying job, and live as a reading hermit forever. Or at least, I'd do that if I didn't have a mortgage an.jpg)
d the fact that I am not a robot who can go without food and water indefinitely (yet) to grapple against. The woman's writing style is a literary treasure worthy of serious academic inquiry…says Meredith, decades after everyone else realized it. Heroine "Anellia" (not her real name) spends the novel navigating "contemptible" (41) sorority girls with whom she paradoxically wishes to form sisterly connections and an interracial relationship at a time when such liaisons existed as largely taboo. All this before discovering an earthshattering secret about a not-quite-dead loved one, too.
It sounds kind of predictable and maybe even a little cliché, but the author's merging of eloquent style and genuinely emotional beats – the sex scenes with the philosophy graduate student she utterly adores who finds "the color and texture of her skin…repulsive" (200) are particularly throat-clenching – fully prevent the expected slips and slides into predictability. Anellia's coming of age and proud embracing of her "pathogen to society" (211) status as both an ethnic Jew and a woman in love with an African-American man during the Civil Rights era inspires. For female readers in search of a protagonist who displays both weakness and strength in a relatable setting, they could do a whole load worse. Despite the degradation heaped upon her by peers, classmates, administrators, and her lover, she pulls together strength and ultimately finds pride in her success.
In a manner that feels organic rather than forced, no less. Every step up or down in the protagonist's life happens with some sort of purpose, and her actions always bear logical (if lamentable) consequences. Oates hits all the familiar beats of the chick lit genre without spoon-feeding or condescending her audience. She writes of finding strength and finding love amidst crushing, discriminatory rejection without resorting to shoehorning in the standards.
Bibliographic Information
Oates, Joyce Carol. I'll Take You There. New York: Ecco, 2002.
If you have any suggestions for future book reviews, feel free to contact me at mnudo (at) oedb (dot) org! I'm emphasizing reads about education, so try to stick with those particular themes. Thanks!
April 27th, 2012
by Meredith Nudo
This book may as well just be retitled Rich, White, Protestant, Heterosexual, Cisgendered Men Pretty Much Have Everything Handed to Them: The College Years. I don't mean cynicism towards author Helen Lefkowitz Horowitz's obviously thorough research here, of course. Her assessments all make perfect sense, and the surrounding cultural climates undeniably reinforce how building college around a privileged "cultural barrier that has prevented its partakers from encountering ideas and taking them seriously" (291) breach the entire point of higher education. My cynicism fully lasers in on how disconcerting it is that society even came to that in the first place.
Horowitz, as the title gives away, crams nearly a century's worth of content into under 300 pages, resulting in a read denser than a black hole but twice as necessary. I honestly struggled with processing everything she shares, because that much information relayed in that comparatively narrow a space does somewhat intimidate and dizzify. Everything seems to reduce down to how women, ethnic/religious/national minorities, and the overtly political (particularly those with communist and socialist sympathies) all too often wind up marginalized in ostensibly intellectual, open spaces. A systemic issue, obviously, and one whose roots sit planted so firmly in tradition, even today they still hold sway over college life as a whole. The "status-consciousness and social conservatism" (279) inherent to the Greek system, for example, and its alarmingly casual dismissal of sexual violence. I think as a means of understanding how elitism plays into shaping the higher education experience, Campus Life succeeds, particularly as an insightful – albeit frequently depressing – inquiry into the past's mistakes. As a means of cobbling together cogent solutions for ensuring equitable campuses, however, one must look elsewhere for guidance.
But that doesn't appear to be the author's main intent in the first place, so she ought not be chastised for not living up to such a particularly loaded task requiring full metal social overhaul. She does conclude her parade of crushingly-depressing-but-absolutely-essential reality with an expression of hope, declaring "…we are actors in the college dramas of the present, [who must] understand the complex cultural world of undergraduates as it has evolved from past to present" (294) and that doing so might mean "we can gain the necessary insight and distance to foster change" (294).
Yes, even though it was published in 1988. Scary how a book only a couple years younger than I am still manages to ring eerily accurate these days, yeah? With the staggering selection of first-person resources gleaned from students, professors, and administrators she provides, anyone looking to improve things can keep Campus Life on hand for a quick reference. Albeit one so bogged down with beaucoup data, it's difficult to fully process everything shared without taking frequent breaks to let all the connections properly collate. I'm still letting it all sink in right now, but in the end I think anyone who yearns for a more harmonious student body would do well to intently study Horowitz's frequently dry but always intelligent finds.
Bibliographic Information
Horowitz, Helen Lefkowitz. Campus Life: Undergraduate Cultures from the End of the Eighteenth Century to the Present. Chicago: University of Chicago, 1988.
If you have any suggestions for future book reviews, feel free to contact me at mnudo (at) oedb (dot) org! I'm emphasizing reads about education, so try to stick with those particular themes. Thanks!
April 20th, 2012
by Meredith Nudo
This past Saturday, Gulf Coast literary ma gazin e , NANO Fiction, The Menil Collection, and The Council of Literary Magazines and Presses hosted its annual Houston Indie Book Festival, the only free gathering celebrating small presses, literary magazines, self- and independent publishing, and specialty and independent booksellers in either Houston or…Austin, surprisingly enough.
Obviously, it was a moral imperative that I attend.
Both the Menil Collection and Menil Park happen to be astoundingly gorgeous, and Houston's notoriously fickle climate decided to spend one of its three allotted nice days a year. So it proved a particularly lush time to enjoy some oft-overlooked literature, meet some new people, and listen to some poetry. The only reading I had time for was Laurie Clements Lambeth's, and while my tastes (and studies) lean towards prose, I still hold an appreciation for her work. Just because I can't explain it in technical language doesn't mean I can't enjoy poetry. Lambeth, an Inprint Fellow and Michener Fellow at University of Houston, draws acclaim for her painfully honest verses about disability.
Having been diagnosed with MS at age 17, the poet particularly struggles with "invisibility," as many do not consider her disabled because she lacks any sort of external cues. Whether reading from notes or collections Beauty is a Verb and Veil and Burn, her selections reflected raw vulnerability, isolation, awkwardness, and struggle. Her ruminations on London's notorious inaccessibility stood as particularly evocative, emotional, and thought-provoking, as were those regarding childlessness.
Although my favorite was still the poem about mustache waxing.
Along with the authors, stores, magazines, and publishers, many of Houston's literary-related nonprofits hosted their own booths and opened themselves up to volunteers and brief Q&A sessions. Both Writers in the Schools and Literary Advance of Houston stood out to me, so I stopped by the tables to pick up some pamphlets, sign up for some newsletters, and chat with the cheery faces out loving the beautiful day and curious patrons.
Writers in the Schools intern Saira Nadeem (above, left) kindly outlined the organization's main goals, which encourage local kids to build up their reading and writing skills. Which, in turn, bolsters their ability to articulate and express their thoughts and emotions as well as general academic aptitude. One of the writers in question, Maryscott Hagle (above, top right) – as well as student Anna-William Kornberg (above, bottom right) – stopped by the table and eagerly quipped about how much she enjoys involvement with WitS.
Claire Sparks (left) and Anna Zubkova (right) were on deck to talk to me about Literacy Advance of Houston. I'm slightly more familiar with their organization than Writers in the Schools because of their association with The Houston Great Books Council and my brief stint as an ESL substitute teacher. Like the organization's name implies, it emphasizes promoting literacy in the community, with its target audience being adults learning English as a second or tertiary language. However, primary speakers are not turned away. They offer up completely free classes for participants hoping to improve their basic, intermediate, and advanced writing and reading acumen.
I'm definitely wanting to get more involved with both these nonprofits, as well as Taping for the Blind (which did not appear to have any sort of presence at HIBF), in some context soon. And, [Insert Deity of Choice Here] willing, maybe interview some folks for you lovely readers (I like deluding myself into thinking that more than one person actually reads this). And – HINT HINT HINT – encourage you to get more involved with our wonderfully diverse, oft-overlooked literary scene.
Me being me, I didn't walk away from this event without spending beaucoup on books. Joined by my good buddy, local AOL/Huffington Post/Houston Press writer and token male in indie classical (yes, non-Houstonians, that is a music genre we have here) darling Two Star Symphony Jerry Ochoa, I passed through the refreshingly crowded, overstuffed lines of tables browsing for coolness.
(After shoving down some tasty food truck noms from H-Town StrEATS, of course. For fuel. Meaty, cheesy, artery-clogging fuel.)
Gulf Coast very kindly offered up a half-price special on subscriptions for HIBF attendees, at $8 for a year or $16 for two years. I decided to take advantage of that, and the two enthusiastic men who sold me on it encouraged me to submit some of my work to it. So did BooTown, who runs the Adult Storytime series at Rudyard's. Apparently they have me confused with a writer who actually produces fiction (or…anything…for that matter) worth reading. But I might give it a shot anyways!
Triscelle Publishing handed out free books to passerby, with free chapters from its Morrigan's Brood series. It seems to be a dark, high fantasy series taking place in Ireland, which could prove pretty fun. I also picked up a copy of The Gospel According to a Robot by Peter Hensel at haha, Radical Books (left), who just happens to know my coworker Jordan Krueger (right). What little I've been able to read so far has been enjoyable in a crazy, silly way, which is probably to be expected from a novel whose author dresses up as Spider-Man for his cover photo.
My favorite find, though, was Jason Poland's Robby and Bobby collection. He's my second favorite Houston-based cartoonist, and I've been chasing after this volume for a while. Why didn't I just order it online, you ask? Because I'm dumber than a bucket full of hair, that's why. Unfortunately, Poland was not available for pictures or signing my copy. But someday. SOMEDAY.
It probably goes without saying that I am super excited about attending next year. And regretting that I never went the past few years…likely because I never even knew it was a thing that existed despite living nearby. Now I know, though. And knowing is half the battle.
April 13th, 2012
by Meredith Nudo
So. According to the American Library Association, it's National Library Week! And School Library Month! And my very first book-related job was at a school library, actually. While I was working in my master's in English at University of St. Thomas, I took on a position as the assistant to the acquisitions librarian. This means I don't have any exciting stories of ill-behaved 
patrons, unfortunately. But it also means I didn't have to deal with ill-behaved patrons, either. Evens out. Plus, my mom's a children's librarian, so there was of course that element of further nurturing the parent complex inherent to all Italian-American children.
One of the coolest things projects assigned to me involved researching holdings and filling in any gaps in the library's Pulitzer collection. Surprisingly enough, so many of the decorated novels and poetry collections have fallen out of print. I always thought that curious, how supposedly influential – if not outright game-changing – literature manages to slip away from public consciousness after scoring one of the industry's most prestigious awards (at least in the United States). And, of course, how much good stuff so often goes unnoticed. The ultimate decision for what books Doherty Library received ultimately fell to my superiors, of course, but another bibliophiliac benefit was being able to peruse the monthly publisher's catalogues and check out the various reads they hoped would head our way.
I didn't really have any money at the time to even THINK about buying any of them independently, obviously, but still wound up picking out some pretty cool stuff thanks to book sale donations. Another one of my duties involved sorting through alllllll the literary works alumni, faculty, staff, and students bequeathed to the university, trashing the ones too decrepit to salvage, saving those in excellent condition for circulation, and leaving the rest in storage for the annual discount book sale. Since I worked so closely with the donations, my bosses kindly gave me first dibs on anything I wanted! Had to pay the same prices as other students, obviously, but I didn't mind because most of them were between $1 to $5 anyways. Considering UST is a liberal arts college, much of what we ended up with hewed pretty closely to my interests. I wound up having to buy another bookshelf because, over the span of two years, I bought and carried home volumes of art, comparative literature, ancient history, modern history, comparative religion, politics, philosophy, and a couple of classic novels. Probably my favorite finds were thin beginner-level books on Aztec and Mayan religion and Cycladic idols.
So it should be obvious by now that I was pretty fond of library work, but I'm sure it has largely to do with having some super cool bosses who appreciated my input and stayed largely laissez-faire when I was filling orders and sorting donations. Any sort of English or creative writing major ought to at least consider taking on some part-time work in their local or school library. And, because I'm obviously not biased in any way, I recommend specifically seeking out anything in acquisitions. If you work under people who genuinely love reading and discussing literature, it's an ideal position for soaking up far more titles than sitting in a classroom.
You don't have to work in a library in order to show the institutions some love, of course! Any Houstonians reading this might want to check out the Friends of the Houston Public Library's annual book sale this weekend, starting tomorrow at 9 AM. I went a couple of years ago and the selection is spectacular, but try and get there early before the good stuff sells out. Feel free to post about your haul in the comments section! I'd love to hear about what you guys picked up!
April 6th, 2012
by Meredith Nudo
If Saul Bellow wrote Wonder Boys, it'd be Straight Man. Sort of. Although yet another novel about heterosexual, cisgendered white men professionally and personally cracking in a fabulous display of middle-aged anxiety, Richard Russo nixes the tiresome cliché of a weepy, justified-because-the-mistress-is-TOTALLY-hot-and-the-wife-is-a-harpy extramarital affair. Sure protagonist William Henry Devereaux, Jr. nurses little crushes on the women around him and considers the possibilities, but love for his wife Lily always brings him back to a loyal place. That's actually pretty refreshing, because the Pulitzer winner is obviously trying to poke at the convention instead of falling prey to it.
Straight Man was still too boring to be considered an essential, but not so boring it should be dismissed. Our snarky hero's adventures chairing an English department (because of course) aflame with egos and drama alternate between shrug-worthy and hilarious. Highlights, however, include a running narrative about his threatening to murder a goose (or is it a duck?) on live television and the snortlaugh-inducing pretentiousness characterizing colleague Tony Coniglia's tenor. Every time he solemnly uttered, "'The sea'" (121) while downing raw clams with a potential sexual conquest, I about exploded my sinuses. And the central figure himself, despite coming packaged with the standard rebellious streak, periods of baffled cantankerousness, and father issues, is charming enough to be remain largely likable throughout the novel. And, I'd imagine, far more relatable to its target audience than myself. I freely admit my status as a twenty-something female with only one semester's worth of experience working in higher education rendered it more difficult to see much of myself in his experiences beyond some superficialities.
For those better able to project themselves into Devereaux's shoes, though, they could do way worse than Straight Man. Personally, I prefer Saul Bellow, who covers similar ground in many of his novels, but that doesn't diminish what Russo brings to the table any. The absurdist moments make sticking with it until the end worthwhile, although getting there involves wading through a cobbled-together cast of personified quirks (not always characters) straight out of an indie flick. Some of them – like the aforementioned Coniglia – keep things interesting. Others are just sort of…there. To prove a point about how academics are just as neurotic and dysfunctional as everyone else. If not more.
Bibliographic Information
Russo, Richard. Straight Man. New York: Vintage, 1998.
If you have any suggestions for future book reviews, feel free to contact me at mnudo (at) oedb (dot) org! I'm emphasizing reads about education, so try to stick with those particular themes. Thanks!
March 30th, 2012
by Meredith Nudo
Anyone hoping to involve him- and/or herself with the Houston literary sphere – or at least catch some seriously cool, often very affordable programming related to reading and writing – should get to know Inprint, because it's probably their best friend in that regard (that and the Houston Public Library, anyways). While I'm not always able to attend their events for various reasons, I do stay informed about what they've been offering, particularly the Margaret Root Brown Reading Series. Back in 2008, I shrieked with fangirlish joy when they brought in Marjane Satrapi for a talk, Q&A, and signing, as she happens to be one of the main inspirations behind why I wrote my own comic book. She signed my copy of Persepolis, and it's one of my prized books as a result. I missed out on Jeffrey Eugenides and Margaret Atwood this past season, unfortunately, but Inprint's Kristi Beers at Inprint kindly ensured me tickets to Téa Obreht (The Tiger's Wife) and Gary Shtenygart (The Russian Debutante's Handbook, Absurdistan, Super Sad True Love Story) and extended an invite to the Books & Bellinis Young Professionals Mixer at Birraporetti's.
The turnout proved pretty spectacular. My photos of the crowd, however, did not, so you're just going to have to content yourself with the above. Both authors were on hand to talk more directly with participants, but understandable crush of people around them meant I wasn't able. But that doesn't mean I didn't have a good time meeting some cool new people and drinking pink bellinis (which is, apparently, a thing that exists).
Along with my friend Bethany Perryman, we befriended local writer Joy Awe and her friend Catherine Coleman. Pictured left to right, that's Joy, Bethany, and Catherine.
Joy told me a bit about her novel – as well as the awesome advice she was able to glean from Obreht – but doesn't much want the details leaking out. I'm excited to read it, though!
Shortly thereafter, Obreht and Shteyngart took the stage at the Wortham Center across the street. As I was not authorized to take photos of the event itself, I don't have any to share. But I did get a shot of the set prior to the lights dimming, at least. Lovely lighting design!
Inprint's executive director Rich Levy introduced both authors, with Téa Obreht starting off with a little reflection on her writing process. Normally she pens her short stories and essays in pieces and assembles them later, but her Orange Prize-winning debut novel The Tiger's Wife was more of a linear affair. The sweet, self-deprecating, and somewhat nervous author actually wrote the beginning – which she shared with us – first. Unfortunately, she sheepishly claimed that disastrous previous experiences prevented her from ever using her "distinguished older gentleman voice" for the grandfather character.
I haven't been able to pick up The Tiger's Wife in between reading for this blog and my book club, but I'm enthused about it after listening to Obreht introduce us to central protagonists Natalia, a Balkan doctor, and her grandpa. The scene regarding a frantic funeral in particular stood out. So I'm adding this to the list of what to pick up after I finally finish Everything is Illuminated. But it'll have to compete with Super Sad True Love Story for what comes next.
Two years after its publication, I finally picked up Absurdistan (which is, by the way, totally about college and therefore makes this blog post utterly relevant to this blog's main thrust) and respected it without actually…well…liking it. To me, it felt too much like a vodka-soaked A Confederacy of Dunces where the protagonist manages to get laid. At the same time, though, nothing about Absurdistan should be considered unskilled or worthless; I hold a great appreciation for the author's obvious talents and consider the novel objectively great, but it still failed to click with me.
Gary Shteyngart's amicable, charming, and wholly effusive hilarity on stage compels me to give his previous novel a second chance and The Russian Debutante's Handbook and Super Sad True Love Story a first. His reading of the Salon Book Award and Bollinger Everyman Wodehouse Prize winner decorated latter, which involved a passage where protagonist Leonard Abramov introduces his wacky Russian immigrant parents to girlfriend Eunice Park. When he slipped into over-the-top accents for the mom and dad characters, the audience about hyperventilated with laughter.
Once he finished engaging us with gut-busting tales of too much fish and blunt overtures for grandkids, he joined up with Obreht for a brief round table with University of Houston creative writing professor Mat Johnson, a woefully underrated author whose work I've reviewed here before. The trio drew parallels between Eastern Bloc and African-American literature, noting how finding comedy in oppression serves as an effective coping mechanism – even in tales of the past (Obreht), present (Johnson), and near future (Shteyngart). Curiously, the UH educator admitted his jealousy of Shteyngart's satirical prowess in a discussion about the genre's role in literary fiction. And I say "curiously" because I'm extremely vocal of how I consider Johnson one of America's greatest living satirists and cultural commentators in the fictional realm.
All three authors spoke of love's role in shaping literature, even (especially?) science-fiction, and Obreht likely disappointed many audience members when she expressed a preference for penning short stories over novels. She isn't sure she wants to push out a new one anytime soon. Whether or not she ultimately does is left to time, but at the moment I appreciated every speck of insight and sociability I was able to glean from the wonderful evening! Big thanks to the authors, my new friends, and especially the Inprint crew for everything! I'm really looking forward to attending more of these events if I may!
.jpg)
March 23rd, 2012
by Meredith Nudo
Like much of J.D. Salinger's most popular oeuvre selections, "Teddy" (available online in its entirety here) involves hyperarticulate, "precocious" youth for whom "Mo Money Mo Problems" would constantly be playing in the background had Biggie been born roughly two decades earlier. Wealth and prodigious intelligence wind up nurturing deep existential crises and ennui to the point where I would've wondered if the eponymous character grew up, received sexual reassignment surgery, and started going by "Franny." Then I remembered that Franny grew up in the spotlight as a famous, cisgendered child genius. Nor did she display any sociopathic tendencies disguised as a complete jettisoning of "logic."
Don't get me wrong. I dig Salinger. I even, to some extent, kind of dug "Teddy." But this short story, originally published in The New Yorker, exemplifies why he stands as such a divisive literary figure. Some of his most memorable characters come off as early 20th century White Whiners – which they are, but one should read them through a thick fog of irony rather than a reflection of the author's own personal woes. This carries over into "Teddy," where a wildly intelligent American boy who piques the interest of Oxford and University of Edinburgh engages a curious grad student in a talk of philosophy, spirituality, and the alleged freedom that comes with not bothering to weigh consequences before actions.
As the pair's cruise ship ambles away from Europe, the elder passes an hour or so picking away at the mind of the child whose academic prowess fascinates him so. The major sign that something's rotten in the state of the brilliant boy's brain involves his blasé perception regarding death and outspoken disdain of "a lot of emotional stuff." Coupled with his decision that mindfulness of point A leading to point B is quite silly indeed and Salinger cooked up quite a disturbing, almost Damien Thorn-like character.
Infamously, "Teddy" concludes in a startlingly grisly fashion, and it's difficult to discuss the grotesque amorality without entirely spoiling my dear, darling readership. I'd rather NOT ruin everything and dilute the shock value, even if the story dates all the way back to the oh-so-dark ages of 1953. What I CAN say is that it would appeal to the demographic who enjoys Wes Anderson movies and stories where the bulk of the content comes in convenient dialogue form. Just make sure to bring along your best wry eye-rolls.
March 16th, 2012
by Meredith Nudo
Pulitzer recipient Jane Smiley's Moo shouldn't be considered a failure, but it failed to engage me or make me feel like doing much of anything beyond sitting the book down, queuing up 808s & Heartbreak, and looping the synthpop/hip-hop hybrid goodness of "Paranoid" instead. Novels shouldn't make me want to do that. They should make me want to read, because…you
know…literature and everything. When compared to other campus satires I've picked up for this blog – The Big U and The Cheese Monkeys – it seems less resonant of the free-floating absurdity inherent to the college experience. Some moments (especially those involving a particular porcine pal) show promise, but in the end I'd point readers towards Stephenson or Kidd instead.
Part of this disconnect stems from the loads and loads and loads and loads of characters. Such a device can work, and many entertainment sources I enjoy utilize it (Then We Came to the End, for example). So I'm not trashing its existence so much as saying that, in Moo's case, weighing down the narrative with what feels like several billion individuals ultimately serves to its detriment. For one thing, Smiley doesn't always seem to know where some arcs should lead, leaving some characters (Mary Jackson and Gary Olson off the top of my head) popping in and out before finally just kind of unsatisfactorily dissolving like so many Emergen-Cs. Just about the only anyone I genuinely cared about was Earl Butz. Earl Butz is a hog raised for "eating, only eating, and forever eating" (4). Whenever the novel switches over to his perspectives regarding the humans who care for him, I about died. Not only were his scenes deliciously absurd, they also boasted some of the most gratifying emotion.
To be honest, though, I possess quite a soft spot for the cuddly-wuddly cuteness of future pork, so my take on the matter miiiiiiight prove slightly biased in that regard.
Granted, the idea that the pig exists as the most genuinely human character was probably intentional. Or at least I'm hoping it was. Almost everyone else, like erratic communist Chairman X of the horticulture department, his hyperreligious nemesis Dean Nils Harstad, gorgeous and confused foreign language professor Cecilia Sanchez, and the rest of the creaking ensemble cast come off as utterly flat. Not even flat in the comedic archetype sense. Flat as in, "I guess she wants them to have a little more depth and nuance, but I'm just not feeling it." Most of their zany madcap adventures revolve around the usual campus drama, but the satirical elements don't seem fleshed out beyond "Those crazy students sure say and do some crazy things!" and "Bureaucracy, am I right?!" and "Sometimes smart people really do some dumb things! What's up with that?"
I wouldn't call it a bad book, though. It speeds by at a quick clip and doesn't outright fluster or upset or bother or offend me. Moo came off as a frenetic-but-dull story a few drafts away from standing as a memorable campus satire. It had a few interesting things going for it, but too many other boring or pointless elements jumble up in the engine as the ride progresses, making it appear shallow when it should say something insightful about the state of higher education today. And believe me, there exists no shortage of material. Shave off some of the excess characters and unnecessary narrative threads and the novel could prove a genuinely comedic, parodic glimpse at college life with very real commentary.
As it stands, though, I'd have much rather read over 400 pages of Earl Butz riding an H-bomb towards the rest of the characters, Slim Pickins-style. Not because they angered me so much as I simply like that pig a lot.
Bibliographic Information
Smiley, Jane. Moo. New York: Anchor, 2009.
If you have any suggestions for future book reviews, feel free to contact me at mnudo (at) oedb (dot) org! I'm emphasizing reads about education, so try to stick with those particular themes. Thanks!
Follow us on Twitter!