Author: Christopher Hitchens
Christopher “Don’t Call Me Chris” Hitchens is a lover and a fighter, and the two sides hash it out in this superb memoir. We get deeply felt cheers for Auden, scotch, Marx, civil disobedience, Paul Wolfowitz, and the United States alongside scalding jeers for totalitarianism, organized religion, bullies, Michael Moore, narcotics, and the Clintons. With this in mind, I really don’t think there’s anybody out there who agrees with Hitch (yes, that’s what I call him) about everything, but his arguments always prompt deeper, revelatory thinking. The book also has plenty of vignettes both joyous and tragic, intellectual history (personal and otherwise), and–of course–fond reminiscences of famously brilliant friends.
Though Hitch states that he doesn’t have a gift for fiction, I can’t help but think that his facility with language and instinct for the subterranean would make for some thrillingly good novels. Then again, maybe he realized he doesn’t have to stoop to mere invention when he can instead regale us with turbo-literate remembrances of a big life saturated with wit, courage, absurdity, regret, and a profound sense of gratitude. Carry on then, Hitch; carry on.
Author: Jonathan Franzen
Please note: This review contains spoilers.
The most hyped novel in recent memory picks up where Jonathan Franzen always leaves off: with the souring of an upper-middle class Midwestern family. This time we get a guided tour of the last decade per Franzen’s priggish Liberalism, where complacent self-satisfaction turns to bereavement, rage, suffocation, near-constant betrayal, and the faintest glimmer of relief.
Our story unfolds on the backs of the Berglunds of St. Paul. We have the recklessly bored Patty, the resolutely virtuous Walter, and their morally divergent children. Lest you worry that the Berglunds perish in a snowbank, there is one Richard Katz to heat things up. Richard is a college friend of Walter’s and a rocker of the old school. That is to say, he is cliché of womanizing, self-loathing, coke benders, and smirky philosophizing. He’s also a dead-ringer for Muammar el-Qadaffi, so ladies should consider themselves warned. Of course, Katz and Patty succumb to their insistent loins, which leaves Walter free to obsess over corporate and governmental malfeasance, another Franzen motif.
The equally familiar Franzen narration is assisted by Patty, who chimes in as part of her therapy. This does little to establish a character that is, quite frankly, both unconvincing and a bore. It’s hard to believe that the charmingly diffident Patty is a college basketball star, let alone a smug stay-at-home mom who turns into a drunken harridan when she discovers that her son has taken up with the poor girl next door. Part of the problem lies in Franzen’s contempt for Patty. See, she’s a dumb jock without discipline, gratitude, or empathy. It’s difficult to understand why we have to spend so much time with her; though Franzen does indicate that she’s quite pretty.
Part of the problem lies in Franzen himself. There is an inarticulate bitterness that permeates all of his writing. I’m fine with caustic, nihilistic, etc., but peevish didacticism without fresh insight quickly becomes draining and ultimately repellent. He is unsubtle, often crude to the point of puerility, and lacking in both the acuity and generosity needed for rewarding reading. In my humble opinion, of course.
It’s the book of the season (if not the next three years), so go on and read it. I hope you find a place in your heart for Franzen that I lack.
Author: Emmanuel Mouret
Like romantic comedies, but find most recent offerings neither romantic nor comedic? Then say chin-chin to this bonbon!
I don’t want to give too much away, but the movie explores love as it pertains to the tyrannical triumvirate that is timing, chemistry, and morality. Lest this sound a bit severe, the film’s offbeat humor and gaggle of elegant Gauls make it go down nice and easy.
So don’t give up yet; the delectable Shall We Kiss? might be just the movie you were looking for.
Author: China Miéville
Miéville is one of the most highly-acclaimed fantasy writers working today, and, in fact, this novel was nominated for several prestigious fantasy/science fiction awards. And yet this is, ostensibly, a police procedural, and Miéville has stated that he was consciously working within the hard-boiled tradition typified by writers like Raymond Chandler. So has he totally abandoned fantasy or what?
Well, not entirely. Miéville has written a real crime novel, but he’s also mixed in some pretty weird stuff. The two titular cities are located in some vaguely-defined space on Europe’s Southeastern edge – somewhere near the Black Sea or the Balkans, perhaps. They are fictional cities, but, in most ways, they are not fantastic ones – they are, in fact, firmly grounded in the realities of crime and dirt and cell phones. However, these cities are neighbors – but not neighbors in any way that could ever really exist. The two cities, Beszel and Ul Qomo, are conjoined twins, occupying much of the same physical space. This block could be in Beszel, but the next block down might be in Ul Qomo. Some blocks might even be in both – which one you’re standing in depends on your perceptions, your ways of thinking. The separation between the cities is enforced by a mysterious, brutal organization known as Breach.
And, of course, the murder investigation at the center of this book spans both cities.
The concept behind this book would probably have been enough to keep me satisfied, but the writing’s also great, and Miéville throws in enough twists and turns to keep things interesting. Not quite a masterpiece, but almost.
Author: Jeffrey N. Wasserstrom
Wasserstrom has a difficult task, but he mostly succeeds in providing a solid overview of looming, booming China. The first two-thirds are admirably focused and succinct, guiding the reader from Confucius to the Cultural Revolution. He meanders during the latter part of the book, condensing complicated events into overly long sentences, then adding clumsy parentheses to boot. I suppose such problems are only inevitable when using fewer than 200 pages to cover an incredibly vast subject.
This book won’t help you differentiate the periods of the Jin Dynasty, but it will probably provide you with some needed answers on a rather daunting topic.
Author: Tom Rachman
Tom Rachman’s debut peels away the glamour of a Roman locale and the glory of international journalism to reveal the static nuts and bolts of dysfunction.
A somewhat standard cast of characters (over-the-hill lush, icy/secretly vulnerable editrix, whip-smart singleton, bumbling naif, darling mensch, abrasive middle-aged dude with a suspiciously lovely younger girlfriend, etc.) comprise the staff of an unnamed English-language newspaper. Each chapter focuses on a different character that highlights their foibles, gripes, and merits. This structure proved appealing, especially since it managed to approximate action in that someone and their neuroses are always being introduced, then unceremoniously brushed aside to make room for the next. The prose is dialogue-heavy, which is all the better to show off Rachman’s deft, effervescent ear. Ultimately though, his facile observational style became mundane, and left this reader hoping for a character, plot, or idea to latch onto.
Although the book made a halfhearted attempt to describe the modest rise and sudden fall of a newspaper in the Internet Age, it has the emotional impact of a third-hand anecdote that allows one to be narrowly analytical and presumptuously accurate. Of course this dinky newspaper founded on the providential economic graces of the ‘50s will be unable to compete with technologically gluttonous conglomerates that provide instantaneous updates and the enterprising snark that is the domain of everybody with computer access! (Sheesh.)
To his credit, Rachman generally avoids sentimentalizing, so he must understand that his gift lies in buoyancy and earned sweetness. That makes me hopeful that his next outing will be like this one, but with a bit more ambition.
Author: Martin Amis
Martin Amis’s new novel takes us to an Italian castle in 1970, where a bunch of collegiates convene to test out the tenets of the Sexual Revolution. The group consists of clever, feckless narrator Keith, his levelheaded girlfriend Lily, the mob-inducingly gorgeous Scheherazade, relentlessly amoral Gloria Beautyman, and Adriano—the showboating aristocrat who just happens to stand 4’10’’.
This is Martin Amis, so the magisterial turns of phrase and devastatingly acute observations keep the reader engaged, awed, humbled, and–finally–quiveringly envious. As always, Amis has plenty to say about a topic that few dare to touch. Nonetheless, plot is always a distant second to verbal pyrotechnics in Amis’s world, and this proved to be something of an issue during the last sixty pages.
No, it’s not his best work, but it is still better than about ninety-nine per cent of everything I’ve read. Think of it as Jordan in ’88: not his most illustrious season, but he could still throw down on anyone with haughty ease.
