Verdict, No. 17

 (find judgment here)

 Cloud Atlas

by David Mitchell

"What I wouldn't give now for a never-changing map of the ever-constant ineffable? To possess, as it were, an atlas of clouds."
*

In one word: wow. It's the first book where I agree with every back cover quote. And I found myself stopping to pencil down favorite bits and lines for future reference. And, by the end, all I wanted to do was read it again.

 It was that good. It was everything, and it was amazing.

Cloud Atlas is a beautiful tale of human resilience and what makes someone good. Is it something taught or experienced, or realized at the most dire time? It's a story within a story within a story within a story, and at the heart of it is a tale of a man unknowingly influenced by all the highlighted lives before him. It's interesting to imagine what impact a life has, and it's beautiful to see them ricochet between stories here. And if you wonder how Mitchell can pull off six stories in one book--ranging from nineteenth century letters of a sailor to a post-apocalyptic man unaware of what the world was--don't you worry about it. He is a genius of storytelling and characterization. Every story feels different, every character feels real, and every twist makes me want to read it over and over again.

It really was more than a book, more than an escape--it's a second life, and it claims you whole. I found myself mesmerized for hours, absorbed by each character and each varying story, landscape, lesson. Even for its heart--that being one of redemption and reincarnation, second chances--it never came off as preachy. Just metaphysical. And I loved the...wonderment.  It was astounding. Breathtaking. Intoxicating. Liberating.

Unforgettable.

I loved it. It's a new favorite, and I don't see it being replaced any time soon.  

Verdict, No. 16

(find the judgment here)

The Dog Stars

by Peter Heller

"I wake from dream into dream and am not sure why I keep going. That I suspect only curiosity keeps me alive. That I'm not sure any longer if that is enough."

*

An apt example sentence if ever there was one. For this is exactly what I found myself wondering about...two pages into the book. What is it about adult fiction that makes writers suddenly feel free to go crazy? I know I am a self-proclaimed lover of young adult literature and people don't tend to take me seriously because of it. But maybe it's because adult fiction is really just a bunch of grown-ups trying to prove they're not kids anymore. But they do it in the most asinine way possible. 

Now, I wouldn't exactly call myself a prude. There are books with swearing, sex, or drug use that I can appreciate. As long as there's a reason for it--as in it makes sense. So the first few F words, fine. This guys living in a crappy world filled with awful people, I guess a dirty mouth only makes sense. But this book averaged about three F words a page. At some three hundred pages...it becomes a little excessive. And then there's the whole sex thing. I know, I know. People have sex. It happens. It's a thing of life. And men who go nine years without it I'm sure would naturally think about it were a beautiful woman to suddenly walk into their lives. But I don't need to know every awkward detail just because it's happening. With or without the sex scene, the book would happen. So why be so blatant and crude about it? Since when did vulgarity equal maturity?

It's kind of an unfair standard: if drugs, sex, and swearing are in YA fiction, people are up in arms claiming literature is ruining their kids' moralities. It's YA books that are banned from schools, too awful for their dear children to face. Books like Catcher in the Rye or anything Mark Twain. But when I read something about F-ing with some hot young thing and all the...let's say intimate details involved, I want to turn around and yell "Right back at ya." Cuz things here just got awkward real fast. 

This is why I read YA, people. 

And maybe it is just me, but I think this book would have been just as strong without all that. Okay, let's be fair: without so much of it. But I doubt it would have gotten so much attention. Because people like the shock and awe factor. They like inexplicable gore and violence and sensuality. You see it in movies, you see it in books. So maybe it's inevitable. Maybe I should let adult fiction be just that: adult. So let's ignore all that lovely stuff and focus on the story. Did I like it?

Maybe. I can't really say. I wasn't at all invested in the main character, Hig, or his life decisions. But I was interested in the world he was forced to reside in. And there was a certain effortlessness to Heller's Hemingway-like prose. It was simplistic. Stylistic. Choppy. Desperate. Interesting (once you got into the swing of it). Heller does a great job at characterizing a heartless world and, while there doesn't seem to be much rhyme or reason to the plot, that same inexplicability makes this desperate world seem all the more real. And Hig's heartbreak for his dead wife is...beautiful. The obsession for the dog--practically titular--is unexplained. In fact, it's mostly forgotten after about thirty pages in when the animal, well, dies. It became almost awkward when Hig brought it up later--as if Heller realized that maybe if he wanted "dog" in the title, he should keep mentioning it throughout. Even as a way to keep someone from killing him. Cuz that would work on me.

So, yes, this is a chilling novel, a frightening world, and it's a story about a broken man's search for wholeness in a shattered world. There were definitely some heart-wrenching, hopeless and beautiful parts. But they were far and few between, tangled around a mess of distracting vulgarity. Call me quaint, but it just didn't work for me. So if this is the best of new adult fiction, count me out. I'd so rather have a taste of YA any day. 

Verdict, No. 12

(find the judgment here)

The Daughter of Siena

by Marina Fiorato

*

If I had done my original thing and tried to surmise the plot from the cover, I would have had it down pat. Everything about it was predictable; the back cover game it all away--you just had to read between the lines:

Girl is married off to evil boy.

Girl falls for pretty boy. 

Pretty boy wants to win race for girl. 

Girl evokes wrath of evil boy. 

Evil boy loses anyway. 

Did I give anything away? Not really. I thought maybe the plot wouldn't matter; that with such a pretty cover, it would be gorgeous anyway. But, alas, it failed me. I wouldn't recommend it anyway. Not on any level. Because it really wasn't anything.

It wasn't historical fiction 

No, there was a historical backdrop where Fiorato had her characters--some of them real--do whatever she wanted them to. I mean, she even had an apology at the back of the book for rewriting history to fit her story. And I may have been out of the historical-fiction loop for awhile, but I don't think that's how it traditionally goes. For all the drama, I don't feel like I learned anything honest about that time period. It all felt fake--like a Spanish soap opera (complete with a long-lost twin).

It wasn't romance. 

It tried to be, but it wasn't. Again, Fiorato's characters did whatever she wanted them to. So all she could say about the main characters relationship was that they  were "inexplicably drawn" to one another. Well said; it was inexplicable. All they could say about each other was that they were beautiful. That, my friends, is called LUST, not love. I mean, after they shared their first kiss (lame), the first thing he could say was "Lay with me." Ah, yes, those are the words I would give up anything and risk everything for.  

And it wasn't even lovely about it. 

Seriously, it got uncomfortable. Fast. There were near-rape scenes, constant abuse--self-afflicted and otherwise--and then, midway through, there was a sudden fascination with homosexuality. And it got graphic. I don't consider myself overly-sensitive, but the only way I got through the whole thing was by ripping out nearly 20 pages in the middle. That's right: I desecrated the most beautiful book I've ever seen. And it only sits on my bookshelf still because it is so pretty. 

So, there. I'm just as shallow as the main characters.

But I suppose, in this case, the old adage is true: you can't judge a book by its cover. Because, if you could, I would have loved this book. It should have been my favorite. Just like Entwined. What cruel irony, then: my favorite covers, home to my least favorite books. Life really isn't fair.

Review, No. 4

The Forgotten Garden is a sprawling narrative transcending traditional time barriers. It follows three women at the same time—Eliza, from the very-late 1800s to the truly-early1900s; Nell during the mid-to-late 1900s; and Cassandra in the current day. The plot itself is concerned with solving Nell's identity, yet the crucial character is Eliza, who has all the answers, and then it is Cassandra who is piecing it all together. The author, Kate Morton, starts the tangled affair brightly enough. Though the mystery is slightly contrived, it seems interesting, with narration dancing between each characters' time. But then it gets muddled and unnecessarily complicated, with too many characters interrupting the already-struggling action. The plot becomes tired and the answers obvious and, by the end of it, you wonder why it mattered at all.

Worst of all was the amount of characters that didn't matter—acquaintances that were crucial for only a page yet kept popping up, or those that didn't matter at all yet wouldn't leave the narrative alone. There were implications never answered, allusions never met, assumptions never justified. Most of the characters made no sense at all—the aunt, the brother of Eliza, the emphasis put in the beginning on "the bad man" that never came up again; the doctor, most of the servants, and then that convenient romance between the gardener and Cassandra. There were dozens of stock characters you were expected to keep track of that never actually played any important part. And then the characters and their actions never seemed to match up. Relationships fell apart too easily and started up too quickly; characteristics changed drastically and inexplicably. And the garden itself as a character was too cliche. Morton seemed determined, desperate to make it the heart of the story. Only she failed. It had no magic; it was just a setting. The one twist I cared about was the creepy uncle, and that went absolutely nowhere.

The novel was thick in every sense of the word: it was long, often dragging, sometimes pretentious, with weighty topics too easily ignored or quickly shrugged away. Morton tried so hard to develop her characters thoroughly and that meant years—chapters—trudging through random experiences that never amount to anything. It was entertaining early on, yet the answers came on too easily and suddenly and…unimportantly so that, by the end, I wasn’t only disappointed, I was bored. It all became too trite: the fairytales, the trinkets, the seascape and detailed landscapes. It is looking back that you realize what a waste most of the novel is. Morton was too concerned with romanticizing the plot, hoping to capture us in vivid detail and sweeping vistas. The entire story suffered because of it. It straggled, dragging the weight of its own unimportance with it.

It struggled to be grandiose but fell flat by the end. And the more I think about it, the less worth-it it becomes. Yet there were moments. I'll give it 2/5.

Review, No. 5

Never Let Me Go is as evocative as it is tiring. It follows three children (Kathy, Ruth and Tom) as they grow up in Hailsham, a place where their lives are already planned out for them, where they each have a destiny they cannot escape. The story follows the narration of a reflective Kathy, who is remembering her life growing up in a not-so-normal environment, raised for a not-so-normal purpose. The concept is familiar, yet Kazuo Ishiguro enthuses it with originality through his breathy presentation. The plot line is subtle, with rising and falling action secondary to the characters. Memory after memory is shared with intense back-and-forth; foreshadowing and flashbacks are intermingled so perfectly, and you suddenly find yourself lost in Kathy's life, following her steps, progressing with her, feeling the same helpless, unavoidable destiny pressing down around you.

There is no easy way to describe Never Let Me Go. It's a journey more than a story, a too-short life retold in a too-content voice. It takes place in an alternate reality, in the rolling hills and clouded skies of the English countryside. Though Ishiguro rarely takes the time to describe the environment in detail, or even directly, you still get the sense of standing under stilted sunlight, staring over dying fields in a wet winter. That feeling transcends the language, the telling of a normal novel. Never Let Me Go becomes more a picture than a story.

You never know how to feel. You look to Kathy to tell you, but she passes no judgment as narrator. She is merely relaying a few friends' lives, writing up her own story. There is no telling one what to think, no real conclusions on what she thinks, and no sentence placed on what their lives have meant. No pretty bow is tied on at the end; we stand with her, complacent and content, and it is not till we put it down that we realize, no, we should not be so passive. And there's the power in his novel: it won't leave you alone. True to the title's subtle plea, you can never let it go. The burden of the lives within the novel are now yours to carry; the quiet contemplation--a mere sharing of memories, harmless enough alone--suddenly gives way to a rage. Finishing is unsettling. Kathy had become too real--she transcended fiction, she seemed alive. She had a soul (such a provocative thought, considering what the novel is).

Ruth is a perfect antagonist, though she can sometimes seem only two-dimensional. Tom doesn't seem like such a big deal, and then you suddenly make room in your heart for him near the end. And the finish is unsettling, but it's meant to be. Truly, Ishiguro is an astounding storyteller: all the intricacies fit, as if you've been studying a painting by starting at the corner and then stepping back slowly, each chapter revealing something new until, at the very end, you see the masterpiece and realize you've been seeing it all along. This is no fairy-tale, but a confession you feel almost guilty for stumbling across. Ishiguro has written a book so real, when it "completes," you're haunted.

There are some random, unsettling dialogues about sex. Still, it is never crude or graphic. There are also lulls in the beginning, before you can see what it all means, why it all matters. And, I admit, I got tired at first of not being told what was going on; you come to realize you're expected to feel it.

I can't say I really enjoyed reading it but, once I finished, I couldn't stop thinking about it. So, 4/5.

Review, No. 3

Gregory is famous for historical fiction, especially of the Elizabethan period. Here she tells the story of the fictional Hannah, the Holy Fool of the English court, used as a spy, caught between Queen Mary and Princess Elizabeth. She weaves an intriguing tale of fact and fiction and her characters all come alive in a very believable way. Even with the already-widely reported stories of Mary (aka Bloody Mary) and Elizabeth (aka the greatest queen probably ever), Gregory manages to avoid stereotypes. If anything, she makes us question what prejudice we brought to the table. Through the transparent plot (Hannah, a secret/illegal jew, caught between two lovers), we are asked to sympathize rather than judge, question rather than condemn. There is no right or wrong, good or bad; we are as helpless as Hannah when it comes to picking sides. It is almost as if Gregory merely hopes to represent history, using Hannah as an excuse to write a double-biography.

The novel spans years and I came to care less and less about what Hannah had to say, or how she would live her life, or if she would ever get over herself and love her betrothed. She--the narrator--got in the way of an intriguing interpretation of two very different princesses. The real story is in Gregory's interesting play on history, with Mary as a faithful victim and Elizabeth as a heartless slut. Honestly, beside the historical events of Queen Mary's reign and the possibly-manipulated moments of Elizabeth's...flirtatious rise, there was no plot. Anything in Hannah's life just distracted and detracted. Especially her infuriating infatuation with a sleazy "lord" and her cliche concerns about faith vs. religion.

Honestly, it failed to impress; it was just...there. So I guess I'll give it 2/5. 

For fair warning, there are some...mature parts--mostly of crude men groping willing women--but they are few and far between. As is anything truly interesting. So, it was neither disappointing nor exactly extraordinary. And that's that. 

Review, No. 2

Truth be told, I finished this book back in January. I wrote a review for it then but, for some reason, I never posted it. Actually, there are a few of those. So here they come in a wild stream meant to make me look like an overtly voracious reader.

Ian McEwan's acclaimed novel takes place in London, starting in-between the two World Wars where a poor young man and a wealthy young woman fall in love only to be torn apart by a little girl's lie that she spends her whole life trying to make right.

I picked up this book because I thought the movie looked gorgeous. I never saw it, but just the richness and the texture, that vibrancy. And I can never say no to a pretty book. Unfortunately, I was quickly disappointed.

I knew how it would end; I went in knowing. I was actually looking forward to the shock, the beautiful wrap-up meant to be true to its name. But it was never there. The romance didn't seem real at the end. There was too much anger, obvious resentment—justifiable, sure, but isn't love meant to transcend those emotions? And I just never saw it. Robbie's narrative was the best, and I wish I could have seen more of Cecilia's, but the characters were mostly unlikeable. No, they were inaccessible. I wasn't made to care; there was too much time spent on the obscene, the coarse. I knew it wouldn't be a flowery love story, but I thought there'd be that lavish, forbidden, impossible love affair that had you crying at the end. I suppose I wanted too much. The idea was there. It could have been beautiful, but I think I just disagree with the author's methods. His love seemed vile and tainted, even caustic at times.

Besides, it is mean to be about atoning for a mistake, and yet the narrator is more possessed with redeeming herself, not those hurt by her. That was worst of all.

I don't think I'll rate it, because I would never recommend it.