Respect Authority

As an avid reader and even more avid frequenter of bookstores, I’ve stumbled across Gregory Maguire’s Wicked more than a few times in the past several years. Particularly after the book was translated into a Broadway musical–which I am seeing for the first time this weekend–it became fairly impossible to avoid seeing Maguire’s various fairy-tale remakes on shelves everywhere. Only recently, prompted in fact by my imminent trek to Broadway, did I bother picking it up.

Here’s the thing: I really didn’t want to like Wicked, and for no particular reason. I suppose some part of me thought the very idea of revisiting stories already told was corny, to say nothing of a bit of a cop-out on the part of an author. I thought the book would be a cliche, the same way I have no intention of reading Stephenie Meyer’s fifth Twilight book, which re-tells Book 1 through the eyes of another character. In my world, where at any given time some 200 books wait, unread, in my apartment, there’s no time for repetition.

So extra kudos go to Maguire for manging to tell an excellent story that not only impressed me, but changed my mind entirely. What The Wizard of Oz dispels by way of hokey morals and annoying canines, Wicked re-offers through a much more somber lens: the story centers around Elphaba, a resident of Oz with green skin, who later becomes what we know as the Wicked Witch of the West. But more importantly, the story focuses on the political and religious inclinations of all the various people of Oz; it touches on questions of royalty and hierarchy, on political unrest, revolution and ruling with an eye to the divine. It brings up issues of good and evil, right and wrong, and guilt and forgiveness. In short, it’s a very serious book that just so happens to star a central character of its less-serious predecessor. Also, there’s sex. And dirty jokes. And violence.

So if anyone out there still reads books, this one comes highly recommended. I suspect it’s more worth your time than, say, Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland.

Dan Brown dresses as Robert Langdon for Halloween.

Though an avid reader several times over, I have never considered myself much of a literary elitist—I’m as likely to be reading one of the Gossip Girl books as War and Peace. So when the release date of Dan Brown’s latest book, The Lost Symbol, was officially announced, it swiftly earned a notation in my Outlook calendar, right between “dentist appointment” and “pick up cat food.” Seriously, my itinerary is the stuff of legends.

But in my excitement—which has less to do with Dan Brown fandom, and more with the nerd-like joy I get from knowing there are a handful of authors who can convince anyone and everyone to read—I had forgotten one thing: Dan Brown really can’t write.

Indeed, much criticism has been made in recent weeks of Brown’s ascent to stardom – a great deal of it, I suspect, from jealous authors who haven’t yet accepted that America’s predilection for lowbrow entertainment transcends all media; why would a country that’s tolerated a half-dozen seasons of Survivor display anything different when it comes to books? In spite of the success of authors like Dean Koontz, Clive Cussler and James Patterson, the last of whom doesn’t even write all of his own books, people seem baffled that America is head over heels for someone like Dan Brown, someone whose writing classes appear to have revolved around the motto “More adjectives, please!” Read More ›

Sometimes, when I’m not watching TV, or reprogramming my faulty DVR for the ninth time, or idly wondering whether mood rings come in “irritable,” I read books. And since this is my blog and I’ll wax intellectual if I want to, I feel it’s high time I start reviewing them. Because trust me, there are a lot (175 unread books in my 330-square-foot apartment, to be exact).

The most important thing you need to know about God Is Not Great—it’s a rather awkward book to read in public. Which isn’t to say that New Yorkers have any specific problem with atheism, or one 20-something semi-hipster predictably reading about it on the subway, but one finds it hard to ignore the looks, which vary from skepticism to accusation (by the way, in a rant for another time, I find the Kindle really hampers my predilection for observing what others are reading on the train). Then again, maybe it’s just some watered-down version of Catholic guilt that has me wanting to reach out to fellow riders; “I’m not an atheist; I mean, maybe, I don’t know. I’m just—the book was on sale.” Read More ›

I’m not entirely sure what I was thinking when I picked up Jose Saramago’s Blindness. Well, that’s a lie – I knew exactly what I was thinking. I was thinking that I really should have shelled out the 15 bucks sooner since my book club meeting was fast-approaching and reading all 326 pages in less than a week was going to cut into my reality television time. But besides that, having seen a few trailers for the book’s imminent film adaptation, and read the back cover, I don’t know why I was still hoping for sunshine and rainbows. Read More ›