Book Reviews: Diaries, Historians, and the Dread Pirate Roberts

You know, for MONTHS, nay, maybe even a year, I have been meaning to post more book reviews, and, now, by golly, I have them!
The delay was not so much the lack of reading (though it was far less than I’d like), but more the lack of everything else . . . so, here we are:

The Diary of Adam and Eve by Mark Twain:

I feel like this book, this brief collection of thoughts on the battle of the sexes as perceived by the first man and first woman, are best put in their own words:

Adam--This new creature with the long hair is a good deal in the way. It is always hanging around and following me about. I don't like this; I am not used to company. I wish it would stay with the other animals.... Cloudy today, wind in the east; think we shall have rain.... WE? Where did I get that word-- the new creature uses it.
Eve--All the week I tagged around after him and tried to get acquainted. I had to do the talking, because he was shy, but I didn't mind it. He seemed pleased to have me around, and I used the sociable "we" a good deal, because it seemed to flatter him to be included.

Was that funny? I thought it was hysterical.  

 I laughed through the entire book, which is really a very short read.   Mr. Twain proves, once again, that he is the master of social commentary.  Alongside being an excellent examination of the differences between men and women, it’s also a beautiful story of two people coming together. 
I feel that this should be required reading for any premarital class—it’s fun, enlightening, and touching.

The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova

True to Stoker’s original Dracula (best vampire novel EVER—hands down), Kostova composed her novel as a collection of letters and journal entries from various characters.  While this was, at first, confusing (was the main narrator talking to us or reading another letter? Whose letter this time?) and dragged on, laden with intricate detail, the book soon picked up speed and became quite the thriller. 

I wouldn’t classify it as a “fantasy” as much as “historical fiction,” because, despite the hunt for  Dracula, physical vamps take a backseat to theoretical ones. Don’t get me wrong, vampires are definitely present, but they’re almost more of a bogey-man (you THINK you see them, but did you? Are those just shadows or something far more sinister?) 

The story follows the sequence of events following the discovery of a strange red book that contains the account of Vlad the Impaler.  After his mentor disappears, a young man and his newfound collegue (is she a pretty lady? Just maybe . . . ) take off on a search that spans generations. 

I highly enjoyed it, but, like I said, it takes quite a while to get going, and, with 720 pages to cover, the book takes some patience to wade through before it gets really fun, but it's well worth it.  

The Princess Bride by S. Morgenstern, abridged by William Goldman

Most of us have seen the delightfully quirky, witty movie (if you haven’t go find it NOW), and almost all of know the famous “Hello. I am Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die” despite ourselves.  The book is equally a gem.  The prose is beautiful, and the story is a rollicking tale of true love and adventure with loads of the off-beat humor.   I’d dare say I love it even more than the movie, and I love the movie too much.
There’s a downside to this edition, however: 

The book claims to be an abridgement, but it's really all a gag, but to carry on the gag, you have notes from Goldman throughout the book saying, “Hey there! Just letting you know what I cut out!” They’re quite humorous and informative, giving you a brief summary of the tedious "notes" that have been "deleted," but they jolt you out of the story.  It’s very easy to dive right back in, but, at times, I wish I could ignore them.

 Fabulous story, and it's definitely earned a place on my "list of books to read aloud to future kiddos."  Such great fun!

Friday's Letters

Dear Shasta: Well, sweet girl, today’s the day . . . When we pick you up after work today, you will officially be spayed.  Just in time for your birthday, too.  How’s that for a present? Trust me, you’ll thank us later :]  In the meantime, we’ll be sure to pick up a fun toy or something to aid in your recovery, because, really, you are totally our fur child. 

Dear Readers: Please, enlighten me—is it normal for a young couple with no kiddos to feel this way about a pet?

Dear Archibald: Yes, I've named you, wretched, ginormous arachnid that you are. I sit down at my desk and you dart out from under my purse, huge and creepy.  Spiders have too many joints, friend, among other things. Like legs. Eyes. Creep factor.  But you . . . well, you left me alone. You moved slowly, taking each step with care, like some minature eight-legged-dinosaur.  We all know the reason you, a speedy wolf spider,  weren't racing around: you totally knew you were big enough to take on me AND my flip flops.  I wasn't going to try.  You sat still for a photo op (which all turned out DREADFULLY due to my phone cam's confusion over the carpet pattern), then I turned away. I look back, and you're gone. The worst kind of spider? The kind you can't see. It's been two days. I'm still expecting an ambush. Curse you, Archibald. Curse you!

Dear Thunderstorms: I love you. Yes, you’re hell to drive through, low visibility, flooded streets, lousy drivers, all that, but you’re still awesome.  I love days snuggled in at home listening to you sing, howl, and pound against the earth.  Favorite.  I love getting to dance in your early and late sprinkles, like kisses from heaven. I love that you’re big and dark and ominous.  Will we have storms like you in California? Or, after this Spring, will you be something so very rare and far away? I hope not.  Cause I kind of love you a lot.

Dear Celestial Seasonings: I suppose I should thank you for creating such delectable teas, but, at the same time, you make me nervous. Why??? Because your Nutcracker Sweet Black Tea is too stinkin' GOOD. My GOSH. Add some vanilla creamer, and it's a direct flight to heaven. I tell you what. One day, I made the hubs a cup of it.  Now, he can't get enough. He RAVES about this stuff. Unfortunately, Publix only carries it around Christmas . .. and my four remaining boxes didn't stand a chance. So we found you online, and ordered six boxes. SIX.  I don't think they'll last long either.  If we go broke, I'm blaming you for brewing awesomeness.

Dear Dante:
I have a suggestion for your masterpiece, The Inferno.  No, I get it, it’s already a masterpiece and doesn’t NEED any improving, but, if you REALLY wanted Judas, Cassius, and Brutus to suffer, once Satan gets tired of chewing them, turn them into women and place them in a swimsuit shop. Not even kidding. Not only will they be rendered completely senseless by the onslaught of feelings (so many feelings), paranoia, body image issues, and all those other tendencies that make women so complicated, but then they have to buy a swimsuit.
Because, you see, really, this is Ninth Circle kinda bad. 
When swimsuits are IN season, the good ones cost an arm and a leg, and, really, you’re supposed to lose poundage before donning one of those anyways, so let’s wait a bit . . . . Well, maybe you have or haven’t lost weight, but now, you NEED a suit for something, anything, and they’re almost out of season. BUT they’re finally on sale! Huzzah! Still . . . since it’s almost fall . . . all the good suits are gone, and you’re left with the scraps, and NONE of them in the right size.  Oh, and then the style you want?? Can’t find it. Not at all. I mean, really, is it THAT hard to make a black tankini???? Does it all have to be a string bikini or a one piece? Seriously??? Come on, designers.
So make your three traitors wander around, trying on suit after suit and FAILING. Oh, my gosh, make every one of those little suckers fail. Self-esteem, plummeting, stress building, urgency rising . . . and doggone it, nothing offers any support where it matters.
You’ll break those guys. I mean just annihilate them.
Afterwards, if you’re bored, send them bra shopping.
And BAM! Tormented beyond repair for all eternity.
You’re welcome.

Three Strange Men

They say that you change your major three times before graduating college.  My freshman year, I declared myself an English Literature major. Just like that. It may have been wrong for the economy, but soul thrived there, buried in words and theories. My professors? Yeah, they were the bomb diggity.

First there was Dr. Miller, a man who was too brilliant to be anything but cynical.  Oh, I could sit all day and listen to him lecture for hours on the hidden meanings in words, the true darkness in marriage, the lie that is romance, and the depravity of human nature.  I don’t know why, but I felt empowered by it, by soaking in all of his knowledge. It sounds depressing on paper, but it wasn't.  Dr. Miller was an intellectual force of nature. He ended every Friday lecture with, “Have a great weekend. Don’t do anything stupid.” I can still hear him say it, perfectly enunciated, full of bottled energy and exasperation. “Don’t do anything stupid.” I wonder if he still says it.

Then I met Dr. Randle, the devil’s advocate who refused to let us sit silently.  There were only seven of us in that class, so we HAD to talk. He forced you to, sitting back, arms crossed, chin tilted, asking, "Why? Why? Why?" You had to have a reason, prove it from the text. It was all right there, in the text; you just had to look for it. We sat squeezed around one giant table in a tiny room, close enough that Randle could smack us if he wanted to, and he would have, trust me.  He was infamous, a loose cannon,  but no one could teach Eliot’s The Wasteland like he could.  It remains one of my favorites, mostly because of Randle's teaching. That and it's bloody brilliant. Give it a read. You won't regret it.

I spelt his name wrong once, on a paper: R-A-N-D-A-L-L. He left a note “This isn’t me.” Mortifying, I tell you.

Still, he didn’t seem to hate me, in fact, he might have liked me ("Of course, he likes you," one of his favorite students told me later, "he only hates idiots. You're not an idiot").
After one class, he announced we would be reading Pretty by Stevie Smith, "And Pete," he says, being the only professor who called me by my nickname, "seems to have a good grasp on it, so she's going to teach it."
"REALLY????"
I was shocked.  I had analyzed the poem in a paper a month ago, and giving its introductory lecture was one of the proudest and most terrifying moments of my academic career.   My hands shook the entire time, and I paused at least twice, to apologize and ask if I was doing all right. He nodded and smiled, "You're doing just fine."
I miss lectures and discussions by Dr. Randle. I really do. He will always be my favorite, he with the threats of marker tossing and the endless "Why."

Lastly, there was Dr. Potts, my Senior Seminar professor obsessed with Faulkner.  He was the kind of man who should have worn a white linen suit, smoked fine Cuban cigars, and sipped mint juleps on the porch at sunset, a true Southern gentleman.  He had the facial hair for it, among other things.  Despite all of his dignity, we called him “Pottsy” behind his back.

Above all else, one thing Pottsy said stuck with me: “Unless you are tormented—unless you are depressed, suicidal, or addicted to sex, drugs, and alcohol—you will never be great.  Genius is tormented.  You all will never be great unless you are miserable.”
 I've never decided if I agree. Still, there's Sylvia Plath . . .

The night our final paper was due in his class, there was a tornado warning, and every student in the library, including me, was herded into the basement.   One of my classmates, quiet fellow with dark hair and darker eyes, ended up next to me. “Well, hello, Sarah Wimberly,” he said with his lopsided smile, leaning casually against a bookcase, “How’s your paper?”
“Ok, I guess. Working on it. How’s yours?” 
“I think I’m ok, putting the final edits on mine.”
“Really? Final edits?”
“Yeah. Isn’t that what you’re doing?”
“Erm . . . uh . . . no . . . I *cough* I just started.”
His eyes widened.  “Seriously?”
I blushed. “Yeah, I’m kind of a procrastinator.”
He laughed. Hard. “My god, Sarah, you’ve got balls!”
For some reason, I am incredibly proud of that “compliment.”
Balls. I have them.

Apparently, everyone else had been perfecting their final paper for over a month. I'd been working on notes and outlines for weeks, but writing? I scrambled through that sucker in three hours. A security guard had to let me into the English building so I could slip my paper under Pottsy’s door by midnight.   The last paper of my college career.

Weeks later, I caught Pottsy walking through the hallways. “Dr. Potts, sir, I was wondering if you had finished the papers?  I just wanted to know my grade—I’m planning to graduate this semester and wanted to make sure . . .”
“Ah, well, you’ll know the grades when it’s posted, but, since you’re graduating . . .” and he waved for me to follow him down the hall.

He unlocked his office door and stepped inside. English professors have such delightful offices--rich, dignified furniture stuffed into cramped spaces with walls covered in books, old books, new books, every size and every type, ranging in every manner of fiction, history, and critique.  I adore these little corners that smell of libraries and knowledge. 

Pottsy emerged with my paper.  He skimmed the pages briefly, as if trying to remember it, his brow furrowed, cocked his head slightly. “You didn’t . . . uh . . . happen to read any of your classmates’ papers, did you?”
“No sir.”
“Well, um . . . I ask because you got it, the theory bit. You really did. Your classmates . . . Well, you have an A, Sarah. Good work.”
“Thank you, sir!” I was flabbergasted.  I still am.

To my knowledge, I don’t think my professors cared a wit for any of their young padawans. We were all idiots, really, not old enough to know anything but young enough to believe we knew it all. I did not love my professors because I felt loved.  I loved them because they were brilliant, they challenged me, they bestowed knowledge, and, in a very small way, I loved them because I hoped that they saw something worthwhile in me.  

One professor, a raving feminist, once saw me in the office and said, “Sarah Wimberly! We were just talking about you! Wondering where you were!”
 I never learned if this was a good thing or a bad thing, but I was touched that she knew my name. I really wasn't anything special. I didn't join the literature clubs, and I wasn't brighter, louder, or more talented. I just loved books. I loved English. I loved my major.

You never know about people, who you will remember, who will remember you, who you will affect and who might affect you.  I don’t think any of my professors remember my name or my papers. 

But I remember them.

Who’s changed you? What teachers or leaders left an imprint on your life?