If you’re like me, you’re wondering, “Oliver La-who?”
Before I plucked this book off the shelf, I had no idea who Oliver La’Farge was. I had no idea what this book was about. It was just a thin, almost tiny book, and I thought it’d be a good choice. (If I hated it, well, it was only a hundred or so pages.)
Well, surprise, surprise! It turned out to be a really interesting read!
Laughing Boy
Written May 29, 2010
Read April 22, 2010 (roughly)
In “Laughing Boy,” La’Farge truly shows the beauty of the Navajo Indians in a whole new way. Shockingly innocent, despite their “savagery,” they dance, sing, and laugh with a wildness untamable and unattainable by outsiders—as Slim Girl, the woman who wants nothing more than to be part of that innocence again, knows well.
La’Farge weaves an intricate story about Laughing Boy, who is the very essence of Navajo spirit. Wild and untamed as the horses he rides, strong and brave as can be, he is shockingly, (and endearingly) innocent when it comes to the White Man’s world.
When Laughing Boy is caught up into the modern world of alcohol and secrets, his spirit rebels within him. He doesn’t realize why, but knows that something is wrong. His soul screams, but his attachment to Slim Girl, (his wife), causes him to stay, inching closer and closer to the tainted waters of lost innocence.
If Laughing Boy is innocence, passion, and truth, Slim Girl is innocence lost, disillusionment, and isolation. Taken from her people at an early age, she was exposed to and wise the ways of the white. Willing to do whatever to try to regain her Navajo past and “spirit,” she weaves a net of deception around Laughing Boy, whom she believes can turn her back into a true Navajo. She didn’t mean to fall in love.
The story is a romance, a tragedy, and yet a gorgeous picture contrasting the innocence of freedom and the jaded harshness of lost purity. La’Farge weaves in Navajo words, inserting the culture flawlessly and painting a beautiful picture of Indian life. The sentences he crafts are beautiful to the eyes and pleasing to the ear—and his concluding sentence is so lovely that it made me shiver.
If you want to find out what it was—read the book.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
R&R: Classics-- Lewis Carrol
Whether you think of her as the blond-haired princess from the Disney Movie or the female fighter from “The Looking Glass Wars,” “Alice in Wonderland” is a name known to almost all children and even more adults.
(BTW, did you know there are actually two books, both containing Alice? The second is called “Through the Looking Glass.”)
Alice in Wonderland/Through the Looking Glass
Written May 29, 2010
Read May 17, 2010 (roughly)
The story is familiar. A girl, bored by her reading sister, spots a white rabbit and follows it down a hol and into a magical new land. The story doesn’t seem original, so why is this book a classic?
Well, “Alice in Wonderland” tugs at the imagination, and yet holds a sense of total unreality that makes everything light-hearted, despite the seriousness of the situations.
We never think that she’s really in danger of getting her head cut off, nor are we worried that she’ll never get back home. There might be a brief feeling of urgency, or a flash of anxiety, but overall, the scene remains slightly surreal.
I guess that’s why I wasn’t all surprised that it was a dream.
Alice herself is the classic little girl. She acts “grown-up,” but is, in reality, just a kid. Her self-important declarations and efforts to be smart are funny, and Carrol’s use of wordplay is fascinating. (You’ll have to read it to understand. It’s very, very clever.)
He also says the simplest, and yet most profound things. For example, when Alice asks the Chesire Cat which way she should go, the Chesire Cat asks her where she wants to go.
Alice replies that she doesn’t really care, and the Cat returns, “Then it doesn’t really matter where you go, does it?” Simple, and yet powerful.
Also, in Wonderland, everything is taken at face value, and there are no complex, hidden, or secret motives. There’s none of the “grey” that make the real world so harsh—just black and white.
In Wonderland, when the queen declares that she wants people’s heads chopped off, she isn’t suffering from an inferiority complex or a psychological meltdown—she just wants heads to be chopped up.
I suppose that’s part of the charm in Wonderland. There’s no need to try to “figure out” the characters or their motives.
Like I said before, Wonderland is innocence, fun, and dreams. It’s fairy tales and lazy summer days all rolled into two books. Alice’s journeys are fascinating and fun to read, and I really enjoyed them.
(BTW, did you know there are actually two books, both containing Alice? The second is called “Through the Looking Glass.”)
Alice in Wonderland/Through the Looking Glass
Written May 29, 2010
Read May 17, 2010 (roughly)
The story is familiar. A girl, bored by her reading sister, spots a white rabbit and follows it down a hol and into a magical new land. The story doesn’t seem original, so why is this book a classic?
Well, “Alice in Wonderland” tugs at the imagination, and yet holds a sense of total unreality that makes everything light-hearted, despite the seriousness of the situations.
We never think that she’s really in danger of getting her head cut off, nor are we worried that she’ll never get back home. There might be a brief feeling of urgency, or a flash of anxiety, but overall, the scene remains slightly surreal.
I guess that’s why I wasn’t all surprised that it was a dream.
Alice herself is the classic little girl. She acts “grown-up,” but is, in reality, just a kid. Her self-important declarations and efforts to be smart are funny, and Carrol’s use of wordplay is fascinating. (You’ll have to read it to understand. It’s very, very clever.)
He also says the simplest, and yet most profound things. For example, when Alice asks the Chesire Cat which way she should go, the Chesire Cat asks her where she wants to go.
Alice replies that she doesn’t really care, and the Cat returns, “Then it doesn’t really matter where you go, does it?” Simple, and yet powerful.
Also, in Wonderland, everything is taken at face value, and there are no complex, hidden, or secret motives. There’s none of the “grey” that make the real world so harsh—just black and white.
In Wonderland, when the queen declares that she wants people’s heads chopped off, she isn’t suffering from an inferiority complex or a psychological meltdown—she just wants heads to be chopped up.
I suppose that’s part of the charm in Wonderland. There’s no need to try to “figure out” the characters or their motives.
Like I said before, Wonderland is innocence, fun, and dreams. It’s fairy tales and lazy summer days all rolled into two books. Alice’s journeys are fascinating and fun to read, and I really enjoyed them.
R&R: Classics-- T.H. White
Beautiful ladies in distress. Knights in shining armor. The code of chivalry. The Once and Future King is everything, and yet nothing you’d expect from a book about King Arthur.
The Once and Future King
Written May 31, 2010
Read “roughly” around February 15, 2010
The first classic I read after my decision to start reading them, (see R&R: Classics), “The Once and Future King” caught my eye because of its title, which was unique, and its summary, which declared it to be the story of King Arthur, Lancelot, and that sort of thing.
I’d never actually read the original story, and though I’ve read many retellings, (some good, some bad), the original is by far the most magical, enchanting, and beautiful.
It was hard at first. For one, I was a bit rusty, not having read classics for awhile. For another, some of the words were so outdated that even the dictionary didn’t hold them. However, soon I was caught in White’s spell.
“The Once and Future King” details the story of King Arthur from when he was a poor boy, then known as “Wart.” The simple beauty of the lessons he learns from Merlin, and the way the era combined science and magic was spellbinding.
The characters, unlike the cookie-cutter version, are complex. Sir Kay, (the half-brother who claimed he was the one pulled the sword out of the stone), is not a mindless brute, and Arthur’s guardian is not a heartless, greedy miser.
Merlin is not the almighty, mysterious advisor, and Guinevere is not the adulterous, shameless wife. Finally, Lancelot is not the foolish, beguiled best friend who betrays his lord by having an sleazy affair with his wife.
And Arthur is definitely not the great, almighty hero whose perfection made him a legend.
The emotions and ideals of the characters are complicated, and their motives are multi-layered.
For example, over the famous scandal of Lancelot and Guinevere’s “betrayal,” White portrays Arthur as knowing about the affair in a subconscious kind of way. Arthur himself, instead of being the stereotypical hero, is actually shown to be a simple man. He wants to be a good king, and is a noble, fair, and virtuous one—but he possess an innocence that marks his downfall.
Guinevere loves Arthur, and yet she loves Lancelot. As the book states, the affair wasn’t based on passion, or a wanton desire to have sex with a younger man than her husband. White makes it clear that Lancelot is painfully ugly, and that the couple remains together until their old age.
Guinevere is beautiful, haughty, cruel and kind, self-sacrificing and selfish. She’s human.
Lancelot is in perpetual struggle (think Ashley from ‘Gone with the Wind.’) He resists the temptation with Guinevere, succeeds, fails, and succeeds again. He desires only to one day do miracles (that is, to be pure enough to do miracles). His longing after God drives a wedge between him and Guinevere. He performs miracles and yet feels unworthy of them. (Emblem of grace?)
I can tell why this book is a classic. I loved it, and it holds a special place in my heart—not only because of its place as the first classic of my awakening, but because of its own, personal worth.
The Once and Future King
Written May 31, 2010
Read “roughly” around February 15, 2010
The first classic I read after my decision to start reading them, (see R&R: Classics), “The Once and Future King” caught my eye because of its title, which was unique, and its summary, which declared it to be the story of King Arthur, Lancelot, and that sort of thing.
I’d never actually read the original story, and though I’ve read many retellings, (some good, some bad), the original is by far the most magical, enchanting, and beautiful.
It was hard at first. For one, I was a bit rusty, not having read classics for awhile. For another, some of the words were so outdated that even the dictionary didn’t hold them. However, soon I was caught in White’s spell.
“The Once and Future King” details the story of King Arthur from when he was a poor boy, then known as “Wart.” The simple beauty of the lessons he learns from Merlin, and the way the era combined science and magic was spellbinding.
The characters, unlike the cookie-cutter version, are complex. Sir Kay, (the half-brother who claimed he was the one pulled the sword out of the stone), is not a mindless brute, and Arthur’s guardian is not a heartless, greedy miser.
Merlin is not the almighty, mysterious advisor, and Guinevere is not the adulterous, shameless wife. Finally, Lancelot is not the foolish, beguiled best friend who betrays his lord by having an sleazy affair with his wife.
And Arthur is definitely not the great, almighty hero whose perfection made him a legend.
The emotions and ideals of the characters are complicated, and their motives are multi-layered.
For example, over the famous scandal of Lancelot and Guinevere’s “betrayal,” White portrays Arthur as knowing about the affair in a subconscious kind of way. Arthur himself, instead of being the stereotypical hero, is actually shown to be a simple man. He wants to be a good king, and is a noble, fair, and virtuous one—but he possess an innocence that marks his downfall.
Guinevere loves Arthur, and yet she loves Lancelot. As the book states, the affair wasn’t based on passion, or a wanton desire to have sex with a younger man than her husband. White makes it clear that Lancelot is painfully ugly, and that the couple remains together until their old age.
Guinevere is beautiful, haughty, cruel and kind, self-sacrificing and selfish. She’s human.
Lancelot is in perpetual struggle (think Ashley from ‘Gone with the Wind.’) He resists the temptation with Guinevere, succeeds, fails, and succeeds again. He desires only to one day do miracles (that is, to be pure enough to do miracles). His longing after God drives a wedge between him and Guinevere. He performs miracles and yet feels unworthy of them. (Emblem of grace?)
I can tell why this book is a classic. I loved it, and it holds a special place in my heart—not only because of its place as the first classic of my awakening, but because of its own, personal worth.
R&R: Classics-- Margaret Mitchell
“Gone with the Wind” is famous—both as a book and a movie. I’ve always recognized the name, but hadn’t really read the summary. All I knew was that it was reputed to be “the best romance of all time,” and that one of the characters was a woman named Scarlet O’Hara.
The book was thick, and, as I’ve had bad experiences with thick classics (War and Peace), I wasn’t exactly eager to borrow it. But, one day, I just grabbed it off the shelf, thinking that I might as well try it.
Now, the classics have surprised me a lot. Many were so much more interesting, profound, and just plain good than I’d expected. I suppose that I should have started expecting the unexpected, (now there’s a tongue twister), but I didn’t.
Consequently, this wonderful new book caught me completely off guard.
Gone with the Wind
Written May 28, 2010
Read May 11, 2010
Margaret Mitchell is a writer from the South, and “Gone with the Wind,” is a book written from the unique viewpoint of a wealthy Southern lady during the time of the Civil War. The perspectives and viewpoints of the characters are very different from those novels written from the Yankees/slaves’ point of view.
To put it simply, it was both extremely fascinating and insightful.
For example, Scarlet feels blind fury when three women from the North exclaim in shock that “they would never hire a n--- to watch over their children.” She feels indignation, having been raised by African Americans, and thinks to herself that, “now that the Yankees have free the slaves, they don’t want them anymore.”
She revises her conclusion later, determining that yes, the Yankees did want the slaves—but only to vote their politicians into office.
I’d never thought of the possible hypocrisy of the winning side, or about how Northerners might have influenced the slaves to vote them into office, and how unfair it must have seemed to the Southerners. It’s so easy to label the sides of the war with black and white, not realizing that the truth is that most of it was pure grey.
There were rapists, looters, deserters, and cowards on both sides. Both sides committed horrible crimes, and both sides were made out of men—men who were flawed, human beings. There were men from both sides who were fighting for their principals. There were men from both sides who were fighting for their families.
Through her book, Mitchell offers a different look at the Civil War and Reconstruction, provoking thoughts and making me ask myself questions. This, combined with her “story-telling” style, makes the thousand or so pages seem like nothing.
The only words I can use to describe the cast of “Gone with the Wind,” are rich, colorful, and utterly unique. They are so fleshed out that if I met them on the streets today, I would be able to point at them and call them by name. Every character is so gorgeously drawn and complex that they all seem like real people.
There’s Melanie, who’s self-sacrificing, meek, loyal (almost to the point of being in denial), and yet strangely heroic. There’s Ashley, the tragically romantic, torn, “wise-beyond-his-era”, and caught between his ideals and his passion.
There’s Rhett, the sarcastic, jaded, “man-without-morals,” who happens to be head over heals in love, and finally, the selfish, shallow, proud, greedy, and yet strikingly memorable Scarlett.
Melanie was my favorite character, the self-sacrificing, loyal, and pure woman whose steadfast character remains untainted, despite her hardships. The very figure of unconditional love, she is good without being too perfect, clean without being white-washed.
Like Scarlett, she is honest, but her honesty is shown as guilelessness. Not innocence—but something far more pure than that. Loved by all and loving all, she, despite her position as the most respected and admired lady in the South, chooses to stand by Scarlett: who’s rude to her whenever possible, who’s an outcast among the Southerners, and who’s deeply in love with her (Melanie’s) husband.
I sympathized with Ashley, despite his unfaithfulness (in spirit, if not in the flesh) to Melanie, simply because he is in such constant conflict with himself. He knows that the war is lost, and yet he fights in it with all his heart. He knows that his principals and Scarlett’s inability to grasp any morals would never allow them to marry, and yet, even after doing the right thing and marrying Melanie (who is, in reality, his perfect match), he struggles with his passion for Scarlett.
He is in agony over the right thing to do and what he wants to do, and never resolves his inner conflict until it is too late for him to achieve any happiness. (He only figures out his love for Melanie after her death.) I feel sorry for him, I admire him, and I am completely awed by Mitchell’s ability to make her characters come alive.
Now, for Rhett. He’s a rogue. He’s scandalous. He is black-hearted and claims to be just as unprincipled as Scarlett. In fact, some might argue that he is the reason for Scarlett’s descent into the unscrupulous woman she becomes. But, despite his claims, he turns out to be more caring, more kind, and a better person than Scarlett ever was.
He recognizes Melanie for the jewel she is, and calls her “one of the only great ladies he knows.” He is devoted to her, and his random kindnesses show that, beneath the jaded exterior, he has a heart. His obvious pain at Scarlett’s love for Ashley is hidden under a hard mask, but it still shows that he is not beyond feeling. His affection and adoration for Bonny while she lived and his grief when she died further shows his vulnerability.
I couldn’t understand why I liked Scarlett, or why I wanted her to end up happy. She marries men out of spite, walks over others, has no sense of anything beyond money and food, and is too proud to realize the treasures that she already has. She is like the miser who stores up all she can on earth when, in reality, she will die before she can ever enjoy them.
The phrase, “the ends justify the means” is her motto. She has no scruples, stealing her sister’s fiancé without a second thought. There were times, while reading, that I wanted to pull out her hair and scream at her.
But—she is honest. Not transparent, or blunt, or straight-forward, but completely and totally honest. She doesn’t understand the beauty of optimism, but she doesn’t pretend to. She might be able to fool her peers into thinking that she is patriotic, but the readers know that she doesn’t care, and doesn’t want to care.
When I was reading, I saw things through her eyes, I looked into her soul, I literally “became” her. And she isn’t a hypocrite. She stays by Melanie throughout her pregnancy—not because of any nobility within her (she hasn’t got any), but because she didn’t want to face Ashley one day and tell him she abandoned his wife. She lusts, plots, and pours out her passion for Ashley, but is harshly authentic in her love and pain over his refusal to leave Melanie.
Finally, despite her callousness, she knows, deep within her, that something is wrong. She tries to fill up that hole inside her with money, food, and friends, but it still remains, though she pushes it back. I, as the reader, clearly sees the emptiness that she is trying to hide, and it connects me to her.
Scarlett O’Hara may be the most selfishly ambitious creature ever to take life in print, but she chases these things in a quest to fill the gap all of us feel, which makes her—if not lovable, easy to relate to.
In the extra chapter at the back of the book, Margaret Mitchell is asked the main theme of “Gone with the Wind,” and answers simply, with the single word, “survival.” Scarlett is a survivor, willing to do anything and everything in order to grab what she wants.
She will throw away the pride of being a Southerner, the esteem of her peers, the morals of her family, her own conscience, and the feelings of all who stand in her way. In the end, she loses Rhett, whom she realizes has loved her all along, but who has finally given up on her—but does not falter. She does not break. Instead, she sleeps, and resolves to win him back in the morning.
I guess that’s why I loved the book. Scarlett is spirited, but more than that—she will persevere. She is honest. She is nothing like the person I’d like to be and yet has everything a girl wants. My infinitely wise mother said that the reason people love “Gone with the Wind,” is that it supports the idea that a person can be selfish, self-centered, and shallow, but still have people who love her whole-heartedly and with an everlasting devotion.
Now that I write this, the truth of that statement (at least, the end of it), is obvious. Despite her shallowness and inability to understand Ashley’s morals and principles, he, instead of recoiling in disgust at her (almost wanton) pleas, still believes her to be the most beautiful, lovely, good person, when in reality his wife, Melanie is everything he wants and more.
Rhett continues to love her, buying her everything and ready to lay the world at her feet—and she, (albeit unknowingly), breaks his heart daily by pining over Ashley. Melanie, gentle, lovely, and loved by all, stands by her when the world would like nothing better than to crush her, even when confronted with proof of the feelings between her and Ashley. Scarlett does nothing to deserve these people, and even routinely snubs Melanie, and yet they don’t leave.
I can understand why this book is a classic. As long as people long for true friendship, as long as they pine for true devotion, as long as they dream of true love—Gone With the Wind will endure.
Well, from the review you can tell that I absolutely LOVED the book. So, will you give it a try? I hope so.
It’s definitely worth reading.
The book was thick, and, as I’ve had bad experiences with thick classics (War and Peace), I wasn’t exactly eager to borrow it. But, one day, I just grabbed it off the shelf, thinking that I might as well try it.
Now, the classics have surprised me a lot. Many were so much more interesting, profound, and just plain good than I’d expected. I suppose that I should have started expecting the unexpected, (now there’s a tongue twister), but I didn’t.
Consequently, this wonderful new book caught me completely off guard.
Gone with the Wind
Written May 28, 2010
Read May 11, 2010
Margaret Mitchell is a writer from the South, and “Gone with the Wind,” is a book written from the unique viewpoint of a wealthy Southern lady during the time of the Civil War. The perspectives and viewpoints of the characters are very different from those novels written from the Yankees/slaves’ point of view.
To put it simply, it was both extremely fascinating and insightful.
For example, Scarlet feels blind fury when three women from the North exclaim in shock that “they would never hire a n--- to watch over their children.” She feels indignation, having been raised by African Americans, and thinks to herself that, “now that the Yankees have free the slaves, they don’t want them anymore.”
She revises her conclusion later, determining that yes, the Yankees did want the slaves—but only to vote their politicians into office.
I’d never thought of the possible hypocrisy of the winning side, or about how Northerners might have influenced the slaves to vote them into office, and how unfair it must have seemed to the Southerners. It’s so easy to label the sides of the war with black and white, not realizing that the truth is that most of it was pure grey.
There were rapists, looters, deserters, and cowards on both sides. Both sides committed horrible crimes, and both sides were made out of men—men who were flawed, human beings. There were men from both sides who were fighting for their principals. There were men from both sides who were fighting for their families.
Through her book, Mitchell offers a different look at the Civil War and Reconstruction, provoking thoughts and making me ask myself questions. This, combined with her “story-telling” style, makes the thousand or so pages seem like nothing.
The only words I can use to describe the cast of “Gone with the Wind,” are rich, colorful, and utterly unique. They are so fleshed out that if I met them on the streets today, I would be able to point at them and call them by name. Every character is so gorgeously drawn and complex that they all seem like real people.
There’s Melanie, who’s self-sacrificing, meek, loyal (almost to the point of being in denial), and yet strangely heroic. There’s Ashley, the tragically romantic, torn, “wise-beyond-his-era”, and caught between his ideals and his passion.
There’s Rhett, the sarcastic, jaded, “man-without-morals,” who happens to be head over heals in love, and finally, the selfish, shallow, proud, greedy, and yet strikingly memorable Scarlett.
Melanie was my favorite character, the self-sacrificing, loyal, and pure woman whose steadfast character remains untainted, despite her hardships. The very figure of unconditional love, she is good without being too perfect, clean without being white-washed.
Like Scarlett, she is honest, but her honesty is shown as guilelessness. Not innocence—but something far more pure than that. Loved by all and loving all, she, despite her position as the most respected and admired lady in the South, chooses to stand by Scarlett: who’s rude to her whenever possible, who’s an outcast among the Southerners, and who’s deeply in love with her (Melanie’s) husband.
I sympathized with Ashley, despite his unfaithfulness (in spirit, if not in the flesh) to Melanie, simply because he is in such constant conflict with himself. He knows that the war is lost, and yet he fights in it with all his heart. He knows that his principals and Scarlett’s inability to grasp any morals would never allow them to marry, and yet, even after doing the right thing and marrying Melanie (who is, in reality, his perfect match), he struggles with his passion for Scarlett.
He is in agony over the right thing to do and what he wants to do, and never resolves his inner conflict until it is too late for him to achieve any happiness. (He only figures out his love for Melanie after her death.) I feel sorry for him, I admire him, and I am completely awed by Mitchell’s ability to make her characters come alive.
Now, for Rhett. He’s a rogue. He’s scandalous. He is black-hearted and claims to be just as unprincipled as Scarlett. In fact, some might argue that he is the reason for Scarlett’s descent into the unscrupulous woman she becomes. But, despite his claims, he turns out to be more caring, more kind, and a better person than Scarlett ever was.
He recognizes Melanie for the jewel she is, and calls her “one of the only great ladies he knows.” He is devoted to her, and his random kindnesses show that, beneath the jaded exterior, he has a heart. His obvious pain at Scarlett’s love for Ashley is hidden under a hard mask, but it still shows that he is not beyond feeling. His affection and adoration for Bonny while she lived and his grief when she died further shows his vulnerability.
I couldn’t understand why I liked Scarlett, or why I wanted her to end up happy. She marries men out of spite, walks over others, has no sense of anything beyond money and food, and is too proud to realize the treasures that she already has. She is like the miser who stores up all she can on earth when, in reality, she will die before she can ever enjoy them.
The phrase, “the ends justify the means” is her motto. She has no scruples, stealing her sister’s fiancé without a second thought. There were times, while reading, that I wanted to pull out her hair and scream at her.
But—she is honest. Not transparent, or blunt, or straight-forward, but completely and totally honest. She doesn’t understand the beauty of optimism, but she doesn’t pretend to. She might be able to fool her peers into thinking that she is patriotic, but the readers know that she doesn’t care, and doesn’t want to care.
When I was reading, I saw things through her eyes, I looked into her soul, I literally “became” her. And she isn’t a hypocrite. She stays by Melanie throughout her pregnancy—not because of any nobility within her (she hasn’t got any), but because she didn’t want to face Ashley one day and tell him she abandoned his wife. She lusts, plots, and pours out her passion for Ashley, but is harshly authentic in her love and pain over his refusal to leave Melanie.
Finally, despite her callousness, she knows, deep within her, that something is wrong. She tries to fill up that hole inside her with money, food, and friends, but it still remains, though she pushes it back. I, as the reader, clearly sees the emptiness that she is trying to hide, and it connects me to her.
Scarlett O’Hara may be the most selfishly ambitious creature ever to take life in print, but she chases these things in a quest to fill the gap all of us feel, which makes her—if not lovable, easy to relate to.
In the extra chapter at the back of the book, Margaret Mitchell is asked the main theme of “Gone with the Wind,” and answers simply, with the single word, “survival.” Scarlett is a survivor, willing to do anything and everything in order to grab what she wants.
She will throw away the pride of being a Southerner, the esteem of her peers, the morals of her family, her own conscience, and the feelings of all who stand in her way. In the end, she loses Rhett, whom she realizes has loved her all along, but who has finally given up on her—but does not falter. She does not break. Instead, she sleeps, and resolves to win him back in the morning.
I guess that’s why I loved the book. Scarlett is spirited, but more than that—she will persevere. She is honest. She is nothing like the person I’d like to be and yet has everything a girl wants. My infinitely wise mother said that the reason people love “Gone with the Wind,” is that it supports the idea that a person can be selfish, self-centered, and shallow, but still have people who love her whole-heartedly and with an everlasting devotion.
Now that I write this, the truth of that statement (at least, the end of it), is obvious. Despite her shallowness and inability to understand Ashley’s morals and principles, he, instead of recoiling in disgust at her (almost wanton) pleas, still believes her to be the most beautiful, lovely, good person, when in reality his wife, Melanie is everything he wants and more.
Rhett continues to love her, buying her everything and ready to lay the world at her feet—and she, (albeit unknowingly), breaks his heart daily by pining over Ashley. Melanie, gentle, lovely, and loved by all, stands by her when the world would like nothing better than to crush her, even when confronted with proof of the feelings between her and Ashley. Scarlett does nothing to deserve these people, and even routinely snubs Melanie, and yet they don’t leave.
I can understand why this book is a classic. As long as people long for true friendship, as long as they pine for true devotion, as long as they dream of true love—Gone With the Wind will endure.
Well, from the review you can tell that I absolutely LOVED the book. So, will you give it a try? I hope so.
It’s definitely worth reading.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
R&R: Classics-- Arthur Miller
Like all students who’ve passed middle school, I’ve read Shakespeare. Unfortunately, the Bard never really wove his spell on me, and I never warmed to his work.
Arthur Miller’s famous “Death of a Salesman,” is my first exposure to plays since Shakespeare—and I have to admit, I wasn’t exactly optimistic when I checked it out.
After all, compared to books, plays seem short and empty—cut off, not as rich. A pancake compared to a pastry.
Besides that first negative reaction, though, I found myself opening up a little, putting the pessimism behind me. After all, I’d never really read a play, not with my heart searching for its meaning and my mind trying its best to grasp it.
So, here it goes.
Death of a Salesman
Written May 29, 2010
Read May 29, 2010
All throughout my reading of this play, my mind was working overtime—trying to grasp why this play was named a classic. By the end, my beliefs about plays being somehow “less” than books were completely wiped away.
“Death of a Salesman,” despite its lack of paragraphs and long descriptions, (so frequently used in books), somehow makes its characters “real,” just through their dialogue. It’s amazing, really.
Miller doesn’t go into detail describing their faces, figures, and expressions, and yet I can almost “see” them.
The plot is also as intricately woven as a modern thriller. Bits and pieces of information are given, until the shocking, final revelation—the work is as suspenseful as an action movie.
Willy Loman is a dreamer who is pursuing all the wrong things because he doesn’t understand his true desires—the acceptance, liking, and esteem of others. When he was younger, he wanted to go off to Alaska with his brother, Ben, but decided to stay behind and become a salesman instead, because he thought that the life of a salesman would bring the respect he craved.
Throughout the play, Ben, (who died years ago), is constantly “with” Willy, representing lost dreams and “if only’s.” His disappearance eventually causes Willy, whose sanity has been slipping, to go over the edge, causing his death.
Willy also struggles with guilt. When his affair with another woman was witnessed by his oldest son, Biff called him a liar and ran out. Ever since, Willy has been consumed with guilt, causing him to lash out at the son he feels he has lost, despite Biff’s attempts to make peace.
Willy is ultrasensitive to anything resembling criticism, and continually believes that Biff’s inability to find a good job is because he (Biff) is trying to spite him (Willy)—not because Biff is not cut out for the job, (the real reason).
In a way, all three Loman men are trying to find meaning in their lives. Willy, who wants the respect of all around him, knows he doesn’t have it, but doesn’t understand why. He believes that the respect he seeks is tied to being a salesman, and despite needing a job, doesn’t take one when Charley, a family friend, offers it to him.
Biff tries to find meaning, wanting to follow his dreams, but he’s tied down by his mom, Linda, who tries to get him to reconcile with his father (despite not knowing the cause of their estrangement).
He’s also bogged down by his father, whom he still loves, despite Willy’s unrealistic expectations and his continual insinuations that spite is what keeps Biff from succeeding.
Happy, the youngest son, tries to find meaning in women and pleasure. He lies and exaggerates to keep his father and mother happy, smooth-talking his way out of tough situations.
What really hit me was how the emotional relationships, especially the complexity of the one between Willy and Biff, are shown so clearly—despite the “short” format of the play. Willy’s downward spiral and mental instability is also shown clearly.
“Death of a Salesman” shows the unsteadiness of the human emotion. Willy continually changes his mind, arguing for something, and then against it. He is unreasonable, and then reasonable—and this isn’t just because of his wandering mind.
While reading, I saw clearly that Willy’s tendency to lash out is one that exhibits itself in our world today. Other emotions, mood swings, and reactions are also mirror images of real life, providing an insightful look into the human soul as well as a good story.
The Crucible
Written: 12/24/11
Read: 12/23/11 - 12/24/11
Oh my God.
Literally.
I should have known better after reading "Death of a Salesman," but I really was not ready for this play to suck me in and spit me out the way it did. Even now, I'm shivering at the raw injustice and hysteria displayed in "The Crucible."
The summary on the back cover states that, "The place is Salem, Massachusetts, in 1692, an enclave of rigid piety huddled on the edge of a wilderness. Its inhabitants believe unquestioningly in their own sanctity. But in Arthur Miller's edgy masterpiece, that very belief will have poisonous consequences when a vengeful teenager accuses a rival of witchcraft--and then when those accusations multiply to consume the entire village."
This book made my heart ache and rebel against the injustice done--the characters were so real and vivid that as Salem sinks deeper and deeper into mass panic without regard to the truth, the tension in my shoulders rose, until they ached. And are still aching as I write this.
This frightening thing is, I can understand how such a thing might happen. As the readers, we are horrified and furious, (and those words barely scratch the surface), at the actions of Danforth, Hathorne, and Parris, but that is only because we know the truth. We know that the accusations are lies.
But they don't--and that's what strikes closest to home, that these people aren't committing crimes knowingly, (with the exception of a select few), but believing that they are doing right. And yet, they have no peace, and the Parris is shown growing more and more afraid as the deaths pile up.
The play depicts the lowest forms of human life, the deepest, darkest places where we sink, but at the same time, does not neglect the flashes of desperate beauty that reminds the readers why humanity is not completely lost. Rebecca Nurse's refusal to save her life through lies, Elizabeth's quiet love for her husband, and the Proctor's eventual triumph over his guilt as he regains his life, even as he loses it.
I highly doubt Arthur Miller believes in witches, or the supernatural, for he even goes on a tangent about how society brands its enemies as evil, and those branded often turn around and brand society as evil--but it is difficult not to feel an icy hand on your heart as you finish this book, even if its only in reflection of the horrors humanity can commit in the name of God.
Arthur Miller’s famous “Death of a Salesman,” is my first exposure to plays since Shakespeare—and I have to admit, I wasn’t exactly optimistic when I checked it out.
After all, compared to books, plays seem short and empty—cut off, not as rich. A pancake compared to a pastry.
Besides that first negative reaction, though, I found myself opening up a little, putting the pessimism behind me. After all, I’d never really read a play, not with my heart searching for its meaning and my mind trying its best to grasp it.
So, here it goes.
Death of a Salesman
Written May 29, 2010
Read May 29, 2010
All throughout my reading of this play, my mind was working overtime—trying to grasp why this play was named a classic. By the end, my beliefs about plays being somehow “less” than books were completely wiped away.
“Death of a Salesman,” despite its lack of paragraphs and long descriptions, (so frequently used in books), somehow makes its characters “real,” just through their dialogue. It’s amazing, really.
Miller doesn’t go into detail describing their faces, figures, and expressions, and yet I can almost “see” them.
The plot is also as intricately woven as a modern thriller. Bits and pieces of information are given, until the shocking, final revelation—the work is as suspenseful as an action movie.
Willy Loman is a dreamer who is pursuing all the wrong things because he doesn’t understand his true desires—the acceptance, liking, and esteem of others. When he was younger, he wanted to go off to Alaska with his brother, Ben, but decided to stay behind and become a salesman instead, because he thought that the life of a salesman would bring the respect he craved.
Throughout the play, Ben, (who died years ago), is constantly “with” Willy, representing lost dreams and “if only’s.” His disappearance eventually causes Willy, whose sanity has been slipping, to go over the edge, causing his death.
Willy also struggles with guilt. When his affair with another woman was witnessed by his oldest son, Biff called him a liar and ran out. Ever since, Willy has been consumed with guilt, causing him to lash out at the son he feels he has lost, despite Biff’s attempts to make peace.
Willy is ultrasensitive to anything resembling criticism, and continually believes that Biff’s inability to find a good job is because he (Biff) is trying to spite him (Willy)—not because Biff is not cut out for the job, (the real reason).
In a way, all three Loman men are trying to find meaning in their lives. Willy, who wants the respect of all around him, knows he doesn’t have it, but doesn’t understand why. He believes that the respect he seeks is tied to being a salesman, and despite needing a job, doesn’t take one when Charley, a family friend, offers it to him.
Biff tries to find meaning, wanting to follow his dreams, but he’s tied down by his mom, Linda, who tries to get him to reconcile with his father (despite not knowing the cause of their estrangement).
He’s also bogged down by his father, whom he still loves, despite Willy’s unrealistic expectations and his continual insinuations that spite is what keeps Biff from succeeding.
Happy, the youngest son, tries to find meaning in women and pleasure. He lies and exaggerates to keep his father and mother happy, smooth-talking his way out of tough situations.
What really hit me was how the emotional relationships, especially the complexity of the one between Willy and Biff, are shown so clearly—despite the “short” format of the play. Willy’s downward spiral and mental instability is also shown clearly.
“Death of a Salesman” shows the unsteadiness of the human emotion. Willy continually changes his mind, arguing for something, and then against it. He is unreasonable, and then reasonable—and this isn’t just because of his wandering mind.
While reading, I saw clearly that Willy’s tendency to lash out is one that exhibits itself in our world today. Other emotions, mood swings, and reactions are also mirror images of real life, providing an insightful look into the human soul as well as a good story.
The Crucible
Written: 12/24/11
Read: 12/23/11 - 12/24/11
Oh my God.
Literally.
I should have known better after reading "Death of a Salesman," but I really was not ready for this play to suck me in and spit me out the way it did. Even now, I'm shivering at the raw injustice and hysteria displayed in "The Crucible."
The summary on the back cover states that, "The place is Salem, Massachusetts, in 1692, an enclave of rigid piety huddled on the edge of a wilderness. Its inhabitants believe unquestioningly in their own sanctity. But in Arthur Miller's edgy masterpiece, that very belief will have poisonous consequences when a vengeful teenager accuses a rival of witchcraft--and then when those accusations multiply to consume the entire village."
This book made my heart ache and rebel against the injustice done--the characters were so real and vivid that as Salem sinks deeper and deeper into mass panic without regard to the truth, the tension in my shoulders rose, until they ached. And are still aching as I write this.
This frightening thing is, I can understand how such a thing might happen. As the readers, we are horrified and furious, (and those words barely scratch the surface), at the actions of Danforth, Hathorne, and Parris, but that is only because we know the truth. We know that the accusations are lies.
But they don't--and that's what strikes closest to home, that these people aren't committing crimes knowingly, (with the exception of a select few), but believing that they are doing right. And yet, they have no peace, and the Parris is shown growing more and more afraid as the deaths pile up.
The play depicts the lowest forms of human life, the deepest, darkest places where we sink, but at the same time, does not neglect the flashes of desperate beauty that reminds the readers why humanity is not completely lost. Rebecca Nurse's refusal to save her life through lies, Elizabeth's quiet love for her husband, and the Proctor's eventual triumph over his guilt as he regains his life, even as he loses it.
I highly doubt Arthur Miller believes in witches, or the supernatural, for he even goes on a tangent about how society brands its enemies as evil, and those branded often turn around and brand society as evil--but it is difficult not to feel an icy hand on your heart as you finish this book, even if its only in reflection of the horrors humanity can commit in the name of God.
R&R: Classics-- John Knowles
A Separate Peace is summarized really well in Amazon.com.
“The volatile world of male adolescence provides the backdrop for John Knowles' engrossing tale of love, hate, war, and peace. Sharing a room at Devon, an exclusive New England prep school, in the summer prior to World War II, Gene and Phineas form a complex bond of friendship that draws out both the best and worst characteristics of each boy and leads ultimately to violence, a confession, and the betrayal of trust…
…the perspective of a teenager tormented by feelings he doesn't want to understand to the reflective musing of a man looking back at the formative experience of his youth provide both the story and the setting with an immediacy that quickly engages…”
A Separate Peace
Written May 30, 2010
Read May 30, 2010
Two things about this novel stood out to me. One, Knowles’ ability to illustrate the complexity of the relationship between two friends. Both Gene and Phineas are so human, so “fluid” (always changing), that their interactions are always the opposite of what you expect.
All throughout the novel the question remained: Are they friends? Are they enemies? Are they neither? Their relationship is too complicated to be described by a single word.
Gene hates “Finny,” he loves him, he watches over him, he feels betrayed by him. Like an onion, there is layer after layer after layer, and even at the end of the book I can’t summarize their friendship, or confine it to a little box.
The second thing that stood out was the way Knowles showed the complexity of human nature. Told from Gene’s first person point of view, we see hints of darkness, of the capability to do more evil than any mind has ever imagined. And then we see joy, and the wild freedom of youth.
We see innocence, but not the snow-white purity of a child. Instead, it is the bravado and fearlessness of those untouched by the horror they cannot understand. We see the power of denial, the power of the mind to delude itself, and we see dependency— both its beauty and its dangers.
The single event of Finny’s fall out of the tree is crucial to the plot, and yet it is not the center of the novel. Gene struggles with himself, and Knowles never states it straight out whether he intended to jostle Finny. “A Separate Peace” is not about the story of a boy who has committed a sin and his resulting struggles. It is more of an exploration of human nature.
I was uneasy after reading this book—haunted by a ghost of what could be. A Separate Peace is no easy read—no novel or story. It’s a complicated study of humanity and our capacity for both evil and good. A truly thought-provoking read.
“The volatile world of male adolescence provides the backdrop for John Knowles' engrossing tale of love, hate, war, and peace. Sharing a room at Devon, an exclusive New England prep school, in the summer prior to World War II, Gene and Phineas form a complex bond of friendship that draws out both the best and worst characteristics of each boy and leads ultimately to violence, a confession, and the betrayal of trust…
…the perspective of a teenager tormented by feelings he doesn't want to understand to the reflective musing of a man looking back at the formative experience of his youth provide both the story and the setting with an immediacy that quickly engages…”
A Separate Peace
Written May 30, 2010
Read May 30, 2010
Two things about this novel stood out to me. One, Knowles’ ability to illustrate the complexity of the relationship between two friends. Both Gene and Phineas are so human, so “fluid” (always changing), that their interactions are always the opposite of what you expect.
All throughout the novel the question remained: Are they friends? Are they enemies? Are they neither? Their relationship is too complicated to be described by a single word.
Gene hates “Finny,” he loves him, he watches over him, he feels betrayed by him. Like an onion, there is layer after layer after layer, and even at the end of the book I can’t summarize their friendship, or confine it to a little box.
The second thing that stood out was the way Knowles showed the complexity of human nature. Told from Gene’s first person point of view, we see hints of darkness, of the capability to do more evil than any mind has ever imagined. And then we see joy, and the wild freedom of youth.
We see innocence, but not the snow-white purity of a child. Instead, it is the bravado and fearlessness of those untouched by the horror they cannot understand. We see the power of denial, the power of the mind to delude itself, and we see dependency— both its beauty and its dangers.
The single event of Finny’s fall out of the tree is crucial to the plot, and yet it is not the center of the novel. Gene struggles with himself, and Knowles never states it straight out whether he intended to jostle Finny. “A Separate Peace” is not about the story of a boy who has committed a sin and his resulting struggles. It is more of an exploration of human nature.
I was uneasy after reading this book—haunted by a ghost of what could be. A Separate Peace is no easy read—no novel or story. It’s a complicated study of humanity and our capacity for both evil and good. A truly thought-provoking read.
Monday, August 23, 2010
R&R: Classics-- Mark Twain
Who hasn’t laughed at Tom Sawyer’s escapades, traveled down the
Samuel Clemens, more famously known as Mark Twain, has definitely imprinted himself onto the pages of American Literature. Rare is there a school who does not require his work—a reading list that does not include his writing.
Despite the fact that he was an infamous hater of children, (The proverb says that
He’s not only famous in
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
Written
This is one of those books that I’ve read so many times, (and through so many mediums), that it would be pointless and frustrating to try to remember them all. I’ve heard the Mandarin cassettes, read the kiddy version, wrote essays on the unabridged versions, and even watched the cartoons. The characters of Tom, Becky, and Huck are familiar, and I’d recognize the story plot anywhere.
Among the sea of familiarity though, certain things stuck out to me like the flag of a navy ship, sailing proudly in the high wind. Certain moments of humor made me laugh out loud, other moments of rare sobriety made me think.
However, I especially loved how Twain accurately grasped the true nature/character of a boy. Tom is a rascal, a scoundrel, lazy, and sneaky, and yet his nature is not evil or even malicious. He displays his intelligent mind through pranks and clever tricks, his grasp of human nature through his repeated manipulations of his peers, and a human heart through small displays of affection and loyalty.
It sort of made me think of my own little brother. He may be annoying, irritable, and a real pain sometimes, but I love him because underneath all that, he’s sweet, kind, and even caring. Twain accurately demonstrated the characteristics of a mischievous imp without forgetting the big heart underneath. Sort of hints of a heart underneath the scalding tongue, doesn’t it?
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
Written
Read
Again, this is another book that I’ve read many times, but unlike “Tom Sawyer,” I distinctly remember studying it a class (it was one of the books we read during General Lit.). Twain is very good at showing human nature, its flaws and its unexpected strengths, as well as the evils of his day through his work.
I think the thing that stood out most to me was the way Huck struggled right and wrong. Twain asks us the question, “Is the socially accepted thing the ‘right’ thing? Is something right just because “good” people/society condones it?”
Huck is uneducated and rough, but his heart tells him that betraying Jim is wrong, even though “good, upright, civilized” people would advise him to do it. The irony of his eventual choice (helping Jim), is that he believes that he will go to hell because of it, even though, we, the readers, know that he is doing the right thing.
Personally, I liked Huck better than Tom. Despite not being as street-smart, as savvy, or as clever, Huck has more heart, more depth. Tom’s never had any real struggles—not any that would take away his childish recklessness. He is still foolishly brave, idealistic—even innocent, if you think about it.
Huck knows the true hardships of life. He’s gone hungry, dealt with an abusive father, struggled emotionally as well as physically, and triumphed anyway. Tom is more likely to help Jim out of impulse, without really thinking out the consequences. He wouldn’t feel the same inward struggles as Huck—an doesn’t demonstrate the necessary maturity to conquer it.
For me, the flag in the sea was Twain’s way of tearing down the “socially acceptable” evils of his day. His tone has a certain mocking edge to it—his words are very blunt.
Twain never dances around a harsh statement, and yet his words are spoken in such a way that the result is slightly ridiculous, even while being insulting. He makes his point, and digs it in with a memorable picture or a strange situation.
Whatever people may call Twain—he was smart.
A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court
Written June 2, 2010
Read June 2, 2010
I’ll admit it—I was fooled by the interesting cover, the novelty of the summary, and the words, “King Arthur” on the back flap. After devouring “The Once and Future King,” by T.H. White, I thought this book would be another beautiful fantasy.
I’d loved the nobility, chivalry, and magic of T.H. White’s masterpiece—and that blinded me to the glaringly obvious flaw in my thinking—the fact that Twain’s style is completely different from White’s.
After reading the first few chapters, I felt as if, out of all the differing views of Twain’s last book, (and boy, were there differences!) Charles Whibley put it best. He said, “His book gives you the same sort of impression as you might receive from a beautiful picture over which a poisonous slug had crawled” (Twain, pg. ix). Harsh? Well, that’s how I felt.
In “The Once and Future King,” King Arthur, Merlin, and Camelot are beautiful. The story is beautiful, the characters are beautiful, and the entire plot is beautiful. Having the characters from that masterpiece displayed as cowardly, stupid savages made me want to hit something.
To be honest, if he hadn’t used the story of Camelot, I probably would have enjoyed the book. After all, Twain gets some very good points across. All throughout the book, Hank, otherwise known as “The Boss,” shows the evils of nobility (the class, not the characteristic), monarchy, and slavery. He defines the true meaning of a man, the true meaning of having independent minds, and the true dangers of dictatorship.
I only wish he didn’t portray some of my favorite literary characters as stupidly ignorant, blind, and intellectually dumb babies. Then again, that’s his style—getting his points across through ridicule. Twain’s very good at making fun of the oppressors and unjust people by making them look ridiculous. A tongue as sharp as a knife—it’s what’s he’s known for.
So, when I think of Twain, what do I see? A scalding tongue, as sharp as it is clever. A heart for making his peers see the evils of his time, and an understanding of the true nature of children. A mind brilliant enough to mask his socially unacceptable views in a way both piercing and humorous.
I like his books because of all that—but, no offense to Huck or Tom—the quotes from his biography are the ones that make me laugh, the ones that make me smile self-mockingly and wince.
Here are some of my favorites:
- "To cease smoking is the easiest thing I ever did. I ought to know because I've done it a thousand times."
- "There are laws to protect the freedom of the press's speech, but none that are worth anything to protect the people from the press."
- "The man who does not read good books has no advantage over the man who cannot read them."
- "Kindness is the language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see."
Did you laugh? Wince? Have an “aha!” moment? Truly, Twain is timeless, funny, and sarcastic—a person as important to American History as George Washington or General Grant.
R&R: Classics-- Louisa May Alcott
Louisa May Alcott will probably always be my favorite (or one of my favorite) authors of all time. The idea that girls can succeed just by being virtuous, good, industrious, and pure is one that I wish were still true today. In Alcott’s world, her characters are able to go through trials and emerge better, stronger people, making me root for them every time.
A unique characteristic of Alcott’s books is that she is bluntly honest with the fact that “first love” does not equal “true love.” The picture-perfect romance is nowhere in sight, nor are clichés. Laurie doesn’t marry Jo, Tom doesn’t marry Nan, and Dan doesn’t marry Bess. Alcott is realistic in showing that good people do not equal perfect lives and storybook endings.
Even when the main couple does get married, (“An Old-Fashioned Girl,” and “Rose in Bloom,”), they do so only after they have both matured and grown. Their love is shown to be pure and lasting, having gone through the trials of time and many troubles.
I’ve read virtually all her books, from the famous, “Little Women,” to the well-known “Good Wives,” to less popular books such as “An Old-Fashioned Girl” and “Rose in Bloom.” I didn’t “love” all of them, but I liked and enjoyed each one immensely. Little Women/Good Wives, though, is, and will always be, my favorite.
Little Women/Good Wives
Written
I know that many see these books as two separate works, but since the time I “officially” read the book, I read both together, I see them as one piece. (A part 1 and part 2).
The first time I was introduced to Alcott was in a short, “kid version” of Little Women. (The series that was given to me at age 7-8 included “The
It was during a General Lit. that I studied “Little Women/Good Wives” in depth and truly learned to enjoy Alcott. I wrote papers, typed essays, and researched both the books and the author.
Since then, I’ve read and reread both “Little Women” and “Good Wives.” Alcott’s paragraphs are easy to read and written in a storytelling manner that flows from one scene to the next. Each of the March girls are completely multidimensional, as are the other main characters.
They are individualistic and original, instead of being stereotypical. For example, Jo, instead of just being the spirited tomboy, matures and grows into an (almost) maternal woman. Another example is Amy, who, instead of staying a spoiled child, matures into a graceful woman whose very presence is one of a true lady.
The ending of the book was satisfying and made me feel warm inside. Again, despite the lack of “action” in her books, Alcott is able to keep me riveted and reading, just by showing how her characters mature.
Perhaps this is because, by watching these “imperfect” children grow into “little women,” I am inspired to do the same—to be more than ordinary, to be of good character and to make sacrifices.
Only Little Woman/Good Wives ever achieved the status of a “classic,” but her other books are also definitely worth reading. “Little Men,” and “Jo’s Boys,” show that boys (of all characters and backgrounds) are also able become “little men—” that being good, kind, gentlemanly, and chivalrous really does pay off, and that true men are not the physically strong but those with character.
Sweetly tender without being “sugar-sweet,” touching without being sentimental, and idealistic without being unrealistic, Alcott’s work inspires people of all ages to improve themselves, to be “little women” and “little men.”
Who couldn’t love such a book?
R&R: Classics-- H.G. Wells
If you’d asked me the identity of H.G. Wells a few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you the answer.
Science fiction has never really fascinated me, and his work, though famous, never really crossed my path. Then, a friend mentioned that he’d read “War of the Worlds,” and I thought I’d give it a shot.
His section in the library held many books, most short, all with interesting pictures on the covers. As I ran my fingers along the covers, the titles vaguely familiar, I found the one I was looking for and pulled it out. A couple days later, this was written.
War of the Worlds
Written
Read
Aliens invading Earth has been a topic so used (and sometimes abused) that reading about it hardly surprised me. What did surprise me was the author’s note, (or was it the preface?) that HG Wells had been the first one to introduce the idea. Then, while reading I was able to see how his “version” of alien invasion was the raw, original story.
Nowadays, science fiction has upgraded invading aliens to sentient beings ranging from emotional, sympathetic beings equal to humans, to little green blobs with no minds at all with only the incentive to destroy. Compared to these, HG Wells’ version seemed outdated. (I mean, cylindrical machines? Those haven’t been used in forever!)
However, looking back, I remember enjoying myself. It seemed as if Wells was digging back all the layers of today’s alien invasion stories and displaying the raw, unaltered original story. Also, his portrayal of his main character’s raw emotions of terror, fascination, and horror were vividly done.
All the other characters were briefly drawn up. They weren’t exactly “flat,” but they weren’t multidimensional. They were simply there, which really made the main character stand out.
I’ve never really been able to love horror stories for the sake of horror stories, and HG Wells’ “War of the Worlds,” though a fascinating read, didn’t really appeal to my emotions. I was able to feel a brief (very brief), thrill as I read the story, and the ending, (when the aliens die because they cannot fight off Earth’s bacteria), was unexpected.
The main theme, however, seemed to be that humanity, in reality, is nothing. Wells’ portrayal of our easy defeat and mindless terror suggests that, in the grand cosmic universe, humanity is really just a very small factor. He hints at powers greater than us and gives them the form of alien invaders. I came away from the book a bit cowed, and somewhat thoughtful. Not bad for a sci-fi read.
After “War of the Worlds,” which I actually found easy to read, I decided to check out another of Wells’ books, just so I could get a more complete picture of his style. “The Time Machine” was available, and I already knew the basic plotline, so I checked this one out.
The Time Machine
Written
Read
More H.G. Wells!
Like “War of the Worlds,” “The Time Machine” is short, science fiction, and told from a first-person point of view. After reading, I began to appreciate Wells’ ability to transport you into the protagonist’s life so effectively that it becomes easy to “feel” and “experience” everything that is happening.
Unlike “War of the Worlds,” “The Time Machine” touched my emotions and gave me a faintly disturbed, uneasy feeling. (Sort of similar to the feeling I got after reading “Childhood’s End.”) The idea that humans could sink so low and turn into such monsters made me shudder.
H.G. Wells’ strong point seems to be his ability to portray human emotion in a way that is totally realistic to the point of it almost being scary. The Time Traveler is totally multidimensional (the only multidimensional character in the book) and easy to sympathize with. His emotions are so powerful because they are the emotions that I would feel in his shoes (or, at least, very similar).
Another thing I appreciated about Wells was that his scientific assumptions were completely understandable. I’ve read a lot of science fiction, and some left me scratching my head in confusion.
(What? How does that work?!) But Wells takes the time to make the idea of a fourth dimension (time) and a time machine plausible.
His book is short and consequently he doesn’t spend many paragraphs in the explanations, but the way he explains is so clear, so simple, and so “real” that it really does seem plausible. (As plausible as a time machine can be, anyway.)
Again, not bad for a sci-fi book.
I didn’t fall in love with H.G. Wells’ books, nor am I now an avid reader of science fiction. However, after reading his books, I feel a sincere appreciation for the genre.
It was just a taste—a hint of what sci-fi fans must feel, but it was enough to make me glad of my choice to try his books. So give it a shot! Whether you’re a sci-fi fan or not, pick up one of his books and try it. You never know whether or not you’ll find a new author to love.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)