Angela Tung Oversharing on the internet since 2005.

Warning: lots of spoilers.

First I want to admit I haven’t read George Eliot since high school. But I remember enjoying Silas Marner and Middlemarch so when I had the chance to read historian Diana Souhami’s Gwendolyn, which is based on a character in another one of Eliot’s novels, Daniel Deronda, I snatched it up.

At first I thought I had made a huge mistake.

The book starts off slowly, probably much in the style of Eliot and not in a style that I’m used to reading as of late. It didn’t help that I had just finished Gina Frangello’s A Life in Men, which was fan-fucking-tastic. So Gwendolyn, Souhami’s first foray into fiction, had a lot to live up to.

Something else that got on my nerves at first was Gwen’s referring to Deronda as “you” throughout the book. I understand that the novel is in the form of a letter, but all the you’s got pretty tedious after a while, especially in the scenes with Deronda, who seemed like a high and mighty killjoy if you ask me.

But then something happened. Deronda left the picture, and the book got a whole lot more interesting.

Every single other character was a hell of a lot more interesting than Deronda, from Gwen herself, to her cruel and sadistic husband, Grandcourt, to the unique and artistic friends she makes post-marriage, to George Eliot herself, who while a celebrated author is also nosy, judgmental, and insecure.

The story of Gwen’s marriage to Grandcourt is horrific yet gripping, and I found myself rooting for her escape and, afterward, her growth and freedom without rescue from a “prince.”

I also kept anxiously waiting for Grandcourt to show up on her doorstep, alive and well, since his body, post-drowning, never washed up on shore. But as Gwen gained strength and confidence, in addition to her new circle of friends, I was less anxious, not that Grandcourt wouldn’t show, but because I thought she could handle herself if he did.

The sign of well-done historical fiction for me is when while I’m reading or immediately afterward, I look up all the “characters.” That happened with The Paris Wife and it happened with Gwendolyn.

Right after I finished I looked up George Eliot to find out more about her longtime companion George Lewes, with whom she had an open relationship although she liked to be called Mrs. Lewes, and after his death, her marriage to a man 20 years her junior — in the book, it’s said she called him her “nephew,” weird — who during their honeymoon in Venice “jumped from their hotel balcony into the Grand Canal.” (He survived.)

Another “real” character is Paul Leroy, a French painter who lives with his probable-lover Antoine. Julian, a trapeze artist who cross-dresses as Juliette, might be based on the “female impersonator, high-wire performer” Barbette, who, like Julian, was born in Texas (although many years after Julian would have been) and performed in drag, only revealing himself as male at the end of his performance. That could be a whole book in and of itself.

Overall I enjoyed the book, and think that fans of Eliot and especially Daniel Deronda will enjoy it even more.

In case you didn’t know, I’m too lazy (and sucky) to write full book reviews so I do these quick little six word ones, inspired by SMITH magazine’s six word memoirs. I also call out the ones I consider must-reads. Without further ado, here are the books I’ve read in the last six months.

• Fathermucker, by Greg Olear. Mr. Mom meets Ulysses, but better.
• An American Demon, by Jack Grisham. Strange – repentant sociopath or good actor?
• Confederacy of the Dunces, by John Kennedy Toole. Farcical romp in the Big Easy.
• Sleepy Hollow Family Almanac, by Kris D’Agostino. Moving family drama makes Westchester interesting.
• The Lexicographer’s Dilemma, by Jack Lynch. Grammar rules are arbitrary. Descriptivism rules!
• The Cove, by Ron Rash. Heart-rending beauty in WWI Appalachia.
• Truth Like the Sun, by Jim Lynch. Mr. Seattle’s skeletons in the closet.
• Moby-Duck, by Donovan Hohn. So good, I collected the words.
• The Magicians, by Lev Grossman. Harry Potter grown-up, fucked up.

The must-reads

Greg Olear’s Fathermucker was the first book I read this year, and I was blown away. On the surface it seems like a simple plot: a day in the life of a stay-at-home dad. But like Ulysses it’s far more complex (yet not incomprehensible), as well as moving and funny. It was one of those books I felt like kissing after I was done.

Sleepy Hollow Family Almanac by Kris D’Agostino is a little like The Corrections, but with much more heart. I didn’t so much love The Corrections as admire it. But with Sleepy Hollow, it was pure love. I read the book months ago but I still have clear images of most of the characters: the hapless narrator, the autistic kid he helps at the school where he works, the ill father, the troubled younger sister.

The Lexicographer’s Dilemma is a delight for any word nerd. The book gives a comprehensive overview of the history of the English language, from a time where there was no consistency in spelling or grammar, to the Latinizing of English, to modern-day neologisms. It was very interesting to see that a lot of grammar rules are arbitrary and were decided on the whim of some guy. For instance, John Dryden rather randomly decided that sentences shouldn’t end in a preposition, so that English would seem less “barbaric” and more like Latin, and so now old-school purists think the same.

The Cove was another surprise. It starts off quiet: an Appalachian town during World War I, a lonely outcast girl, a stranger with a flute. But Ron Rash subtly and skillfully brings all the elements together, and what happens is at once inevitable, surprising, and heart-breaking.

Moby-Duck: The True Story of 28,800 Bath Toys Lost at Sea and of the Beachcombers, Oceanographers, Environmentalists, and Fools, Including the Author, Who Went in Search of Them not only has the longest subtitle I’ve seen in a long time but also reminded me David Foster Wallace’s nonfiction: fascinating, informative, entertaining, and very funny. It’s an example of the very best nonfiction. There’s what it’s about – seeking out these rubber ducks and other bath toys – and what’s it’s really about: the author’s external and internal journeys.

How good is The Magicians? The moment I finished it, I bought the sequel in e-book format although I prefer print. I won’t even say anything more about it. You must experience it for yourself. Just remember my snarky six word review: Harry Potter, grown-up, fucked up.

I’ve only read a few books since the last time I posted SSWR, but I might as well post some more smart-ass short reviews again!

• The Shell Seekers, by Rosamunde Pilcher. Surprisingly good. Classy, non-trashy romance.
• Emily, Alone, by Stewart O’Nan. Independent widow faces fears, with dog.
• Affinity, by Sarah Waters. Pretty good but other books better.
• Skinny, by Diana Spechler. Fat camp, lost fathers, found selves.

Of these books, I’d say the two must-reads are Skinny and The Shell Seekers.

Skinny is a quick read – I read it basically in one weekend when I was feeling a bit coldy – but is darker and runs deeper than its fat camp backdrop implies.  I don’t want to give anything away so all I’ll say is: death, blame, guilt, infidelity, eating disorders.  And the characters are really vivid.

Although The Shell Seekers was on the BBC 100 list, I was still surprised at how good it was.  I expected it to be trashier, but it wasn’t at all.  It was extremely well-written and somewhat restrained – quite British in a way – but people still have sex, though mostly off the page.

Basically, it’s about Penelope Keeling, a woman in her 60s who has just had a heart attack.  She’s recovering but her adult children still worry.  At the same time, the children find out that the paintings of their mother’s father, a little-known artist, are suddenly very valuable.  One has just been sold for some exorbitant price, and the children, or at least two of them, get greedy about the works their mother owns – including the titular piece – and what else she might have in the depths of her house.  The book also flashes back to World War II, and Penelope’s youth and a lost love.

I had read another book of Rosamunde Pilcher’s when I was in China – Coming Home.  I remember it was winter and I was bored and had run out of things to read.  I went over to my friend Judy’s house to see if she had anything, and she gave me her well-worn copy.

“It’s kind of trashy,” she told me.

I ate that shit up.  In fact, I still have the copy, back at my parents’ house.  When I go visit in the fall, I may pick it up.

In other book news, I’ve categorized my What I’m Reading Now posts a little differently.  Instead of by genre, I’m categorizing by:

• must-reads
• reviews
• BBC 100
• TNB [The Nervous Breakdown] Book Club

I’m guessing that if you’re looking for a book to read, this would be an easy – or at least easier – way to find one that might be good.  Also I’m highlighting which book I’m reading at the moment on the sidebar.

Speaking of which, it’s currently The Devil’s Rooming House.  The premise sounds great:

The chilling story of the legendary serial killer who inspired the Broadway sensation and classic film Arsenic and Old Lace – and vivid portrait of early twentieth-century New England.

Female serial killer, old New England – seems promising, right?

Well, it started out sort of boring.  From the beginning you know Amy Archer, the female serial killer in question, committed all the murders.  I mean, of course you know.  But I thought there’d be at least some build-up of tension and drama.  Instead, it’s hammered again and again that she did it, supported by tons of facts.  I kind of feel like it’s revving revving revving, but only inching forward.

BUT, maybe I’m just used to novels now, or creative nonfiction like Capote’s In Cold Blood.

Because now that I’m about 100 pages in, it’s gotten better.  Either I’m more used to the style, or it’s picked up the pace and started focusing on specific people, instead of just giving this sweeping overview.  Anyway, I’ll let you know how it turns out.

It’s been forever since I last did one of these, so I thought it was time.  But I’ll omit the books I already wrote about in my year-end review.

Exley, by Brock Clarke. Smart kid. Lost dad. What’s real?

The Little Stranger, by Sarah Waters. Orphans! Thieves!  Twists! Re-twists! Soooo good.

Pictures of You, by Caroline Leavitt. Tragic fate brings lives together. Amazing.

Alias Grace, by Margaret Atwood. Discover new things with every reread.

Tipping the Velvet, by Sarah Waters. Now I wanna wear men’s suits.

West of Here, by Jonathan Evison. Epic tale of journeys – outside, in.

The Kiss, by Kathryn Harris. Fascinating yet disturbing. Beautiful ethereal writing.

Of all these books, I’d say you MUST read Pictures of You.  Deceptively a “domestic” tale – about women leaving their families, affairs, divorce, etc. – but also so much more.  And of course anything by Sarah Waters, my new favorite author.  Affinity is on my book shelf, waiting to be read.

Right now I’m reading Drinking Closer to Home, by Jessica Anya Blau, a Nervous Breakdown book club selection.  It is soooo good.  I could read about this crazy family forever.  And the descriptions of food make me want to have that food.  Like this:

“Will you make me cinnamon toast with butter soaked through and an almost hardened layer of cinnamon and sugar?” he asks Alejandro. He’s so lucky to have someone who makes him breakfast, Portia thinks.

I’ve had sugar cinnamon toast for breakfast for the past two days because of this description.

Now that’s good writing.

It’s a very long time since my last update on what I’ve been reading – although I have mentioned books along the way – so get ready for a whole slew of snarky six word reviews.

Since I’ve totally veered from reading everything on the BBC 100 List, most of these books will not be from that list.  I will also exclude the Harry Potter books.  I loved them, but they all sort of blend in my mind.

Great Expectations, by Charles Dickens. Overrated. Dickens obviously paid by word.

Persuasion, by Jane Austen. Read instead of Dickens. Watch miniseries.

Memoirs of a Geisha, by Arthur Golden. Surprisingly trashy. Details make the book.

A Prayer for Owen Meany, by John Irving. Interesting and strange. Curious about movie.

Love in the Time of Cholera, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Pretentious literary gymnastics. Good characters though.

The Woman in White, by Wilkie Collins. Suspenseful gothic mystery. Suspend all disbelief.

The Girl Who Played With Fire, by Stieg Larsson. Want to take up boxing now.

Gone With the Wind, by Margaret Mitchell. Unexpectedly ignorant, anti-war, pro-woman.

The Book of Lost Things, by John Connolly. Dark, imaginative, and sad. Want more.

Corelli’s Mandolin, by Louis de Bernieres. War romance with slow start, nice payoff.

Saturday’s Child, by Kathleen Norris. Enjoyable fluff. Single gal, 1915 SF.

Room, by Emma Donoghue. Amazingly moving. Read in two nights.

Me Talk Pretty One Day, by David Sedaris. His radio stories. Still hilarious though.

And that’s it!

Of all of these, I’d say the only one you MUST read is Room.  I could not put that sucker down.  At the same time, it’s thoroughly disturbing and upsetting.  I felt like I was in that room, in the head of Jack, the five-year old narrator.  And the fact that the author could pull off the voice of a little kid for an entire novel – I don’t know if I’d be able to do that.

The Book of Lost Things was also quite good.  I liked it well enough that I want to read his other book, The Gates, which seems to be YA, but a lot of awesome books out there are YA.

Now I’m reading Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell.  It’s a long one so I won’t be done for a while.

I thought this was a novel, but it’s actually more like a series of vignettes with the same cast of doctors. Most of the vignettes focus on a particular patient, and once the patient leaves the doctor, the story for that person is over, like on E/R, which always leaves me feeling a bit dissatisfied. Like, did the mother live? did the baby? is the baby healthy? I wouldn’t go as far as to say it’s a great book, like The Kite Runner and Atonement are great books, but I like it very much.

Midge Percy was bonkers all right. . . .That dog was a killer, protected by one of the many thin and senseless bits of logic that the upper classes in America are famous for: namely, that the children and pets of the aristocracy couldn’t possibly be too free, or hurt anybody. That other people should not overpopulate the world, or be allowed to release their dogs, but that the dogs and children of rich people have a right to run free.”

Sounds like the Upper East Side.

I’m not sure I like this book. While it’s entertaining and interesting, I kinda hate most of the characters, including Garp. Maybe especially Garp. Maybe I’m supposed to.

The only people I like are Roberta Muldoon, the transsexual, and Walt, Garp’s five-year old who says, “Oh, sure,” all the time. And I like Jenny. The other characters remind me of those out of a Raymond Carver or John Updike short story. Shallow, egotistical, artless. Not that I want all my characters to be heroes. Far from it. The ones in Atonement were very faulty, but they were artful. Or artfully drawn. I can’t explain it.

The ones in this book are just there, warts and all, which I guess is a akin to real life, but if I wanted real life, I’d just look around me. I feel books should be a more artful version of real life.

UPDATE: Suddenly this book is better. After the accident, I suddenly can’t stop reading. Almost missed my stop today on the subway. It’s like for the first 2/3 of the book, everyone sort of stews unhappily in their juices.

There’s lot of foreshadowing of the accident, and the theme of not being able to speak, having difficulty speaking, choosing not to speak. I love that Duncan’s lost eye is the eye for memory, for seeing ghosts.

Maybe that’s why the movie is so good. It’s much more streamlined, from what I remember. I’m dying to watch it again, and am tempted to rent it for this weekend, but I think I should finish the book first. Imeptus for finishing it by tomorrow.