A Monster Calls

This book is simply stunning.  A Monster Calls is the first book to win both the Carnegie Medal for literature and the the Kate Greenaway Medal for illustration, and for good reason.  The crisp language intertwines with  gorgeous images to create a story that is incomplete without both; the book is beautifully rendered in all areas.  Stunned is the only word I can come up with to describe my most visceral reaction to this book.

At its most basic, the novel is about a child facing up to death. And it strikes the very heart of the American struggles with death, despite its being a UK book. There is, of course, the universal human struggle with death, and the novel reflects much of the attitude that goes along with that struggle.  I can't pretend to have enough experience to know how all people, or even a significant percentage of the population, deal with death.  But as a teacher who works with youth, more specifically youth at the high school age where they are exploring the world around them and its limitations, I do see and have learned to understand a fair amount about how people deal with death.

Few people seem to like to think about death (and I say "seem" because of course no one can know for sure). It's a uncomfortable topic thanks to the natural human fear of the unknown, and even though it can be argued that learning more about the topic can ease fears about it, I have found that teachers are often warned against discussing death overly often in the classroom.  Somehow, there is inherent danger in discussing this topic -- as if talking about it will encourage students to think about death, or as if thinking about death is indicative of a more dangerous road. Don't get me wrong -- I know that focusing on death can potentially be a symptom of suicide and must be treated seriously. That doesn't change my belief that there is no harm in discussing the topic. We are told as teachers that if students are thinking too much about death or are writing about death in some form, we should be concerned. I understand the need to protect my students, and I want to help them if they are struggling with suicidal thoughts or tendencies.  But despite that, people do need to think about death.  Talking about death, in the classroom or otherwise, is not going to start a kid's descent into a suicidal spiral; if anything, it can open up avenues for that student to reach out for help.

We do talk about death in my classroom. My students write bucket lists and read works that deal with death as a theme -- works like Macbeth, some poems of Keats, and more -- and many of these discussions touch on the idea of approaching death as a natural part of human life.

But as an American culture, we do not approach death as a natural part of life, we do not approach death in any kind of accepting way. Instead, death is a topic to be avoided, a concept to be struggled against, a fight against the natural order to life.  Bucket lists are a way, for American culture, to power ourselves beyond the idea of death; it's an idea akin to "If I haven't finished this list, I can't die!" This is something I don't find healthy.

I am not immune to this struggle.  I don't like thinking about death, nor do I overly do so. I do fear dying, and I fear it especially in the sense that I feel there is so much more I need and want to do before I die. I know it's bound to happen someday, and I guess I'm fine with that, provided that that 'someday' isn't anytime soon.  That ultimate unknown is scary, but to me it's a necessary fear.

This is not the attitude of Conor, the main character of A Monster Calls.  He suppresses his fears, a method of dealing that I find distinctly American.  Of course, Conor is dealing with the potential death of his mother as opposed to his own death, and familial death does not always follow the same patterns of thought -- in my experience, dealing with a family death, impending or passed, is more about denial than fighting, and that is the experience of this character.

The events of the novel itself are incredibly unique.  A boy, Conor is struggling with his mom's illness, and during the course of this struggle and its accompanying nightmares, he is visited by a monster.  The monster literally calls -- the distinctly British term that implies a polite exchange as opposed to a blustery argument. In calling, the monster (a transformed yew tree) tells Conor three stories about previous times he (the monster) has come walking, walking to avenge some disrespect or distortion or prevent some destruction. In exchange for the stories, the monster asks Conor for his story -- the truth about his nightmares.  The evolution of the narrative , the growth of the main character, the beauty of the pages, combine to create a story of unimaginable power.

One quote continuously popped into my head as I was reading this novel:
"When something can be read without effort, great effort has gone into its writing." - Enrique Jardiel Poncela
I don't believe I've ever encountered a book where this quote was more true.  The themes of the novel might be higher level, but the reading is effortless -- the effort put into this writing is truly incredible. The delicate black and white drawings contribute to the darker ideas in the novel, bringing the fantasy world of the monster to life as they pull the reader in.

I adore this novel.

I also have to say this (since I am a teacher):  I've already been a reader with pictures in her head, but this book would be a great resource for helping kids learn to build those pictures and improve their reading levels. Teaching students how to create images in their heads as they read is one of the hardest undertakings in education, one that I am fortunately not usually responsible for (because I teach seniors in high school).  But this book can help kids bridge between lower-level reading books and higher reading level books, and I would be inclined to give it to any struggling readers in my classroom.

And then I'd probably read it again just for myself.

The Visible Man

I have trouble writing about this book.  I read it back in March and while I was stunned by how good it was, I was still very unsure about how to approach it on paper.  So I thought about it and thought about it, brainstormed and recorded some of those thoughts, and then I thought about it some more.  For three months.

Now I am finally trying to undertake the task of writing about this complex book.  I absolutely adore Chuck Klosterman, who earned a place as one of my favorite authors with his first book, Fargo Rock City, and whose book Killing Yourself to Live remains one of my favorite books of all time.  Though there are times where I disagree with his philosophical ideas, and though there are times when I find his thinking to go off the deep end, I still find myself purchasing and reading every book he publishes.

Klosterman's books, minus The Visible Man

That is not what drew me to this novel.

This is Klosterman's second novel -- most of his writing is nonfiction dealing with American culture and its intricacies.  His first novel, Downtown Owl, is focused on small-town high school life; it's more complex than just that, but that's a decent surface description.  The prose of this novel is clean and straightforward, almost clinical, but the characters he draws are largely fascinating.  (And when reading the second novel, it's hard to tell that Klosterman is still the author -- the language style is so different!)  The Visible Man is a very different novel than Downtown Owl; in many ways, The Visible Man is a blending of Klosterman's cultural writing and his fiction, which creates a complicated result.

What drew me to this novel is its title vs. it's description.  On Amazon.com, this story sounds like science-fiction: a therapist is contacted by a man, known only as Y, who claims to have stolen some government technology that renders him effectively undetectable (there is a lot of discussion over the word 'invisible,' which I'll get to in a moment).  Thanks to this technology, he is able to fulfill his deepest desire: to sneak into people's homes and observe their actions.  AND YET, the title is The Visible Man.  The obvious contradiction between the two is what made me want to read the book, and this contradiction ended up being central to the ideas of the book.

I imagine Klosterman laughing maniacally to himself, saying, "This is exactly what I was going for! You've fallen into my consumer trap!" -- even though I would have bought the book anyway.

I realize now that I have only barely described the content of the novel itself.  Y has a government technology and uses it to observe people without their knowledge.  But the driving idea of the novel is that Y is seeking treatment from a therapist (and the book's narrator), Victoria, though he refuses to say that exactly he'd like to accomplish through this therapy.  They communicate strictly by phone at the beginning of the novel, and gradually throughout build a complicated relationship that I am hesitant to fully reveal.

The language of visible vs. invisible shows up (bu-dum!) throughout the novel.  Early on, when Y first steps into the novel in a bodily form, he is what you and I would call invisible -- he cannot be seen.  But Y refuses to classify himself as invisible, instead labeling himself as "unseen" or "nearly visible."  In fact, several times he reacts violently to being called invisible.

Y is not exactly like THIS invisible man -- his is more a body suit than a lab accident. Nonetheless, he's just as much a sarcastic and self-indulgent prick. 

This argument inspires much debate between Y and Victoria, his therapist, especially as the misadventures that Y describes start to come fully into view.

These instances that Y describes, wherein he is observing someone while inside their apartment, are often noteworthy in some way.  The implication is that Y has been inside hundreds, maybe thousands, of homes to conduct his 'experiment,' but the ones that he shares with Victoria are carefully chosen to prove a point. (Like I said earlier, that point is never quite revealed and is left up to the reader to discern.)  Some of the stories are incredibly violent, as in one Y is responsible for someone's death, and some are extremely disturbing, such as one where Y adds his speed to a drug abuser's pot and gleefully watches the, as he finds them, hilarious results.  The man comes off as a sociopath.

Yet this label seems to be exactly what Y wants to avoid.  He would never admit this; he never does admit that he's talking to a therapist for any kind of identifiable reason.  All he will ever say is that he's just there to talk, he just wants to talk and talk and talk to someone about what he doing with his life.  In his mind, Y has pure motives: he observes these people in order to understand Culture, that great elusive beast that rules the American consciousness.

Since culture is invisible, it is fitting that Y is also "invisible."  And just as he is not quite "invisible," neither is culture -- culture can be observed through its people and their tastes.  How does one determine what is American culture? You look at what's popular now, what American people are doing, what they believe in, what they work for, what they buy.  Culture is invisible, yet not. Y is also invisible, yet not -- he can be found, you just have to know where to look.

The book really is a lovely, if strangely manifested, discussion of what makes up culture. 

After much reflection, I find Y and his reasons for being in therapy to be very much representative of the everyday person.  He resists all of Victoria's efforts to analyze him, even going to great lengths to forbid her from doing such (including invading her house and injuring her husband), and seems to consider himself above the process of "therapy."  Yet there he is, sitting in Victoria's office, talking to her just as any patient would talk to his therapist.  His arrogance is superseded by whatever driving reason he has for being there. Thus, the question that comes to mind for both the reader and Victoria throughout the book is, why is he really there? The answer is simple: Y is seeking approval for his actions.  Just like every other person on the planet, Y wants to be told that he's okay, that what he's doing is right.  He wants reassurance.  However, just like the average person, Y does not want to admit that this approval is what he is looking for -- he just wants it to come naturally, hence his lack of discussion about his motives and his attempts to keep Victoria from categorizing him.  He acts with arrogance as a defense against what he really wants.

The character relationships in this book are exceedingly complex, and seeing that one of the two main characters is a therapist adds to the layers of meaning in the novel.  Victoria and Y have a semi-functional relationship; it builds to functionality and then eventually breaks down as the ending to the novel (I won't give away specifics).  Victoria is oddly drawn to Y.  She finds his stories fascinating, even as she questions their authenticity, and she struggles with the morals of her job even as she pushes Y to tell her more.  She is apprehensive and unsure and entirely unable to stop listening to his life story.  But it is only after Y really becomes visible -- after he opens up, not when he is physically seen -- that the story can end.  Only after he becomes the Visible Man does their relationship start to break down and Victoria start to assume power.  There is a tension throughout the novel that cannot be maintained beyond its events, and once that line is crossed, that's the end.

Ultimately, though I am stunned by how good this book was and how involved I became with it, I am not sure if I can recommend it to others without some additional knowledge about what kind of book a given person might want to read.  It is not a light book, and nor should it be undertaken as such.

Just Because I'm Curious...

Summer 2013: My first summer off as an actual teacher.

I'm taking a college-credit class this summer that focuses on Young Adult Literature and Censorship, and reading is a huge part of that class.  In addition, I borrowed a ton of books from my school's library AND friends dumped piles of books on me. 

I may not read all of these books; in fact, I'm not sure I expect to, because it might kill me.  But nevertheless, I want to know how many of them I actually get through -- even if I never get around to blogging about all of them.  

So here's the list:

1. The Pigman by Paul Zindel
2. Come Juneteenth by Ann Rinaldi
3. Jaws by Peter Benchley
4. The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie
5. Between a Rock and a Hard Place by Aron Ralston
6. A Swift Pure Cry by Siobhan Dowd
7. A Monster Calls by Patrick Ness
8. Lockdown by Walter Dean Myers
9. Forever ... by Judy Blume
10. Push by Sapphire
11. The Compound by S.A. Bodeen    
12. Inexcusable by Chris Lynch
13. TTYL by Lauren Myracle
14. Thirteen Reasons Why by Jay Asher
15. Feed by M.T. Anderson  
16. Shattering Glass by Gail Giles
17. The Fault in Our Stars by John Greene    
18. Five Flavors of Dumb by Antony John
19. Fun Home by Alison Bechdel
20. Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs
21. Childhood's End by Arthur C. Clarke
22. The Devil in the White City by Erik Larson
23. World War Z by Max Brooks      

And that's my whole summer. Between the end of May and the beginning of August, I read 23 books. I started a 24th -- so close to 25, which would have been awesome.

Dune

"I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain."

Dune may be one of my favorite books of all time.  It is, of course, one of the most classic sci-fi novels of all time, up there with Asimov's Foundation trilogy and Scott Card's Ender's Game.  In fact, I believe Dune was published before Ender's Game, so Herbert would likely precede Scott Card in the sci-fi canon.  Nevertheless: it is one of my favorites, one of my classics.

There are lots of different covers for this book, but this is the one I will always favorite, the one that best signifies the essence of this book -- just those two lone figures, walking away on the sand.  

I've written about Dune before (when I read it during my 2011-2012 book adventure), so I don't want to rehash all those thoughts.  But I continue to love the development of the characters, the depth of the story embedded into the culture that Herbert created with this book.

Reading this book for the second time in roughly two years, I have come to connect deeply with the quote that started this post.  I spend too much of my life operating through fear -- and even though I don't think fear enters too often into my daily life, I don't like the idea of fear being present at all.  This quote, coming from the mind and teachings of Paul Muad-dib, is perfect for the place where I am in my life right now.  I need this idea: it reminds me that I am not defined by my fear.

Another major aspect of this book that I absolutely love is its play with the archetypal Christ (or savior) figure.  Traditionally, the Christ figure, as it is known thanks to the overwhelming influence of Christianity in the Western world, is a character who sacrifices him/herself in some way as to save the others around them. Common modern examples could include Gandalf in The Fellowship of the Ring or Harry Potter in The Deathly Hallows.  Of course, these are both examples where the Christ figure doesn't directly intertwine with ideas of religion, a concept that plays out in a central way in Dune.  Much of the primary action is Dune is deeply connected with a planted idea about a savior  This savior will lead the Fremen people in rising up to recreate the surface of their desert planet into a lush paradise, a very literal embodiment of the religious idea of a savior propagated by Christianity.  However, this savior becomes a messiah, a savior of his people but in the military connotation that the word originally carries.  The Fremen rally around this savior, to their success and the destruction of their enemies.  The mythology that is built around this savior -- for some of it is true within the book and some is rumor -- creates a beautiful dialogue about what religion really is and what purpose it serves for its believers; the Fremen believe in him so blindly that they will do whatever is deemed necessary, and yet without him, the people are doomed to nothing.  This so closely links with my own ideas about religion, about its absolutely necessity that is coupled alongside its incredible danger.  And of course the most complicated element tied into the religion of the book is that the Fremen blur the physiological line between humanity and Other.

There is so much else that I could discuss about this book, but I also don't want to spoil it for others who will read it someday, hopefully soon.  Rest assured that the story is worth its 800+ page blossoming.

Finally: I just have to say this.  I have never seen the movie made in the 80s of Dune, nor do I plan to.  I've seen the images of how the director brought the Fremen with their stillsuits and the sandworms to life, and they are so far beyond what I've pictures in my mind that I just can't handle that image being destroyed. This is a risk that I run whenever I read a novel that is good enough to warrant movie attention -- my attachment to my own imagination of this world is too strong to let it be influenced by someone else's vision.  Even though the pull of Patrick Stewart as Gurney Halleck is pretty strong too.

Between a Rock and a Hard Place

It was out of pure gruesome curiosity that I picked up Aron Ralston's mind-blowing account of how he survived 6 days trapped in a canyon, six days that culminated in his cutting off his own arm to escape.

And I have to say after reading it: I don't think I could do it.  I don't think I could cut my own arm off.
Obviously I am not faced with the same dilemma as Ralston, and from the sound of the book, he too did not think himself capable of such a feat originally. Nonetheless.

 But I have to say, in the most positive, well-meaning way I can, that it's quite possible he had this kind of accident coming.  I don't mean that he deserved what happened or any such thing, not at all.  But the book details a wide variety of other outdoor adventures and many close calls that have befallen Ralston during his years hiking, climbing, and more before this accident.  He describes the terrifying ordeal of being trapped in an avalanche, the foolish and inexperienced move of hiking alone during winter and the hungry bear that chased him for days, his near-drowning, and a host of other undoubtedly fun but super dangerous adventures.  So, when I think about the timeline, it makes sense that he had this accident -- at some point, everyone's luck runs out.

What ultimately saved Ralston, at least in my analysis, is that, even though his luck ran out, he is made of strong stuff.  He had the mental ability to withstand a situation of almost guaranteed death; his book describes the days of dehydration, hallucinations, and frank video documentation of those 127 hours.  Some of it is even available on YouTube:

And though the book (and videos, I assume, though I've never seen all the footage) describes Ralston's descent into depression, guilt, and ultimately acceptance of his fate, his survival proves he is stronger than that.

Ralston's description of his decision making process crops up throughout the book -- amputation occurs to him early on, but he dismisses it.  After about three days, he stabs his pocketknife about two inches into his arm, but decides against a full-on amputation because the knife cannot cut through his bones.  By the time he actually cuts the arm off, he greets the calamity with something akin to elation: finally, a solution that will WORK.  Like I said when I started: I don't think I have it in me to cut off my own arm, even to save my life. But Aron Ralston does, and this mental resolve is what saves his life.

The man's accomplishment is truly amazing, and his return to his favorite outdoorsman activities demonstrates his dedication to living his life regardless of setbacks. Near the end, after his rescue and a lot of surgeries, he writes about all of the stuff he's received thanks to media attention: the notes from people he inspired to keep living, the piles of margarita supplies from strangers (at his first press conference, he said he really wanted margaritas because he'd been dreaming about them while trapped), and the positive attitude he's been able to keep thanks to it all.  What strikes me the most is a story he told from not long after his rescue, wherein he and his sister figured something out and went to do the double high-five, only to realize their mistake -- one five was missing.  And instead of being depressed, Ralston describes laughing his ass off.

That attitude is the best thing I can take from this book: He cut off his own arm, but retains the ability to laugh at it.  He is damaged, but he is positive, and he survived.

Pastwatch

Since I had previously read and loved Ender's Game, I had high expectations for this Orson Scott Card novel.  However, I was surprised by some of the religious ideas that the book presents -- which I'll discuss in a minute.

The book cover, should you feel compelled to read it yourself. 

I do like this book -- I have recommended it to others, which often takes a certain degree of respect for the book on my part.  The novel is based in the far future, after a series of extreme meteorological happenings and a lot of wars; in this future, a group of scientists use new technology in order to view the past in real time.    Some of those scientists gradually become obsessed with Christopher Columbus and his legacy, which they perceive to be largely slavery, disease, and poverty, among other problems.  So they decide, essentially, to change the course of history.

The very idea of playing around with Christopher Columbus and his legacy stuns with its daring.  In American culture, Columbus seems to be often treated (especially by schools) like some sort of god-like figure, someone who did amazing things entirely on purpose as opposed to completely be accident, and is given credit for massive discoveries that in reality he didn't make.  Instead, Scott Card has drawn a vision of Columbus as a man driven by purpose, yes, but who largely operates by luck and the good fortune bestowed on him by others with more power.  The events of the novel intertwine Columbus's life with the story of Pastwatch, the group of scientists who study and ultimately try to change the past, so as a reader I was able to watch Columbus's growth as his life progresses.

Those scientists attempt to change the past in order to eliminate the institution of slavery and its ongoing horrible legacy (untouchable castes, sex slavery, human trafficking, etc., and those are just the modern 2013 examples -- don't forget that the novel takes place far, far into the future).  They are motivated by this goal, but also by the forthcoming death of the planet; the previously mentioned wars and weather issues essentially destroyed the planet's resources and humanity's abilities to survive.  I find myself drawn to this goal; it speaks to the bit of hippy in me, the part of me that loves peace, wants to help preserve the earth, all of those types of environmentally friendly things. In a way, I started to hope while reading this book that this kind of future might be possible, when humanity will finally realize its mistakes and try to fix them for the future.

And Scott Card's writing style is so beautiful.  His skill with the written word allows him to intertwine the story of Columbus with the plot of the novel in a intricate, clean way that is easy to follow.  The background of the story seems colorful and full, which I love. It is a part of what makes a talented writer -- the ability to intertwine the world around the story in such a way that the story becomes truly real.

As much as I found this story fascinating, I also found one included element rather unusual.  That element is the overarching presence of Christianity; one of the major themes of the book seems to be that embracing Christianity will not only help save the world, but also eliminate major human issues like slavery, war, and other tragedies.  Now, don't get me wrong: I understand that Scott Card is incredibly involved in the Mormon faith -- he is on record as opposing all sorts of right-wing issues.  I don't have a problem with this.  But it is surprising for a science-fiction writer, especially one as well-known as Scott Card.  If, after reading Ender's Game, someone had asked me what I thought his religious leanings might be, I would have told you that likely Scott Card wanted nothing to do with religion.  And so I find it interesting that he 'limits' himself in such a way.  On average, I don't mind the inclusion of religion in what I read; in fact, more often than not, I find myself defending the value religion holds for humanity.  But what I don't like is religion that is forced down my throat, and with such an obvious theme, that's certainly how this novel comes across.  Ultimately, after such a good book, I was disappointed to find Christianity as a savior to humankind as the theme.  There were so many other valuable lessons from the novel, so much else that I could have elevated to a "favoritism" level, that were overpowered by this theme.

I find it interesting that both religion and fantasy, religion and creation, really religion and all that goes along with good science fiction writing can exist together. Maybe this is something I have to overcome before I read another Orson Scott Card novel.