I'm reading more than the required pace for a simple reason: I love reading. More specifically, I love reading good books. When I read books that aren't good, my desire to move on to better ones compels me toward that last page.
That said, here's a list of this month's books:
The Castle by Franz Kafka - This book was slow going, and the main character, K, was a bit of a non-character. But the humor, the imagery, and the painful truth of the story took center stage. I was bummed that Kafka never got to finish writing it.
Body Piercing Saved my Life by Andrew Beaujon - A writer for Spin investigates the world of Christian Rock. I expected all my Christian embarrassment to come flaming back up to the surface, but Beaujon is fair, funny, and gracious, even giving DC Talks props for being innovators in the rap genre.
We Were the Mulvaneys by Joyce Carol Oates - My one complaint about Oates is that she is usually humorless. She seems intent on not alleviating the suffering of her characters or her readers with any tender moment until everything has run its course. As a result, a very profound, well-written book ended up feeling a bit agonizing and manipulative.
Lake Wobegon Summer 1956 by Garrison Keillor - Keillor does his usual sentimental satire thing here, which is a great thing, which is why I keep going back to his books. The one memorable feature of this book is the way he relates an adolescent's early encounters with pornography and lust, addressing them with warmth and humor.
Sons and Lovers by D.H. Lawrence - It's hard to believe that this is a British novel written in 1913. While it's not lurid by today's standards, the book deals with a series of complex relationships and addresses sex and all its accompanying complications with frankness and insight. It's a direct, fast-moving, beautiful novel. Lawrence is now on my to-read list.
In the Presence of my Enemies by Gracia Burnham and Dean Merrill - I guess I'm not the target audience, but I was really hoping to like this story. My family knew the Burnhams, I had met them, and the story takes place where I grew up. But the writing was so sloppy, the prose so limp and artless, the moral lessons so blunt, that I just wanted to be finished.
As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner - Say what you will about Faulkner, and I'll probably even agree with you, but this little book is a powerhouse. It got me inside some demented minds, whipped me through some crazy scenarios, and told one heck of a story. Faulkner touched all the emotional and intellectual bases so lyrically and effortlessly.
Reflections in a Golden Eye by Carson McCullers - Good enough, but not quite up there with The Member of the Wedding and The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. I felt a little less interested in the characters, a little less engaged by the flow of events, and a little less haunted when it was all over.
Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad - I understand why Chinua Achebe hated this book and called it racist, but I felt like Conrad was doing something quite different. To me, the book seemed blatantly critical of imperialism, and seemed to show Western incompetence and racism in a horrific light. And it's a great yarn.
The Metamorphosis, The Penal Colony, and Other Stories by Franz Kafka - Kafka is becoming a hero to me. He treats his absurd premises with deep compassion, insight, and seriousness, leaving the stories open to pretty much any reaction except indifference. My writing has been changed by reading this book.
On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan - I've had my eye on this book for a while, and since it's only 166 pages long, I figured it would be a good way to come back to earth after Conrad and Kafka. What a book. I've never read such a powerful book about the things we don't say, and how they change us.
Something Missing by Matthew Dicks - The remarkable feature of this book is its premise. An OCD burglar treats his marks like clients and takes great care to steal only the things that won't be missed. Dicks is obviously heavily informed by Stephen King's On Writing, creating a straightforward, often clever novel that goes down easy.
Native Son by Richard Wright - A good, revealing story turns suddenly into an essay on race relations. Perhaps this was an effective wake-up call in its time, but I don't like it when authors go all Ayn Rand on me, getting me into a story just so I will read a 100 page-long sermon on their political opinions. It's a shame, because I really enjoyed the narrative.
The Real Life of Sebastian Knight by Vladimir Nabokov - Hard to believe this was Nabokov's first novel in the english language. It's so complex, savvy, and rewarding. His plays on criticism, narrative, and syntax fit beautifully within a portrait of a man on the trail of his genius brother's legacy.
Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky - Granted, this does have a bit of the sermonizing that I complained about in Native Son, but Dostoevsky does a good job of embedding his ideas in the psyche of his characters so it doesn't feel cheap. I felt alternately bored, engaged, and exhausted by this book. In retrospect, it's a beautiful story and well worth the work, but it didn't always feel like it while I was reading.
And now for the movies, of which I didn't see many this month:
The Full Monty - A tastefully done comedy about some out of work blokes in a steel town who decide to strip to earn some money. It was not a great film, but it was well-conceived and extremely likeable.
Shine - This film felt a bit like a Ron Howard biopic, which is heartwarming and inspiring until you learn about the liberties they took with the story. The acting and technique were top-notch, but I wondered why they didn't address the main character's mental illness or suggest that his relationship with his father wasn't the only thing that plagued him.
Precious - It's unfair to a film to hear its hype for months before you get to watch it. I felt moved by parts of this, repulsed by others, and bored by some of the techniques it employed. All in all, it was pretty good, but I couldn't get into it as much as I wanted to.
Billy Elliott - I guess this month was "Acclaimed British Films from the Nineties" month. Billy Elliott was my favorite of the bunch. It was funny, convincing, kinetic, and it earned the joyous feeling it left me with.
Cecil B. Demented - Either I've been desensetized or John Waters has lost his edge. This film was certainly vulgar, but it seemed to be lacking in the charm or warmth that marked his earlier movies. I did enjoy all the shout-outs to other, better directors like Sam Fuller and Sam Peckinpah.
Touch of Evil - This was no Citizen Kane, but it was one whiplash-inducing, twisty piece of noir. Orson Welles does a great job as a corrupt, alcoholic sheriff in a small border town across from Charlton Heston as an upstanding Mexican narcotics officer.
Palindromes - I loved this movie. See previous post for more.
On to March!
