Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi

I'll be quick with this one: Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi is such a quick read, you have no reason to not pick it up. Too many double negatives? Fair enough: read this graphic novel!

Readers of this blog don't need to be told that not all people living in the Middle East are crazy extremists. In fact, very few people are Islamic extremists. However, we Americans tend to forget that, and imagine every dark-haired person who knows something about Islam is going to blow us up. But like I said, if you're reading my blog, you are probably my friend, and not a douchebag. You know that the terrorists we are supposed to be afraid of are few and far between, and they aren't even all Muslims (but we fear the President, because he is a half-breed Muslin).

My point with all this? Satrapi's novel is her growing up, coming-of-age tale. She just happened to grow up in revolutionary Iran: we see her change from a precocious girl intent on reading great philosophers to a pre-teen wearing a veil and fearing the repercussions of protest. Satrapi humanizes those Middle Eastern monsters. They're real people, not caricatures wearing towels on their heads. I would love to get a class set of this and teach it to high school freshman. Being a teacher, I see daily the misunderstanding Americans have of other cultures. Many kids truly fear anyone who might hail from the Middle East, because a few crazies plot against our faultless nation. The graphic novel is an ideal medium through which to enlighten our kids.

Persepolis is just so damn engaging! It was so difficult to put down (you mean I need to answer that phone call? But it's just my job. Class is starting? Meh, they don't need me). Satrapi's illustrations are simple, but get the point across. The novel is so easy to read not only because of the clarity, but because of the events she covers. She not only writes of her heroes—her dissenting relatives and neighbors who are jailed or executed—but of her drug use and sexual experiences. It's relatable, folks, and that's why I must recommend it. She puts a face on a culture we too often fear. Yes, she's not typical—she went to French school, her parents were wealthy, their family had a maid, she didn't have to wear a veil until forced to by the state—but that doesn't matter. Just giving us one face will humanize her culture. She may not have intended to be the token, but maybe she did. It doesn't matter, though, because we really need it. The novel is also a nice little history lesson. We need more like this.

KK

Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy

As Twitter can attest, my initial response to Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy was "Huh." It took me over a month to read this book (irregular reading, yes, but that's still an absurd amount of time). I never felt myself drawn into it, and when someone would ask me what I thought so far, my answer would be something like, "Well, it's really violent. Has that one thing happened yet? I don't know. I forgot." I didn't have any desire to pick the novel up after I had put it down. Nevertheless, I kept on truckin', and, predictably, I'm happy I did so. Would I recommend this book? Cautiously. If you like to explore variations on the western, if you like McCarthy, or if you like historical fiction, definitely read it. But for others (especially if you don't care about the western genre, or cry after reading about babies getting their skulls smashed open), I would stay away.

Blood Meridian is a Western that is based on historical accounts taking place in the mid-1800s, primarily on the Texas/Mexico border. We readers follow The Kid, a hardened youth who joins a group of injun-killers. Remember when white man pillaged North America, killing and stealing to fulfill our manifest destiny? Some tribes of Native Americans fought back, so motley bands of scalp-hunters traversed the border killing for a value price. All the kid knows is violence, so he fits in well with this group.

It being a Western, you might predict we'll see the kid's personal growth: perhaps he starts out as a no-nonsense juvenile delinquent, tricked into joining Glanton's Gang because he likes the idea of becoming a hero. The Western Frontier will be crossed as he is taken under the wing of a wise veteran and emerges an intelligent Man set on making right all sorts of wrongs. McCarthy knows we were expect this out of a Western, so he takes those common archetypes (the naïve kid, the grizzled vet, violence as a rite-of-passage) and skews them. The kid doesn't cross the frontier and become a better man: instead, his growth is retarded. The cover of the novel tells us it's a "classic American novel of regeneration through violence" (Michael Herr). We expect regeneration: The Kid must, as characters in frontier myths do, perform some act of violence that enables him to literally and metaphorically cross the frontier. Do we get that regeneration?

Now that's I've blathered on for a while about Westerns and our focus character, the kid, I'll let you in on something: the kid is not the most interesting character in the book. The Judge (Holden) is an epic antagonist. Epic in the Iago sort-of-way: he's just so damn evil (murderer, likely pedophile) and intelligent (can speak a million languages, can perform any task, can dance like a motherfucker). Imagine an immense man—tall and fleshy—with absolutely no hair on his body and a predilection for walking around naked. Expriest Tobin tells the kid, "You wouldn't think to look at him that he could outdance the devil himself now would ye? God, the man is a dancer, you'll not take that away from him" (123). That's the judge. If you're considering reading the book, do it for the sake of Holden. Some say he's the devil incarnate...

I seen him before, said the kid. In Nacogdoches.
Tobin smiled. Every man in the company claims to have encountered that sooty-soled rascal in some other place (124).

Holden has a peculiar habit of taking notes on all signs of civilization and wildlife the party comes across. He takes rubbings of ancient stonework, shoots birds and stuffs them, and studies butterflies. When asked by Toadvine why (198), he replies, "Whatever in creation exists without my knowledge exists without my consent."

This is my claim, he said. And yet everywhere upon it are pockets of autonomous life. Autonomous. In order for it to be mine nothing must be permitted to occur upon it save by my dispensation...But that man who sets himself the task of singling out the thread of order from the tapestry will by the decision alone have taken charge of the world and it is only by such taking charge that he will effect a way to dictate the terms of his own fate (199).

So is Holden simply taking a hold of his own fate, by collecting all of this knowledge? No, it can't be, for that's not all he is capable of, as he handles a howitzer like a handgun and cites court cases better than any lawyer. He can, quite literally, do anything: he's the MacGyver of the West. Without the mullet.

When we're analyzing this book as a Western, it's easy to focus on the kid's journey, as he is the character we follow from the get-go. He, more or less, conforms to the archetype. I mentioned before that his growth is retarded. It's not that he remains static: it's that his development is subtle. As a teenager, after most of the company has been destroyed, he has a couple of chances to shoot the judge, who has been pursuing him and Tobin. But the kid doesn't do it. Is this the moment we realize he's crossed the border? The Blood Meridian?

The last dozen pages or so of the novel fast-forward to over a decade later when we find the kid, solitary as ever, going from town-to-town. Did he find what he's looking for? Is he even looking for anything? Waiting, perhaps. The Judge isn't done with him. I shan't spoil it for you, but leave you with this, from the final page (335):

Towering over them all is the judge and he is naked dancing, his small feet lively and quick, and now in doubletime and bowing to the ladies, huge and pale and hairless, like an enormous infant...He dances in light and in shadow and he is a great favorite. He never sleeps, the judge. He is dancing, dancing. He says that he will never die.

So what, exactly, is the judge? An insanely skilled man who's discovered the Fountain of Youth? The devil? A symbol of evil? Read the book already. There is much more to talk about (morality, expansion, redemption), so I'm cutting myself off. Yes, I didn't even answer all of the questions I asked (do we get that promised regeneration?). I recommend this book if you can handle slow plot development and violence. After thinking on it for a little over a day, I'm sold. My feelings have gone from "Huh" to "YES."

KK

Next up: Persepolis, which should be a quick read.

The Gunslinger by Stephen King

The Gunslinger opens with a stark, telling line: The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed. I was instantly interested in the plot—why is the man fleeing the gunslinger? Or is he fleeing someone else? Who is the bad guy?

Ultimately, these questions were answered. However, there was a lot about a tower and mystical things that I didn't care about. What, Kristina? This is the first book of The Dark Tower series. How could you not care about the tower?

This is the first Stephen King book I've ever read. No Carrie, Cujo or On Writing prior to this. I knew he was a writer that could pound out bestsellers for the masses. I also knew many of my friends, who are serious about literature and writing, like to read him. So, I definitely didn't approach this with a He's like Dan Brown attitude (yes, I do refuse to read The DaVinci Code). I was excited to see why this series has such a cult following.

Included in my edition of The Gunslinger (it was a gift, so it's a recent edition) is an intro and forward by King, which served to do two things:

1. Get me excited to read a contemporary epic, one with Western sensibilities, that the author worked on for an über long time (this is no Twilight. He wrote the series between 1970 and 2004).

2. Create a lot of build-up. King was inspired by J.R.R. Tolkien when he decided to write this. (But perhaps admitting this to your readers is an unfulfillable promise?)

The Gunslinger follows Roland Deschain, a really old, yet not aged, nomad. He was trained in the way of the gun, and when we first meet him, he is the one pursuing the man in black. (Given the name, you could guess the bad guy right away. Tolkien, too, used the black/white dichotomy.)

His journey to catch up with the man in black is riveting, punctuated with lively flashbacks. I really enjoyed these parts of the book: how Roland won his title of Gunslinger, how he'd roll into ghost towns and shoot 'em up; how he'd battle demons; and how he'd kick ass! There were softer, endearing moments with Roland, too: he had a brief relationship with a broken woman, Alice, and loved a young comrade, Jake. Roland is an awesome character: he has near-unbeatable fighting abilities and appears to have a strong moral compass, but I was still surprised by some of his actions. King was right on the money with this epic thing (Hero's Journey, anyone?) and the Western thing (guns, horses, sex and dust).

That being said, though, I think I ruined the experience for myself by reading his forward. I really didn't need to know his main inspiration was J.R.R. Tolkien. Every time I came across the mysticism, especially the Dark Tower palaver, I zoned out. I even made a note, "totally LOTR", in regards to this passage: "Once there was a king, he might have told the boy; the Eld whose blood, attenuated though it may be, still flows in my veins. But kings are done, lad. In the world of light, anyway" (205). I found it hard to enjoy that, when I kept thinking about The Lord of the Rings. I understand the need for it, though, as King did set out to complete a sweeping epic with an American bent. I just didn't care for it. Get back to the sex and guns! And the brief, yet integral, relationships Roland has with other people.

So, all in all, there was a lot to enjoy in this book. There was some stuff that made my eyes glaze over. Will I read the rest of the series? Yes, before I die. I heard the ending is JUST COMPLETELY AMAZING. Will I get through the next six books anytime soon? Not likely: I have way too many neglected books on my shelves.

KK

Next: Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy

Orlando

I decided to read Orlando for a few reasons:
1. Like many feminists, I was brainwashed by the evil of "A Room of One's Own."
2. I read, and enjoyed, Mrs. Dalloway (in a class with Paul Dresman presiding, one of my faves).
3. In my blog reading, someone somewhere called Orlando something of a science fiction novel. In the past year I have started reading sci-fi (I know, I know, what have I been doing all of my life?), so I thought it would be interesting to look at this novel with that frame.

Orlando, in the beginning of Woolf's tale, is a man with a rich family heritage—literally, rich. He lives in a massive estate, has oodles of servants, and wears fancy clothes (among other things). He desperately wants to be a poet, however, but can't figure out how to do it, considering the constriction of wealth. He winds up in Turkey to serve an ambassador, where he marries a whore and is assumed killed after a conflict.

Well, he's not dead; he took a long nap and woke up with a new body, of the female sex. From here, she lives with some Gypsies and rekindles her love of the outdoors, and comes to understand what is important in life (as it turns out, the Gypsies are not at all impressed with her family's land holdings or wealth). She eventually goes back to England, rekindles some old relationships (one with another gender-switcher), and time-travels to Victorian England, where her main pursuit is a husband (remember, everyone was stuffy back then). Things happens, she finds a husband, and she ends up in modern day England (1928). I'm being purposefully vague, but I also don't remember the latter part of the book as much as the first three quarters. I was a bit bored (which I don't want to admit! I love Woolf)!

One of the most intriguing things about this novel is that Woolf wrote it about one of her close friends, Vita Sackville-West (not to be confused with a Sackville-Baggins hobbit). Woolf modeled the Lady Orlando on her, even using Sackville-West's relationship with a lovely lady as the basis of Sir Orlando's crisis (his with the Russian fox Sasha). I suppose that is the easy way to skirt the reality of Sackville-West's bisexuality; Woolf did write this in the 1920s, after all.

My complaint? Woolf has an opportunity to make a grand feminist statement. Because Orlando lives for a few hundred years, we should see how women's rights have changed. Woolf is the author of "A Room of One's Own," after all! But we don't see how Orlando's rights (property ownership, sexual freedom, access to education) change over the course of several centuries and a swap of sex. I really expected this to be hard-hitting—if Woolf did cover the rights and opportunities granted to each gender, I completely missed it. At one point in the novel, Orlando revels in her femininity after seeing how a flash of her calf nearly

killed a sailor (157). All that says, however, is that women's sole power is their sexuality or beauty. Even if that's true in that era, why not juxtapose that with Orlando considering how much power she had as a male, but didn't realize? There is just so much potential for a critique of the male privilege (but maybe Woolf was bored with the topic).

Petty feminist critique aside, I would recommend this book for the awesome time-traveling aspects. Who doesn't like time travel? If you said "ME!" you are a waste of cyberspace. But, as I wrote before, I got bored towards the end; perhaps I thought it was repetitive, and I expected more to happen. Nevertheless, I recommend one read this novel, especially once you consider the year it was written. Equal rights and time travel were two topics not discussed nearly enough, and Woolf was a great contributor to both. I also don't want to downplay the other themes we could discuss; this novel celebrates being a woman, considers what marriage really is, and the role of poet in society. Through my lenses, though, I feel the most pertinent point to bring up is the feminist one—and there is so much more to discuss about Orlando! But I've written enough.

KK

Next: Another biography, but this time, it's self-aggrandizing (obviously, it's of the auto- variety). It goes without saying, it was written by a man.

Dune by Frank Herbert

Now that is a nerdy sci-fi book—I had no plans to read it. But, a friend and I met for a beer, and he brought it along to read while waiting for me. I said I had never read it, which is shocking to a creature that's read it so many times. So shocking in fact, he finished it the next day, in for our next meeting at '80s Night. That's how I ended up with a copy of Dune shoved down my pants while listening to "Love is a Battlefield." (What else are you supposed to do with a book while gyrating? If only I had—and wore—big-pocketed raver pants).

I have been trying to read more sci-fi, as I completely ignored the genre MY ENTIRE LIFE (I have a lot of catching up to do). What I like most about sci-fi is its speculative and metaphorical qualities. Oh, and, you know, sexy aliens and pleasure 'droids.

Enjoying these things the most makes writing about Dune difficult. Usually I latch onto some allegory right quick, and harp on the relevant qualities of a decades-old novel. Dune had my devoted attention after the first 15 pages or so, and I was ravenous to finish it. Yet I hadn't identified what it could be, besides a story about some people living on a desert planet.

Dune takes place mostly on a desert planet, Arrakis. It's like a big sand dune, obvs. Our protagonist, Paul Atreides (Maud'Dib) is a youth gifted with a preternatural intellect and fighting ability, which he owes to selective breeding and strict training. He's also a prophet, leading a group of underestimated sand people, Fremen, who had no reason to trust him. But he becomes their fearless religious and combat leader, as they struggle against Imperial forces. The Fremen, once over their initial discomfort, treat Paul as a messiah (like Jesus or Obama). At this point, Paul is thought dead by the Imperial forces, so the established rulers ignore the Fremen and their crazy desert-religion.

I struggled for a while to determine what this book was about, but with further reflection, themes abound: don't underestimate people conditioned to live under circumstances unlike your own; if you don't like the conditions of your environment, cooperate to create change; water (read: everything) belongs to your tribe/community; what addiction can control; etc. These are all explored thoroughly in the novel, especially the ecological aspects. I think Frank Herbert took about 599 years to write the novel—did you know he got the initial inspiration after visiting the dunes of Florence, Oregon?

Anyway, I've been long-winded, and need to draw this to a close. I recommend reading this, if you want to become familiar with one of the most-read and well-regarded sci-fi novels ever. I had just two qualms with it (but that's because I'm a damned feminist). One was the final line of the novel: "While we, Chani, we who carry the name of concubine—history will call us wives" (489). Apparently tens of thousands of years from now, women will still consider themselves the "other" of men, and we will be known only as wives or concubines, not people of our own right. Of course I want women to be known as something other than what their relationship was to a man. Ok. Number two; there was one homosexual character, the Baron Harkonnen, and he was pretty disgusting: fat, sadistic and treacherous. This character is already pretty evil; what can we do to demonize him further? Oh yes, let's make him gay. We'll surely disgust our readers.

But aside from those two items, I really enjoyed reading Dune. Talk about exhaustive world-building: occupations, planets, culture, and languages were all created for this novel (and later, sequels, and later yet, prequels). It really appears to be sci-fi's answer to Lord of the Rings. Pretty badass.

KK

Skinny Legs and All by Tom Robbins

Last week I finished reading Skinny Legs and All by Tom Robbins. OH, WHAT A BOOK. As quoth by Playboy on the back cover, it is "flat-out fabulous." Dear readers, I read Still Life with Woodpecker by Robbins last year, and loved it also. Both books are like crack. Well, what I imagine literary crack to be, anyway: forever relevant, full of allusions, and impossible to put down! As in Still Life, I encountered the following in Skinny Legs: an engaging plot, strong female characters, a whole lot of randomness, and graphic sex scenes.

It goes without saying I will read all of Robbins' books.

Skinny Legs chronicles the cross-country adventure of Ellen Cherry Charles and her new hubby, Boomer... in a large turkey. Ellen Cherry is an educated artist, and Boomer is the fool who created the turkey out of an Airstream trailer, not realizing until later it was "art." Naturally, a question asked by the book is: how do we define art?
But that's not the only question. Another important one is: How do we solve the Israel-Palestine conflict (adding to that—can we)? Naturally, we get a lot of great discussion about this through a Jew and Arab who open a Middle Eastern restaurant together.

Another shocking thing: inanimate objects are capable of locomotion—most just don't know how. But if you've ever wanted to follow a devout Christian spoon, a transsexual Can O'Beans, and a sensual conch shell around New York City, this is your book! In addition to these colorful characters, we also meet Ellen's parents and her uncle, a fire-and-brimstone preacher hell-bent on summoning the Third Coming. Many of these characters start out in Colonial Pines, Virginia; move to NYC; and end up in Jerusalem.

Speaking of the fertile crescent, the title Skinny Legs and All is in reference to Salome, the Biblical temptress who entertained her stepfather Herod, for which she received a gift of her choice—which happened to be the head of John the Baptist. She is considered a jezebel (not to be confused with the ill-regarded biblical Jezebel) because she danced salaciously for Herod, removing seven veils (something Robbins uses as a plot device in multiple ways) to expose her underage flesh. THAT IS MY IDEA OF A GOOD TIME (if I were a king, not a Kristina King). Anyway, this biblical/Robbinsian Salome has skinny legs. BAM! WE HAVE A TITLE!

So, the Seven Veils thing: Babylonian lore tells us that Ishtar visited the underworld (it's like Enchanted Forest for the gods), and had to remove one piece of clothing for each gate she stepped through; Salome merely adapted that ritual for her depraved dance. A character in the book dances the said cha-cha-cha, lowering veils to expose her flesh, and ultimately, reality. Too bad so many men chose The Super Bowl over the dance!

The dance, the lowering of the veils and raising of our consciousness, is when Robbins is at his best. His characters, particularly Ellen Cherry, learn what really matters in life (it is not politics, religion, money...well, there are seven veils). For the readers, this may be an eloquent reminder (457):

And this further thought occurred to Ellen Cherry after the falling aside of Salome's first veil: that whenever society demonstrated signs of rediscovering the goddess, or returning to more feminine values systems, the patriarchally conditioned psyche generated diseases, literal diseases such as syphilis in the hotly romantic nineteenth century and, in the wake of the Sexual Revolution of the 1960s, AIDS. Those diseases were caused not by sexual license but by the fear of sexual license; by the conservative DNA's inability to adjust to hedonism; and they were compounded by guilt over the suppression of the Great Mother and the denial of the sensuality with which she so frequently underscored her coexistence with the void.

Or, it might be mind-blowing (460):

The monkey wrench in the progressive machinery of primate evolution was the propensity of the primate band to take its political leaders—its dominant males—too seriously. Of benefit to the band only when it was actively threatened by predators, the dominant male (or political boss) was almost wholly self-serving and was naturally dedicated not to liberation but to control. Behind his chest-banging and fang display, he was largely a joke and could be kept in his place (his place being that of a necessary evil) by disrespect and laughter. If, for example, when Hitler stood up to rant in the beer halls of Munich, the good drinkers had taken him more lightly, had they, instead of buying his act, snickered and hooted and pelted him with sausage skins, the Holocaust might have been avoided.

I bet you saw this coming: I highly recommend this novel.

-KK

P.S. Next up is Dune, because it was thrust in my pants whilst dancing to "Love is a Battlefield" at '80s Night.

"Tender is the Night" by F. Scott Fitzgerald

Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald is a semi-autobiographical novel that follows Dick Diver and his wife Nicole, from their initial meeting as doctor-and-patient, to their inevitable separation. That part is fiction; however, the novel chronicles Fitzgerald's perceived personal and career failings, and his wife Zelda's breakdown (as well as both of their extramarital affairs). Dick and Nicole are masks of the Fitzgeralds, augmented by their real-life friends. I suppose there's no better material than your own life and relationships.

Tender is a beautiful read. Unfortunately, I've read or taught The Great Gatsby too many times—I keep expecting to find all of these symbols and motifs in Tender, much like the eyes of Dr. T.J. Eckleburg and the green light in Gatsby. Perhaps it's amateur to compare Tender with Gatsby. Everyone on the planet has done that. Well, I just did: as a representative of the human race, I'll bet there are many like me who haven't read anything by Fitzgerald save these two novels (ok, perhaps also "Curious Case of Benjamin Button"). If you're expecting another great novel in the vein of Gatsby, which shows us how damaging money and ambition can be, you won't find it here. Sure, money is an important part of Tender, but it's something more inherently human that causes the damage: neuroses and addiction.

Nicole is neurotic, having suffered a mental breakdown caused by her incestuous relationship with her father. She is in constant danger of breaking down again; considering they have two children, Dick does as much as he can to prevent this from happening. Ultimately, though, it is their incompatibility that causes a breakdown of sorts. They realize their marriage is through, but try to ignore it (for the sake of the kids?). Nicole ignores it by considering an affair (which she follows through with) and Dick ignores it by drinking—quite a detrimental amount. The entire arc is believable; many of us, in our relationships, have experienced these feelings, or even acted similarly.

The backdrop is a continuation of Gatsby's roaring '20s: the characters work and take vacations at all sorts of idyllic spots. We see how superficial life is: how people act like nothing is wrong, but in reality, everything they know is falling apart. Fitzgerald skewers the hollow upper class well, because he had plenty of time being a member or knowing them. It's like me writing the great hipster novel (I deny I am a hipster, but damnit, so many signs point to yes...)

I recommend this novel without pause. Fitzgerald has such a way with words—if you don't know it, you've heard this. He's a standard. Also, it's fascinating to see someone spin their experiences into a work of fiction, yet still retain authenticity and honesty. No one is blamed—it isn't Nicole's fault she had neuroses, and Dick didn't marry her for her money. Yet, in the end, Nicole recovers and Dick disappears. Oh! Here's a lesson: when you're in the money crowd, it isn't a lifetime membership.

KK