ewee (22/26): The Omnivore's Dilemma, by Michael Pollan

At last, a book that I'm not abashed to admit to reading...

When I started The Omnivore's Dilemma, I knew it'd be one of the best books I'd read all year. As an avid meat eater, and unapologetic foody I faced it with some trepidation. Would it ruin my enjoyment of eating? (Easily one of the best things life has to offer, especially when paired with good company.) Would I finally have to give up my love for a perfectly cooked steak? (Medium rare, just off the grill after sitting a few minutes.) Would I be thwarted in my search for the perfect kalbi marinade? (My mom's, is obviously the answer. Achieving it is entirely another thing.)

Once I'd begun to read this book, I knew it was one to savor, and reread. So I slowed myself down, and when I felt the urge to tear through books and block out the world, I set it aside, to come back to and savor later. I couldn't read it without exclaiming (often to miz sy, more often to the dogs) at all the revelations and connections he makes.

And that's the multi-layered beauty of this gem. It's well-written enough to be an incredibly fast read, and well-researched enough to be a serious study. Pollan's prose is intelligent (big words! used well!) but also tightly woven into a gripping narrative. He's a skillful architect, bringing us from a petrol-based Mc-Meal (eaten, appropriately, while driving), through the variations of industrial, big (industrial) organic, and small (true) organic, all the way to hunting and foraging (almost) an entire meal. But despite his obviously academic roots, his writing style is accessible, engaging and even self-effacing. He's never didactic. Rather than forcing a message down your throat, he lets it unfold. Granted, he's got a very persuasive way of revealing the story, but it's skillful rather than strident.

Now that I've finished it, I know it's one of those rare treasures, and I'm glad that I bought it (hard back too!), and I'm glad to (cautiously) lend it out. Though, you'll want your own copy. And though, in my next reading of it, I will allow myself notes in the margins, so borrow it now, if you're easily distractible.

[Many thanks to mahna mahna -- it's because of him that I read Unhappy Meals in the nyt which lead me to discovering this book...]

ewee (21/26): About a Boy, by Nick Hornsby

Ah, the homestretch... and to think that I'd hoped (secretly) to accomplish 52 books in 52 weeks. But then reach should exceed grasp or whatnot, eh? (And there's always next year...thanks miz k for getting me hooked!) So, in the name of getting the thing done, more fluff, thanks to the lovely local local public library.

This reviewer, Steven Wu, put it well:

About a Boy is Nick Hornby's trifling and somewhat forgettable little novel about two boys: the 12-year-old actual boy Marcus, and the 36-year-old boy-at-heart Will.

It's also interesting to note that nzgirl's review found the movie preferable to the book. Interesting, because I began to suspect as much while reading it. It's well writen enough, though the writing style is stiff and self-conscious enough to never escape notice. There was never a moment when I became so immersed in the book that I forgot about the real world around me. The writing moves along pleasantly enough, but the writer is inexorably present throughout. The characters never truly take on a life of their own. Even in what should be the most emotionally charged (and possibly traumatic) parts of the story, there's a sense of remove, a very clear demarcation of the writer/reader on the outside and the fishbowl in which these characters tread lightly. Nothing much worth noting along the way, nothing too troubling or remarkable, but good enough to float on, if you're trying to speed along a commute, or take a break from life. But I imagine that good cinematography and a compelling cast could flesh out this story and make it grab you a bit more.

My main complaint was that I could not (despite never having seen the movie) get Hugh Grant's insipid privileged accent out of my head. His voice trailed through the entire book, and the more I tried to block it out, the worse it became. So I gave up, dug in, and just raced through the book. To the end.

And admittedly, the end is slightly more compelling. But only slightly. There's actually a sense of dramatic tension, the tiniest bit of closure, and it helps that by end, the two main characters are joined by a slightly more interesting supporting cast.

So overall, I'd say, skip it. Instead, read E. Lynn Harris' embarrassingly harlequin romances first, watch TV, scratch a dog, take a nap, drink a beer. You know, enjoy your life.

ewee (20/26): I Say a Little Prayer by E. Lynn Harris

Now for an embarrassingly low-brow read. BUT! Also part of the stack of books I'm going through, some of which are respectable and filled with big words. And mainly thanks to the local public library system.

But yes, it's true. This is embarrassingly fluffy harlequin-y stuff. I'll quote Salon's article on E. Lynn Harris (and James Earl Hardy), and leave it at that:

Women's smutty little reading secret is sending black homoerotic literature to the top of the charts.

The same is true of E. Lynn Harris' buttery romances about bisexual black men. The departure from traditional romance has not deterred thousands of women who eagerly await Harris' new novels, and have helped to make three of his books national bestsellers. Women, it appears, have a smutty little reading penchant -- they've been happily slurping down gay male romances and heaving at all the good parts.

In Harris' soap-operatic novels, the plot sweeps back and forth between love and lies and marriage and addiction. His characters tend to be more confused (gay? straight? bi?) than Hardy's proud men-loving men. And some of them date women but sleep with men on the down-low, which is, naturally, cause for more hairpin plot twists.

Men and women of all races went around their dorms reading the good parts aloud with the relish of flat-chested, teenage girls hunched over Judy Blume at summer camp.

"Homosexual sex is basically the same as heterosexual sex. It's not as totally different as society makes it seem," said Lillian Lewis, 24, a Harris devotee who is black. "They go through the same problems that heterosexuals go through as far as love. I was like, 'OK. This is the same shit I go through with my husband.'"

Love is love, say the women readers of these books, a mantra they repeat with an offhandedness that would alarm many a minister of family values. These are not the sentiments of sex radicals. These women do not read to prove a point, and their tone is amazingly free of righteousness or moral superiority. They are just women who like romances and want to read a good story: women on the subway, women in bookstores, cashiers and maintenance workers. The books appeal to them for the same fundamental reason that literature can be so satisfying -- because in some way it sheds light on the reader's life.

Yong - 3/26 - Whiteman by Tony D'Souza

Expand my previous picture and you can get a nice look at the mess that was my desk after 10 months of teaching. Expand this one and you can see the deck that I drove out to Michigan to help my friend Elmer build. Pretty massive, ain't she? He's the brains behind this outfit; I'm just the dumb muscle.

And in the foreground is Tony D'Souza's Whiteman, which I started at home and finished here in Michigan. I read some of it while sitting on the deck (on a 2'x3' piece of scrap plywood) yesterday. Yes, it's a library book. No, I won't be home before it's due. But I can renew once over the internet! Anyway, Kayan loves Africa, so I was inspired to read a little about it. Tells the story of a young American guy who spends three years in Africa as a relief worker for a dysfunctional--no, make that nonfunctional--organization called Potable Water International: his daily life, his early struggles, loneliness, romantic misadventures, wisdom, war. Basically, he does everything except anything related to drinking water. And that's okay. It's actually pretty grand. Beginning was a little un-grabbing, but middle and end are strong. Gives a pretty good inkling of what it'd be like for a whiteman--which is basically what we'd be--to spend some time in complete immersion in the Dark Continent, for those of us who didn't have the strength to try something like Peace Corps ourselves.