Breakfast of Champions is a slippery, lucid, bleakly humorous jaunt through
(sick? inhumane?) America circa 1973, with Vonnegut acting as our Virgil-like
companion. The book follows its main character, auto-dealing solid-citizen Dwayne
Hoover, down into madness, a condition brought on by the work of the aforementioned
Kilgore Trout. As Dwayne cracks, then crumbles, Breakfast of Champions coolly shows
the effects his dementia has on the web of characters surrounding him. It's not much
of a plot, but it's enough for Vonnegut to air unique opinions on America, sex, war,
love, and all of his other pet topics
During the 1980s and '90s, Ty Tierwater had exchanged a sedately acquisitive
existence--"the slow-rolling glacier of my old life, my criminal life, the life I led
before I became a friend of the earth"--for a fairly ambivalent position on the front
lines of an ecoterrorist posse called Earth Forever! The only complication is his dual
penchant for empathy and ineptitude, exacerbated by a frustration that swells with
accumulating incitements. After his daughter is taken from him, and his second wife,
Andrea, becomes more committed to the cause than to their marriage, Ty finds solace in
blind destruction. He serves his almost predictable terms in jail; he endures the eventual
death--and martyrdom--of his activist daughter, Sierra. At 75, and a quarter of the way
into the dismal and decayed 21st century, he unaccountably finds himself tending an
eccentric rock star's private mini-zoo of ragged animals and wryly lamenting the collapse
of his race. And then Andrea resurfaces--along with his long-fallow faith in love.
R.P. McMurphy is a sane man that, due to a brush with the law, opts for being committed in
a mental asylum rather than be incarcerated with hard labor. Upon his entry in the
secluded world of the asylum, he strips all the barriers formed and starts laying his
own rules, in his own way. This leads to problems with the head honcho of the place.
A big, gruesome, and menacingly evil Nurse Ratched, dubbed Big Nurse for her huge frame
and even huger bosom. The rollercoaster, that patient McMurphy takes the inmates through,
finally leads them to realize the ultimate goal. That man, no matter the situation, can
always hold his destiny in his hands. This knowledge, achieved in the end, does not come
without a price.
The novel is narrated by Ismael Chambers, the publisher of the only newspaper
on San Piedro Island, the fictional stand-in for Bainbridge Island, Washington. The
islanders are, with few exceptions, either strawberry farmers or Salmon fishermen. When
a white fisherman dies under suspicious circumstances, the evidence points towards a
Japanese-American fisherman who was the last person to see the dead man alive. Ishmael's
boyhood romance with Hatsue, the girl that later becomes the accused man's wife, provides
fertile material for interesting flashbacks to the early 1940s, when virtually all of the
island's Japanese-American population was carted off to internment camps soon after the
bombing of Pearl Harbour.
Everyone in town thinks Meg Murry is volatile and dull-witted, and that her younger brother,
Charles Wallace, is dumb. People are also saying that their physicist father has run off
and left their brilliant scientist mother. Spurred on by these rumors and an unearthly
stranger, the tesseract-touting Mrs Whatsit, Meg and Charles Wallace and their new friend
Calvin O'Keefe embark on a perilous quest through space to find their father. In doing so,
they must travel behind the shadow of an evil power that is darkening the cosmos, one
planet at a time. This is no superhero tale, nor is it science fiction, although it shares
elements of both. The travelers must rely on their individual and collective strengths,
delving deep within themselves to find answers.
...a story built around a flawed human being and a teetering socio-economic system, as well
as one that is layered with profound themes. The cadence of the author's writing is also
of note, as it rhythmically lends itself to the telling of the story, giving it a very distinct voice. No doubt the author's writing style was influenced by her own immersion in Chinese culture, as she grew up and lived in China, the daughter of missionaries.
British philosopher and editor Law explores 25 of life's Big Questions in a sprightly
volume designed to be a "course in thinking philosophically." Categorizing each
philosophical "adventure" as Warm-up, Moderate or More Challenging, he addresses
queries both grand and eternal ("Does God Exist?" and "Where Did the Universe Come From?"
are two of his chapters) and controversial and contemporary ("What's Wrong with Gay Sex?"
and "But is it Art?"). Lay readers looking for a comprehensible introduction to critical
thinking will benefit from Law's straightforward exposition of each topic; opposing
arguments are clearly organized in a tennis match of sorts: Law has two diners, for example,
spar over whether eating meat can be morally justified. (Animals eat other animals, one
says. But they don't know right from wrong, his companion says. Eating animals comes
naturally to us, says the first. But so does violence, says the second. Etc.) In the
chapter on morality's supposed dependence on religion, a section titled "
An Argument
for the Existence of God" is followed by the impressively accessible "Plato's Refutation
of the Popular Argument," which is then countered with the "'But God is Good' Reply," and
so on. The writing is lively and accessible, thanks to Law's passion for his subject and
his creative use of zany conversations between future scientists about the possibility of
time travel, for example, and his whimsical examples of strange objects called "fubbyloofer
s" to demonstrate the difficulty of determining what is art. The best of these essays end
inconclusively, encouraging readers to consult the additional resources Law recommends.
When Law unabashedly declares his final opinion-"In short, what creationists practice
isn't good science-it's bunk"-it has the potential to offend. It detracts, too, from the
book's admirable aim to "provide the skills needed to think independently" and "help
fortify your courage in making a moral stand."
Apparently vampires not only exist but are alive, well, and possibly living in your home town. It's also likely that the spirit of novelist Zora Neale Hurston is in North Carolina giving magical people very specific instructions about what to do with her grave dirt. At least this is what Wicker suggests with a lot of wit, a serious dash of journalistic curiosity, and always respect for even the strange and unbelievable characters she encountered as she journeyed across America in search of all things magical. A former religion reporter for the Dallas Morning News and author of several books including Lily Dale: The True Story of the Town that Talks to the Dead, Wicker tries to sort out the difference between religion and magic, and examines the many varieties of magical experience found across America. Wicker is many things for readers—a memoirist, a reporter, a narrator of fascinating stories and well-written dialogue and, not least, a humorist. Readers will find themselves unable to put this book down, absorbed in the story Wicker has to tell that is as much filled with laugh-out-loud moments as it is with insights into a topic that continues to fascinate both Muggles and magicians alike.
The simplest thing would be to describe Everything Is Illuminated, Jonathan Safran Foer's accomplished debut, as a novel about the Holocaust. It is, but that really fails to do justice to the sheer ambition of this book. The main story is a grimly familiar one. A young Jewish American--who just happens to be called Jonathan Safran Foer--travels to the Ukraine in the hope of finding the woman who saved his grandfather from the Nazis. He is aided in his search by Alex Perchov, a naïve Ukrainian translator, Alex's grandfather (also called Alex), and a flatulent mongrel dog named Sammy Davis Jr. Jr. On their journey through Eastern Europe's obliterated landscape they unearth facts about the Nazi atrocities and the extent of Ukrainian complicity that have implications for Perchov as well as Safran Foer. This narrative is not, however, recounted from (the character) Jonathan Safran Foer's perspective. It is relayed through a series of letters that Alex sends to Foer. These are written in the kind of broken Russo-English normally reserved for Bond villains or Latka from Taxi. Interspersed between these letters are fragments of a novel by Safran Foer--a wonderfully imagined, almost magical realist, account of life in the shtetl before the Nazis destroyed it. These are in turn commented on by Alex, creating an additional metafictional angle to the tale.
I have stacks of books waiting to be read (and even bought another one to add to the pile from the local charity shop this morning!) Now if only I could bring myself to turn the computer off for a while and read them all. :-)
When I was a kid I used to be a regular visitor to the mobile library, a big bus full of books that used to come once a week and park for an hour (maybe two) in a local pubs car park. I used to borrow all of my family's library tickets so that I could get more books out on loan! (you were only allowed 4 on each ticket in those days). Most weeks I would get 12 books out and read them all too!
Was very well done, and especially when you consider that it was a debut novel written by a 25 year old, you have to be amazed at it's maturity and it's depth.
I'm almost done with "Not in Kansas anymore", and I highly recommend that one too, as an outsiders view of "magick" in America.
I've had a love affair with books also from a very young age. I've done most of my reading via the internet the last 7 years or so, so it feels good to get back to the feel of the dead trees in my hands.
My eldest is also very bookish. She can't help it. Between me, and her mother who was employed at a book store when she gave birth to her, she really had no choice. Here is an example of some writing she sent to me while I was hospitalized.
......................
from her email she sent me...
I wrote this short essay for a scholarship about "The Future of the Printed Book", and I thought you might like it for something to read. Tell me what you think, and how your doing too. I'll be calling whenever I can.
I love you with all my heart,
Caitlin
The Future of the Printed Book
6:45, in red flashing number on the left side of where I rest my head on pillow. The timed mechanical buzzes sound, my eyes open almost immediately and my open palm moves with the fluid motion that comes with routine. Contrary to most modern designs which awaken with the voice of virtually any persona, the black rectangular structure is sturdy and unharmed by the weight of my hands swift response to its morning call. Oddly comforting, it’s an antique.
Routine, routine, routine washes over me like some kind of fuzzy daydream. Time passes but I don’t know where it goes, and I can’t imagine where my mind is during these mindless morning tasks. I don’t even know why I bother anymore. For who? Most days I stay in, flipping through pages of the past. Pages of a past that was never mine, a sea of words that no one cares about anymore. 23 years old and not much else makes me happy.
It’s a small room in my house where I indulge in these comforts. Tall old wooden cases hold the treasures closest to my heart; filled with different widths and colors of cracked bindings, when I was young they looked like they reached to the sky. They used to call them bookcases. A quiet room where small dusty rays of light peer in shyly, and softly caress the folds of a puffy green leather chair that smells like a grandfather. They used to call it a library. It was my grandfather, in fact, that introduced me to this paradise lost. Where we turned the pages of Miltons epic poem, and sympathized for the devil in our own garden of Eden. From a young age he instilled his passion in me, thrilled by the sense of wonder that my father, a man obsessed with the faster and more efficient digitalized age that our world had so quickly and willingly plummeted into, did not possess. A world my grandfather believed to have manifested out of war, disease, pessimism, materialism, into an un-natural clock working system. The less you touch the less you feel the less you hurt. Practical and efficient and impersonal. Robots, buttons for everything, and programs where a “book” could be broken down into vital information, and processed into a code you could feed into your brain. So you still said you read it, but you never turned the pages, never touched the words, never opened a cover. Even fiction, even fairytales. And the printed book? Ancient, useless, a waste of paper, more importantly a waste of trees, a rare and dying species. Instruments, picture frames, buzzing alarms, and an ever growing plethora of useless silly old fashioned things, with faster better shinier replacements. These were the things that belonged to a past we both felt we belonged in too. A past we could both very nearly feel in our quiet room, grazing our fingers across the crackly bindings that seemed to reach to the sky. Just me now.
There are experts who say that everything just changed too fast for some people. They were thrown into shock, refused to accept the new standard of faster, better, and shinier. Rejected a superior society because it was just too much to handle. To most of the population they’re just ignorant, annoying, unreasonable, crazy. Efficiency is a virtue.
I might be crazy. Maybe along with these old books I’ve inherited a type of brain that just can’t handle what is truly a better world. Along with my madness I’m holding on to a place that would have self destructed without these man made answers to humanity. Holding on to a past that was never mine. I’m sitting now, barely touched by a soft light that leaks into my sanctuary. Writing as small as I can on paper that cost me a small fortune. These words are barely legible, but it doesn’t matter because you’ll never read them anyway. The thoughts of this book loving madman will never be processed into your brain by computer program, never mind read left to right on the precious paper that they were spilled out onto. But I’ll lean into the smell of my grandfather, close my eyes and remember a time I never knew, when these words might not have been simply disregarded as mere crazy ramblings. I’m 23 years old and not much else makes me happy
18 Jun 2007 @ 16:10 by susannahbe : Wow...
she had me captivated, I loved it. Tell her to keep weaving magic with her words.
20 Jun 2007 @ 11:07 by susannahbe : Happy birthday!
Happy Birthday and many happy returns! Have a great day and an excellent year ahead!
20 Jun 2007 @ 17:03 by jmarc : Golly gee willickers!
Thanks! No cake this year, lol. It would be 45 candles if there was one. I think it was somewhere around 40 that I started regretting birthdays. One step closer to the grave, ya know? But it's nice to get the happy birthdays from you ladies anyway. It means alot, especially this year.