Ordinarily, Hyde Carried a Rabid Dog This Way

A friend of mine recently asked me to name five books that changed the way I view the world. I'm curious what other people think, so I'll share my five here. Please share your five in the comments.

1. Ray Bradbury's Something Wicked This Way Comes: This is the first book I enjoyed trying to figure out. Some of the images from that book still haunt me, and I love it.

2. Tim O'Brien's The Things They Carried: I read all the fine print on the copyright page three times, trying to figure out if this was fiction or nonfiction. O'Brien's brilliance made me realize the distinction between truth and Truth. I like to say he taught me how to read.

3. Scott Turow's Ordinary Heroes: The impact of this book on my life can be summarized by this question, asked of the protagonist: "Who are we but the stories we tell ourselves, about ourselves, and believe?"

4. Robert Louis Stevenson's The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde: I first read this in eighth grade, but only a flicker of it stuck with me. When I read it again last year, the Truth of the story rang deep within me. This is one of the subtlest, most terrifying horror stories ever written. And one of the Truest.

5. Stephen King's Cujo: This novel has some of the most beautiful writing I've ever read. The takeaway point is this: true beauty can hide anywhere, even in the ugliest thing imaginable, like a story about a possibly demon-possessed rabid dog written by a guy too high to remember writing any of it.

So those are my five. What are yours?

Black---the night that ends at last!

I'm torn. Part of me wants to be all smart and well-read, so I wade through books by F. Scott Fitzgerald, John Steinbeck, and Charles Dickens. But the other part of me just enjoys a good story, so I also inhale books by Michael Crichton, Ian Fleming, and John Grisham. In the past year, I've even made forays into the likes of Nicholas Sparks and Agatha Christie. (Please note, however, that I have yet to contribute to the Harlequin Empire. I'm not ruling anything out, I just haven't gone there yet.) Meanwhile, I've been wading through Les Misérables for nearly three months. After reading 1,169 pages as of last night, only 294 remain.

But Kurosawa gets me. He knows what I'm up to:

[T]he best scripts have very few explanatory passages. Adding explanation to the descriptive passages of a screenplay is the most dangerous trap you can fall into. It’s easy to explain the psychological state of a character at a particular moment, but it’s very difficult to describe it through the delicate nuances of action and dialogue. Yet it is not impossible. A great deal about this can be learned from the study of the great plays, and I believe the “hard-boiled” detective novels can also be very instructive.

Yes! I can read a novel for its interesting story, and still play the artsy fartsy card!! Kurosawa said so!

I'll catch y'all later. I'm gonna go catch the Orient Express.

Twilight: 3/5

I opened Twilight with very low expectations. A friend of mine warned me how terrible it is, but I decided to keep an open mind. It turns out that "twihards" can be more annoying than the book, as her post ably demonstrates.

I enjoyed the story. It was clever in ways, but nothing remarkable or groundbreaking. Meyer did her research, which I appreciated. She asks the reader to suspend disbelief in a major way but cleverly lets you trust her with the minor things.

The writing itself is either brilliant or savvy. She could be brilliant in the way that Ken Kesey or J.D. Salinger were brilliant: narrating in character. I've never been a melodramatic 17-year-old girl in the throes of teenage romance, but I knew a few. The character was pretty believable in that respect. Maybe not literary or original or whatever, but believable. On the other hand, Meyer could be a savvy writer, writing a story that takes advantage of her limited talent or skill. If Meyer's skill is equivalent to a high school junior's, then more power to her for finding an outlet that lets her make a ton of money taking advantage of it.

Would I recommend it? Let me answer with an illustration. I've often asked my parents if they remember this or that pop culture icon from their young adulthood. They frequently told me they were too cool for this or that. (M*A*S*H and The Twilight Zone are the only exceptions.) So if you want to tell your kids you were there when Edward kissed Bella the first time, read it. If you're too cool for that, don't.

Staying Power = 400 posts

F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby had a first printing of about 20,000 copies. Five months later, the publishers printed a second run of 3,000 copies. When Fitzgerald died, the publishers were still trying to sell that second run, including seven copies that sold in the first half of 1940. But now, several generations later, it is universally recognized as a masterpiece, as one of the greatest novels of the 20th century.

Contrast that with two recent, popular works of fiction. The four books of the Twilight series were the four bestselling books of 2008, according to USA Today. And the sixth Harry Potter had an original print run of 10.8 million copies, two thirds of which sold within 24 hours, according to Wikipedia. Now, I love Harry Potter, and somebody lent The Missus a copy of Twilight, so I'll give it a chance, but it just makes me wonder: what books will high school juniors be reading in 2084?

Michael Crichton's Prey: 4/5

One of my favorite things about reading novels and watching movies is when a movie or book attacks me with some new idea I've never thought of. That's probably the main reason I enjoy reading Michael Crichton. Some people don't like his style or his somewhat formulaic approach, but I don't read his novels for either style or innovation. I read them because (a) when they're fun, they're really fun and (b) they have some very thought-provoking ideas hiding underneath them.

I just finished reading his 2002 novel Prey. The basic concept is that a defense contractor develops nanotechnology to use for reconnaissance. Through some interestingly developed techno talk, we learn that Xymos, the evil bad guy corp, breaks all kinds of labor laws---including my favorite and yours, the 13th Amendment---by employing bacteria on the assembly line. Well, as usually happens, the nanotechnology gets out of control, learns how to self-sustain, evolves, and then tries to take over the world.

What's new about that? Well, just this. Crichton talks a lot about swarm intelligence. Swarm intelligence is, basically, the notion that a few simple rules can be followed by very simple creatures to accomplish amazingly complex things. Which brings me to an interesting idea . . .

If you want to think of it that way, a human being is actually a giant swarm. Or more precisely, it's a swarm of swarms, because each organ---blood, liver, kidneys---is a separate swarm. What we refer to as a "body" is really the combination of all these organ swarms.

We think our bodies are solid, but that's only because we can't see what is going on at the cellular level. If you could enlarge the human body, blow it up to a vast size, you would see that it was literally nothing but a swirling mass of cells and atoms, clustered together into smaller swirls of cells and atoms.

Who cares? Well, it turns out a lot of processing occurs at the level of the organs. Human behavior is determined in many places. The control of our behavior is not located in our brains. It's all over our bodies.

So you could argue that "swarm intelligence" rules human beings, too. Balance is controlled by the cerebellar swarm, and rarely comes to consciousness. Other processing occurs in the spinal cord, the stomach, the intestine. A lot of vision takes place in the eyeballs, long before the brain is involved.

Stay with me now.

So there's an argument that the whole structure of consciousness, and the human sense of self-control and purposefulness, is a user illusion. We don't have conscious control over ourselves at all. We just think we do.

Just because human beings went around thinking of themselves as "I" didn't mean it was true.

Could this explain why psychology is a two-way mirror? It seems like we can always look at our friends and neighbors and pick out their problems (and solutions), but we can never figure our own out. Maybe that's because our consciousness is spread across our billions of cells, the vast majority of which are too busy digesting, oxygenating, or doing whatever to pay attention to the deeper questions of life.

I'm not saying I buy it. I'm just saying it's an interesting thing to think about.

Move Over J.D. Salinger

There's something about novels that seems to provoke crime sprees in individuals.  I heard once that the guy who shot Reagan and the guy who shot John Lennon both had gotten obsessed with The Catcher in the Rye.  I also read that Rage was found in the backpacks of several school shooters, prompting Stephen King/Richard Bachman to pull it out of print.  Now, we can add Agatha Christie to the fray.

No wonder my fifth grade English teacher looked at me askance when I did my book report on And Then There Were None . . . 

Troubling in a Fire Safety Kinda Way

At the end of Carrie, Stephen King burns down the gym.  (In the Sissy Spacek movie, Carrie's house also collapses at the very end.  Remember the hand popping out of the rubble?)  In Salem's Lot, Ben and Mark burn down the whole town at the end, particularly the Marsden House.  In The Shining, Danny et al. escape with their lives while The Overlook burns to the ground behind them. 

So Mr. King's first three novels end pretty much the same.  If he weren't perhaps the greatest writer of the late 20th century, I'd be pretty upset.  As it is, I guess I'll let it slide.  At least until I read The Stand.  If it happens again . . . I'll probably read the book after that, too.

PS---It's worth noting that Cujo, one of the most beautiful works in modern American literature, if not in the entire history of English literature, does not end in any sort of funeral pyre.

Pierce's 3

The Great Train Robbery by Michael Crichton

rating: 4 of 5 stars

Take Ocean's 11, throw in some Godfather, and set it in 1850s London, and you've got The Great Train Robbery.

Other reviewers talk about plotting and characterization and diction; I'll let you read their reviews for that. I want to communicate that this book offers something that few books offer: genuine, thought-provoking fun. Much like Ocean's 11. Mr. Crichton uses the book to make a statement, but the statement isn't blatant, like you might see from movies like An Inconvenient Truth or Syriana. Rather, Mr. Crichton draws his characters in such a way that you (realistically) grow fond of those of whom you should not grow fond--and therein lies his statement. For example, the hero/villain is a master thief, both of money and of class. He is a fraud, a liar, and a cold-blooded killer. But you love him like you love Danny Ocean or Vito Corleone.

Mr. Crichton's message, I believe, is that good and evil are not so clearly cut as we tend to think. But he doesn't tell you that in a boring way full of rumination. Rather, he tells it in the fascinating story of the perfect heist, much like Ocean's 11.

View all my reviews.

No Rhythm, No Rhyme, No Fun

A few years ago, I read an essay in Newsweek about how nobody reads poetry anymore because we're all too lazy to give it the effort it needs.  Well, I disagree.  Nobody reads poetry anymore because (a) it's too complex to get on the first reading and (b) we all have better things to do than read a boring poem twice.

Yesterday, I began reading Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass.  Several times in the first 50 or so pages, Mr. Carroll interrupts the narrative with a poem, usually spoken by one of the characters.  For example, Alice recites the following to a blue caterpillar on a mushroom:

'You are old,' said the youth, 'and your jaws are too weak/For anything tougher than suet;

Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak--/Pray, how did you manage to do it?'

'In my youth,' said his father, 'I took to the law,/And argued each case with my wife;

And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,/Has lasted the rest of my life.'

Now, I don't have any idea what that means.  But I enjoyed reading it, and I enjoyed typing it.  The poem is just plain fun to read, so I will read it again.  Shakespeare's sonnets are another example.  Who doesn't enjoy reading those crazy 14-liners?  I don't even mind reading Emily Dickinson a few times to try to get what she's saying.  Rhyme + Rhythm = Fun.

Other poets, on the other hand, like T.S. Eliot, don't make any sense on the first reading, and it's just not fun enough to try to read it again.  No rhythm + no rhyme = no fun.  People don't read modern poetry because it's too hard and not fun enough.

I realize how shallow this probably sounds, but if modern poetry were more entertaining, maybe people would read it more.  If you're going to write boring syncopated prose and call it "poetry," don't complain when nobody reads it.

Famous Last Words

The American Book Review has placed 100 novels on its shortlist of best last lines.  In response, the Guardian's books blog wonders why we memorize the last lines of movies and immortalize the last words of our heroes, but nobody talks much about the last lines of books.  That got me thinking about it, and I wanted to share the last lines from three books that I love.  Please let me know your favorite last lines in the comments.

If you loved the Oscar-winning film version of The Godfather (and who didn't?), then you will surely love the novel.  I turned the last page with the same relish with which I had watched The Exorcist's* credits scroll:

She emptied her mind of all thought of herself, of her children, of all anger, of all rebellion, of all questions.  Then with a profound and deeply willed desire to believe, to be heard, as she had done every day since the murder of Carlo Rizzi, she said the necessary prayers for the soul of Michael Corleone.

From that classic of freshman English, Great Expectations:

I took her hand in mine, and we went out of the ruined place; and, as the morning mists had risen long ago when I first left the forge, so, the evening mists were rising now, and in all the broad expanse of tranquil light they showed to me, I saw no shadow of another parting from her.

Finally, from one of the funnest books I ever read:

He glanced back at Beth and Harry.  They both looked tired.  Beth stared into space, preoccupied with her own thoughts.  But her face was serene; despite the hardships of their time underwater, Norman thought she looked almost beautiful.

"You know, Beth," he said, "you look lovely."

Beth did not seem to hear, but then she turned toward him slowly.  "Why, thank you, Norman," she said.

And she smiled.

Sure, you need a little context for that, but trust me, Michael Crichton couldn't have ended Sphere any better.

Again--if you've got any classic last lines, I'd love to hear them.  Put'm in the comments.

 

*The Exorcist is the most satisfying movie I have ever seen.  Maybe not the best, scariest, most exciting, or most heart-warming, but the most satisfying.

On a Role

In my college Ethics class, we studied existentialism and its influence on ethical thinking.  In particular, we talked about how some existentialists reject the concept of defining life through roles played.  At the time, I thought it was a beautiful way to live, and I've pretty much agreed with it without question ever since.

But the following from John Le Carré's The Constant Gardener gave me pause:

[S]omething was happening to Justin that, to his excitement and alarm, he was unable to control.  He had been drawn completely by accident into a beautiful play, and was captivated by it.  He was in a different element, acting a part, and the part was the one he had often wanted to play in life, but never till now quite brought off.

I've never heard so eloquent a defense (even if it may have been unintentional) for viewing life as a series of roles to be played, each with its own rough script.  Maybe a significant number of our decisions are made because of who we are--the role we're playing at the time--and for no other reason.

Just a thought.

Interesting Thoughts

I've been collecting a few quotes that I wanted to post and comment on, but they stand pretty well on their own. Let me know what you think.

[I]t is much easier for an active mind to acquire the virtues of patience, than for a passive one to assume those of energy.

- John Stuart Mill

El amor no es sólo un sentimiento. Es también un arte.

- Balzac

What is written without effort is in general read without pleasure.

- Samuel Johnson

I'll let you decide whether I read the likes of Mill, Balzac, and Johnson for pleasure.

They don't call him "King" for nothin'

Books don't usually make me cry. Not even The Notebook or A Walk to Remember. So why does Stephen King make me tear up in Taco Bueno? This is why:

Maybe he was as mad as he said he was, but she could see only a species of miserable fright. Suddenly, like the thud of a boxing glove on her mouth, she saw how close to the edge of everything he was. The agency was tottering, that was bad enough, and now, on top of that, like a grisly dessert following a putrid main course, his marriage was tottering too. She felt a rush of warmth for him, for this man she had sometimes hated and had, for the last three hours, at least, feared. A kind of epiphany filled her. Most of all, she hoped he would always think he had been as mad as hell, and not . . . not the way his face said he felt.

Stephen King, Cujo 88 (1981). It got me thinking: maybe the most beautiful images, the most spectacularly, stunningly, disarmingly awe-inspiring images, are hidden away in stories that seem to have nothing beautiful about them. Maybe it's the juxtaposition itself that draws out the beauty so richly.

Stephen King isn't the best-selling author since Jesus because of his backcover mugshot.

Well that was unexpected

A few weeks ago, Ms. Avacado and I saw our first James Bond movie all the way through: Goldeneye. I enjoyed it enough that I decided to give Ian Fleming's books a chance. Let me tell you: at least in Casino Royale (the first in the series and the only one I've read so far), Mr. Bond is unexpectedly round. He does not always have the cool and calm demeanor he is known for, though there is enough that 007 is recognizable. In my opinion, the increased complexity makes him more believable and likeable. I recommend reading the book, even if you don't think you like James Bond. It's a fast reader and highly entertaining.

Mas new content

On the sidebar, I've added two new features. The first feature is called "Bedside Table" and lists books that I'm currently reading. The second feature is called "Back on the Shelf" and lists the books I've read since I moved into my new house. I'm not sure if anybody cares about that kinda stuff, but it gives me the opportunity to look back in a few months and say "dadgum, I've read a buncha books. Maybe I should spend more time working on law school . . . "

. . . and yes, I really have just read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone for the first time. I was highly impressed.

Desperate for Why

Stephen King gets a bit of a bad rap, but he's an incredible writer. There's a reason that he is the best-selling of all time, except for maybe Shakespeare and God. Right now, I'm reading Desperation. Check this quote:

"Why didn't you kill me like you did that guy back there? Billy? Or does it even make any sense to ask? Are you beyond why?"

"Oh s***, we're all beyond why, you know that."

My friend Mark tells me that economics is based on the idea that people act rationally given the information they have. I tend to agree. What do you think? Do we tend to make rational, if mis- or ill-informed, decisions? Or is it foolish even to try to explain why people act as they do?

Hannibal the Cannibal

It's funny how school ends and you start reading like crazy. I'm not sure how much I've read since school let out, but it's a lot, I can tell you that. I've just finished Thomas Harris's The Silence of the Lambs. It was an interesting book with a few thought-provoking comments on the human condition, but it wasn't nearly as scary as I expected. It was, however, rather gritty.

Anyway, I wanted to make three comments.

1 - The author, Thomas Harris, graduated from Baylor University in the 1960s and worked for the Waco Tribune-Herald before heading off to work for the AP in New York. I wonder if he got the idea for this story from some crime in Waco . . .

2 - Hannibal Lecter's film counterpart was ranked the #1 villain in film history, and Clarice Starling (the hero) was the top-ranked female hero at #6. I haven't seem the movie (yet--I plan on renting it this weekend). Clarice may deserve it, but Hannibal wasn't that "evil" in this book; he was actually rather charming and sympathetic.* In fact, the most active villain was Jame Gumb and Clarice had the most conflict with Dr. Chilton. Weird, huh? Reading this book felt like watching The Empire Strikes Back before A New Hope. Like the famed Episode V, this book seems to be bridging between two storylines (told in Red Dragon and Hannibal, maybe?), but it can stand on its own.

3 - This novel leaves probably the best hole for a sequel ever. I won't go into detail so that I don't ruin the ending for anybody, but if you've read it, you know what I'm talking about. The book actually resolves at the end and you can rest, but you know there's more to the story.

This book isn't on my list of the greatest books ever written, but it's entertaining and worthwhile. If nothing else, read it because you have some tie to Waco, as does the author.

*Should I be worried about myself--sympathizing with Hannibal Lecter?

The Perfect Man for the Job

I got some good responses to my last post, for which I'm grateful. ALV mentioned what I think of as the "that-couldn't-be-coincidence" theory of destiny. That is, we are who we are because of the perfect (and improbable) combination of highly improbable past events that lead us to where and who we are. These events (and their combination) are so improbable that there must be some greater plan at work. (I have a few logical problems with the theory, but I'll let that slide.*) When I'm not in school, I'm a readin' fool, and I just finished another book that talks about destiny, but in the that-couldn't-be-coincidence fashion.

Scott Turow's eighth novel, Limitations, brings us back to George Mason, the criminal defense lawyer/protaganist from Personal Injuries.** By the time of Limitations, Mr. Mason has been elected to the court of appeals for Kindle County, where he has sat for the past nine years (largely because of the fame he acquired from the events in Personal Injuries). The story begins with Mason's panel hearing the oral argument in an appeal from a gang-rape conviction where the prosecution was brought just three months after the statute of limitations had run. (And thus should be barred by the statute of limitations.) After argument, we sit in on the conference where Mason learns that he will draft the opinion. As the story develops, we learn that Mason himself was once involved in a gang-rape-type situation, and he begins to wonder if he is the right man for the job of determining these young men's fate.

For my non-lawyer readers, you're thinking: "Who cares if it was brought three months late? We're talking about gang-rapists! They deserve the chair!" You're right--emotionally. But our society seeks justice from a system of laws--not of emotions. As John Steed said, "Play by the rules, Mrs. Peel, or the game is nothing." Justice is no game, but the truth of the statement rings even truer: without the rules of justice, our legal system is worthless. We could never be sure that the right kids got the chair. Now to get off my legal soapbox . . .

Mason begins to wonder whether he, with his history, has any qualifications to judge the case. Turow tries to suggest that Mason's whole life has been leading up to this point, to this decision, but the philosophizing sags in the end. He leaves the qualifications-plot for another plot (a less interesting but more exciting plot) and, when he returns to this question, it's magically resolved. The question is presented, however, whether Mason's past put him where he was or whether he put himself where he was because of his past. Was he trying to escape his past (one-time gang rapist who left Virginia for midwestern Kindle County)? Or did that past shape him into the defense lawyer and judge he became? For me--am I who I am because I'm trying to compensate for who I used to be? Or did being who I used to be make me who I am? Or is it both?

I'll close with my favorite from the book: "As a defense lawyer, [Mason] refused to condemn his clients. Everyone else in the system--the cops, the prosecutors, the juries and judges--would take care of that; they didn't need his help." As a lawyer, I hope one day to hold to that ideal. The good lawyer fights for the scum of the earth because, like the supposedly good people, they deserve a hero, too.




* Mainly, my problem is that an improbable past only makes the present improbable, not necessary (i.e., "destined"). The fact that a past is improbable makes it more likely that an improbable present is necessary or pre-ordained, but it is not "proven" in the typical logical sense. In other words, it's like saying that breaking your arm must have been destined merely because you broke your arm. That strikes me as tautological (and thus illogical). But who says that logic tells us everything we need to know?

** This is the first time Turow has brought back a main character as a main character. Of interest to long-time Turow readers: Rusty Sabich, the protaganist and accused in Turow's first novel, Presumed Innocent, has now been made chief judge of the court of appeals and makes a cameo appearance as Mason's good friend and handball rival. Personally, I'd have rather seen Sandy Stern, the protaganist of Pleading Guilty, return. But hey--he's the bestselling novelist.

If my best could equal his worst...

I am generally opposed to the use of quotes out of principle. Quotes tend to do two harmful things: (1) encourage short attention spans and (2) force the hearer to add context (often distorting the intended meaning). Last night, I finished John Steinbeck's The Winter of Our Discontent and was vaguely disappointed. To be honest, I don't think I get the big picture. This wasn't Steinbeck's best, but if my best could equal his worst, I'd be set for life.

It did, however, have at least 18 quotable passages. I thought about sharing all of them, but I think one will suffice. The protaganist, Ethan Hawley, is a clerk at a grocery store he used to own, much to the chagrin of his wife and children. His wife's friend and quasi-lady-of-the-night, Mrs. Margie Young-Hunt, reads his tarot cards to say that he would soon make a fortune. Trying to make some inroads with that fortune before it arrives, she goes to his store and flirts with him quite obviously and suggestively, including by "bouncing her behind." That night, she's a dinner guest at the Hawley house as an invitee of Ethan's wife, Mary. He notes:

In the morning the out-of-coffee Margie was set for me like a bear trap. The same evening she drew a bead on Mary. If her behind bounced, I couldn't see it. If anything was under her neat suit, it was hiding. She was a perfect guest--for another woman--helpful, charming, complimentary, thoughtful, modest. She treated me as though I had taken on forty years since the morning. What a wonderful thing a woman is. I can admire what they do even if I don't understand why.

People often do crazy things for rational, irrational, and a-rational reasons. That's part of what makes us human. The job of the lawyer is, at its most basic, to prevent and resolve disputes between people. The only way to do that effectively is to understand why people do what they do, why they make the decisions they make. I chose to study law because it seems to recognize that people rarely act truly rationally. After one year studying law, I think I made the right decision. After two weeks clerking for insurance defense lawyers, I'm even more convinced that lawyers are the highest paid psychologists in the world.

Plus, we don't have to deal with the whole "pseudo-science" allegations psychologists have to face.

Robocop --> T Rex?

One of Michael Crichton's first novels was The Terminal Man. Definitely not his best novel, but give the guy a break. It was published in the early 1970s and dealt with a big fear of the early 1970s: computers taking over the world. Well, I say we'd better hope that Jurassic Park isn't as prophetic as The Terminal Man is proving to be.

Today, while I was perusing my blogs, I ran across this highly interesting piece. In it, the author contemplates the evolution of the relationship between humans and computers through the limited scope of man vs. machine chess matches. His conclusion is one of hope and triumph (machines can be no smarter than the programmers, so computers will always be dumber than people--but even if they're not, way-to-go people for making such a dang smart machine), but he talks about some interesting things there at the end. For example, he talks about how some kid got to Level 3 on Space Invaders playing with wires going into his head. Another example is some type of dental implant that doctors can program to administer medication when and as necessary. (This is remarkably similar to a story in Walter Mosley's Futureland.) These dental implants are being tested right now in the European Union. How very interesting.

If you're going anywhere near Costa Rica in the next 35 years--be careful. It may have taken The Terminal Man three-and-a-half decades to come true, but when you start dealing with Jurassic Park, you're mixing chaos theory with thunder lizards, and that's trouble.