I run hot and cold with Kurt Vonnegut, sometimes thinking he's a genius and other times silly and simplistic. My response to this tale of the effect of God's utter indifference on the creatures of our solar system is one of moderate disinterest, though I do generally enjoy clever irreligiousness.
I was so psyched to read Lisa See's new historical novel that I snatched it off the cataloging truck to get at it faster. With that kind of build up, it would have been surprising if I liked it as much as I expected to, so maybe it's not Shanghai Girls's fault that I didn't love it.
Regarding the last vampire book I read, my cousin asked me, "Isn't that trash?" I don't think that particular book, a graphic novel, is trash, even though I didn't like it very much. I did like Dead as a Doornail pretty well, but I do more or less regard it as trash. But I also don't say trash in an entirely pejorative way. I guess what I mean is that it isn't literature. It goes down quickly and leaves you feeling sated, even if hungry for more. I don't think that's a bad thing, although I do prefer to balance paranormal series like these with materials that are edifying. If I had a better diet, I'd probably make analogies to protein and carbohydrates. If I had a worse diet, I might compare genre fiction to fast food, but since I haven't been inside a McDonald's since the turn of the century, I can't bring myself to liken tasty paranormal tales to something that in addition to having bad politics makes you feel sick when you're done consuming it.
I (mostly) recommend and (somewhat) don't recommend this book. It's a pretty good read, but doesn't necessarily achieve what it sets out to do. I love Lisa See's historical novels, which is how I ended up reading the first two books in her mystery series.
While supervising a project to increase the lesbian fiction holdings at Barnard, I discovered this novel by Barnard professor Margaret Vandenburg. To my discredit, I'm kind of cloistered in the library and don't know much about what goes on on campus, but since Teresa Lee (LIS student whose project the lesbian fiction collection is) determined that the book has circulated sixteen times in the last six years, I guess there are plenty of people who know about Dr. Vandenburg's work.
Yup, it's back to vampires for me. I let a dozen books go by since the last one I read, unless you count the zombie book. Life Sucks is a graphic novel about a reluctant vampire, a vegetarian convenience store clerk named Dave, who is competing with a trust-fund surfer vamp for the affections of a hot mortal goth girl. I wasn't especially taken with the story or the art, I'm sorry to say, which is especially grating considering the anticipation with which I waited for it to be released from NYPL's nearly three week long "in transit" status. I think the problem is that the book really should have been about the girl, Rosa, with her traditional Mexican mother who wants her to get married and procreate, and her own identity struggle, including her desire to be a vampire.
You know how I'm often, perhaps self-righteously, claiming that my favorite authors are women of color? Well, I have to admit that there are a few white male authors in my heart, too. And you can't get much whiter than white Canadian Robertson Davies, eh? I've read, with affection, his three completed trilogies at least twice apiece, but I hadn't yet gotten around to rereading the first two of what Wikipedia surmises would have been called the Toronto Trilogy. The bad news is that I'm now pretty sure that Murther & Walking Spirits is my least favorite of Davies' novels.
I mentioned my preference for books by women of color in a previous post, and Johanna, a friend with I think pretty similar tastes (woc, but also zines and paranormal fiction) recommended Trumpet. I realized that while I do consistently enjoy books by women of color—American, immigrant-American, and Chinese and African (writing in English), I haven't done all that well with books by British women of color. I'm sorry, but Zadie Smith does nothing for me and Monica Ali less than nothing. I'm sure they're lovely women and skilled writers. Their writing styles just don't appeal to me, nor do those of the other women Brits of color I've read. Therefore it was a relief to dig into Johanna's recommendation by Nigerian-Scot Jackie Kay and realize that I was in the right place for once.
Carla Olivares spends a year in Mexico City trying to engage with the Chicano side of her heritage. At first she spends time only with fellow expats, starting with her trustafarian (her description) ex-boyfriend with whom she lives with for the first few months. She knows very little Spanish in the beginning of the story, but as she works at immersing herself in Mexican culture, she also learns the language.
This was a quick and somewhat tearful read. The teenage narrator, a talented classical musician in a coma after a car accident, must decide whether to live or die. While this is an affecting book and an interesting premise, I think there could have been more complexity on the death side. But maybe that's just a middle-aged reader of YA lit talking. I think teens will appreciate the drama.