“Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes.)” ― Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass
The problem for any memoirist—who am I. Whitman famously pointed out we are all many things. Different moments may call upon us to be one self or another. But at any given moment, we are mostly one thing. Otherwise we are madness—self contradicting. Reading DO SOMETHING I felt caught up in contradictions and frankly was somewhat mad about it. Mad because there is a lot of interest here that could have been quite compelling. Opportunity lost.
There are two books here. There is the family memoir of tragedy and pain and there is the search for selfhood in 1970’s New York amidst the “Glitter & Doom” alternative families centered around drag, fashion and art. The cover and promotional push of the book is focusing on the “Glitter & Doom” portion of the book—and admittedly why I entered and won my copy from a Goodreads Giveaway. The author’s heart however is clearly with the family memoir. The “Glitter & Doom” portion almost feels like bait to get the publisher interested—and it feels like there was pressure to push that part of the book closer to the beginning than it should have been. In the early part of the book the author foreshadows the trauma of his mother’s death and when she ultimately does die—we suddenly cut to another world without a moment to feel the loss. The whole book feels oddly cut and pasted like all the paragraphs fell on the floor and then were hurriedly put back on an available page. There are no chapters. Few natural transitions. The narrative felt like someone else writing your biography based on the random conversations you’ve had over time.
This structure is confusing enough—then throw multitudes of dizzying run-on sentences and constant throw backs and forwards (WHAT I DIDN’T KNOW THEN, LATER WE WOULD KNOW, BUT THAT’S A STORY FOR LATER) and it all starts to blur. People come and go with some getting mini biographies but many barely remarked upon. I still don’t know who Paula was and he apparently lived with her for many years (was it one or two or ten who knows). I had a similar experience where I left a family that had kind of just dissolved and transitioned to a new diverse found family. I knew at the time and certainly know now in retrospect what was happening. This may have been referenced once late in the book as a throwaway but certainly is not the spine of the book as it could/should have been. I loved meeting all his glam friends and feeling the world they lived in but it all felt episodic and disconnected.
Maybe this book was whittled down to its slim 240 pages. That would explain passages like his discussion of working at Andy Warhol’s InterView magazine and saying he never became close to Warhol but of course he wanted to. This made me scream, “what do you mean of course?” He had barely spoken of Warhol specifically before that or after so there is no context for such a statement. I know there is a certain flightiness of youth—flitting from one thing to the next but that shouldn’t be reflected in the narrative discussing that youth.
At the beginning of the book a lot of time is put into setting up the recovery of some family photos as if these would be referred to throughout the book. There are photos throughout the book, would have loved more, but only a couple are from this cache. One more disjointed aspect of the book. It’s as if the stories are stones that the author is skimming on the water from the shore. Some stories go straight into the water never gaining air. Others skip along the surface, some for quite a while, taking the reader along but all ultimately sink at the hands of a sudden transition or confusing dead end.
A beautiful small scale contemplation of our place in the universe—and whether we deserve one. A devoted group of scientists exploring the galaxy represent the best of what humanity has to offer—while those left behind on earth exhibit more what we have learned to expect from ourselves. Do our best intentions have value when we ourselves may not live up to them? Deceptive novella that seems lacking in action but the cumulative effect brings you to an ending that is at once believable and profound.
As a fan of the humor podcast HOW DID THIS GET MADE, I’ve been waiting years for this book to manifest. Some of the podcast’s best moments are when it swerves off track because Paul Scheer suddenly remembers and shares one of these absurd but true childhood stories. Audiences and cohosts alike freeze in a kind of shock as these stories are casually rolled out—as if they were just like anyone else’s childhood memories. From his grandmother telling him that he might be cooked and eaten if he forgets to lock the door again to Christopher Walken agreeing to meet him as a child only if his father was not present—there are some eye openers here. Woven around the humorous stories are the abusive tales involving his step father including he and his mom finally making their escape. Blending the two narratives makes a kind of surreal landscape where anything seems possible.
Such childhoods are a breeding ground for a life in comedy. From my own experience I know how personal trauma can be turned into material—humor helps build in a protective distance. Also, there is a certain clinical approach involved when you are translating it from one form to another. Intentionally or not one often presents the story with a kind of smooth polish that isn’t there in real life—another benefit to sharing and/or reimagining trauma.
I can see this not being for everyone. It helps to have a connection to Paul Scheer or similar stories of your own to see these stories as funny and not simply tragic. It probably also helps to listen to the audiobook version as I did—hearing the author’s voice kind of gives you permission to take this as the author intended
Christopher Moore was strongly recommended to me over a decade ago by I can’t remember who and I can’t remember when but I’m glad I finally dipped in my toe. Over time I have managed to add four or five of his books to my personal to-read pile at home. Early on while reading this one, I had visions of possibly donating the rest of my Moore pile to the local library for resale. It was odd and kind of engaging and mildly humorous but it hadn’t grabbed me. Something changed about midway through. All the characters locked into place and the mildly humorous became genuinely funny—and kind of engaging became a romp. Maybe it took me that long to adjust to the fantasy elements—or should I say one really big fantasy element named STEVE. There was a nice payoff with STEVE and a certain pharmacist but I might have been just as happy hanging out with the regular townsfolks and their irregular problems. Oh, but I did love that set up and payoff with the pharmacist. Moore’s books are apparently quite popular and there is an element that I appreciated that may factor into it—several of the characters despite what they might be going through maintained a certain gentleness at their core. That being my shorthand for a certain candlelight of decency that hasn’t been snuffed out. (kinda reminds me of the scene from THE INCREDIBLES when the family is escaping and Mr. Incredible joyfully says, YOU KEEP TRYING TO PICK A FIGHT WITH ME BUT I’M JUST HAPPY YOUR ALIVE) While I might generally prefer a harder edge, this is done so well I warmed to it. I will be reading more Moore.
A very thin mystery, even by novella standards, that never gained any momentum. The Ghana setting helped but I wanted more Ghana. Some decent characters but I wanted more from them. An interesting crime who's author was obvious half way through and some oh so brief action at the end are teases that don't satisfy. Feels like the author was clearing out a closet in his brain before getting back to his popular series of Detective Darko mysteries--this hasn't put me off trying one of those (or his Emma Djan series) but I may not get to it as fast.
Flaws of characters a main focus? It's complicated
5.0
I felt immediately grounded in Binti’s world—a richly imagined indigenous culture where math is a form of spirituality and her desire to leave home for school creates family discord. Because this is a novella, things move fast—but nothing is hurried or skipped. Her voyage to school becomes a world expanding adventure punctuated by terrifying action. The resolution is satisfying, genuine and consistent. A marvelously balanced and engrossing introduction to the rest of this afrofuturistic trilogy.
Here in his distinct voice, we have Quentin Tarantino crushing on 13 films mostly from the 70’s. I will state this up front—I AM the target audience for this commentary. I sprang from the 70’s, love movies, love Tarantino movies, love pulp in any form (even orange juice) and am not easily offended. And similar to Tarantino, how I fell in love with movies has a lot to do with the family I grew up in. If that sums you up, immediately knock anyone and anything out of your way and grab this book. This was pure fun for me. Avoiding the usual best of/worst of format, Tarantino makes it personal by choosing movies that impacted his ‘70’s childhood. The book begins and ends with largely autobiographical chapters—Tarantino reads these himself for the audiobook. The final chapter is very touching and one of my favorite book endings ever (certain not something I expected here). Reinforcing what a personal experience movies can be, he remains autobiographical in every chapter. He spends almost as much time on how and where he saw the film as he does discussing the actual movie. This could be a distraction, but it made the movies pop for me. His enthusiasm then and now is the juice that runs the projector. Potentially dry commentary is transformed into a living experience. To paraphrase Maya Angelou, I will remember the movies but I will remember more how Tarantino made me feel about the movies.
Rather than tiptoe through the above categories I will just say that the author is free with language and vividly descriptive of the language and cultures portrayed in the movies he has written about and the the people in his life who contributed to how he sees the world and movies. If you love Tarantino and movies then read on. If you have issues with occasional spicy language or vivid descriptions of human activity--then maybe choose another direction.
Won this as a Goodreads giveaway prior to which I was unfamiliar with the works of Zbigniew Herbert. In a sense, I still feel like I’m unfamiliar with his work. Collections of previously uncollected works like this are often hit or miss and/or just for fans only. This may be why my eyes glazed over for much of this collection. Three “plays” open the book—two of which seem to be extended experimental skits but the third featuring Socrates I quite enjoyed. In fact, I enjoyed the Socrates play so much that when I struggled with much of the poetry that followed I was forced to assume it was because I was not putting in enough work as a reader. The poetry I didn’t care for was largely political allegory and/or making classical references beyond my grasp—these include some Mr. Cognito poems included (apparently his everyman stand in) that have their own language and sensibility and are just jarring amidst the other poems. I was nonplussed. Perhaps had I read them with or after reading his MR COGNITO collection I could plug in better. What sustained me however were the more personal poems. There are some absolutely devastating poems about loss and recovery after WW II that escape the trappings of being experimental. Those poems sustained me. Almost startlingly good. I will look for a similarly themed collection. I won’t be revisiting this collection.
Marvelous entry in the Travis McGee series. Here the mystery is a seedy affair of illicit photos and blackmail. Lives will be lost and reputations put at risk but all that is just frosting. Baked into the cake underneath is the usual Travis McGee flair for character development and commentary that dances between romantic and dour. Writing in general often succumbs to the age it was written in and this series can be like a time capsule with a touch of mid 20th century American intolerance, but the quality of the material, the punchy eloquent prose keeps it’s head up. And ultimately, McGee’s aim is always towards personal freedom—while not hindering that of others. In this light, with the central mystery solved and in the background, the central relationship of the book takes it’s own turn—beautiful, poignant and just right.