Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell (non-fiction, 7.0 out of 10)

For a guilty non-fiction fix, I'm an admitted fan of books in the currently fashionable genre of popular economics and social phenomena. Stuff like Freakonomics by Levitt and Dubner, The Undercover Economist by Harford, MoneyBall and The Blind Side by Lewis, and, of course, Malcolm Gladwell’s informative triumvirate, The Tipping Point, Blink and Outliers.

Having previously enjoyed The Tipping Point and Blink, I knew what to expect from Gladwell's most recent foray, Outliers. His gimmick is pointed research into well-known or everyday subject matters to find hidden patterns and meaning that carry over to his larger thesis. In Outliers, he examines why some people, which he calls outliers, become highly successful in their field – people like Bill Gates, the Beatles, professional hockey players, Robert Oppenheimer and (gasp) the author himself. Gladwell contends that success is as much a product of the opportunities that present themselves to an individual as it is of the individual’s talents and efforts.

You may be thinking that doesn’t sound like a groundbreaking theory. Worse, if you read his critics, you’ll see that many contend that Gladwell’s methodologies are derivative and unscientific. Outliers also suffers from a bit of unevenness – as with The Tipping Point and Blink, Gladwell leads with his best stuff and by the end of the book he seems to be rehashing the same themes with inferior data and less interesting case studies (basically writing about himself for the book's final act). I would suggest ignoring all that and reading it anyway if you’re inclined to popular non-fiction at all.

The joy of Outliers is in the depth with which Gladwell explores his case studies, shedding light on the stories behind the stories we know. Did you know that the Beatles became the Beatles by taking advantage of the opportunity to play countless hours of music in front of live audiences in Hamburg’s red light district? Or that a disproportionate number of professional hockey players are born in January, February and March? Equally important as these factual discoveries are the analytical building blocks employed by Gladwell – ideas (not necessarily his own) like The Matthew Effect and the 10,000 Hour Rule, which resonate beyond the covers of Outliers. Outliers entertains, educates and, most importantly, makes one think about their own successes, under-utilized talents and what might have been.

You had me at smote. Peace Like a River by Leif Enger (8.2 out of 10)

We love it when a book begins well, especially when reading an author for the first time. Whether it’s the first sentence, the first scene or the first chapter, we relish in the immediate realization that the writer can turn a gorgeous phrase, develop an engaging character, or embroil a reader in an original conceit.

Leif Enger’s Peace Like a River engages right from the start. It begins with the intriguing premise that the narrator, Reuben Land, wishes he had good lungs and air to fill them with, and proceeds over the course of its first chapter to tell the brief but remarkable story of Reuben’s first breath. It’s a vignette that establishes critical elements of two of the most important characters in the story – Reuben and his father, Jeremiah. It contains one of my favorite images from the novel – Jeremiah’s right-handed smiting, shortly after Reuben’s birth, of the doctor who is prepared to resign Reuben’s fate to God after his failed attempt to make Reuben breathe. It ends with Reuben’s (really Jeremiah’s) foreshadowing challenge: “We and the world, my children, will always be at war. Retreat is impossible. Arm yourselves.” And it does all this in the equivalent of three pages. Spot on.

Of course, many novels start beautifully only to fail to live up to their initial promise. That’s not the case here, as Peace Like a River delivers. Leif Enger weaves a compelling, introspective and often humorous tale. Reuben, saddled with severe asthma, and his family embark on a journey after his older brother Davy finds himself on the run after dealing with local bullies in their small Minnesota town. Accompanied by his father and his immensely likable little sister, Swede, Reuben pursues his brother and bears witness to the miraculous. It’s a novel where the stakes never seem high, the characters never quite real, but the writing is too enjoyable and the story too wondrous, not unlike that perfect first chapter, to ever want to put it down. This one’s been around for a while, but if you haven’t read it already, check it out.

Back to our strong reaction to the book’s opening episode. We wonder, do you usually pause and reflect on the quality of the first sentence, scene or chapter of a book? Does it color your reading experience for a time, perhaps even for the entirety of the work? Is that fair? Do any novels stand out in your mind that began in mediocrity only to build into magnificence? Or any that failed to live up to a promising beginning?

Humulus Lupulus (that's hops, as in beer ... mmm ... beer)

That's right, my friends, you've made it through another long summer week to Friday.  To tell you the truth, I really don't know how you do it.  Seriously, with the kids, all that work around the house, and the added responsibilities at work, it's a wonder that you find the time and the energy to get it all done.  But done it is, week after week, and you've earned the right to kick back, relax, pop a cold one (might I suggest a Steel Rail EPA?), and be catered to.  Take all the time that you need, and don't be shy, as there's plenty of EPA to be had. 

Can I turn on the game for you?  No?  What?  The Rachel Zoe Project?  And a chardonnay?  What the hell?  Come on, this is a guy's blog!  Ok ... ok ... I get it ... the entire book blog universe is female.  The Rachel Zoe Project it is.  And I might have some old pinot grigio in the fridge, I guess.  Fine.  Whatever.  Fantastic.

Anyway, one of the many here in book blogdom that work tirelessly to make your life better, cleaner, easier, and more efficient is Jennifer over at Crazy for Books.  Each week Jennifer hosts the Book Blogger Hop, which aggregates the old and the new of book review websites from around the globe.  I can honestly say that I have never taken the time to peruse her listings without finding at least one new voice taht I return to week after week.  So give it a try, leave a comment here and there to express your appreciation, and feel free to invite any you may meet on your wanderings back here to The Literate Man.  We're always open to new friends.

If you are joining us from the Book Blogger Hop, then welcome!  Please feel free to kick our tires and check under the hood.  Don't mind that cat in the wheel well--he climbs up there to get warm.  You might be interested in our abbreviated, yet (somewhat) comprehensive review of the work of Ernest Hemingway in last week's The Inevitable Ernest Hemingway Post.  Or perhaps you'd be interested in our Declaration of War on All Things Twilight from a while back.  Or maybe, just maybe you'd like to take at our review of Sometimes a Great Notion, otherwise known as the greatest novel ever written.

Jennifer's question this week is whether we use a rating system in our blogs. We do, of course, use a ten-point system measured to the nearest integer. But we also have our doubts. Book-loving is an inherently subjective endeavor, and our rating system is likewise a reflection of our own likes and dislikes, which certainly differ from yours. On the other hand, guys like shorthand, and the ratings do serve that useful purpose. What are your thoughts on the subject?

The Inevitable Ernest Hemingway Post

This was inevitable. No weblog that represents itself to address classic English-language literature of interest to men would be complete without an extended discussion of Ernest Hemingway. Hemingway’s carefully-crafted public image was the consummate man’s man. He was (or at least presented himself to be) the ultimate sport-fishing, big game-hunting, womanizing, hard-drinking, expatriate war correspondent of his generation. And perhaps he was all these things, though there seems to be little doubt that his tremendous talent for crafting prose was equally matched by his talents for self-promotion and social climbing.

Putting the image of Hemingway-as-self-publicist to one side for a moment, no one is considered to have exerted more of an influence on American literature during the twentieth century than Ernest Hemingway. His terse prose and penchant for writing straightforward, convincing dialogue often reveals as much by silence or omission as by the words on the page. One of my favorite Hemingway shorts, “Hills Like White Elephants,” is comprised almost entirely of dialogue between a man and a girl at a café outside a train station in Spain. Though the subject is never stated, it is clear that the two are discussing a prospective abortion. While the man favors the procedure, the girl has serious reservations, recognizing the tremendous loss that she (and they) will feel if she decides to go forward. What makes the story powerful is the careful dance between the two around a difficult subject and the hidden (but universally understood) meaning behind the literal words that are exchanged between them. Whatever one might think of Hemingway as a person, writing like this leave no doubt of his tremendous talent.

We have not read the entire bibliography of Ernest Hemingway, but we have read most of his novels and a smattering of collections and non-fiction, as well as several books about the author himself. The following is a list of the works that we have read and a note of reaction to each.

The Sun Also Rises(1926): A masterful depiction of sexual tension between male friends set against the Festival of San Fermin (and the Running of the Bulls) in Pamplona. The novel was based on actual events wherein, not surprisingly, Hemingway sought the attentions of a woman other than his wife. Incredibly, the manuscript took Hemingway only six weeks to write.

A Farewell to Arms (1926): Based upon Hemingway’s own experience as an ambulance driver on the Italian front in World War I, this novel treats a soldier’s love for a woman against the backdrop of the political treachery that was experienced by men in uniform as power see-sawed between the Italians and the Austro-German troops.

To Have and Have Not (1929): Hemingway’s only novel set on American soil, this book treats the depression-era difficulties of a charter boat captain, who plies the waters between Cuba and Key West. Not generally considered Hemingway’s best work, it is interesting for the Steinbeck-like social commentary that it contains. The Literate Man reviewed this book several months ago, which review you can find here.

For Whom the Bell Tolls (1940): The story of an American demolitions expert fighting with the Republicans against the fascist forces of Franco during the Spanish Civil War, this is our favorite of all the Hemingway novels. The desperation and hard resilience of the Republican forces, who are certain of defeat and see the death of a great socialist cause, leaps off the page, as does the more general topic of the individual horrors and atrocities of civil war.

The Old Man and the Sea (1952): More of a novella than a novel, this book won Hemingway the Pulitzer Prize in 1952 (though it was officially awarded for his body of work). The work treats the story of Santiago, a Cuban fisherman who engages in an epic multi-day battle with a giant marlin far out in the Caribbean Sea. Many consider the story to symbolize Hemingway’s own battle against his critics, though Hemingway himself never admitted to the connection.

Islands in the Stream (1970): The first posthumous work published from among Hemingway’s numerous manuscripts, the book looks at three stages in the life of Thomas Hudson, American painter. The first is with his sons on the island of Bimini, the second as a reconnaissance official tracking German submarines through the islands of the Caribbean during World War II, and the last is the ambiguous end of the protagonist as he comes to grips with the death of his son by war.

Death in the Afternoon (1932): Hemingway’s first work of non-fiction, Death in the Afternoon treats the Spanish sport of bullfighting, including extensive technical analysis of the proper style of the matador. Hemingway’s admiration for the “sport” shines through on every page. For myself, well-written though it is, this book convinced me that there is no reasonable justification for the continued sport-slaughter of bulls in Spain or anywhere else for that matter.

A Moveable Feast (1964): This is probably Hemingway’s best known work of non-fiction. A memoir of his time in Paris in the 1920’s, the book features mention of F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ezra Pound, Ford Madox Ford, John Dos Passos, James Joyce, and Gertrude Stein. An homage to Paris before the war years, it is also a nostalgic look at those years when Hemingway was poor and happy with his first wife, Hadley, and their son.

The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway (1987): The Nick Adams stories aside, Hemingway’s shorts are some of the leanest, meanest, most poignant, and most memorable works in all of American fiction. This is a great book to pick up periodically as a filler between novels.

Ernest Hemingway on Writing (1999): A series of snippets about the craft of writing picked up from various and sundry sources. The quotes are interesting, but often vague and sometimes contradictory. As Hemingway once famously quipped, talking about writing “takes off whatever butterflies have on their wings.” And yet, they managed to make a book out of his numerous observations.

So, let’s get to the heart of the matter. Hemingway: literary genius or degenerate or both? My personal opinion is that Hemingway deserves all the accolades, and I will continue to read him until my dying day for the genius that he was, though my opinion of Hemingway the man will always taint my enjoyment. What is your opinion of Hemingway? What are your favorite works and why? Can you respect his body of work while recognizing him as an unrepentant braggart, drunk, and philanderer?

The Book Thief (Markus Zusak) (6.5/10.0)

If you sat down to create the personification of death, what characteristics would you attribute to it? It’s an interesting question, and not always an easy one to answer. I think that it’s difficult to attribute any range of emotion to death simply because the event itself is so charged with certain base emotions that we all share. And because of our shared experience, death personified would appear to be somewhat two-dimensional. Characteristics including heavy, brooding, powerful, stoic, contemplative, frightening, and even cruel, predominate in popular culture, from the Grim Reaper to Joe Black. And we’re so consistently exposed to these darker anthropomorphisms that it is difficult to imagine any variation from them. What would the world make of a personified death that grew profoundly sad at the birth of a human being and overjoyed at taking him back at death?

The personification of death is the conceit of The Book Thief by Markus Zusak, a 2006 work which has received numerous awards in both young adult and general fiction categories and has been the recipient of positive reviews all around. It is death that tells the story of little Liesel Meminger s she struggles to make sense of the harsh words and actions of Nazi Germany under the Fuhrer and their effects on the people that she loves. In Zusak’s conception, death is one part stoic, one part curious, and one part sympathetic. He seems to have taken a unusual interest in Liesel, which he admits happens very rarely, and he follows her—collecting bodies along the way—through the long years of the war and beyond.

I admit that I liked the book as opposed to disliking it, but I found Zusak’s death as two-dimensional as any other representation, meaning that the novelty of the conceit wore off after the first hundred pages or so. And the human characters of the book were not very much more rounded, though it was impossible not to sympathize with orphaned Liesel and her adoptive parents, among others. The most interesting portions of the book for me were those that dealt with the hidden divide in German society during the war years and the mechanisms set up to root out and punish those that would undermine the Fuhrer and the war effort. At more than five hundred pages, I wish the book had included more of this. As it was, it dragged and I really had to struggle to finish it.

To tell you the truth, I really feel guilty about not liking this book more (especially given all the hype surrounding it). Perhaps it is simply a young adult novel from which I expected too much. Perhaps I am simply a bad reader. Or perhaps the book is simply overrated. I assume that most of you must have liked it. What was it that compelled you?

A Fierce Radiance (Lauren Belfer) (9.2/10.0)

I read Lauren Belfer's debut novel, City of Light, because it was recommended to me by nearly every relative and acquaintance from my days up north.  Like Belfer, my family hails from Western New York, where the winters are long, the wings are hot, and the beer is Canadian.  I myself inhabited the hills and forests south of the Queen City (that's Buffalo for the uninitiated) until I reached the age of maturity, at which point I promptly pointed my '78 Chrysler Newport south and didn't stop until I reached the warm sands of South Beach.  But don't get me wrong, I still love Western New York--especially its people, whom Belfer captured perfectly--and I will always consider it home.  City of Light, then,  is the fictionalized account of the social life of a young schoolteacher set against the backdrop of the development of electric power at the turn of the century and the political power struggles that surrounded it.  I consider it to be the best work of modern fiction that has been written about the region or its history.   

All of that is a buildup to my review of Belfer's new novel, A Fierce Radiance, which treats the development and mass production of penicillin during the opening days of America's involvement in World War II.  Belfer truly has a gift for writing period pieces.  I can only imagine the amount of detailed research that went into this account of New York City in the days after Pearl Harbor--her detailed descriptions of the architecture of the period is matched by her eye for social nuance among the medical professionals, captains of industry, politicians, and journalists that comprise the story's main characters.  And her prose has a sort of silky, gloved feel to it that lulls you into believing, if only just for a moment, that you have a clear feel of what it was to have lived in those frightening and heady days of America's ascendancy.

It's not all perfect, mind you.  There were times that I found myself shaking my head at the inconsistencies of a particular character or the contrivances that wrap up what is a complex and twisted plot line.  But at the turn of a page, I consistently found myself back among the stone skyscrapers and the soldiers preparing to head off to war, and any author that can transport me so completely can be forgiven a few faults.  Overall, I found the book very enjoyable, and I continue to find Belfer an author worth reading.