12.05 Read-A-Thon

I thought I couldn’t do it. But the postponement of the exhibit’s a many-splendored blessing. Because now I can join the Read-A-Thon hosted by Bethany over at Dreadlock Girl. Wahoo. Read-A-Thon starts on 5th of December, at 6am PST (Seattle, Washington, Vancouver). I’m in the Philippines, so I’ll have to do a little math. Yech. I’m excigamated. I’ve always been a fast reader, haha. So yay, yes? Yes. Anyway, I’m all set. Never mind schoolwork. Bah. The books I might be reading this Saturday will come from this list (of course, it’s subject to change; I might come to my senses and pick thinner books, haha) (of course, I can’t read ALL of them):

> Everyman’s Rules for Scientific Living, by Carrie Tiffany.

> Her Last Death, by Susanna Sonnenberg.

> No One Belongs Here More Than You, by Miranda July.

>Valentines, by Olaf Olafsson.

> Daughters of the Vicar, by D.H. Lawrence.

> Fanny Hill, by John Cleland.

> Proof of Seduction, by Courtney Milan.

> Autumn in Scotland, by Karen Ranney.

> Holidays Are Hell, by Kim Harrison, Lynsay Sands, Vicki Pettersson and Marjorie M. Liu.

And, to banish their perpetual “Currently Reading” status:

> A Blind Man Can See How Much I Love You, by Amy Bloom.

> My Mistress’ Sparrow is Dead: Great Love Stories from Chekhov to Munro, by edited by Jeffrey Eugenides.

> Once Again to Zelda: The Stories Behind Literature’s Most Intriguing Dedications, by Marlene Wagman-Geller.

> The Book That Changed My Life: 71 Remarkable Writers Celebrate the Books That Matter Most to Them, edited by Roxanne J. Coady and Joy Johannessen.

UPDATE01: Aaand Bethany helps us get ready for the Read-A-Thon!

And Even More LitLove: Liars in Love, by Richard Yates

I suppose I’m now on a campaign to read all of Richard Yates. I’ve read Eleven Kinds of Loneliness (see my thoughts here) and, of course, Revolutionary Road (see my thoughts here). I foresee a problem reading the rest of Yates’ work, since I can’t afford to buy any more books, and the university library only has RR on its shelves (BOO). Liars is the last Yates book available to me. But Christmas is coming, so NUDGE NUDGE WINK WINK bitchez. Eherm.

I read Liars in Love about an hour after I read Eleven Kinds of Loneliness, because I couldn’t help it. Seven short stories, each of them kick-ass. That’s as much an objective opinion as I can give.

There are differences between the first collection and this second one. Delightful ones; I feel like a proud mama watching his scarred little boy grow up to be a decent enough man, haha. The stories here are longer, for one, more detailed, definitely more nuanced. Here, Yates reaches depths he’d only teased us with before. He lingers this time, and really goes deep into the guts of his characters—a trait I noticed was very similar to “Builders,” the last story in his previous collection.

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This is an excerpt from the story “A Natural Girl,” and I think the following lines of the dialogue encapsulate how Yates sees a world were people hurt people not out of recklessness or cruelty, but out of a weariness brought about by too much dissatisfaction. [If I were to go OC on you guys, notice how, in the first line of dialogue, those are statements and not questions. Now, class, what does this say about the character?]

Ouch.

“My God, you really mean this, don’t you. I’ve really lost you, haven’t I. You don’t—love me anymore.”

“That’s right,” she said. “Exactly. I don’t love you anymore.”

“Well, but for Christ’s sake, Susan, why? Can you tell me why?”

“There’s no why,” she said. “There’s no more why to not loving than there is to loving. Isn’t that something most intelligent people understand?”

Interestingly enough, she echoes the same words—the same declaration of not loving—to her father. The story, in fact, opens with In the spring of her sophomore year, when she was twenty, Susan Andrews told her father very calmly that she didn’t love him anymore.

Suffering is so matter-of-fact here, gone are your usual images of heartwrenching, Slide Against the Wall On Your Way Down Crying. Here are words thrown carelessly but wounding for life. Here are characters intense in their stifledness. Here are characters in compromising and defeating positions they see no way out of. See the title story, in which the main character has his marriage disintegrate almost casually, and he develops a relationship with a whore. See “A Compassionate Leave,” in which a soldier deliberately spends all his money on alcohol in Paris that he retains his virginity even in a city of whores. See “Oh, Joseph, I’m So Tired,” where we first meet the sculptor Helen, with her grand ambitions and not-so-substantial talent.

I am partial to “Saying Goodbye to Sally” and “Regards at Home”—where we meet, once more, the narrator of “Joseph,” now a grown man with a family and dreams, and yes, his mother is still there. It is in “Regards” that we see a tantalizing view of a—gasp!—a happy ending. But do we trust Yates? Can we? For heaven’s sake, everything in this book is so ominous. “Sally” is just one sad disaster, one after another, and it’s painfully obvious that it’s partially autobiographical. The characters are annoying, for another. It’s this story that I’d like to use to convince people that Yates is such a good writer, you don’t put the book down because you might just whack the characters’ heads for thinking they’re so helpless.

Oh, Richard, I’m so excigamated to read your other stuff.

SUNDAY SALON: On the Short Story Spotlight, On November Wrap-up

[1] Very rarely do I inish reading short story collections straight through. Of course, there are exceptions. But still, the norm is that I read one short story or two in one sitting, and then I go on reading other stuff, other books, and some time later, I return to that book. That’s why most short story collections are on my “Currently Reading” pile. It tends to irritate my OC-ridden mind, how it seems like I can’t “finish” a book, but most of the time, I take my short stories in sips.

I don’t think it’s disrespect; I’m crazy about the short story. I tend, though, to think of one piece as the equivalent of a novel in certain ways: the story, for example, the characters, the paaaaain. Also, reading collections, and reviewing them, it’s difficult. I could go on and on and on about one story (maybe because I’m more familiar with the form, more knowledgeable of the form); or I could only mention a few stories since I don’t always read all of the pieces in a collection even when I’ve deemed them as “Already Read.” It calls for some subterfuge, let me tell you, when I review collections—but this’ll be just between the two of us, okay? Good.

And then I thought, since I am King of the Hill when it comes to this blog? Cripes, why not do just that—feature one (or two, if I can’t help it) short story without guilt? And Short Story Spotlight was born. When I read a short story I’d thought I could share, by god I will share it! :]

You’re welcome to come aboard, if you want. Please do, let’s make this merry. :) It’s a segment that will put the short story in the spotlight, and I am tempted to hold this segment every Sunday or Saturday, because I like the alliteration. But I’ve decided to hold it every Wednesday and Saturday, since I definitely read more short stories than any other form. Wednesdays and Saturdays are a personal goal, but I’ll put a Mr. Linky, so if people want to join me, you’re welcome to—whether it’s on a Wednesday or Saturday, or both. Please and thank you. :)

This is where I need your help, friends. See, I don’t have the best Photoshop skillz, but I’ve managed to tinker around, and here are two buttons I’ve come up with. I don’t know what to use. So please, well, vote for what you think’s a better button for this little project of ours.

Again, please and thank you! :)

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[2] Second semester of school began this November, and well, I’ve lagged behind my reading love. Professors have been pushing Merton and Riceour in my hands—not to mention the Philippine freaking Constitution—and whatever “nonrequired” reading I’ve done was on the sly, very much illegal-ish. Bah. But here’s a rundown of the books I’ve read and reviewed here on the blog since school begaaaan this November. It’s a linky wrap-up!

> The Post-Birthday World, by Lionel Shriver.

> Revolutionary Road, by Richard Yates.

> Change Baby, by June Spence.

> Devil of the Highlands, by Lynsay Sands.

> Wild and Wicked in Scotland, by Melody Thomas.

> Tolstoy Lied, by Rachel Kadish.

> Hallucinating Foucault, by Patricia Duncker.

> The Varieties of Romantic Experience, by Robert Cohen.

> The Perks of Being a Wallflower, by Stephen Chbosky.

> Naked, by David Sedaris.

> I Feel Bad About My Neck…, by Nora Ephron.

> Eleven Kinds of Loneliness, by Richard Yates.

> Captive of Sin, by Anna Campbell.

> Liars in Love, by Richard Yates.

Thank you so much. :) Bow.

Y/N?: Captive of Sin, by Anna Campbell

I won Captive of Sin by Anna Campbell from an Avon Books Twitter giveaway, so yay. Anyhoo, I only got around to reading it yesterday, and it was amazing. Amazing.

One of the criteria I have on whether a book’s wunnerful or not is if it made me cry. (Which, people who know me would reason, isn’t even that rare a thing; I really do cry at long-distance telephone commercials, and bah, weddings.) Has anyone ever had that ache in your chest when you read? It’s an ache that radiates to the tips of your fingers, and it just hurts—because the scene was written so well (not because it’s a terrible book, hahaha.) You identify with the hurting the characters are going through, and the reader-character empathy is at its all-time high.

That happened with Captive of Sin. This is not a lighthearted read by any means. Neither is it an Uber-Gothic romance with grumbling/grunting alpholes. There’s a well-deserved angst between the characters, within the characters themselves. Sir Gideon Trevithick is one of the most damaged heroes I’ve ever come across, and Lady Charis Weston (who’s known as Sarah for a good half of the novel) was just admirable for her, hm, stalwartness in letting Gideon see that, hey dude it’s okay to lurve.

This is what the back of the book tells you:

He pledged his honor to keep her safe . . . // Returning home to Cornwall after an unspeakable tragedy, Sir Gideon Trevithick comes upon a defiant beauty in danger and vows to protect her whatever the cost. He’s dismayed to discover that she’s none other than Lady Charis Weston, England’s wealthiest heiress—and that the only way to save her from the violent stepbrothers determined to steal her fortune is to wed her himself! Now Gideon must hide the dark secrets of his life from the bride he desires more with every heartbeat. // She promised to show him how to love—and desire—again . . . // Charis has heard all about Gideon, the dangerously handsome hero with the mysterious past. She’s grateful for his help but utterly unwilling to endure a marriage of convenience—especially to a man whose touch leaves her breathless. Desperate to drive him mad with passion, she would do anything to make Gideon lose control—and fall captive to irresistible, undeniable sin.

A recent complaint I’ve had lately, when reading romance novels, is that, well, that I want overwrought—I read Wild and Wicked in Scotland by Melody Thomas and my one paltry nitpick (aside from the matter of the toothbrush, but thanks, Carina!) was that: “My problem with the romance novels I’ve been reading lately is that, well, they’re not too terribly romantic. That is: I WANT OVERWROUGHT, PEOPLEZ… I just miss a good swoon, ya know? When was the last time I swooned?” I realize that romance novels have “gone a long way”—that they don’t linger over those breathless moments and focus on True Serious Love. Bullshit. I want romance in my romance novel, and I want it in heaps.

Ladies and gents, I swooned with this one. It was romantic, it had just enough angst in it, it was crazyfrazygood. Case in point: sometimes, I had to put the book down because the real world called. I put it down very reluctantly, and the story still lingered with me. And when I ran back to the book, it immediately plunged me into the story, and the experience wasn’t diminished, or the value of the scene.

Y(ay):

[1] The conflict between the characters is not run-of-the-mill at all. Gideon is such a damaged man, and there’s so much strength in him too, so much kindness—not that he lets himself be aware of it. He’s been through unspeakable horrors, and this has wrought so much havoc in his life, in how he interacts with people. We’re quickly informed just how deep the damage goes: he can’t bear the touch of another person. And the complications that arise make for some of the most heartwrenching scenes I’ve ever come across—and those scenes were hella good. You know that reader-character empathy I was babbling about? Campbell serves it in bucketfuls.

See, I wanted to give Gideon a hug. But then that would be impossible (never mind that he’s fictional). Nobody could give Gideon a hug, not even a handshake. And that’s where Lady Charis Weston comes in. She is so obstinate in her loving, in her believing in him, that she goes on a campaign to break all his barriers. And nothing but conflict waits down that road, and, well, that’s where these two people become the most human. And it hurts.

[2] The writing was phenomenal. Campbell has such control of her prose that even though scenes were overwrought, she didn’t need to go overboard by showing us how overwrought things actually are, with all sorts of purple prose. Taking a step back might just tell me that there are all sorts of purple prose; however, it doesn’t matter, it’s not purple, it suits the form. I see I’m fumbling here too. Bah. It’s a good book, okay? [Why do I always have trouble talking about really good books? Bah.]

N(itpicking):

[1] Many who read this have argued that whatever change the heroine undergoes isn’t independent or individual. That is, her change occurs in relationship to her relationship with Gideon. I guess I should tell you now that you’ll end up reading the book for Gideon—not that Charis is made of cardboard. Gideon is just so compelling, and Charis is made compelling by how she loves Gideon. This doesn’t have to be a bad thing; in fact, I didn’t mind at all.

[2] I wish it were longer. I wish the resolution didn’t come too soon, that we were able to see more of how Gideon and Charis dealt with their problems. I wish the ending hadn’t come too soon, I really really really wished there was that usual tired epilogue with heaps of children running around. I liked Gideon and Charis, I was rooting for them.

Miss Campbell, I do hope I get to see more of them. Maybe a sequel with Gideon’s good friend Akash is in the works? PLEASE? Or I’ll go Misery on your ass. [See how much I like this novel? I rarely ask for sequels. Thing is, Akash wasn’t so obviously set up for a sequel, unlike the characters in Liz Carlyle’s novel. So PLEASE.]

<3 = Eleven Kinds of Loneliness, by Richard Yates

<3 #01 – About two stories into the short story collection Eleven Kinds of Loneliness, by Richard Yates, I decided that it would catapult me to the happy place of all happy places if I read the entire body of his known work. (Quite ironically, yes, I’m aware; “happy place” and Yates aren’t your usual snuggly pairing.) So that’s seven novels, two short story collections, and a posthumous Collected Stories (which includes his, uh, previously uncollected short stories). Ten Kinds of Loneliness, if you allow me. Oh, you don’t? Oh.

<3 #02 - Goodness, I do think I’m fatally in love with Richard Yates. I recognize how unfortunate that is, of course. In his universe, there’s never anything nice in store for people who claim they’re in love, fatally or otherwise. Still. There’s such a strange affection I have for this writer, him with his “misogynistic” worldview. I’ve once wondered, and scribbled down, Does Yates hate people? But no, I don’t think he does. He’s just pragmatic. Conscious of the reality that governs disappointed people, or dreamers who refuse to admit they’re disappointed. And he has this terse grasp on sentimentality and defeat, and, yes, loneliness. All those syllables really just aim to mean YOU ARE AWESOMEZ RICHARD IF YOU WERE STILL ALIVE AND MARGINALLY FRIENDLY I WOULD HUG YOU.

<3 #03 – There are eleven stories in Eleven Kinds of Loneliness. That might look pretty obvious to you, but I was at the fifth story when i realized this. Math has never been my strong point; this is why I use such long words. Anyhoo. Those eleven stories are Petri dishes on what it means to be a resigned human being, one who dreams too big, one who dreams too small, one who really has no reason to dream at all.

What impresses me about the stories is, well, I never got frustrated over these people’s resignations. Why not? Well, maybe because they’re blissfully aware that they’re disappointed people.  Instead of whiny widdle wankers, these people are, well–they’re lonely, going through a life that is oftentimes heartbreaking (then heart-numbing) in its normalcy. I’ve always been a sucker for these secret heartaches kind of shiz.

<3 #04 – One of my favorite stories of the collection is “The Best of Everything”–it’s a story that vividly captures the hurt we cause by our ignorance, our self-absorption (because, after all, we need to find ways to keep us happy, right?) Here we have a just-about-to-be-bride settling with a marriage she knows–and has accepted–will never make her happy. You almost hear her dismissal: But what’s happiness anyway? There’s this heartbreaking scene where she’s stripped (in more ways than one), and there’s just a lot of ignoring going on, and a lot of goddamned painjesus. And at the end of the story, you know that she’s still going to marry him, and this scene will probably rehashed for years and years, because, you know, what is happiness anyway?

<3 #05 - Yates’ world is fraught with people who are rife with–as one of my Philosophy teachers would put it, thumping a dogeared copy of Foucault–rife with dissatisFACtion. These are people jaded by the war and all that has happened post-war, these are people who’ve settled, because they can’t envision any other option. These are people who grit their teeth through the pain, all that unbelievable pain–and Yates gives you all this in such a calm, so goddamned all-knowing manner, that, for some odd reason only the Big Kahuna may be privvy to, you keep reading, you keep suffering along with these people–and then, suddenly, you find yourself spectators, at the fringes, looking on.

There’s never any pity in Yates Universe.

Then again, who’s to say no one is looking on our settled little lives?

* * * Here’s more shameless fangirly-ness over Yates, for his novel Revolutionary Road. (Do I read into it that I read RR at the height of a storm, one that blasted the power from cities for hours? That I read this shiz by candlelight? Oh, I do think Yates would be disgusted by me, haha. Then again, he always goes for the then-idealistic ones, no?)

The GLBT Challenge 2010

Welcome to the GLBT Challenge 2010! The Challenge that Dare Not Speak its Name.Rules/Guidelines: The basic idea of this challenge is to read books about GLBT topics and/or by GLBT authors.The challenge runs year-round, and there will be three levels of participation — Lambda Level: Read 4 books. Pink Triangle Level: Read 8 books. Rainbow Level: Read 12 or more books. You don’t need to choose your books right away, and they can change at any time. Overlaps with other challenges are fine.

 

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I’m aiming for the Pink Triangle Level, but, well, 2010 has a lot of days in it, and a lot of opportunities to pick up books–I might just go for Rainbow Level. Who knows? I mean, I don’t even know what books I’m reading yet, except, maybe, for:

[*] Name All the Animals, a memoir by Alison Smith.

[*] Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit, by Jeanette Winterson, or maybe something else by her?

[*] To The Lighthouse, by Virginia Woolf. {and/or:}

[*] A Room Of One’s Own, by Virginia Woolf.

[*] The Hours, by Michael Cunnigham.

Aaaaand I’m stumped. Would dearly appreciate it if you guys gave me some recs. :) [And drat, I can't put Middlesex since I've read it about four times now. Augh.] A little help would be wunnerful. :)

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It's not cheating if I still have time left.

UPDATELIST:

* * And maybe Crush, poems by Richard Siken. I swear I’ll really read it, and not just highlight lines that make me want to wail.

* * Garbo: Her Story, by Antoni Grobowicz. Because I’m crazy about Garbo.

* * I might read Mrs. Dalloway, by Virginia Woolf.

*

UPDATE: I’ve still got about a month left before the 2009 edition of the challenge winds down, and, well, I want to sign up. I just noticed (haha) that my recent reads are mostly GLBT-ic. So there.

Friday Firsts (11282009)

The meme’s headquarters is over at Well-Read Reviews–thank you! To quote: “The first line can make or break a reader’s interest. Just how well did the author pull you in to the story with their first sentence? To participate in this weekly book meme is extremely easy. [1] Grab the book you are currently reading and open to the first page. [2] Write down the first sentence in the first paragraph. [3] Create a blog post with this information. (Make sure to include the title & author of the book you are using. Even an ISBN helps!) [4] Did this first sentence help draw you into the story? Why or why not?”

[1] The Shape of a Pocket, by John Berger. I got this book in the mail about two weeks ago. I read it about a year ago, but really quickly and hurriedly—the professor was carrying this around during one poetry class, and I was very, very intrigued. I wanted to return to this book, and spend more time with it. Essays on art, life, philosophy, and all-around awesomesauce. The first line goes:

The ceiling of the bedroom is painted a faded sky blue.

Now, that doesn’t really say much, but, well, let me cheat a little and point you to a statement a couple of paragraphs down, one that has stuck with me all this time:

At the same time, there is an expectancy which I have not experienced since childhood, since I talked to dogs, listened to their secrets and kept them to myself.

I have always been a shamelessnutfan about the fluidity of images, and how language manages to leave you breathless for a couple of moments.

[2] Captive of Sin, by Anna Campbell. Some authors know all the usual tricks that guarantee an instant hook, because I couldn’t really stop at just this line now, huh? I mean, I have to know what the hell happens next!

“Good God, what have we here?”

First page’s fraught with feril! :}

[3] What the Duke Desires, by Jenna Petersen. This was a line that had me going, “Come again?” And that’s always a good thing, innit? Here, Simon (the hero)’s telling us about this haunting woman in a recurring dream, and, well, good job, Miss Petersen, because I really want to know more about Simon now.

She had never had a face.

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PS: As soon as I read the Campbell and Petersen books, well, I’m giving a copy each away! Thing is, I happen to have two brandspankingnew copies for each book, and I just want to spread the love. (Or the horror?) Haha, stay tuned, because the moment I rest that book, it’s going to be happygiveawaytimez. :) Yep, two crisp books to be given away! :) At the soonest!

Thoughts: Naked, by David Sedaris

Welcome to the hilarious, strange, elegiac, outrageous world of David Sedaris. In Naked, Sedaris turns the mania for memoir on its ear, mining the exceedingly rich terrain of his life, his family, and his unique worldview-a sensibility at once take-no-prisoners sharp and deeply charitable. A tart-tongued mother does dead-on imitations of her young son’s nervous tics, to the great amusement of his teachers; a stint of Kerouackian wandering is undertaken (of course!) with a quadriplegic companion; a family gathers for a wedding in the face of imminent death. Through it all is Sedaris’s unmistakable voice, without doubt one of the freshest in American writing.

Off the top of my head, because I’ve got a ridiculous graded recitation for PolSci: The essays in this book (memoir!), Naked by David Sedaris, were not laugh-out-loud funny–they were witty, and that’s fine by me. Sedaris has a colorful family, a kick-ass mother, convoluted adventures, and he has no qualms about being wise and sentimental about it. That last italicised part’s the best thing about this goshdarned book.

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This book is part of the GLBT Challenge 2009.

Y/N?: I Feel Bad About My Neck: And Other Thoughts on Being a Woman, by Nora Ephron

 

Miss Ephron–

I did not like this at all, and I’m almost certain that I won’t like you if we ever became acquainted. You like to name-drop and display your quite admirable capability for self-involvement. You remind me of those socialite-matrons who like to invite the mortals into their living rooms, only to have them eye cordoned-off sections of Utter Sophistication and Wealth Boohoo. Is it your reputation as a “humorist” that hinders you from actually dwelling on things that matter? What you’ve written about says so little about being a woman, I almost pity you.

I am not attacking you because you chose to speak about womanhood in a breezy tone; I am attacking you because you attempted to talk about womanhood in a breezy tone, and it was EPIC FAIL, and one gets the impression that you’re hiding behind this pathetic attempt at humor because you shy away from things that actually make sense. Allow me to take a page from Tom Cruise’s book and tell you, “Dude, don’t be glib.” Because it’s just sad.

Your essays, technically speaking, lead me on, then lead me nowhere. Just when I think we’re on to something, it stops. You don’t end, Miss Ephron, you stop. Like you excused yourself for a cigarette break but never came back. My freshman English professor would have ripped you to shreds.

Were you tasked to write this way? Are expectations weighing you down? You have stories in you, but you’ve allowed us mere glimpses. Don’t make me think I’m actually overreading when I think that you have stories in you. Stop talking about your pedicure, when you can’t avoid annoying us. What I’m trying to say is, stop talking about your pedicure as though this entire book was a PR thing for some glossy magazine. GIVE ME MORE.

I just don’t understand why you refuse to treat your readers (ME) as intelligent human beings, as intelligent women.

For the record, you aren’t even funny.

Yours,

Sasha

(And yes, I am quite happy about my neck at the moment.)

Thoughts: The Perks of Being a Wallflower, by Stephen Chbosky

I’ve heard so much about The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky, it’s one of those books that people constantly recommend with praises galore. But I’ve never been keen on picking it up, not even when I had a roommate who gave me free reign to rummage through her stacks of well-loved books, this one among them.

When the university library reopened on the sixteenth (HALLELUJAH), I spent about two hours in the fiction section, reacquainting myself, trying to spot new acquisitions. When I saw the slim volume wedged between two musty books, well, why not?

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Standing on the fringes of life offers a unique perspective. But there comes a time to see what it looks like from the dance floor. // This haunting novel about the dilemma of passivity vs. passion marks the stunning debut of a provocative new voice in contemporary fiction: The Perks of Being a Wallflower. //This is the story of what it’s like to grow up in high school. More intimate than a diary, Charlie’s letters are singular and unique, hilarious and devastating. We may not know where he lives. We may not know to whom he is writing. All we know is the world he shares. Caught between trying to live his life and trying to run from it puts him on a strange course through uncharted territory. The world of first dates and mixed tapes, family dramas and new friends. The world of sex, drugs, and The Rocky Horror Picture Show, when all one requires is that perfect song on that perfect drive to feel infinite. //Through Charlie, Stephen Chbosky has created a deeply affecting coming-of-age story, a powerful novel that will spirit you back to those wild and poignant roller coaster days known as growing up.

I read it in one sitting, and every chapter or so, I’d put the book down to say, “Dammit, this is a nice book.”

A nice book. Hm. Yes, I like this novel, I do. It didn’t change my life (why must we have such high expectations of our reading material?), but it made me smile a couple of times, and it made me want to cry because I believed in Charlie. Reading it, I was struck by how strongly I rooted for Charlie to survive just that year with the least heartache. I admired how sensitive he was, how “non-participant” his ways were. I wanted Charlie to be my friend, and I wanted to be that “friend” Charlie wrote all those letters to (and yes, by reading the novel, I suppose I already am, already became so).

I like this book not because it makes my own hellish high school experience pale by comparison–I like this book because, well, it allowed me to think that everyone has a hellish high school experience, and we’re all thinking that this is the hellish high school experience. As Charlie himself likes to believe. Contrary to what Charlie’s dad reprimanded him with, that not everyone had a sad story.

I so disagree, Mr. Charlie’s Dad–it’s just that the Sad Story is very much in the telling, in how you actually attempt to make some stranger gasp just before a telltale sob–or, more precisely, in Charlie’s case, how you don’t even try.

[A little nitpicking, though: What do I feel about that whole detail/issue about Aunt Helen, a ginormous revelation at the end of the book? The one about those nights in front of the television? Well, I don't think all that was necessary. I am inclined to think that Charlie's Charlie, regardless of those familial tragedies, forgotten or not. Thing is, to nitpick at this novel is like throwing pebbles at a lame baby bunny.]

At the end of the book, well, I was already thinking how, somewhere, there’s a 24-year-old Charlie with a book in his hands. I hope he’s okay. He’s assured us that he is, though, that “things are good with me, and even when they’re not, they will be soon enough.”

Take care, Charlie.

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This book is part of the GLBT Challenge 2009.