Author: John Irving
Dates read: November 3, 2009 - November 19, 2009 (17 days)
Pages: 820Whew, finally done! Thanks to the cushion of extra days I had before I started this book, I’m only a day behind schedule now even though I spent 17 days on this novel. And for anyone keeping track, this is the second John Irving book I’ve read as part of my resolution, making him the first author I’ve read more than one book from in my challenge so far. I picked this particular Irving novel because I knew tattoo culture was a big part of the book, and that’s a subject I find very interesting but didn’t know too much about.
To put it very simply, this novel is about a boy named Jack Burns who grows up in the care of his mother, Alice. She’s a tattoo artist who was left by Jack’s father, William, before Jack was born, and she’s never able to get over the loss. Alice takes Jack on a journey through the cities of the North Sea and the Baltic as a young child looking for his father, staying for a while in each place they stop and getting a job with a famous tattoo artist in each port. The events of that trip shape the rest of Jack’s life, which the book details well into adulthood, when Jack ultimately becomes a very famous actor.
This book, like all other John Irving novels, is fantastically vivid because of the characters. Everyone’s motivations and feelings are clear and understandable, even when you don’t agree with them. The book also paints every location so well that I could see the Canadian and European cities of the story (none of which I’ve ever been to) as easily as I could see Los Angeles (the city I live in). And the tattoo parlors, artists, even the tattoos themselves are so incredibly well woven into the novel that tattoo culture becomes a kind of character in its own way. The story turns back on itself about halfway through to shed a new light on the early events of Jack’s life that is compelling, if somewhat expected. Then again, I may have just read enough John Irving novels by this point to be able to see bumps in the road coming up for the characters before they’re actually revealed in the writing. Either way, the book felt a bit longer than it needed to be, especially in the middle where Jack’s emotional growth halts for a while despite the way events around him keep moving forward. But the book, expansive as it is, was still enjoyable in the end. Even when I have criticisms of a John Irving book, I still always like it so much that I’d put it near the top of any recommendation list.
I’d like to second most of what Jen said (except for the bit about it being bloated in the middle). Irving is one of the few successful modern authors still working in the classical mode. No angsty self-reflection here, no sad-sack booze and cigarettes stories. Irving is all picaresques, all epics, all sweeping and stirring and story, story, story.
It’s possible (likely) that you’ve already seen this on Boing Boing or another of the many sites that have picked up the story, so I’ll let you follow the title link for all of the details. But the gist of it is this: Two library employees in Kentucky kept a book (an Alan Moore graphic novel, The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, Volume IV: The Black Dossier) out of circulation because they thought the content was inappropriate for minors. When an 11-year-old girl put the book on hold, they canceled her hold without permission (an offense that got them fired). They refuse to admit that they did anything wrong.
I don’t know where to start with this one. I’m sputtering, stumbling over my own thoughts as I try to compose a coherent response to what is, in my eyes, a example of blatantly intentional ignorance and intellectual decay. And I think that’s why I’m having such trouble. I can’t help but see this situation in black and white. Just as I’m imagining new and clever ways to condemn the radical, narrow-minded behavior of two intolerant library workers in some small Kentucky town, so am I taking the radical, narrow-minded stance that I am wholly right, they are wholly wrong, and there are no ifs, ands, or buts about it. Why am I so feral about this? My theory:
When I was little, my parents gave me free reign. With one or two exceptions (pornography, the Friday the 13th movies because I hid in the bathroom for an hour after seeing the beginning of Part XIII), I was allowed to read, watch, write, or discuss anything I damn well pleased. I read my dad’s thriller novels over his shoulder when I was five. I started writing my own series of novellas (gruesome werewolf stories) when I was seven. I read Stephen King’s The Stand when I was twelve. My tiny little world wasn’t rocked. My morals weren’t compromised. I did find something to love, though, and I’m not talking about the reading itself. (I already loved reading. I’d loved it since the first time I’d been able to puzzle out a Little Critter book all by my lonesome.) No, what I fell absolutely in love with was the idea that I could take an interest in anything, anything at all, and I would have not only the means of exploring it, but people around me who loved me and supported my explorations. Ideas were never off-limits. Information was never forbidden.
So I recognize that my wild anger at two grumpy women trying to take a book out of a library is extreme. But if I am planted firmly on the extreme end of some spectrum or another, I can take comfort in the fact that I am, at least, on my end where we read books, where we try to think before we act, where we make an effort to recognize and understand our intolerance.
Stigma seems to be the word that everybody jumps to these days when they feel like they’re being attacked, regardless of context.
Another year of defensive Tyra guests and poorly educated cable news pundits and we’ll have a completely meaningless word on our hands.
I’m On Fire by John Mayer (originally by Bruce Springsteen)
I remember seeing John Mayer play this live a few years back and thinking it was one of the sexiest things I’d ever seen, but the covers he’s recorded are usually limited to Jimi Hendrix songs, so I was pleasantly surprised to find this on Mayer’s latest album, Battle Studies. Also, I’ve been a John Mayer fan for years and years now, and I’m glad that people seem to finally be coming around to realize that he’s so much more than a pretty face. He really, really, really knows what he’s doing when it comes to making music.
Say what you will about John Mayer, but most of his music is a lot richer than people would like to believe, and he puts on shows like nobody’s business (on for hours, tons of energy, not afraid to mess with the set list). I don’t love him like I love Springsteen, but I’d be hard pressed to name another young musician as nicely suited to cover a classic Springsteen song.
Though I’ve outgrown many things, the road trip remains an unassailably romantic notion, the aimless road trip exponentially more so.
One of these nights, I plan to take off for parts unknown, drive for four or five hours, watch the sun rise over my dashboard, eat breakfast in some remote town, then drive myself home and sleep the afternoon away.
It occurs to me that, while it would be a lovely thing to do alone, it would be an equally lovely thing to do with company, to get the chance to get to know somebody. And so if anyone at all in the Los Angeles area is interested in picking up and taking off in the middle of one of these nights for a bit of adventure, let me know. My email is jb (at) jbmulholland.com. Maybe it’ll be the Salton Sea, maybe a ride up the coast to San Luis Obispo, but it’ll be new, and it’ll be lovely, and it’ll be soon. I’m fully in the grip of wanderlust.
Because of my general state of oblivion, I’ve only just become aware that I am inadvertently participating in what you (all of the internet) have dubbed No Shave November (or Novembeard).
It was boredom that made me do it. That, and the pleasant notion that I can fully achieve a distinct personal transformation in two days (yes, two days to a full beard, because I am more grizzly bear than man; after that it is less about growth and more about maintenance).
It wouldn’t really occasion comment if it weren’t for the sense of circumstantial camaraderie and brotherhood it has instilled in me.
me: I see your tumble.
James: You do? Do you raise me a tumble?
That being said, I chose to beat the horse rather than mourning its death.
“Get it, Jen? Get it? It’s a poker joke.”
“Get it?”
Yeah. She got it.
Having just watched A Guide To Recognizing Your Saints, I am left wondering only why I didn’t watch it sooner. It’s a rare movie that makes me believe for an hour or two that I belong to its world rather than to my own. It was not perfect, but it was perfectly immersive.
John Darnielle with Owen Pallett
Final Fantasy was a great opener
John Darnielle with Owen Pallett
Jen (WindyCityGirl) in the lobby
Due to my abhorrence of crowds, I don’t go to a lot of concerts. I make exceptions when the cost (creeping claustrophobia) : reward (fun fun fun!) ratio swings far enough in the right direction, which means I always make exceptions for The Mountain Goats and I’ve yet to be disappointed.
Ah yes, gentleman with the loud, attention grabbing laugh. We were laughing with you the first few times your barking rape-whistle cackle brought the evening’s proceedings to a halt. But how speedy the transition from with to at! How eager we became to distance ourselves from you!
And let us not speak of your sucking up. (Or rather, let us, but quickly and quietly, so we can have done with it.) Was yours a premeditated sycophancy, or do front row seats in tiny local theaters just bring out the worst in you?
You had us, sir, in the beginning. What a strange laugh! we all said to ourselves. We were with you. But you took things too far, and you lost us along the way. And now we stand together, a united front, firmly against you, and firmly against all that you stand for. You are ruining it for all of us.
I baked my mom’s mac & cheese recipe tonight (just a simple milk, flour, sharp cheese sauce poured over elbow macaroni, baked for 35 minutes at 325 degrees), because I apparently had some unconscious desire to spend the rest of the evening in a sleepy food haze.
A little video of me feeding my squirrel friend, Frank, who’s been coming around several times a day for treats now that the weather’s a little cooler. Every time he appears on my porch or balcony looking for me, it makes my day!
Frank has also learned that leaping from the railing to the rattling security bars on the window is an effective way to get a cracker.
With my Thanksgiving plans (flight, airport shuttle, etc.) firmly in place, I am now able to focus my energy on trip preparation, which is one of my favorite things. But how much prep can possibly go into a direct flight from LA to Columbus, OH? How much lead time do I actually need for a trip that is two weeks away?
Lots, and all of it.
First I need to decide what book(s) I’ll be taking along. If it’s a big ol’ monster novel (The Brothers Karamazov, Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell), what do I leave out of my carry-on? Do I skip the notebook? The Flip cam? My sunglasses? If it’s a tiny little thing (The Pleasure of My Company, A Wild Sheep Chase), what’s my backup book? I’ll change my mind about these books on a daily basis.
Then I have to figure out what I’m going to read before the trip. I am compelled to start books fresh when traveling. I like to begin at page one while I’m in the shuttle, or sitting at the gate, or waiting for the plane to taxi out. I am also compelled to finish any book I’m reading before I can start another, so unless I want to reread everything I’ve already plowed through before the day of my trip, I need to plan my reading habits carefully.
This process can last days or weeks. Everything else (clothes, haircut, putting the mail on hold) is negligible.
Some time ago, I disappeared from the internet for a while and resurfaced so briefly that you’d have missed it if you blinked. It seemed I was a bit more burned out on the internet than I’d thought.
Reclaiming my digital life has been a slower process than I’d expected. I dipped my toe back into Facebook (which, it turns out, I am still weary of), stopped following a boatload of people on Twitter (for a better signal to noise ratio), killed off a number of superfluous social networking accounts (because who needs that much redundancy?), and am finally returning to Tumblr (which has ever been the most rewarding online community, but also requires the most thought and deliberation on my part).
It seems a number of you stuck with me through my period of inactivity, which speaks to either: a) the regard in which I am held, or b) how infrequently you clear out your “Following” list. Regardless, I’m glad to be back and glad to see you all again.
More and more, I marvel at what The Colony is doing. Somehow, within the confines of what is, basically, a complex reality show, they’ve managed to incorporate every post-apocalyptic trope in a way that makes tired material feel fresh again.
They’ve hit wasteland raiders and creepy music from rebuilt phonographs, building an escape vehicle in the hopes of some generic greener pasture and unexplained disappearances, the sudden impact of a resurgent religious streak and old projectors with mysterious home movies from “a better time” that fill the colonists simultaneously with hope and misery. It’s as if the producers pulled out a map, pointed to a spot at the intersection of Mad Max and the Fallout videogame series, and said “Right here. This is where we want to be.” And they made it happen, not in fiction, but in reality. Sure, it’s assisted reality, augmented reality, but at the end of the day the real life actions of these reality show participants are taking us directly to a place that only ever used to exist in fiction. And that is fascinating.
