Shelf Life Book Reviews

Of all the genres out there, the ubiquitous novel has to be the most varied of the lot. You never really know what you might end up with; it’s almost like a little lottery each time you open the cover. Mostly, I have found that novels are a nice form of entertainment a step above television, but that they usually don’t last. Rarely do I come across ones like Ali Shaw’s stunning debut, which are both dazzling and compelling.

Full of beauty, mystery, mythos  and loss

Genre: fiction, novel

Plot: I usually make a point to summarize the book myself, but after several furtive attempts I am going to break with tradition on this one. The summary from Publisher’s Weekly is so succinct I doubt I can top it:
“The cold northern islands of St. Hauda’s Land are home to strange creatures and intertwining human secrets in Shaw’s earnest, magic-tinged debut. Ida Maclaird returns to the archipelago to find a cure for the condition her last visit brought her—she is slowly turning into glass. The landscape is at once beautiful and ominous, and its residents mistrustful, but she grows close to Midas Crook, a young man who, despite his intention to spend his life alone, falls in love with Ida and becomes desperate to save her. Their quest leads them to Henry Fuwa, a hermit biologist devoted to preserving the moth-winged bull, a species of insect-sized winged bovines; to Carl Mausen, a friend of Ida’s family whose devotion to her mother makes him both ally and enemy; and finally to Emiliana Stallows, who claims to have once cured a girl with Ida’s affliction. Each of these characters’ histories intertwine, though their motivations surrounding Ida are muddled by their loyalties. Both love story and dirge, Shaw’s novel flows gracefully and is wonderfully dreamlike, with the danger of the islands matched by the characters’ dark pasts.”

Structure: The forty-one chapters are not separated into parts; they flow one after another. The narration follows the characters in the scene, rather than sticking in a strict first-person way to just Midas or Ida.

Execution: I’m struggling to find a way of writing this without degrading into just exuberant gushing; although it certainly deserves it, I’m not sure endless praise would really do this book justice. The most striking thing about this novel was Shaw’s unusual prose; it had a weight to it hard to find in modern literature, almost akin to a Victorian style without the tiresome vocabulary. His analogies were also stunningly original–several times I would pause and re-read the sentence, and even repeat it out loud to hear the beauty of it again.

Another memorable aspect of the book was Shaw’s treatment of the island almost as if it were a character itself. Related to this is the way that inianimate things were described with animate qualities, yet in a remarkable way rather than a cliched one. For example, in the opening of the book Midas is chasing photographs with his camera. The Tor’s shadow creeps across the town and fills the cars. These characterizations were hardly tired or used as an imaginative crutch, but instead delighted the reader with their originality. Speaking of characterization, I must also linger over the extraordinarly well conceived characters. A book like this is vitally dependent on strong characters, and Shaw did not disappoint. Each one we meet is not only deeply burdened and broken in some way, but also connected to Ida.

Finally, I really liked the mysterious aspect of the work, and how ultimately the questions we thought were important went unanswered. Instead of being frustrating, instead it felt…almost invigorating. Like the characters, the reader was searching for answers or clues, hoping that each page the mysteries of the white creature or the glass bodies would be discovered, right up until the end when they did not come. But it didn’t matter; because in the end you discover the book wasn’t about the mysteries of the island at all, but about the mysteries of relationships and their transformative power. In other words, it wasn’t so much why a girl was slowly turning to glass as it was about how the girl with glass feet (literally) awakened Midas’ glass heart (metaphorically).

Theme: glass delusion, fictional island, myth, love/relationships

Read this if you enjoyed The Time Traveler’s Wife; they share a doomed love and a mythic realism I think you will enjoy

4 out of 5 stars

Other works:
This is author Ali Shaw’s debut, but here’s hoping many more follow!

If you liked this you might also like:
The aforementioned Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffennegger
Snow Falling on Cedars by David Guterson
The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield

Wait! Don’t close that window!

Twilight, like Sarah Palin and Conan O’Brien, is one of those rare topics in our society today that can sharply divide the masses. But you don’t have to be a twihard to enjoy this book — in fact, many of the contributors make no secret of their disdain. Instead, the book analogizes lofty philosophical, social, and ethical debates into a pop culture medium, thus making them widely accessible to those who are generally intimidated by philosophy. And that’s something just about anyone can be a fan of; what could be more democratic?

Written by people who are more interested in physics than Team Jacob

Genre: nonfiction, anthology, philosophy

Synopsis: Like others in the Blackwell Philosophy and Pop Culture Series, the authors use a common starting point–Twilight–and write on a number of different ethical, philosophical, and social debates or issues. From feminism to vegetarianism, Taoism to Mormonism, the books do a magnificent job of bringing lofty ideas out of their academic cages. Even more impressive, the editors have chosen a wide array of viewpoints, making it an anthology with depth (as opposed to, I kid you not, a book with various pop authors deifying Stephenie Meyer). Warning, though, the editors have a cheesy sense of humor that shows in the index, contributor’s bios, and introduction. 

Structure: The book begins with an introduction (basically answering the question “Why Would Anyone Want to Read This?”), and then breaks up the essays into four sections corresponding with the four titles of the series. Puzzlingly, the essays have little relation to the issues in each of the books–in other words, you’re likely to find spoilers from the fourth book in the third section, etc.–rendering the organizational structure largely ornamental.

Execution: I really enjoyed this. Of course, I like philosophy in general, but I really like it when people make it fun. I liked the variety of topics and viewpoints (some of them even contradicted each other, such as one essay that claimed Bella as a new feminist, and two others that claimed that was the furthest from the truth). I liked that none of the essays were very long, making it easy to pick up and put down.  I even appreciated the fact that not everyone who contributed was a huge fan; it really helped keep it grounded and balanced. No one can call this one more crappy product riding the Twilight chain.

Now some of the essays I liked more than others. Some of my favorites were “Carlisle: More Compassionate than a Speeding Bullet”, “The ‘Real’ Danger: Fact vs. Fiction for the Girl”,  and “For the Strength of Bella? Meyer, Vampires, and Mormonism” (now there’s a connection I hadn’t made before). But others I found inexcusably hostile or somewhat shallow (“Vampire-Dammerung: What Can Twilight Tell Us About God?”, “Space, Time, and Vampire Ontology”).

Also, this may seem like a bit of a minor point, but I really liked that the book was released after the official end of the series. In Battlestar Galactica and Philosophy, that is definitely not the case and it really effects the quality, scope, and even the ultimate relevance of some of the arguments.

Overall, I think that even casual Twilight fans would appreciate this work since it adds an intellectual depth to the immensely popular series that relies mostly on feelings. If you hated Twilight, I’m not sure you will find it quite so entertaining; I sure it would feel like being left out of an inside joke.

Theme: philosophy, ethics, sociology, … do you really not see where I’m going with this?

Read this if you find those hordes of Twilight fangirls/moms a little…lacking in the brain area

4 out of 5 stars

Other works:
There are plenty of titles in the Philosophy/Pop Culture series, just search it on Amazon. I’m sure you’ll be able to find your particular poison (two of my favorites are the aforementioned BSG and Philosophy and House and Philosophy).

If you liked this you might also like:
There are a surprisingly high number of works like this, exploring more academic aspects of Twilight, like Twilight and History, The Twilight Gospel, and Touched by a Vampire.

A  few weeks ago, I had the opportunity to re-watch my favorite movie (Memoirs of a Geisha) with one of my favorite friends. I do not love the movie just because it is set in Japan, nor do I believe everything portrayed is “historically accurate.” I love it because it is so beautiful to watch: the aesthetics are incredible, the music is powerful, and the story of how a single act of kindness forever changed a young girl is deeply moving.

But let’s not kid ourselves here, I really do like all things geisha. So, swept up in my rekindled interest, I had my library send me several books on the topic, some from far-fetched branches I had to wait for. So here are three of them, reviewed at once for your pleasure. I present then, the Good, the Great, and the Ugly of Geisha Books.

The Good: Geisha: The Life, The Voices, the Art – Photographs by Jodi Cobb
This was a coffee table book, for sure–the size alone confirmed it–but it was also profoundly beautiful and interesting. The book has a lengthy introduction by Ian Buruma which brought up some interesting aspects of geisha life alongside standard information  you can find in just about any reputable source. Cobb, on the other hand, spent a few pages talking about her perception of the geisha world before launching into itnerviews with an aged tokyo geisha, a teahouse owner, and several clients. These were profound stories that had gravitas, and lingered in the mind as one flipped through the rest of the book (pictures, sometimes captioned with a verse from a geisha song). But oh, the pictures. Jodi Cobb is a staff photographer with National Geographic, and it clearly shows. She captures more than jsut the stereotype: the behind-the-scenes moments, the environment, and even the faces of aged geisha in the white makeup which hides none of their wrinkles. I lingered over each photograph, and felt like I had truly entered a dying culture, if just for a few moments.

The Great: Geisha by Liza Dalby
If you’ve studied geisha even to a shallow degree, it’s very likely you’ve heard of Liza Dalby. A shamisen artist in her own right, Dalby also famously became a full-fledged geisha named Ichigiku for a year in 1970s Japan. Half dissertation, half ethnograph, and half memoir (that’s three halves, I know), I found the book to be fascinating. Dalby skillfully weaves in the history of geisha in general and several districts in particular with her own anecdotes and reflections on the life she lived. This was the best aspect of her book: in combining the historical and academic with the personal, she made the book intimate yet authoritative. 

She openly talks about the sad reality that Kyoto geisha are a dying breed: the disciplines and finances required, and the sacrifices that must be made to pursue the art. But she also talks about how geisha are surviving in other areas of Japan, without the condescension of a Kyoto-trained geisha: the “hot springs geisha” of Atami and the “commuter geisha” of Tokyo. She also talks about aspects of life, like kimono, dance, etiquette at parties, etc. All in all it was a wonderfully comprehesive and yet never weighty exploration; no wonder she has been considered the walking dictionary for geisha authors and filmmakers.

The Ugly: The House of 10,000 Pleasures by Sara Harris
I should have known to trust my gut when it came to this one. The title alone set off warning bells in my head, but I pressed on anyway. First of all this “modern” study is over 40 years old, but it still doesn’t excuse the atrocities. Harris clearly has no idea of the distinction between prostitute and geisha that many, like Dalby, have endeavored for years to do away with. That some overlap exists is acknowledged by all, but that it is largely an American misconception is strangely ignored by many. But beyond that, the prose is just awkward. It’s clumsy, bulky, and does not do justice I’m sure to the Japanese spoken in the translated conversations. It’s about as realistic to real geisha as the monstrosity above is. The first part read like a bad Arthur Golden rip-off, and I was so disgusted I didn’t even want to venture into the second half, which was focused on “streetwalkers” anyway. Avoid at all costs!

Many, many thanks to my incredible computer-hero and all-around awesome husband Nicholas for help with the formatting!