Boring

After some reflection, and feeling listless, at wit's end, and unfulfilled, I decided to write a biography.

I would write about one of the Dollar Princesses, those wealthy American heiresses who married (mostly) British aristocrats, whether by their own choice, or when forced by social-climbing mamas eager to pry their way into Mrs. John Jacob Astor's 400.

The New Money of the Vanderbilts and the Goulds couldn't buy their entry to the social elite of Gilded Age New York City, so they bought their way in via a roundabout route: marry their daughter to an impoverished Duke or Earl with a large estate and an ancient lineage, and pay the Duke or Earl for the privilege. An impeccable European pedigree guaranteed entry to Mrs. Astor's 400, so the newly minted Duchess or Countess provided her mother with a foot in the door, as well.

There were a few Dollar Princesses who weren't nouveau riche, of course, and it was one of these women that I wished to write about. I spent a great deal of time gathering information from online journals, ordered a few obscure books that would be nigh on impossible to acquire from a library, and finally, after finishing a couple of weighty books - I didn't want them to distract me - I set about my research.

And then, I made a terrible discovery.

No, not that there were already rafts of biographies about the woman. I'd researched that aplenty.

No, there wasn't a court injunction banning anyone from writing about her.

Yes, there seemed to be plenty of information available, on the surface of things - though another author mentioned on an obscure interior design and real estate blog that her modern family was less than helpful when asked if they would contribute information about their illustrious ancestor.

The terrible discovery was this: she was boring.

Now, I'm sure she was a lovely person. Indeed, all sources seemed to point to her being a lovely woman: excellent manners; a streak of charity - but not one outlandish or particularly noteworthy; wisdom beyond her years when selecting a mate for herself, which she was able to do because she was in possession of her own estate, by the time she wed. She was a lovely, lovely, lovely woman.

Lovely.

Her marriage was a success, too! No scandalous affairs, no marital separations. No law suits about dowry, or yearly allowances, or economic strife due to her losing millions during a stock market bust, and thus engendering feelings of resentment on the part of her husband.

Nope. Everything was smooth sailing.

Nobody wants to read about smooth sailing.

Seriously.

Readers want a bit of drama , and "Sorry honey, I have to sit in the House of Lords: I'll be gone for a month"/ "Oh, darling, I'll miss you. Don't forget your umbrella" doesn't cut it for drama.

Sure, her husband went to war. And he came back. And all was well, again. Onward and upward.

I was bored just reading about her life, which seemed too perfect. It out-fairytaled most fairytales, which usually involve some form of conflict, even if there aren't any actual fairies. Everything was ideal: no mean stepmothers, dark fairies suffering from #FOMO, or even impractical footwear to trip her up!

Pun totally intended, BTW.

So I scrapped the idea of writing a biography. And now I'm slowly circling the idea of taking up a novel, again. I have five pages written, and a few pages of notes, and that's about it.

Hopefully, something will click, soon, whether it's another idea for a biography, or this novel.

Life With a Little More "Life"

I've been completely off of opiate pain medications for a few weeks, now. So far, I'm happy about it. I feel different without the constant haze of brain-fug I experienced (unknowingly, mostly) for the previous four years of my life.

I wake up, now, when the sun's brightness wakes me up - usually around 7:30-8:00 - as nature intended, instead of sleeping until noon because my body responded to when the drugs wore off. I have a true circadian rhythm to my life that I previously lacked.

Wikimedia Commons

When I sleep, my sleep is more restful, and I'm dreaming more often - and remembering more of my dreams - and having more pleasant dreams, as opposed to nightmarish head trips that prevented me from sleeping soundly. Some of these nightmares were probably hallucinations, in truth, rather than me actually sleeping and dreaming.

TheGuyWho3433

You know those commercials for medications to treat opiate-induced constipation, known as OIC, apparently, because giving a disorder an acronym makes it less embarrassing? Yeah, so good old OIC is a serious issue for people on pain medications for chronic illness. Even more so when the migraines - for which you take opioids - is also a source of, um, "C" (see above OIC, and just remove the C, because: acronyms). Though it isn't exactly happening quickly, the gastrointestinal effects of constant opiate use are slowly working themselves out.

I'm not living in fear of the medication completely working its way out of my system all at once, leaving me with a shock of pain bad enough to make me writhe around, incapable of relaxing and resting. The anxiety of running out of opiates is also gone; the government's strict controls and occasional drug shortages rendered this a serious concern, especially if a new patient began filling a prescription for the same drugs and the pharmacy wasn't prepared for it.

Psychologically, I'm dealing with the migraines better. I'm taking very little in the way of medication, just some muscle relaxants when it's really bad, and maybe a couple of Tylenol. I'll also pop on the good old Cephaly if it's bad and I can stand to have something on my head. In Europe, the device is marketed as an "acute" treatment, instead of simply preventative, so it's worth a shot, right? And it did seem to help, that first time I tried it, when I caught the migraine early enough, so...

The only downside I've noticed so far has left me with mixed feelings.

I'm having difficulty with creative endeavors.

I used to write for an hour or two each day, most days, typically at night once my pain medications kicked in, or in the afternoon if I had to take them to get me through a particularly rough spot. About 30 or 45 minutes after taking the drugs, I'd feel a surge of creative energy and feel as if I simply had to write. Now.

That's gone, the creative urge evaporating into the ether, so to speak.

Or into a Photoshop gradient. One of those two, definitely.

Ever since I kicked the habit, the books I was working on - all those ideas, fictional and non-fictional - have dried up. I don't feel the same inspiration that I previously felt.

It's unnerving.

I used to believe that real artists didn't require chemical assistance to create masterpieces. I'm less sure of that, now, mostly because to accept that my writing was mostly the product of a opiate-induced fever-dream would force me to see it as less valuable.

Maybe.

For now, I'm trying not to think about the significant drop in "creating" that I'm experiencing.

To distract myself, I watch stand up comedians and comediennes on Hulu and NetFlix, or take quizzes on Sporcle, both very productive.

I go to Whole Foods and buy groceries to feed my husband and myself, because eating at home is healthier than eat at our favorite local fast food joint, El Rey (even though their Havana Plate is so f!&#ing delicious).

Bayou City Bites

I'm also mentally caching ideas for a new blog - one that would relate to my professional field instead of a personal blog - and trying to come up with a name for it.

On Monday, I'll start doing a bit of contract work for my dad, editing photos of his products for brochures and website use. This will most likely take place at a Starbucks, because only suckers work from home when they can go to Starbucks and pretend to be cool, hip, self-employed graphic designers that totally have a thriving business and aren't just doing some work for their dads since they have some time on their hands.

And I'll mentally wrestle with whether I want to pick up my Montblanc, again, and continue writing that fantasy novel, or maybe start researching that history of the British in Kenya once more.

Sisters. Sisters. There were never such adoring sisters.

I received a message via Facebook, today, informing me that I had been granted a "Sisterhood of the World Bloggers Award." The awarder...

No.

The awardor...

No.

The award giver? Granter? Grantor? Grantor, according to Merriam-Webster.

Okay, here we go again. The award grantor is my third cousin, the daughter of my Cousin Thom. After Thom's death, she took over his blog, To Gyre and Gambol, and has definitely lived up to his legacy.

Since I blogged about Thom, I haven't written another entry, although I've meant to do so. I've mentally composed several posts, but then didn't get around to writing them.

I've been busy. I met the man of my dreams, and on May 30, 2015, I will marry him in a smallish ceremony here in Houston. We now share a home, and he has been through a round of everyone's favorite game: "Megan's Bedridden Again!"

So we have the whole "in sickness and in health" thing covered.

Lots going on. And that's part of why I haven't blogged: I felt there was too much to catch up on.

But now, I've been given an award, and so I will blog, tonight, for the first time in six months.

So here are the questions Amy sent me to answer:

• Why did you start blogging?

My sister suggested it. I was unemployed in 2008, and had nothing to do. I would write these loooooooong emails full of details about what it's like to be unemployed to her, and she told me how funny they were. I was reading constantly, and wanted a way to "discuss" my books with people, and so when my sister (also named Amy, by the way - total fluke in the family naming thing) suggested I start a blog, I decided to do so. I initially had a schedule: Monday was a review of the bar I went to on Friday for Architects' Happy Hour, Tuesday was some amusing anecdote related to being unemployed, Wednesday was also some amusing anecdote related to being unemployed, Thursday was often a book review, and Friday was either another random story or a picture of alcohol, because I was too busy going to Happy Hour at 5:30. Don't knock it. It's how I got my next job. "You can hold your booze and won't put up with alcoholics' shenanigans? You're hired!"

• Do you have a favorite scar? Tell us its story

I actually have three favorite scars. Is that cheating? Maybe? I never claimed not to be a cheater, you know.

Three favorite scars: one beneath my right breast - 1.5" long and 1/8" wide; quasi-symmetrical ones fanning out from my waist down to my hips. The fan-shaped scars used to be bright red, then purple, but now they're a shiny flesh-tone, almost invisible unless you see them in the right light. Or wrong light, depending on your feelings about scars.

All three come from chemotherapy treatment as a 17 year old. I got all of them within a three month period of time. On December 4, 1999, I had surgery to implant a port-a-cath, which is usually implanted above the breast in teenage patients, so it doesn't interfere with brassieres. When I was diagnosed, however, I weighed a skeletal 105 lbs, so there wasn't enough fat over my rib cage to implant the port-a-cath above my breast. So the placed it below my right breast, but out of the way of the band of my bra.

The other two scars are also related to my being 105 lbs of nothing when I was diagnosed with leukemia. My doctors put me on steroids, you see, as part of my treatment, and I proceeded to eat all the food ever. I would go through a gallon of whole milk and 1.5 lbs of ham in two days. And that doesn't include the 3 a.m. scrambled eggs I would make for myself, or the Oreos, or the microwaved frozen broccoli.

I gained a lot of weight in a short period of time, and after three months of chemotherapy and steroids - and the puffiness that comes with being on steroids - I noticed that I was getting funny marks on my hips. Stretch marks. From gaining weight.

I used to be ashamed of the scars on my hips. It's helped that they've faded, with time, but I also see them as a symbol of what I went through, and who it helped me to become.

• Are you sunrise, daylight, twilight, or night?

I am the walrus. Koo koo ka choo.

I used to think I was night. I'm still a bit of a night owl, but something I've learned in the past six months is that I crave sunlight. I've actually cured migraines by sitting in the sunlight and resting, so I think I'm now daylight.

• What's the best meal you've ever had?

The best meal I've ever had... I've had lots of great meals, memorable meals, but I think the best one was on November 1st of 2014. That was the day The Love of My Life asked me to marry him, and we went to Ruth's Chris for dinner, that night. (I thought he was going to propose at dinner, but then he stole a march on me and proposed before we went to lunch.) When we arrived, one of his friends had called the restaurant, told them what had happened, and paid for us to have a bottle of champagne. At first, I thought Robert - the fiance - had ordered the champagne. But then he asked if I'd done it. Nope. There was a card on the table, and that straightened things out pretty quickly. I had filet mignon, mushrooms, and asparagus with hollandaise with creme brulee for dessert.

It wasn't the best food I've ever had, but the company couldn't be beat.

• If you wrote a book, what would it be about? Write the inside front jacket.

I've actually written a book, but it's nowhere near being publishable. There's a ton of work to be done on it. If I had a year without a job, I'd work on it, and probably get it polished up in a couple of months. It's a fairy tale about a benevolent witch - it's a matriarchal society, and men are kind of (really) looked down on - who has to go on a journey to find a cure for the coven's matriarch, who will die without this cure. So she leaves, and eventually finds the cure, and on the way decides that neither humans nor males are so bad (in fact, some of them are smokin', but in a totally PG way), and she is also disappointed in some things. The character, as I initially wrote her, is too perfect, though, too cold, and too remote. She isn't someone you really want to read about. I've grown better about having relatable characters, in the intervening years (I wrote it 5 years ago), so I think I could turn it into something publishable, if I had the time.


But as for writing the inside front jacket? I don't know if my late-night mental muscles are up to that taxing task...

• Tattoos: yea or nay?

I certainly don't have any! Long ago, I wanted to be tan, but then I had cancer, and I decided I didn't want to get cancer again, so now I'm perfectly happy being fair-skinned. It isn't pale, it's porcelain, and I'm rocking it. And I work pretty hard to keep it nice, especially after the time I ended up with a striped sunburn after floating the Comal River in San Marcos, TX. No ink shall mar this creamy canvas.

• What do you wish you were better at?

Wow. There are so many possibilities here. One: getting off my duff and exercising. Two: socializing. I sort of have social anxiety, especially after bouts of illness, and then the idea of going out with a group of people can send me into a panic. Fortunately, my lifemate is good at talking me down (even when he thinks it's just me "not having anything to wear", which is a very convenient excuse for me). Three: riding a bike, snapping, and whistling. That's I lie, I wish I could actually do those things, not just be better at them. That's right: I refused to learn to ride a bike. I need three wheels under my caboose, or it's game over.

• Which young-adult bestseller-turned move do you dislike the most?

I can't really speak to this one, since I haven't seen any of them. I've heard the Hunger Games movies are actually really good, but I'm so madly in love with the books that I'm afraid I'd be disappointed if I saw them.

• Public school or private? Interpret whichever way you like.

I went to public school. I found out, within the past two years, that a lot of students in my district perceived my school as "ghetto". I couldn't figure out why, initially, and then I realized that we were one of the few schools on my side of town that had a racially diverse population. We had Hispanics and African Americans at my middle school! Gasp! It was good for me to be in a diverse population. I didn't realize until my parents pointed it out that two of my friends were Hispanic. ("Huh? Oh. I guess they are. Whaddaya know.")

• What fashion decision do you most regret?

Dream-catcher earrings in the sixth grade. Hands down.


I'm supposed to pass this on, now, and award it to someone else. The difficulty there is that I'm out of practice with reading blogs. I never really read other peoples' blogs, much. This blog was just a way for me to vent, and to be creative and maybe have 100 people read an entry on Margaret Atwood's MaddAddam series (which she finally finished. Helllo! That took a while!).

So I'm going to be a bad sister, in this Sisterhood of Bloggers, and break the chain.

Hopefully I don't have 7 years of bad luck.

Last Round of Reading (for fun) For a While

I'm currently steamrolling my way through The Collected Sherlock Holmes, Vol. II.

Vol. I is history, already.

I read an interesting study of Arthur Conan Doyle's relationship with Harry Houdini (the two were, at one time, very good friends and regular correspondents), and it roused my interest in good old Sherlock Holmes. The last SH story I read was probably in middle school, and it was The Adventure of the Speckled Band. It was a good read at the time, and thinking back on it, I decided to explore some of the World's Only Consulting Detective's work.

I duly went to Barnes & Noble and bought Vols. I and II of their in-house published Collected Sherlock Holmes. Two volumes, over 1600 pages, for $16. Not bad. And not as horribly proofread or copy-edited as I'd expected (except I have a hunch that that one "sonic" should have been "some", and their scanner messed up).

I'm thoroughly enjoying good old Sherlock's adventures. I'd forgotten that they were told from Dr. Watson's point of view.

I'm also remembering some of the kerfuffle that sprang up when the first Guy Ritchie Sherlock Holmes movie came out a couple of years back. Some people were up in arms because Robert Downey Jr's Sherlock is a bit more rough and tumble than that of Basil Rathbone. Downey/Holmes is a more flawed, more frenetic character than that of suave, sophisticated, cool and calm Mr. Rathbone.

The thing is, the Sherlock Holmes in the stories is not so much a gentlemanly guy. He's essentially incapable of normal human relationships because of his genius (one of the reasons he clings to Watson so desperately). He boxes for fun, and with fellows who aren't of his social caste. He shoots up cocaine because he's bored. And Watson describes him as going into something of a frenzy when he's on the scent.

It's interesting, because I found Downey's version of Holmes much more interesting then Rathbone's. Good to know that Mr. Ritchie brings out the ferociousness of Holmes better than his predecessors.

All this being said, I enjoyed the first volume more than Doyle's later stories. It's understandable, I guess, since ACD was sick and tired of writing Sherlock Holmes mysteries - which he viewed as literary trash - and went so far as to kill off Holmes in one story, hoping that his publisher would quit hounding him for more stories. He eventually brought Holmes back to life, but the stories afterwards lack the joie de vivre of the earlier works, before ACD grew completely disgusted with the monster he'd created.

The best thing about the Sherlock Holmes stories? They're interesting, but not too interesting. They hold my attention enough that I'm not throwing the book across the room in disgust, but they're not so compelling that I stay up past "the point of no return," sleep-wise. I don't try to soldier through my exhaustion (as I so often do), but instead take a more "ho-hum. I'll see if Holmes survives, tomorrow" approach.

Excellent bedtime reading.

The Finkler Question, by Howard Jacobson

The Finkler Question is yet another book from The Economist's Best Books of 2011 issue. The back cover describes it as "a funny, furious, unflinching story of friendship and loss, exclusion and belonging, and of the wisdom and humanity of maturity."

Pretty well sums it up, even if it doesn't exactly go into particulars in any way, shape, or form.

A few things to note, if you care to rush out and buy The Finkler Question: it deals extensively with the conflict between Palestinians and the Israeli government. I already had a pretty set idea of my beliefs, in regards that conflict, and they're not fundamentally changed after reading the book, but it definitely gives pause for thought.

Barnes & Noble Review warns that the book "will probably distress you on its way to disarming you." The story deals with modern Jews living in England, and their perception of events and issues shaping the Palestinian conflict, as well as the views of other countries. Secular and religious Jews face off, and there is even a case of a "hate crime" committed by one Jew against another.

The Finkler Question discusses the conflict in intensely humanizing and personal ways, and though it is at the heart of the story, it is only one of the topics addressed. The universal need for love and acceptance and belonging, the battle against the personal history that shapes each and every human being, and the failings of friends as new interests arise all confront the reader throughout the engrossing novel.

I definitely recommend it.

The Forgotten Waltz: A Novel, by Anne Enright

One of my favorite editions of The Economist each year is their summary of best books of the year. This year, I picked out the titles I thought sounded most promising and duly created a list on my iPhone so I could be prepared when I next embarked on a book buying binge.

Unwilling to wait for books to arrive in the mail (and having been tipped off by my mom that I would be receiving gobs of books for Christmas), I went to the book store. Of the twelve books I noted in my digital list, Barnes & Noble had exactly three in stock. That's three books out of the multitudes of books declared as "must reads" by one of the most respected news magazines in the world.

Three.

3.

The manager looked none too pleased when I commented on the fact (but then, I don't believe he knew what The Economist was, as he assumed a puzzled expression, so...).

The two books I decided to buy were The Forgotten Waltz by Anne Enright and The Finkler Question by Howard Jacobson.

Today, we will address The Forgotten Waltz.

I like Ms. Enright's style of writing. I will say that much. It is spare, and intriguing - mostly because the paucity of detail leaves the reader wondering about certain events that go unremarked... unless I just forgot about them - and in its austerity is beautiful.

The story, however, left me a bit cold.

I wanted to like the book so very much. Really, I did.

The heroine is described as "flawed and unforgettable" on the book jacket, which might lead the reader to think that she will be someone you empathize with, whose choices you support.

Hmmm...

My main issue with the character and her love interest (a different person from her husband, natch), is that they don't try to address the problems in their current marriages (yup: double adultery), but instead have an affair, heedless of the damage it might do to the other people involved, particularly her love interest's adolescent daughter.

Most of the novel - told from the main characters point of view - is spent trying to justify herself to the reader, her family, her friends; trying to convince us that she had no choice but to have an affair.

I'm not a close-minded person, where extramarital relations are concerned. I can see where an extramarital affair might be justifiable, or at least understandable. In this case, however, the affair seems unnecessary.

Granted, there is some satisfaction at the end of the book, when the heroine is trying to make herself seem less of a house-wrecking witch in the eyes of her lover's child. She points out that "it was going to happen one way or another. I mean it could have been anyone [breaking up your parents' marriage.]" To which the child answers truthfully, "But it wasn't... It was you."

At least, in the final exchange of words between home-wrecker and home-wrecked, the heroine is not able to escape from her culpability. Small relief.

(Also, I couldn't figure out why the book was entitled The Forgotten Waltz. Maybe I just missed something. It's probable. But the title seems unrelated to the events, seeing as not much of the heroine's affair is forgotten, and there is very little waltzing (as in, none) in the book itself.)

There are books I keep forever, and books I give away or sell on to used book stores.

This one will go to Half Price Books sometime in the very near future.

"The Marriage Plot" by Jeffrey Eugenides

"The Marriage Plot": that timeless literary tale, most often related by Elizabeth Gaskell, Jane Austen, George Eliot, and the Brontes, in which a young woman needs/wants to be married in order to be happy, but is prevented for one reason or another.

The premise of The Marriage Plot by Jeffrey Eugenides (Pulitzer winner for Middlesex), revolves around the seemingly antiquated plotline so idolized by women.

The story takes place at Brown University, where the heroine, Madeleine, is pursued (to no avail) by a frowsily dapper religious scholar while she pursues a relationship with a one-time collegiate playboy, Leonard. The playboy also has bipolar disorder, aka manic depression.

Whereas in Austen or Gaskell, social class or financial abilities kept lovers apart, in this case, it is Leonard's mental illness that prevents their happiness.

The Marriage Plot explores ground most often covered in hot-pink chick-lit books with smarmy-looking skeletons in Manolos on the cover. Obviously, as the understated white and black cover attests, Eugenides' treatment is vastly superior. The ground covered, to spell it out, is the creation of "the friend zone" by modern females - characterizing male friends as asexual or non-romantic, and suffered by uber-religious Mitchell - and the relationship conflicts created by living with a person of the opposite sex to whom you are not married.

As with Middlesex, Eugenides places the reader into the mind of a character who has a disorder with which we are (most likely) not personally acquainted. Calliope, the main character in Middlesex, had a rare genetic mutation that meant she/he was a male without external sex organs, and the story covers how she/he came to be born with the mutation, how it was discovered, and how Calliope eventually chose to cope with it.

In the case of The Marriage Plot, the reader experiences Leonard's manic swings, his all-consuming depression, and his battle with mood-altering/stabilizing drugs, in this case lithium. As with the characters in the book, each crescendoing burst of energy on Leonard's part leaves us wondering how it will affect his life, and the lives of those around him.

The Marriage Plot wasn't what I would call an "easy read," but then Middlesex wasn't particularly easy, in many parts. This latest offering from Eugenides is less fantastical than his two previous offerings, but he seems to be mellowing as his writing progresses.

That being said, I have to confess that I prefer Middlesex - one of my all-time favorite reads - over The Marriage Plot. Get ready for the over-used word, again. The Marriage Plot just wasn't as compelling as the other books I've read lately (I'm in the midst of The English Patient, as we speak - er - type).

"The Cat's Table" by Michael Ondaatje

I have not read The English Patient, but it should arrive in a couple of days, so I guess I'll just have to be patient (wah-wah). My mother, however, in a wonderful act of literary enablement purchased two books for me about a month ago.

Studio is over. I have one final exam. Let the reading begin!!!!!

Yesterday (Tuesday, Nov. 29), I had a migraine, most likely caused by a serious lack of quality sleep prior to my final project submission in studio and the sudden draining of adrenaline from my system, ditto. I stayed in bed all day and subsisted on gluten-free blueberry waffles and Greek yogurt and hot chocolate.

And I read, Dear Reader! Oh! How I read!

I read Michael Ondaatje's The Cat's Table, which has been sitting on my bookshelf for weeks, beckoning me with its come-hither book-jacket, seducing me with the promise of what lay hidden beneath said book-jacket, and occasionally falling to the floor in a pathetic bid for attention. After playing hard to get, I finally succumbed to its promises, yesterday.

And promptly read the whole thing.

As expected from a Booker Prize winner, The Cat's Table is beautifully written and (I'm getting ready to use one of my most over-used words, here) compelling. I couldn't put it down. It is, in fact, the reason I took a bath, yesterday, in lieu of a shower: it's difficult to read in the shower, but oh so easy in the bathtub.

I sacrificed hair hygiene for a book! That is not a common occurrence.

The story follows a young boy (Michael) and two other boys who are traveling alone from present-day Sri Lanka to England. They get into all sorts of trouble, on board, and are charmed by the other passengers assigned to sit at the dinner table of least prominence in the dining hall, also know as the Cat's Table.

Over the course of the journey, the reader discovers that the people on board are not what they appear to be: the lonely old (not so old) spinster is most likely an agent for MI5, and the kindly botanist who has a crush on Michael's cousin smokes pot in the hold of the ship. There is a prisoner, on board, who the boys observe secretly when he comes out from the hold at night for his daily walk above-deck, dressed in leg-irons and manacles to prevent the criminal from escaping.

The effects of the journey stay with Michael, later in life, and the story is told from his vantage point as a grown man with one failed marriage behind him, who still clings to the idealized person of his older female cousin, Emily, who perhaps had the greatest secret of everyone on board.

I recommend it. Highly.

On the strength of its impression on me, I even ordered The English Patient (also written by Ondaatje, and winner of the Booker Prize). It should be here in a couple of days, by which point I'll have worked my way through Eugenides' The Marriage Plot, which I'm also enjoying. I'll give a review of it, after it's finished.

Two Nights in a Row! Wowzers!

I mysteriously have time to write, tonight, which fills me with dread. I feel like I should be doing something for my design studio - but I'm not.

Oh, sure, I'm researching for the enormously huge research paper (that isn't so enormously huge) that I have to write for my Modern Architectural History class, but that's pretty fun. A lot of fun, actually.

I might just chuck this whole architecture thing and go be a research assistant for someone, because I can seriously sit and read books on anything all day. And take notes, that go on nicely organized note cards with little sticky labels (pre-printed in a nice sans-serif font) in the top left corner that tell me where I got the info, the page number in the top right corner, and filed under the section of the outline to which it belongs in a nifty note card organizer that was $4 at Office Depot.

I get to combine my obsessive love of organizational tools with reading!!!!!

It's like I died and went to heaven! And heaven is a Container Store with a built-in library! And maybe a Starbucks with Tom Selleck as the barrista...

Okay, so maybe I couldn't read books about anything (I'm not too keen on string theory, nuclear reactions, and electrical engineering, so I'd restrict myself to history, the arts, and anthropology...even though the other two kind of fall under the third?).

Right now, however, I am eating up all this Le Corbusier and Soviet Russia.

See, Le Corbusier had "a thing" with Russia in the late 1920s, early 1930s, when the Soviets started to organize themselves and figure out what, exactly, the Communist state should be (an autocracy, apparently). He had one project built there, and entered a couple of other competitions, which he did not win because he was a Swiss bourgeois pig-dog.

Or something.

But his relationship with the Russian Constructivists he met shaped his future works profoundly. And it's fascinating reading about the impact Communism had on art and architecture, and how architecture was not just seen as something pretty to live in/look at, but as something that could change the nature of society. Architecture was, in and of itself, revolutionary, and I don't just mean "look: that's new" but "we can bring down governments with this building" revolutionary.

The whole idea is mind-boggling to me.

Mind-boggling and fascinating.

Oh Blah Di, Oh Blah Da!

Life goes on!

Things are starting to take on some semblance of normalcy, around here.

And by "here" I mean my apartment in H-Town.

I have cooked a real meal on my stove, and discovered that its Level 4 setting is about what my old stove's Level 6 setting was. Fortunately, my 14 oz. sirloin didn't suffer too much in the searing!

I have unpacked more things, and put them away. Some are relegated to a cardboard box that will be unceremoniously shoved underneath a skirted table.

I have received a number of packages via UPS, so my UPS guy and I are now on smiling, "Hey, how's it going?" terms.

I will be sending back the contents of one package - wheeled ferrules for my sofa, to elevate it since it was made for wood floors, not carpet - because I only measured one of the six legs on the sofa, and four of them won't accommodate the ferrules. Other brass wheels will be exchanged for the ones I mistakenly purchased.

I've read a book, which I'd read once before but was absolutely certain that I had not read. It was Wilkie Collins' The Woman In White. I read the copy I already owned, so it's not in any way like my proliferating copies of The Count of Monte Cristo, which I misplace and then buy a duplicate of, only to find the original right where it should have been.

Besides, you can never have enough Counts of Monte Cristo lying around.

I received a shipment of shorts from The Gap, one of which will be returned because 1) they're too big; and 2) I look like I'm wearing baggy liederhosen. Not particularly flattering.

The last thing I want is to be mistaken for Kurt Von Trapp while traipsing across campus.

I'm still not 100% on board with the whole "wearing o the shorts" bit, mostly because I've spent the last ten years keeping my legs covered so they don't blind everyone in the vicinity. I don't do tanning. So I feel, I suppose, the way the young ladies of the 1920s felt when fashion dictated a raise in the hem-line: somewhat scandalous at all that bare skin - and with a 33 1/2" inseam, that's a lot of leg - but still condoned by society (to a degree).

I've spent 45 minutes on the phone with a surprisingly delightful and helpful young woman from AT&T who helped me re-register my wireless router/modem thingy after it inexplicably ceased to function, yesterday.

And now, I'm about to head to bed.

At 7:40 p.m.

Hopefully, I will finish the book I am currently reading (The 6th Lamentation) and begin reading another one, perhaps Spy Princess: The Life of Noor Inayat Khan or The Memory of All That: George Gershwin, Kay Swift, and My Family's Legacy of Infidelities by one of the Warburg family's descendants, who apparently has made a career out of outing her family's little secrets.

I look forward to some scandalously delicious reading, to go along with my scandalous shorts.

Rereading

I just finished rereading James Clavell's Shogun. I enjoyed it the first time I read it, a couple of years ago, and I enjoyed it this time, too. Although the lengthy internal monologues get kind of dull after a bit.

The copy of Shogun I have was rescued from a family friend who let me go through a bunch of books she was cleaning out of their house. I snagged Master and Commander - which is a naval novel - and Shogun.

The version of Shogun that I have was issued in 1975, as an accompaniment to the "spectacular twelve-hour maxiseries from Paramount Television."

Maxiseries...

...right.

But wait! It gets better!

The book's cover is entirely dedicated to gratuitous exaggeration and aggrandizement. To show you the difference between today's movie tie-in books and this earlier television tie-in book, I submit the following:

Now: Now a major motion picture.

Then: NOW THE COLOSSAL TELEVISION SAGA THAT IS MAKING ENTERTAINMENT HISTORY!

Now: The best-selling book by John le Carre.

Then: THE TOWERING BEST-SELLER! OVER SEVEN MILLION COPIES IN PRINT!

Now: Now a major BBC drama.

Then: NOW THE MOST EXCITING PRODUCTION IN TELEVISION HISTORY

Yep, those were the days, eh? Back before Pizza Hut sued Papa John's for claiming their "we're the freshest" ads were false advertising.

Back when people watched twelve hours of television devoid of smoke monsters and Flava Flav.

Back when men were men, women were women, and Richard Chamberlain had an awesome 1970s hair-do and wore eye-shadow to try to make himself look Asian, even though his character was British.

Yep, those were the days...

Learning to Let Go

Of what, you may ask, are you learning to let go, Ms. Strainedconsciousness?

Because you are grammatically correct, you do not end your sentences with prepositions. Good for you!

I am finally letting go of books.

Or some of them, at any rate.

When I make my big move to Houston at the end of July (eep!) I will only be able to take 2 of my 3 stunning bookcases with me, and that means I must either A) rent a storage unit for my bookcase and its attendant books; or B) temporarily house my bookcase at my parents' home and cull the wheat from the chaff, so to speak.

I really don't want to pay for storage, and seeing as I'm clearing a huge drafting table out of my parents' house, my mother and father have graciously offered to allow my bookcase to stay with them, rent free.

Major Tom Shadowmaker is looking forward to having a friend / bookcase with whom / which he can discuss the trauma of being abandoned by yours truly.

In case you have not noticed, dear reader, I am quite obsessive about books and reading. I began reading Shogun - all 1,210 trade paperback pages of it - for the second time on Sunday. I am on page 622, as of dinner-time tonight.

That's about 100 pages per night, give or take.

So going through my books... it's difficult. I have a few stacks on the floor that will definitely be carted to Half-Price Books, and there are a few sitting on an almost empty bookcase because I can not make up my mind.

It's infuriating.

They are books I have only read once. One - The Elegance of the Hedgehog - I am waffling about because it was so heart-wrenching that I do not know if I will be able to read it again. At the same time, it was beautiful, poetic, a masterpiece of writing - and more impressively of translating, as it was originally written in French.

The second book - Suite Francaise - was also disturbing, but beautiful. I'm not sure if I want to get rid of it because... well... I read about World War II a lot. I don't necessarily read about the actual battles, or the politics of them, but I do read a lot about tangential figures of the war, such as Unity Mitford (one of Hitler's close friends and an Englishwoman. Also the Dowager Duchess of Devonshire's sister).

I've read Maus, the graphic novel about WWII wherein the Jews are mice and the Nazis are cats.

And yes, I've read the two-part biography of Hitler available in every Barnes and Noble bookstore, the open possession of which once prompted a less literate friend to ask why I had read it.

I wanted to shake her, to shout: 'Why have you not? Why don't you want to know about the evil that can happen in this world? Why don't you want to understand it so that, maybe, we can help prevent it happening again?'

The books are part of my trying to come to grips with the ease with which a society can turn its back on one segment of the population, demonize them, and attempt their eradication. I don't understand the concept of hate, how people can turn their backs on a whole segment of society.

Back to Suite Francaise, a book written in the midst of the Nazi occupation of France, not published until it was discovered in a suitcase and made public sometime in the last decade (I want to say even the last five years). It tackles the more difficult issues, those not written about very often: the French who allowed their chateau to be turned into a sanitarium for ill children that was then occupied by the Nazis; the chaos of the French as they fled south from Paris, hoping to reach safety; the emotional and social turmoil of a Frenchwoman, her townhouse occupied by Nazi officers, when she falls in love with one of the Nazi officers and is ostracized by her neighbors.

I'm still not sure if Hedgehog will make the cut, because just the thought of it makes me want to cry, but I think I've decided about Suite Francaise: it's coming with me to Houston.

So Many Books!

This is Suzanne Collins, my new

literary girl-crush.

Because of my migraines (broken record) I've had plenty of time to read. I go home after work, pop a frozen Paleo-approved meal in the microwave, and a few minutes later I'm lying in bed, reading, because the most comfortable position when I'm migraineriffic is the one known as "supine."

A couple of months ago, I bought The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins after hearing its title mentioned a few times. I don't remember where I heard about them, just that the reviews were always rave.

Did I mention there are actually three books in The Hunger Games' series? And that the most recent one was just released, so it's only in hardback? And that, in honor of its release, Barnes & Nobles had a boxed set of all three in hardback for a slight discount off their cover price?

Did I mention that? I did?

Good.

I went to B&N intending to spend about $30. I spent about 2.5 times that much, because I also bought a biography, which will not be discussed in this post.

Totally worth it.

I went through the books in seemingly record time. I devoured them. They are on a par with Harry Potter, in my not-so-humble opinion, insofar as compellingness goes.

Compellingness is a word, now. Deal with it.

The Hunger Games is the story of a sort of post-apocalyptic society called Panem, in which a girl named Katniss lives. Katniss is introduced on the morning of the annual Reaping, which is a ceremony held in each district. A boy and a girl, between the ages of 12 and 18, are chosen during the reaping. Why?

Because, this is a post-apocalyptic version of the Christians and the Lions in the Circus Maximus. In retribution for a revolt staged by the districts 74 years before, the districts must send two of their children into an arena where they will fight to the death to see who wins.

There is no truly happy ending to The Hunger Games series, but the ending is still wonderful. Katniss grows and develops, and learns more about the evils in Panem, and the evils in those she loves. She also learns about goodness, and devotion, and love for others. She is not a perfect heroine, but one who is believably flawed.

They are not easy books to read, either. Some of the characters introduced to the reader are killed or injured in horrific ways, and I went through I don't know how many tissues as a result. Psychological torture and sexual abuse are discussed over the course of the three books, although not in great detail.

After I read the biography I'd bought, I read them again. THAT GOOD.

I recommend them to anyone aged 13 and over (they're about on par with a PG-13 movie).

In other news, The Hunger Games is currently in production to be released in 2012. Fortunately, all of the characters in my head bear a resemblance to the characters chosen by whoever cast the actors.

If you want to know what else Ms. Collins has written, I can fill you in on that, too. She wrote a wonderful series of books perfect for ages 8-12 called The Underland Chronicles.

They are about an 11-year-old boy named Gregor and his 2-year-old sister Boots who have lived a somewhat traumatic life in New York City. The reader meets Gregor during the summer, when his other sister is en route to a sleep away camp for city children, his mother is at work, his grandmother is essentially bed-ridden, and his father is-

Well, that's just the thing, isn't it? His father disappeared two years prior, and has never been heard from since. But Gregor, to stop snoopy questions, tells people his father has moved to California.

While Gregor does the laundry, Boots crawls around their building's laundry room, and comes across a swinging ventilation grate. She opens it and - oops! Down she goes. When Gregor figures out what has happened, he follows, and at the bottom he finds Boots and... um...

Four foot tall talking cockroaches who believe his sister is a princess.

There is a race of people living deep in the earth called, suitably, the Underlanders (Gregor, you, and me all being Overlanders), and there is a continuous state of tension between the Underlanders and the 6 foot tall talking rats that live underground. And they all believe that Gregor is a great warrior whose appearance was foretold by the Underlanders' founding father.

The books are wildly imaginative and a rip-roaring ride. Giant flying bats carry the Underlanders around, but they're also equal to Underlanders, insofar as social status is concerned.

Throughout the series, multiple moral lessons are taught, such as the dangers of biological warfare (no, I'm not exaggerating) and how ingrained hate can become between two different species/races/religions. The lessons aren't repetitive. There is no dead horse here being beaten. The morals are woven subtly into the stories. The books could be an interesting way of beginning a discussion about some of society's problems today.

So, there you have it: eight books by Suzanne Collins, all of them highly recommended for different readers of different ages.

Now get out there and read.

Drowning

...---...

...---...

Yes, that's an S.O.S. signal typed up there. Why? Because I'm drowning, caught in a whirlpool that is We, the Drowned by Carsten Jensen.

It's okay, though, because I'm enjoying the tidal wave that's crashing over...

Enough with the cheesy metaphor. I can't keep that up any longer.

It's a fantastic book.

We, the Drowned was translated from the original Danish, and it's a mesmerizing read. It details the life and times of the seaside village of Marstal, where every young man grows up to be a sailor. The main character is Albert Madsen, whose father disappeared in an Australian port, never to be heard from again.

Or so you think.

The story follows Albert through his elementary school days, to his first experience as a cabin boy, and on to his first experience on an American merchant ship, run by a murderous first mate.

He grows old, unmarried, and without children, and foretells the Great War through the dreams that terrorize him every night.

Okay, so that last sentence doesn't make me want to read it, but that's neither here nor there.

This is a seriously wonderful book.

The critics have been raving, too, so I'm not the only lunatic on board (pun intended). They've compared it to The Old Man and the Sea, Moby-Dick, and The Odyssey, among others. They're wrong, though, because We, the Drowned is a million times more entertaining and - I'm going to use this word again - compelling.

I overuse "compelling" when reviewing books. I know. It's like parentheses and dash marks. I'm not ashamed (Hint: I am).

Unlike the other books cited by reviewers, this one doesn't get lost in the jargon of ships: you don't need to know what a jib-sail is, or a mizzenmast, or what have you. The foc's'le is talked about a lot (that's forecastle to you and me), and the galley, but that's about it. If you know what the stern is, you're ready to go. There aren't four pages of ship descriptions, followed by the sailors talking about the glories of coffee, and then six more pages of ship descriptions (You hear me Moby-Dick? Yeah, Starbuck, that's you I'm talking about!).

There are plenty of interesting events, like the first one mentioned in the book: Laurids Madsen (Albert's dad) is caught on a ship that explodes. He is blown into the air, and when he reaches the height of the main mast, he sees Saint Peter... who promptly moons him, thus signifying to Laurids that his time is not up on this earth, and he sends him back down to the deck, where he lands unharmed on his feet.

Saint Peter moons somebody, guys! You have to read it, just for that!

If you have $28 to fork over (I don't, but that's neither here nor there), then I suggest buying it. You won't regret it.

MaddAddam Trilogy by Margaret Atwood

I just finished reading Books I & II of Margaret Atwood's MaddAddam trilogy. I would go ahead and read Book III, but it has yet to be released.

I love Margaret Atwood's writing. The Handmaid's Tale was riveting, in a disturbing way. Alias Grace was compelling and thought provoking. Moral Disorder careened from joyful to mournful, exactly as the title suggested it would. The Blind Assassin was spellbindingly mysterious and haunting.

I'm usually okay with books other people find "disturbing." I know a few people who were unable to finish Steig Larsson's The Girl Who... trilogy because of its graphic descriptions of rape and torture, and the emotional torment suffered by the eponymous Girl. It's not that the descriptions don't bother me, or make me shudder. Rather, I am so obsessive about finishing books that I feel I must soldier on, because I have to know what happens next. And then next. And then next.

Strangely, stories with ambiguous endings don't much bother me.

The MaddAddam Trilogy is disturbing, though, in a way that Steig Larsson wasn't, and I almost quit reading halfway through the first book in the series, Oryx and Crake. There are some descriptions of child abuse that not too graphic but descriptive enough that you get the point, and the character who suffered the worst abuse has a way of dismissing what happened to her that is deeply unsettling, although understandable from an emotional survival point of view. It's frankly horrifying to think about the mindset and the fictional environment that leads a child to respect his/her abusers because, hey, the abuser fed the abused, which is better than nothing, and the garage s/he was locked in? It was dry.

As usual, though, I kept reading, because the story and the premise were so compelling. None of the characters in the series have had "easy" lives, but so many of them have had such traumatic life experiences that it's a wonder they've survived.

But then, a central them of the books is survival against all odds.

If you're a fan of future dystopian fantasies, and you have a strong stomach, and you can wait until the next book is issued (I personally don't want to wait, but it's out of my hands), then I suggest reading it.

But make sure you have nerves of steel first.

I only do because of all the physical therapy.

Let the Fun Begin!

I received my new needlepoint canvas on Wednesday. The poor mailman struggled all the way up the icy stairs so he could leave it on my doorstep, and seemed relieved when I answered the door because he didn't want to leave it in the snow.

Today, I went and purchased my first wools for the canvas.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

The ladies at the needlepoint store were incredibly helpful, and now I have something to do when I want to watch Charlie and the Chocolate Factory followed by Neverending Story and then Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels.

I like to mix things up at the end, okay?

I'm still working on one of the three books I bought right before the snowpocalypse. I finished Alias Grace (which was wunderbar) and My Life in France, and now I'm reading Shantaram.

It's fascinating. The guy who wrote it escaped from a maximum security prison in Australia, fled to India with a fake passport, and after a year living in a Bombay slum, became involved with the mafia. The book is essentially a thinly fictionalized version of the guy's life, presumably so people won't say, "Hey! You continued to be a criminal! You covered up a murder (or four-million)! We're going to arrest you since you've confessed to all this stuff in your book."

Granted, he served out the last ten years of his prison sentence when he was caught and returned to Australia, but still.

The book is wonderfully written, and for a former heroin addict/armed robber/accessory to murder, the guy can sure as heck turn a phrase. I'm not finished, yet, but it's still a worthy read with wonderful characters and descriptions.

And this is the dude who wrote the book:

Seriously, how can you NOT want to read it?

"My Life in France" by Julia Child (and that other guy)

Quick note: the rent payment reversal was reversed. Bye-bye money.

On to the book review!

One of the books I bought during my kind-of-not-really date at Borders was My Life in France. It is credited to Julia Child, but another guy actually wrote it all down and prepared it for publication. Julia dictated the book, wrote snippets, and culled the information from her personal archives (date books, letters, etc.).

It was a wonderful book, hilarious, and so vibrantly told. The co-author kept Julia's little quirks intact, so you get the Yuck! and the Ouf! and the Merde! that she added at the end of passages. Reading the book, I could hear her voice dictating, in that high lilting way she has, and I could picture her doing the things. There are tons of photos in the book, scattered throughout the pages liberally and sometimes illustrating exactly what's happening in a passage, but sometimes just as a little bit of "oh, look at this funny picture" thrown in for laughs.

Part of the interest in it for me was the discussion of the diplomatic work the United States did throughout Europe following World War II. Julia's husband, Paul, headed up departments that organized art exhibits to educate Europe about America and Americans. It was part of an exercise to strengthen relations with other countries.

If you want a good, funny, ohmygodIwantcrepesrightnow kind of read, then I highly suggest it.

Entertain Yourself!!!

It is 20*F outside, as I write. Nope, sorry, it's 19*F. What the heck, Texas? It was 70* only a couple of days ago!

Monday night, I had the terrifying realization that I had nothing to read at my apartment if I ended up stranded in my apartment for the next 48 hours.

Forget food. I can subsist of Apple & Cinnamon oatmeal and frozen curry forever. No, really. It's my new diet plan.

But no books? Aw, hel- um, heck no. Ahem.

So Monday evening, at 8:45 pm (when it was still 54*F outside), I got in my car and dashed to the Borders down in the West Village. Nevermind that it meant losing my covered parking spot: I needed a book to read! Priorities, people!

I had decided to buy just one book, but then I remembered who I was and realized I would need at least two books to get through the wintry weather.

So I bought three books (Alias Grace by Margaret Atwood, which I'm currently reading and loving; Shantaram by some escaped Australian convict who lives in India now; and My Life in France by Julia Child, but not the movie edition so I don't have to look at Amy Adams every time I pick it up or pull it off the bookshelf) and had the closest thing to a date that I've had in six months. Namely, I did an awkward dance with a good-looking guy while we tried not to get in each other's way in the Fiction & Literature section and pretended that we weren't sideways-staring at each other and checking out each other's legs.

Romantic, baby.

And now I'm happily ensconced in my warm bed, drinking Dr. Pepper, listening to the wind whistling by the broken weather-stripping around my windows, and reading The Frenemy's latest post on how to seduce a lady. The Frenemy is one of the blogs I read every day. She's wordy, and kind of has a filthy mouth, but she's funny, and she mocks Cosmo like it's going out of style, and she's a girl after my own heart.

"Just because I’m hanging out with your henley-shirt wearing ass doesn’t mean I’m going to hop in the sack with you. That’s the truth. Sure, we may both like Jurassic Park but that doesn’t mean that..okay I’ve chosen the wrong example. Jeff Goldblum explaining chaos theory is basically my Boyz II Men Soundtrack."

Really, how could you not want to have a beer with this girl? But at a kind of skeazy bar, so her cursing wouldn't be out of place.

And now, I'll probably go on to editing/revising the fairy tale I've been writing. I had it printed at Kinko's and picked it up yesterday. I did the math, and figured out that - since it would take me at least 30 minutes and a new ink cartridge to print it at home - it was cheaper to have it printed and spiral-bound at Kinko's. I feel so professional and all writer-y.

And now, a picture of Jeff Goldblum, for your viewing pleasure.

"The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao" by Junot Diaz

I just finished reading The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao.

Wow.

It won a Pulitzer Prize, so you know it's got to be pretty good. And it was funny, sometimes, but at other times heartwrenchingly sad.

Synopsis: Oscar Wao is a Dominican emigrant living in the northeast (okay, I can't remember if it's Jersey or New York... details) and he is everything a Dominican lad is not supposed to be: hopeless when it comes to the ladies, obese, and waaaaay into sci-fi and fantasy novels and games. This is a boy who eats, sleeps, and dreams Dungeons and Dragons, who was once a 7 year old Lothario but lost his game, and whose only two friends - both Grade-A nerds like himself - are ashamed of how nerdy Oscar is.

The book isn't narrated by an omniscient God, but is told by several different people: Oscar's sister Lola, Lola's boyfriend (who took pity on Oscar and roomed with him in college) and another narrator whose identity I never quite pinned down. Oscar's family history is divulged - his grandfather's persecution by Trujillo and his mother's horrifying fate following the family's breakup - and the various relationships he has with those family members is discussed at length, but always through the eyes of someone else.

The book is breathtaking, and a bit of sci-fi/fantasy knowledge is helpful because bits of Tolkien and Lovecraft are discussed. The book wrestles with Oscar's identity: no longer Dominican, but also not like the other Dominicans living in the U.S.

I bought my copy of the book at Half Priced Books, because there were four paperback copies marked between $8.00 (pristine) and $5.00 (looked the same as the $8.00), and I scooped up the $5.00 copy.

I forgot to check to see what on earth could have led to the book being marked so cheaply, and then began reading. Oscar Wao is laced with bits of Dominican slang and snippets of Spanish, and the reader before me appears to have had the same grasp of the Spanish language that I have:

We know just enough to know when to be offended.

The harmless words that translate to "wicked" and "disgusting" are underlined with abandon, and the translations are penciled into the margins. The curse words, however, are all left alone.

It's like we were separated at birth! Or, at least, at the end of college.

The book does not have a happy ending, but it's also not completely a sad ending. Oscar takes a stand, and he suffers for it, but he also reaches new heights of ecstasy, both physical and spiritual. He is, by the book's end, changed in both mind and body, and I couldn't help but be happy for him. Throughout his wretched life, he let the things he wanted slip away, but at the end, he took what he wanted and he was blissfully happy, if only for a short time.

Oscar isn't an entirely lovable character. I wanted to shake him, several times (and did, in fact, find myself jerking the book around, as if Oscar could feel my frustration), but his faults are what make him so endearing as a character.

And no, his last name is not Wao: it's an in-joke that I didn't learn the meaning of until midway through the book, and then I couldn't help but smile, despite the fact that the nickname "Wao" is meant as a bullying tease to Oscar.

Oscar Wao is a wonderful book, and is truly wondrous, but it's also not for someone who wants a "feel good" book to read. There are no tidily wrapped up murders with jokey detectives, and no "happily ever after," but I'm glad I read it, all the same.

(The picture is the author's photo from the book cover; I think he's wearing makeup)

"Stealing the Mystic Lamb" by Noah Charney

I recently finished reading a book entitled Stealing the Mystic Lamb. It's about the Altarpiece of Ghent, a.k.a. the Adoration of the Mystic Lamb, and its past.

FASCINATING!

The Mystic Lamb is the most stolen artwork of all time, having been stolen 14 times since its painting by Jan van Eyck in the 15th Century. In addition to being considered the first painting of the Renaissance (eat your heart out, Michelangelo) and the last painting of the Middle Ages, it was considered to have miraculous properties. None of this "healing the sick" nonsense, though. Oh, no. Supposedly, it would lead scholars/treasure-hunters to not only the Holy Grail (where Eric Idle would greet them, undoubtedly), but also to the Crown of Thorns, the True Cross, the spear (can't remember its fancy-schmancy relic name) and much much more!

I read a review of the book in The Economist and thought it sounded interesting. Interesting in a possibly dull kind of way, but hey, it would look good on my bookshelves, right?

It reads like a frickin' John Le Carre thriller! You have American mobsters (no, not joking here), German Resistance fighters, spies, corrupt churchmen, and the mystery of whether Jan van Eyck actually painted the thing, or if his brother should be credited with it.

I couldn't put it down, particularly once the book reached the part where the Altarpiece was in Nazi hands, being stored in a salt mine in the Austrian Alps, and these American special forces espionage types were trying to reach it before a crazy Nazi officer could blow it up.

It was so exciting, I had to tell somebody about it. So I regaled Major Tom with the story.

He's not as into art history as I am, but he thought the battle sequences were pretty riveting.

At this point, I can't wait to reread it, and I only finished it on Saturday. It's that kind of book! If you're looking for an exciting, informative read that will give you fantastic conversation for cocktail parties, then read it. If not, read it anyway.

That amazing.