Sound Off on eBooks and eReaders, Part II

Curse you, Steve Jobs!  You and your deep understanding of American laziness!

Some context: a while back, I posted on what I considered to be the serious shortcomings of Apple's iPad as an e-reader.  You can find the entire bit here, but the arguments essentially boil down to three points: (1) it's too heavy; (2) it's too blurry; and (3) it becomes a mirror in sunlight.  I've added another since that initial post (thanks to The Reading Ape's $100 book-buying challenge), which is that the selection of available books is seriously lacking.  All of which is true, true, true.

What I failed to grasp in those early days was that the iPad is hands down the most versatile and convenient appliance that I own, and that convenience extends to the purchase of e-books.  I believe that I also failed to understand the depth of my commitment to laziness, especially after 8 pm.  Here's a scenario: I'm in bed at night, fiddling with the iPad, and perusing my fellow bloggers' latest words of wisdom, when I happen upon a review that piques my interest.  I decide to buy The Ask by Sam Lipsyte.  Now, I have three options: (1) write it down somewhere so that I can remember it on my next trip to the local indie, Books & Books; (2) head on over to Amazon, where I can order it and wait a couple of days for it to arrive; or (3) download it to either my Sony eReader or the iPad.  I decide on number 3 simply because I have neither an excellent memory nor superior organizational skills, and I am fairly certain that the scrap of paper will be lost in any case.  As for Amazon, I like to get my hands on interesting works while they are still of interest to me, which may or may not extend beyond my Adult ADD threshold of 60 minutes.  Moreover, number 3 is cheaper then numbers 1 and 2, and lord knows I'm cheap. 

As for the choice between the Sony eReader and the iPad, the Sony requires me to lug out my laptop, go to the Sony eReader Store, find the title, download the book, connect my eReader, and download the book to the eReader, all before I can start reading.  The iPad requires exactly two steps: a search of the title in the iBook Store and a press of the buy button.  Did I mention that I'm already in bed?  I did?  Did I also mention that I'm exceedingly lazy?  Good.  Then you can see where this is going.

Even though it's too heavy to read comfortably, even though it's blurry and hard on the eyes, even though it's impossible to read at the beach, and even though the selection is miniscule, the iPad's convenience and my laziness have combined to put it over the top as my reading device of choice.  Even I can't believe it. 

In sum, then, I believe that in these lines I have definitively established that I am often wrong, I am exceedingly cheap, I am extremely lazy, and ... all of these things make me a big fan of the iPad, even for e-books.  I have to imagine that the experience is similar for all the Kindle owners out there.  I'd love to hear from some of you, if only to share the shame that this realization has brought me.          

Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy (8.5/10.0)

When I first saw the movie Pulp Fiction, I remember thinking that certain lines had been moved with regard to popular acceptance of scenes of violence.  Ultimately, however, the violence contained in Pulp Fiction and most mainstream Hollywood productions is more or less directly related to the plot; it is rarely gratuitous.  Of course, the plotlines of horror and slasher movies revolve around depictions of violence, making them pillars of the plot itself.  Blood Meridian, or the Evening Redness in the West, is unique in that the extreme violence depicted is not so much related to plot as it is the very nature of the characters and the scene in which the story is set.  "Man is a violent (and godless) animal by nature" appears to be the premise out of which the entire novel develops.  And it convinces. 

Most of the story follows action on and around the Mexican border in the years 1849-1850, when violent encounters between whites and Native Americans were commonplace.  McCarthy creates characters that readers of his other work might recognize, at least in broad outline.  "The kid" is the unnamed protagonist--a runaway from Tennessee with excellent gunfighting and survival skills, which lend themselves to violence only when necessary for the kid's protection.  Judge Holden is the novel's antagonist and represents the embodiment of the violent nature of man.  Large and hairless, Holden and the kid are sometimes placed together among the same group, but the reader is always conscious of the tension between them. In the end, it is the kid's capacity for pity and sympathy that places him opposite the judge both physically and philosophically.

Not surprisingly, Blood Meridian is written in a style that emulates (and sometimes parallels) the powerful scenes of Revelation.  In McCarthy's version, however, it is the weak and innocent that are found wanting and are condemned to violent death.  Indeed, the end of the novel is as ambiguous and as apocalyptic as any I have ever read, wherein [**Spoiler Alert**] the reader can only be certain that violence has triumphed and firmly established itself as the nature of the world. Precisely how that triumph is accomplished (whether by violent murder or homosexual domination) is a subject of some debate.

I think that I have never been quite as unsettled by a novel as I have by Blood Meridian (though The Road comes close).  It is considered by many to be McCarthy's greatest work and one of the most important works of our generation.  Ultimately, I think that McCarthy's genius lies in his ability to dig deep into the places that many of us are afraid to go and show us the logical outcomes of some of our most troubling feelings and capacities as human beings.  As for Blood Meridian itself, it was so very troubling to me as to practically defy description or categorization.  I can only say that it is the work of a genius; whether I can count it among my favorites (or even most respected) will take a considerable amount of further contemplation.  Blood Meridian begs for discussion, and I am very interested in what all of you have to say.  

Dennis Hopper (that's a Hop pun, people)

Dennis Hopper?  Now, that's a stretch, you might be thinking.  But I say not remotely, my friend ... not when Leslie Hindman Auctioneers is at this very moment featuring one of 100 signed copies of Dennis Hopper Out of the Sixties by Dennis Hopper (Twelvetrees Press, 1986) to be sold at its next Fine Books and Manuscripts Auction on August 12th (find the listing here).  The book is expected to fetch between $600 and $800, which will really put a dent in the August weed and incense budget of whoever the lucky buyer is.  On the other hand, it is nice to see tribute paid to a true, and recently-departed, American icon.     

Which leads me to my next question: exactly how much money are you willing to part with?  Because DO I HAVE AN INVESTMENT OPPORTUNITY FOR YOU!  Yes, you too can own a theoretical portion of a first edition, first printing of Faulkner's Light in August (expected to fetch between $2,000 and $4,000) (listing here), and I personally guarantee that you can visit that theoretical portion at least twice a year on my bookshelf in Miami Beach (food and lodging not included, though I do have a tent that I would be willing to lend).

Seriously, if you are a classics lover or simply a lover of antiquities, you must, must, must check out the auction site.  But be careful, it's addictive.  And if any of you bid against me for the Matisse-signed, first edition of Joyce's Ulysses, I swear that I will find you and make you pay ...

All of this was supposed to be a lead in to the Book Blogger Hop, which is being hosted all weekend long over at Crazy for Books.  Go forth and see what bounty of book reviews the Internet has spawned.  And when you find something that you like, be sure to leave a message.  But come back to The Literate Man ... and bring your cash ... because that Faulkner is seriously tempting me.

The Perfect Mile (Neal Bascomb) (8.5/10.0)

What do we all think about audio books? It’s a topic that receives a great deal of treatment out there in the book-review blogdom. And I’ll freely admit that I’m never quite sure about my own feelings on the matter. Is it possible to “read” a work of literature by listening? Or, more importantly, is the enjoyment that you receive from listening to an audio book equal to the enjoyment that you receive from actually reading that same book? I raise the issue because I recently listened to the The Perfect Mile on audio book (which can be found here). Moreover, I listened to it while running, and I truly believe that I got much more enjoyment from it in that medium than I would have by reading it in print. The same tends to hold true for me for my guilty pleasures, science fiction (Orson Scott Card) and action/adventure books (Clive Cussler, Robert Ludlum). I'm still a classics guy at heart, but I like to mix it up every now and then. But to the point: as a rule, I believe that a true work of literature (classic or modern) should be read and that listening to such a work deprives the listener of the true force of the tale. What do you believe?

Now what was I doing before I got so philosophical? Ah yes, reviewing a book ... that’s right. The Perfect Mile is the fast-paced (pun completely intended) story of three men from three continents that all chased the impossible dream of breaking the four-minute mile in the 1950’s. Roger Bannister, an English medical student, treated running as science and a hobby (his first priority being medicine); Australian John Landy trained longer and harder than anyone before or since; and American Wes Santee was a natural athlete who rose to prominence out of a brutal childhood and first proposed that he would break the four-minute mile. Bascomb’s treatment of the three is properly measured, providing enough background for the reader (listener) to identify with each (though Landy inevitably becomes the reader’s favorite) and presenting each race during the period 1952 to 1954 as a seat-edge sitting, nail-biting competition that inevitably comes down to the wire. And so, after numerous battles on the cinder track at competitions held around the world, the four-minute mile was finally broken by ... No, I can’t do that, but if you’re really interested a simple Google search will give you the winner.

If you run or work out at the gym or do work around the house or do just about anything that will enable you to wear a pair of headphones or ear buds, I urge you to check out this inspiring story (in audio format) that, at bottom, shows that human belief and perseverance can overcome any obstacle. Not that I’m running any four-minute miles, mind you, but it did inspire me to get out and run, and that’s worth something.

Matterhorn (Karl Marlantes) (9.0/10.0)

Now, I’m not a big war-as-literature fan. I don’t spend hours watching the History Channel, and I still have trouble believing that there’s a market for a Military History Channel, though there clearly is or it wouldn’t exist. It’s true that I read Winston Churchill’s six-volume set, The Second World War (and I reviewed it here). And I read his abridged treatment of World War I, entitled The World Crisis, as well. But I read those books more because I find Churchill’s war-prose hypnotizing than anything else. And the action in Churchill’s accounts is largely on Downing Street, in the White House, or at the Kremlin, and not so much on the field of battle itself. And, of course, I enjoyed both The Sun Also Rises and For Whom the Bell Tolls, but come on who didn’t? Anyhow, the point is that I’m not a big war-as-literature guy.

And yet here I am making another exception. Matterhorn, the 2010 debut novel of Karl Marlantes, is quite simply the best novel (war-based or otherwise) that I have read in several years. And I’m not the only one—The New York Times called it, “a raw, brilliant account of war that may well serve as a final exorcism for one of the most painful passages in American history.” I think the reason for its attraction is two-fold: (1) it is an intensely realistic portrayal of the conflict (you seriously feel at times that you are face down in the mud of the Vietnamese jungle with Marine Second Lieutenant Waino Mellas), and (2) it is, at bottom, a story of male relationships, both friendly and troubled, in the face of almost unfathomable hardship. The word on the street is that Karl Marlantes spent 30 years (that’s not a typo) on the book and the main characters (including the jungle, which is a character of its own) reflect a craftsman’s work.

The main plot revolves around the taking and retaking of Matterhorn, a hill that stands like a sentinel over a North Vietnamese approach from Laos. And there is plenty of super-realistic action as the hill is won, abandoned, and won again through the tremendously-sacrificial exploits of Bravo Company, Fifth Marine Division. But the subplots revolve around politics: the politics of advancement among officers and the politics of race relations among the grunts, which grows every bit as violent as the conflict in which it is set. And underlying all is a growing discontent with the war itself, the failure to identify a unifying goal, its lack of direction, and the tremendous cost in human lives.

Matterhorn may not be everybody’s cup of tea, but I’m willing to bet that even most opponents of the war-as-literature set (like me) will find it a deeply enjoyable read.

Hop on the bus, Gus

Ah ... who doesn't love Simon & Garfunkel ... or at least Simon?  There are very few types of music that I can listen to while reading, and even fewer bands, but Simon & Garfunkel slides right on by beneath my conscious mind like the river flows beneath an inner tube on a lazy, summer Sunday afternoon.  It's just so ... groovy.

Anyhow, it's Friday and that means that Jennifer over at Crazy for Books is hosting her weekly blogger coffee klatch, known as the Book Blogger Hop.  It's a great way to check out the old and the new of blogs practicing or otherwise related to the sacred occupation of the literary critic.  It's definitely worth your time.  And if you find a new blog that you like, leave a comment and let them know.  After all, we're all in this together.

And ... if you've stumbled on The Literate Man as a result of  the Book Blogger Hop, well then, welcome!  Feel free to take a look around.  We have some great sales going on at the moment.  Might I suggest you take a gander at The Spy Who Came In from the Cold?  Or perhaps you'd like to try on our all time favorite, Sometimes A Great Notion?  Well, I'll leave you to it, then. I 'll be at the register if you need a fitting room or have any other questions.

Dubliners (James Joyce) (8.9/10.0)

I have a confession to make ... I don’t really like short stories. I mean, I see their utility for teaching the elements of story structure and characterization, and I appreciate the odd twist that makes for a memorable story scene, but I never find them really fulfilling. And I generally forget them very quickly. They are, I would contend, the rice cakes of the literary scene ... universally respected as the most healthy of literary treats, but consistently failing to deliver any actual nutrition to their hungry readers. I find it hard to believe that I am alone in this. Come on, be honest. Have you really gone out of your way to read short stories since you were ten and forced to read The Lottery?

Now, when I state a dislike of short stories in the context of a review of James Joyce, I feel guilty ... and I mean seriously guilty. Even the mention of Joyce conjures for me images of the staunch Irish Catholicism that I endured as a child and have been running from ever since. It’s enough to make me want to confess.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned ... it has been more than three years since my last short story.”

Fortunately for me, Dubliners is a bit different. First published in 1914, Dubliners is a collection of 15 short stories (okay, it’s really 14 short stories and one novella) that depict middle class life in Dublin just after the turn of the twentieth century. The stories revolve primarily around topics that are near and dear to the Irish heart: death (The Sisters, A Painful Case, and (of course) The Dead), poverty (After the Race, The Boarding House, and Clay), alcohol (Counterparts and Grace), and politics (Ivy Day in the Committee Room). Now, even as I write it, that depiction sounds downright drab, but Joyce’s lyrical skills are at their peak in these stories, and every single one manages to warm your heart just as if you yourself were standing next to a peat fire in some country pub out on the cliffs of the old sod ordering a round of pints for the lads.

Between the consistency of the Dublin scene that it paints and the beautiful effect of Joyce’s lyrical prose, Dubliners is a very enjoyable read. In fact, though it was written by the same Joyce that we love and hate for Ulysses and (ugh) Finnegans Wake, Dubliners is even completely understandable! It makes me wonder what Joyce might have produced if he hadn’t grown so enamored of experimenting with form and language. Not that what he wrote wasn’t good ... I mean, the best ... oh there I go feeling guilty again. That’s what happens when you criticize the master. Does anyone have a rosary?