The life and times of a history nerd in a tech geek's world

Whenever I finish a book, I write about it here. You should probably ignore this post unless you’re looking for a new read.

Earlier this year, I set myself the lofty goal of completing 50 books. This was partially inspired by my dad, who reads 100 books a year. I thought it’d be a challenge but believed that, at the very least, I could make it to 35 or 40. Well, November’s almost up and I’ve just finished my 20th! I’m sort of hoping I can at least push the number up to 25- maybe 30 if I’m really ambitious over the next five weeks.

Anyways, some books should count as more than one, such as Tom Wolfe’s The Bonfire of the Vanities, which is 720 pages long. A few years ago I read I Am Charlotte Simmons and wasn’t able to decided whether I liked it or not. There was something about Wolfe’s style of writing that was adventurous and fun, but the characters seemed overly cliched and exaggerated. I mean, what can you really expect of a 60-70 year old man writing from the perspective of an 18 year old female student? I’d heard it wasn’t one of his best works so I decided to give him another shot.

I am certainly glad I did because BOTV was miles beyond Charlotte Simmons. Everything about it was better- the plot, the characters, the language, etc. The basic story revolves around Sherman McCoy, a Wall Street bond broker, who deems himself to be a Master of the Universe. He’s got an extravagant home, which he shares with his wife and beloved daughter, Campbell, and he happens to be the top salesman at the highly regarded firm, Pierce & Pierce. One day he winds up lost in the Bronx with his mistress, Maria Ruskin. The two of them are approached by two black high schoolers by a highway ramp. Fearing that they are about to be robbed, Sherman throws a tire at one, Maria takes the wheel, and they drive away. Sherman leaves the scene fearing that they may have possibly hit one of the boys but can’t be sure. One of the boys winds up in the ICU at a hospital, which leads to a full on investigation. A character by the name of Reverend Bacon leads the quest for social justice, claiming that it is finally time for the people of the Bronx to finally get what they deserve. A whole mess of characters, including some of New York’s elite, members of the DA’s office in the Bronx, and a British expat reporter become involved with the case, which ultimately leads them to Sherman. I knew it wouldn’t end too well for our dear friend, but I had no idea just how crazy it would all wind up.

Wolfe originally wrote the story as a biweekly series for Rolling Stone magazine, in the style of Thackery or Dickens, but then heavily edited it in order to publish it as a whole novel. The first third of the novel or so does have a truly Dickensian feel- I can’t speak to Thackery’s work because I haven’t read any of his, but it certainly reminded me of reading Bleak House. Both Dickens and Wolfe somehow manage to blend wit, gloom, and a glimmer of hope simultaneously into a matter of pages. However, by the end, Wolfe’s attitude took over, leaving all the tales of morality that Dickens would have loved, aside. In some ways, Sherman reminded me of Raskolnikov from Crime and Punishment while at others he seemed to have fallen from Wharton’s Age of Innocence. In the act of one illicit activity he possibly commits a greater crime, which he attempts to rationalize but is never able to forgive himself for. Unlike Raskolnikov, he never attempts to repent or make amends, which may have been part of what ultimately led to his undoing. Instead he inadvertently betrays those he’s closest to and winds up falling deeper and deeper. He chooses to become animal, much like a tamed beast turned loose (his idea, not mine), which makes him seem a bit (okay, very) crazy.

One of my favorite aspects of the book was how every detail, no matter how big or small, tied together to something else. Nothing was mentioned just because it helped add to the scene or because Wolfe was lost for description. The fact that Maria was illegally living in someone else’s rent-controlled apartment, which was brought up towards the beginning, becomes useful information at the end. Also, how different characters perceived each other or how they imagined they appeared to others was done really well. In one scene, Sherman speaks with two police officers in his Park Avenue apartment and wonders what the two think of him. He knows they may not take him seriously but hopes to somewhat impress them with his Library. A bit later, the police officers get their chance to describe the scene and mention how ridiculous McCoy comes across by having a “library” in his own home.

Although we are led to believe that Sherman is the most despicable character of them all, we see just how ingenuous, greedy, and vain everyone else is too. Judy, his wife, is more obsessed with expensive furniture and getting in with the elite than she is with preserving her marriage. Maria Ruskin just wants attention, glamor, and money. The people in the DA’s office want recognition, reelection, and women. The reporter, Fallow, wants free lunches at the city’s finest restaurants and awards. One of the witnesses-one of the two boys at the scene, wants to cooperate in order to free himself of a drug charge and not because he hopes to avenge the boy in hospital. Even Sherman’s lawyer, Thomas Killian, who seems like a decent guy in comparison to everyone else, takes cases like McCoy’s in order to charge a $75,000 minimum, which allows him to wear posh suits and hats and build additions to his homes.

As long as it was, I’m sad that I won’t have Sherman McCoy to keep me company on my next 4+ hour plane ride.

Oh, and have a Happy Thanksgiving!

I wasn’t quite sure what to expect before starting Jack Kerouac’s classic, On the Road, and I’m still not quite sure how to feel now that I’ve finished it. Yes, I enjoyed it, quite a bit actually. But I didn’t particularly feel blown away by it as others have claimed to be.

As someone who’s been on quite a number of road trips through different parts of the States, I’d have to say it struck a definite chord with me. However, there were few moments when our narrator, Sal Paradise, offers more than a basic description of his and Dean Moriarty’s adventures.

Sal and Dean venture from one coast to another in a constant quest to either find themselves, women, the American dream, or to chase a certain feeling that doesn’t really have a name. They hitch rides, get into trains, take odd jobs here and there, and pester family members and friends for whatever money they can get their hands on in order to keep traveling. Somewhere in between all this, Dean manages to get married a couple of times and Sal writes and publishes at least one book.

It was a fun read and I believe that Kerouac has the ability to write beautifully, when he chooses to do so. His descriptions of San Francisco are spot on- to think, they even had the same types of hipsters back in his day! The best bit was at the end when they wind up driving through Mexico for a while. However, a lot of the book felt like a diary. It didn’t contain much depth and it was hard to determine any sense of purpose. Yes, being on the road may instill a feeling that in and of itself justifies the journey, but oftentimes Sal and Dean emphasized great need and urgency in getting from one city to the other without really saying why.

This book would make for a good Twitter account:

“Today I decided I wanted to drive out West and @deanM said he’d come with me if I taught him how to write.”-@SParadise

“It sure is foggy out here in San Francisco! That @remiboncoeur certainly gets us in a lot of trouble!”

“I only have $5 left…I’m headed to Denver and hope that my aunt’s wire transfer meets me there on time!”

And so on, and so on. In the end I’m glad to have read it and would recommend it to certain friends, but I can’t say it was life altering.

It has been weeks since I last finished a book! Disaster! To be fair, I did just move continents and this collection of Jack London stories could almost count for a couple of novellas.

I figured it was only fitting to read a bit of Jack London prior to arriving in his native San Francisco. I’m sure I’ve read at least one of his stories before, and I’ve read quite a bit about his life and several of his articles from his time spent as a war correspondent in the Russo-Japanese War. He was quite the character and it was certainly interesting reading these stories immediately after finishing some Mark Twain.

It was a bit difficult reading all of the stories together because they were all pretty intense and shared many similarities.

The first story is “Batard” (sometimes known as “Diable”), which tells of a man and his brutal relationship with his dog. They hate each other and know that one of them is going to die at the hands (or claws) of the other. I enjoyed it but am glad it was pretty short.

The next was “The Call of the Wild,” which was, by far, the best story in the book. A dog goes from living with different men until he eventually answers the “call of the wild” and joins a pack of wolves. That description doesn’t do the story justice, and I’m pretty sleepy, so just read it if you haven’t. Or read it again.

Next was “Love of Life,” which was the only non-dog/wolf story. Yes, there was a wolf that played a major part in the story, but it wasn’t the main character this time around. The description in this story was great but I was a bit sad that the man managed to live in the end.

Lastly was “White Fang,” my second favorite. This time a wolf winds up abandoning the wild to live with humans. It was interesting to read this story so soon after reading “The Call of the Wild.” I loved the first half of the story, which describes White Fang’s mother and his time spent in the wilderness. What makes London’s writing good has absolutely nothing to do with plot, in fact I think he doesn’t really succeed any time he focuses too much on the plot. Instead, it’s his description and his ability to capture a strong sense of longing and emotion. I could go on but my brain isn’t having any of this right now.

How on earth have I never read any of Edith Wharton’s works before? In school I had to read A Midsummer Night’s Dream twice, Beowulf three times, endless epic poems, multiple Steinbecks, stories of war, bravery, and witchcraft (told from a male’s perspective). The only assigned female authors I can really remember reading were Harper Lee, Barbara Kingsolver, Zora Neale Hurston, and Maya Angelou.

Why would teachers never assign something as brilliant as The Age of Innocence? It can’t possibly be because the story is too scandalous or inappropriate. We read Huckleberry Finn, which has often proved controversial due to its dealings with race, and Nineteen Eighty-Four, which is hardly G rated. Not to mention the endless tales of brutality in war and slavery. It can’t possibly be because the book was poorly written-it won the Pulitzer Prize in 1921!

Anyways, rant aside, I loved this book. It was interesting to read after having finished Sinclair Lewis’ Main Street about a month ago because both have similar themes. In fact, Wharton beat out Lewis for the Pulitzer Prize that year. Lewis depicts a young woman who marries a nice young man then realizes that her dreams for change will never happen. Wharton depicts a young man who marries a nice young woman then realizes that his hopes for travel and interesting conversation may never happen. Although I slightly preferred Main Street (probably because I read it first), I can see why Wharton won the prize. Her writing is more accessible and moving while Lewis is more comedic and bitter.

I never thought I’d say this, but I am really starting to like American literature (at least 19th-early 20th century lit) thanks to authors like Lewis, Hawthorne, and Wharton.

This was the second Kurt Vonnegut book I’ve read, the first being Breakfast of Champions, which I read about 3 years ago. Several friends of mine are huge Vonnegut fans so I figured I’d give the guy a chance. Breakfast of Champions was certainly funny, but didn’t really have me rushing out to buy more. Basically, I like the guy, but I’m not in love with him the way everyone else seems to be. Cat’s Cradle was decent. It was creative, funny at times, bizarre, and definitely a hell of a lot better than the Time Traveler’s Wife. But I just finished it a couple minutes ago and I’ve already sort of forgotten what it was about.

Let’s see, a writer sets out to write a book about what people were doing the day the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima. He winds up getting to know the kids of Felix Hoenikker, (fictional) co-father of the bomb and winds up on a small Caribbean island called San Lorenzo. Everyone on the island secretly follows the made-up religion of Bokononism (the religion is banned on the island, and a crime punishable by “the hook”). The Hoenikkers carry around bits of Ice-9, a deadly substance created by their father, which ultimately leads to a lot of trouble.

The book, which mostly manages to maintain a fairly steady flow, ends abruptly. The last 30 pages spiral downwards toward chaos and leave readers (or at least this one) with a sense of WTF? Reading Vonnegut reminds me of reading Pynchon. The big difference being that while I remain confused continuously throughout one of Pynchon’s novels, I always feel deceptively safe while reading Vonnegut until the end. All of a sudden I’ll realize that I’ve been led astray and that there is no turning back towards any place that once made sense. I get that he’s trying to make a point about weapons and the Cold War, all the while keeping us entertained, but it’s a little too out there for my taste. I’m sure I’ll read more of his work in the future-I do have a copy of Slaughterhouse Five lying around somewhere, but I fear this book will not stand out in my memory for much longer.

Here are a few of my favorite bits from the book:

“You scientists think too much,” blurted Miss. Pefko. She laughed idiotically. Dr. Breed’s friendliness had blown every fuse in her nervous system. She was no longer responsible. “You all think too much.”

A winded, defeated-looking fat woman in filthy coveralls trudged beside us, hearing what Miss Pefko said. She turned to examine Dr. Breed, looking at him with helpless reproach. She hated people who thought too much. At that moment, she struck me as an appropriate representative for almost all mankind.

The fat woman’s expression implied that she would go crazy on the spot if anybody did any more thinking. (p.24)

Hazel’s obsession with Hoosiers around the world was a text-book example of a false karass, of a seeming team that was meaningless in terms of the ways God gets things done, a text-book example of what Bokonon calls a granfalloon. Other examples of granfalloons are the Communist party, the Daughters of the American Revolution, the General Electric Company, the International Order of Odd Fellows-and any nation, anytime, anywhere. (p.65)

“I got him fired,” said his wife. “The only piece of real evidence produced against him was a letter I wrote to the New York Times from Pakistan.”

“What did it say?”

“It said a lot of things,” she said, “because I was very upset about how Americans couldn’t imagine what it was like to be something else, to be something else and proud of it.”

“I see.”

“But there was one sentence they kept coming back to again and again in the loyalty hearing,” sighed Minton. ” ‘Americans’”, he said, quoting his wife’s letter to the Times, ” ‘are forever searching for love in forms it never takes, in places it can never be. It must have something to do with the vanished frontier.’” (p.69)