#best books

The First Bad Man
by Miranda July

I lied to Miranda July.  I didn’t intend to, but there you have it.

The First Bad Man was released September 8, 2015. I read it within 48 hours of release and soon after attended an evening at BAM featuring writer/actress/filmmaker/app creator extraordinaire Miranda July interviewed by writer/actress/director extraordinaire Lena Dunham. Both irreverently funny, unapologetically observant and quirkily blunt, it was an evening of understated wit and hallmark vulnerability followed by a book signing by July. Dunham wasn’t present at said book-signing, so I didn’t have the opportunity to lie to her.

The aforementioned lie occurred as July signed an edition of No One Belongs Here More than You to my Aunt for her birthday: I mentioned to her that I was going to feature The First Bad Man on my book blog later that week and to look out for it. Then in the most exacerbated case of procrastination of my life, two and a half years later I’m still carrying the guilt of falsifying to one of my creative paragons.

Today while trolling my files attempting to discover if I even started the review, I happened upon the Pressbook for July’s film The Future. (Why was this even on my computer? I have no idea. I’d like to think July has magical creative powers that drop files on your computer when you need them.) In an interview there, she captures my sentiments: “I just felt so incapable, barely even human, much less brilliant. So I told myself, ‘OK, write from there. What does Incapable sound like?’”

I guess it sounds like this. This whole sordid affair stems from the fact that nothing I pen will encapsulate the ingenuity, the transdimensional artistry of The First Bad Man.  It is darkly comical, startlingly salacious, and unavoidably messy, but it is also replete with pathos, with insight, with humanity.

The story centers on Cheryl, an intransigent forty-something who eats from one plate and uses one glass, as she is saddled with the pregnant daughter of her boss, a destructive young woman who throws her life into turmoil.

I just picked up the book to reread highlighted passages, and I found myself laughing out loud. How can I communicate the hilarity that is Cheryl explaining the origin of inter-office rules as based on a series of Japanese customs or the curious sense of meditation she later discovers riding an ATV? How can I articulate the risqué encounters at the center of the book, tropes emblematic of July’s writing that force us all to face our darkest selves?

The truth is that nothing I write to recommend this book will be enough to truly reflect what’s inside its twisty pages. In her writing July implants thoughts that you yourself didn’t know you were capable of entertaining. Her phrases herald a primal reckoning, a stripping away of the constant apology that accompanies being a sexual being, and a melting of the outer shell that protects our most vulnerable parts. Leaving - what? Whatever is left after all of the layers have been peeled away: the gooey center, the amorphous essence of what it is to be human.

Euphoria by Lily King

I did not anticipate a tale about three anthropologists mired in the tribal cultures of 1930s New Guinea to be a one-sitting read. As you may have garnered from reading my other blog posts, I am often wrong. 

I should have known from anthropologist Nell’s observation about half way through that things were bound to end painfully, but I simply couldn’t stop myself. She says, “Tragedy is based on this sense that there’s been a terrible mistake, isn’t it?” (140).  And there is some terrible mistake, but who made it exactly, I’m not entirely sure. Was it one of the three scientists triangulated against the others? Was it of timing? Of place? Of circumstance? Or was it a mistake of more innate inevitability, of humanity, a mistake we ourselves didn’t make, but are doomed to pay for forever. 

That inevitability, as tangible as it was, pulled me through the pages. Navigating the river for hours in the oppressive heat and blackness, plagued by bugs and desolation in equal measures, the anthropologist Bankson notes: “Sometimes at night it seemed to me that my boat was not being pushed by the engine but that boat and engine both were being pulled by the river itself, the ripples of wake just a design, like a stage set moving along with us” (38). 

This is exactly how the novel drew me mercilessly onward, slapping at pesky and painful bugs, forcing in fetid thick air when it got difficult to breathe, like an anthropologist myself, determinedly highlighting passages I was hoping would uncover some mystery to the book or humanity, I’m not sure which. 

If Virginia Woolf had written Heart of Darkness, with editing by Jennifer Egan of a visit from the goon squad, the result might be this book. Yesterday evening, discovering I had turned the final page, I groaned - out of pain, or satisfaction, or surprise. I’m not sure which. And maybe I found that place of “euphoria” where Nell says you think you know everything - but really you discover you know nothing. 

The Couple Next Door by Shari Lapena

Should you eat chocolate cake? Maybe not. Is it extremely satisfying when you do? Of course. The Couple Next Door provides your sugar fix. Is it going to provide you nutrition? Probably not. But it is so satisfying you may just want another helping.  

I got this book as part of my Book of the Month trial last night. I finished it this afternoon. Need I say more? 

Quintessential suspense at its best, with all the twists and turns of a classic who-dun-it, The Couple Next Door profiles Anne and Marco, newbie parents who leave their infant sleeping at home while they attend a dinner party next door. Can you guess where this is going? I tried at several turns, but there was always another curve in the road. 

I did the classic “I’ll just finish this chapter” move, but then my eyes would start scanning the next page.  300 pages later…Lapena kept this taut novel pinging until the final sentence. Will there be a sequel? If so, I’ll definitely be reading it.   If not, she wrote a killer ending. 

ALL THE BIRDS IN THE SKY by Charlie Jane Anders

I bought All the Bird in the Sky for a friend. Her bookclub vetoed this as a book suggestion, but she was excited about it, so in an act of solidarity with her deeply-rooted belief that books should be worthy of discussion, I deposited it on her bed one day and blamed book fairies for the drop. 

Then I promptly started reading it myself and stole it across the country with me before she could open it. (I had the best intentions. Also, spending money on a book purchased for a friend does not count as buying a book for yourself.)

A unique combination of the post-apocalyptic world of Vanessa Vaselka’s ZAZEN and the gritty magical reality of Lev Grossman’s The Magicians, Anders’ novel is possibly the only book that would be accurately categorized as Sci-Fi/ Fantasy. 

(There is this odd phenomenon - a bizarre combination of sci-fi and fantasy genres - that proliferates search engines and bookstores alike. It’d be like grouping cats and dogs together in a shelter section called Dats and considering the choice between the two arbitrary - which any cat or dog parent will indubitably dispute. But, this book is truly both Sci-Fi and Fantasy.) 

In the rich world Anders has invented, thick with angst and dense with meaning, a 2-second time travel device and talking animals coexist. It’s nostalgic and dread-filled, a children’s book for adults, an embedded warning for our collective future.  

Turning each page sounds the death nell for the end of the world - or a solemn harbinger for science that contains real magic - or is it magic that contains real science?  - that will save us all. 

The Kitchen House
By Kathleen Grissom
 
I didn’t want to read The Kitchen House.  I loathed the idea of spending any time in a fictionalized world built around slavery and southern plantation living. But reader after reader praised the novel, so I downloaded the “preview” before splurging the $1.99 on a title I was determined not to like.
 
By the time I tore through the first few chapters, the limited time sale was over and the book was $11.99. I didn’t care. I bought it immediately so I wouldn’t have to stop.

The Kitchen House follows the story of Lavinia, an Irish immigrant suppressing a terrible past at the tender age of 7. Purchased by a Virginian plantation owner, she works and lives in the Kitchen House, the slave quarters that serves the “Big House.” With a name like Lavinia, I was concerned for her well-being from the get-go. (See Titus Andronicus; Season 2 of Downton Abbey).  But Lavinia turns out to be plucky, curious and extremely loving.
 
Lavinia has a unique perspective as both an indentured servant to the Big House and as a white girl in the south.  While the Kitchen House inhabitants become her family, the Big House tenants also have their eyes on her.  And though she crosses many of the divides established as a result of slavery over her lifetime, in a way, she is the most isolated of all the characters. She doesn’t truly belong anywhere.
 
What’s interesting in my reluctance to read the book is that it directly mirrors Grissom’s reluctance to write it. While restoring a plantation tavern in Virginia, she happened upon a location in the plans called “Negro Hill.” It haunted her so much that one day journaling, a fictional story about its legacy poured onto her paper. Even Grissom herself was disturbed by the tale, but it, like the book’s heroine, was stubborn, and would not be altered.
 
The Kitchen House has heart smeared across every page. It’s laden with tears and tragedy, buoyed by stubborn determination and an inextinguishable need to survive. It hurts right below the sternum, like a punch to the gut that allows you to take bigger, fresher breaths.
 
The reluctant reader of a reluctant writer, it strikes me that perhaps the stories we avoid writing are the ones that most need to be written; and the stories we avoid reading may be the very ones we need to read the most.

Invisible by James Patterson & David Ellis

Hello.

My name is brennanbookblog.

And it’s been two days since my last James Patterson paperback.

I don’t really think I have a problem. I mean, this is the first time I’ve even read a Patterson paperback. I just know that rampant reading of Patterson runs in my family - my Dad’s side - and I wanted to curtail the unhealthy behavior before it became an issue.

Until last weekend, I hadn’t even considered reading a Patterson. (I was reading a Booker Man Prize Finalist at this time last month for God’s sake.) There was something too best-seller-y about Patterson, something for people who wanted a cheap high. I normally don’t even consider mass market publications as options. But I was stuck in the Philadelphia airport and I finished my Shonda Rhimes book on the incoming flight;  I thought this one wouldn’t hurt. I could stop myself if I wanted.

I have never really had a problem with Patterson before. I have shopped in stores that sell Patterson novels. I have been around them socially. I even have a copy of The Zoo on my shelf which I never opened.

I recognize the symptoms though, so I thought it’d be best to face this thing head on. My hands shake in anticipation of tattered Patterson novels at half price books. I “accidentally” take detours that bring me to the shelves and shelves of Patterson in the bookstore. I scrolled through his iBooks author page until the sixth reload and then realized that I had felt this feeling before.  I knew what I was doing.

I exhibited this behavior with Charlaine Harris’ Sookie Stackhouse series - pre-ordering, marking my calendar for the next release date, for the next fix.  I had been addicted to fierce heroines before. I read books overnight in Michael Grant’s Gone Series, sometimes not leaving the house for days at a time; I purchased the entire series on Amazon in the middle of the night just so I wouldn’t run dry the next day.  And Jasper Fford’s Thursday Next Series - let’s face it: the signs were there.

There are a lot of scenarios that could play out with a serial killer/ cop-considered-crazy/ guarded-heart-gone-awry melting pot.

So, I know it’s gonna be hard. In a quick tally of Patterson titles, I numbered about 150. One hundred fifty. And there are stand-alones, sure, but I know that series are my weakness.

I vow here that I will not alienate my loved ones in favor of a quick read; I will not neglect my work just to cram in a few more chapters. I’m totally in control. I know my limitations. So I’ll be fine if I just read…. one ….more.

The Dead Circle by Keith Varney

I was tricked into reading another zombie book. What’s the adage? “Trick me once, shame on you, trick me twice, shame on me for not giving zombie books a chance?”  I read The Dead Circle in 48 hours and spent the next week attempting to reconcile my inability to stomach cannibalism (yes, I went there) with my desire to share the best page-turners with my fellow bibliophiles.

Of all of the books that I’ve read about supernatural post-apocalyptic infestations, this book serves as the most practical guide to how my spouse and I could survive the apocalypse.  And perhaps that’s what makes it the most disturbing zombie selection: it could possibly be recategorized amidst “non-fiction” or “survival guides” sometime in the future.

Until now, I thought a layperson like myself would be among the first to fall in the zombie apocalypse, but this book gives me hope. So many times, the people that survive are strikingly attractive, never need to go to the bathroom, and are facile with a semi-automatic. I am none of these.

The Dead Circle is gruesome, quirky, familiar, and terrifying. Don’t eat while reading. That’s all I’m saying. Probably avoid drinking as well.  

I’ll admit, there was a moment about two-thirds of the way through when I thought, Maybe it’d be better to turn into a zombie so I wouldn’t be eaten by one. That’s a truth I didn’t want face.

I’m not sure if Varney is planning a sequel, but based on the unconventional ending of the first, I’d pick it up tomorrow. In the meantime, I’ll keep this title on my nightstand in case I need some undead tips – and I plan on stocking up on bottled water tomorrow.