Richard Adams' Watership Down

I consider myself to be extremely lucky because I have a few good friends who have excellent taste in books, and whose book recommendations I therefore deem worthy of consideration. Several years ago, my good friend Sarah gave high praise to Watership Down. Being somehow under the impression that the book was about a submarine in peril and on the verge of being wrecked, or down, I was surprised that she had so liked it. After my friend set me straight that it was actually about the adventures of a warren of rabbits, it was a book that continued to cross my mind, and when my local Borders closed, I took advantage of the deep discounts and snatched up the book. It has taken me about a year to get around to reading it, but like any good book, it was certainly worth the wait.

This book married all of the aspects I hope for in a novel: an unusual and creative well-told saga that had me hooked from the opening chapters. It is a tough feat to make a five-hundred-page book feel like a quick read, but this had twists and turns of the plot that had me so nervous for the characters that I could barely wait to turn the page (but too nervous I would miss something if I turned the page too soon). The book had the added perks of a few maps, which I always enjoy, and even a glossary to help remind you of the peculiar and cute Lapine (rabbit) language. The book was more than just a story; it drew you into to the idea of a distinct rabbit culture, complete with a social hierarchy, where each rabbit contributes to the community and has a distinct personality and skill. Even more delightful is the rabbit lore that is woven into the story. In the midst of a fearful situation, such as a fox attack, the rabbits are often put to ease when one of their comrades relates one of their well known and loved rabbit myths. Almost as wonderful as the myths are the aptly chosen epigraphs that introduce each chapter. Not only are the quotations pithy and interesting, they successfully foreshadow what is to come without completely giving everything away. It is indeed an impressive balance.

I was nearing the end of Watership Down as I waited to meet a friend for dinner, and when she saw what I was reading, she reminisced about reading it in high school for a religion class where the teacher claimed that aspects of the rabbits’ story paralleled the persecution of the Christians. In fact, most people I have discussed the book with have had someone tell them what the book was “really about.” They are surprised to learn that the book is simply a story, written by a father who invented the tale for his two daughters and later decided to write it down. As soon as I read about the origin of the story in the introduction, and found out it was not intended to have a deeper meaning, I almost felt a sense of liberation. I like a good, symbolic story as much as the next readosaur, but sometimes it is nice to enjoy rich, well-crafted writing and plot, and have a respite from trying to discern some intended allegorical meaning from the book. The only caution I would give is that you may never again be able to spot a rabbit without experiencing the sincere disappoint that you will never know the story of its life and the adventures and perils it has faced with its rabbit friends. 

Adams, Richard. Watership Down. New York: Scribner, 2005.

Hilary Mantel's Wolf Hall

One of the things I value highly is thriftiness. Thrift is the reason I read a lot of non-mainstream books: they are the ones on sale. Thrift is also the reason I tend to be a little behind the times on contemporary novels. I certainly know about the books, but I typically wait until a book comes out in paperback. Wolf Hall was a book a desperately wanted to read, and excitedly waited for the paperback edition. When it came out, I used a coupon for a discount at Changing Hands, and I bought it and started reading it. It is always a bad sign when your friends hope you finish a book quickly so that you will stop complaining about it.

Mantel has a way with words: many, many, many words. Perhaps she should have borrowed some of my thrift and put it towards an economy of expression. The wordiness itself was not the only problem, though (keep in mind I am a Dickens girl, and his wordiness has only made me love him more). The wordiness seemed only to be alleviated through the use of pronouns, which actually became problematic. For instance, in a passage with three male characters, it does not help to use the pronoun he consistently throughout the page. I consider myself a savvy reader, and I also consider myself a descriptivist when it comes to language and grammar; however, I struggled so much through certain passages in this book that I spent a great deal of time contemplating and championing the fact that grammar rules exist for a reason. A pronoun is useless if it has an unclear antecedent, and a pronoun is useless if it can possibly refer to three different things in a given context. The he pronoun was such a consistent problem throughout the text that it made the read less enjoyable, and, in case you are doubting me, yes, the issue indeed warranted a discussion of this length. Overall, the book was too dense: too dense with words, pronouns, characters, locations, politics, and loosely explained historical references.

I would not say this is a bad novel, though. After all, Mantel had a lot working against her with a book of this nature: weaving history with imagination, dealing with the preconceptions people bring to the historical figures, and dealing with the excessive amount of people with a role in the historical situations. The character list of this tale would rival even [SPOILER ALERT: another Dickens reference] that of Bleak House. I cannot say I learned much history from this work of historical fiction, but I can say I learned something timeless: sometimes things are not worth the wait, and the less you pay for something often directly equates to less disappointment when something is not what you expect. Thriftiness saved the day here, because if I had shelled out for the hard cover, this review may have had a lot more complaining and a little more snark.

Mantel, Hilary. Wolf Hall. New York: Henry Holt and Company, 2009.

Week the First

Whenever I get a substantial amount of hair cut off, a strange sort of phantom hair syndrome happens for the next few days. I go to wash or brush my hair, and my hands and fingers and arms are used to a certain motion. After all, they have been brushing hair that has imperceptibly gotten longer for several months. I get ready to brush that same length of hair, but after the haircut, several inches are gone, and the brush slips into nothingness. For me, moving and starting a new job has been a little like that sensation: I try to do something, and I get started as I usually would, but then nothing is there. Instead of a direct relationship between needing yogurt and beer and going to Sunflower Market to get it, now when I need groceries, I have to do a Google search for a grocery store and write down directions. When asked to mail something at work, I go to do it, then realize I do not know where envelopes are. There is a disconnect between what I want to do, and the knowledge I have for doing it.

The offer for the Assistant Acquisitions Editor position at the University of Illinois Press came almost a year to the day I completed graduate school. The year in between was filled with an impossible work schedule with approximately three jobs at any given time, feelings of failure, and the adamant support of friends and family I have now left to come and pursue my publishing career. The Press is fantastic, but because I have never had a job I have so sincerely thought was a perfect fit for my skills and pursuits, it comes with a massive feeling of pressure. My first day was a total high: I met new people who were beyond welcoming and I was put to work. I could barely believe that on my first day I got to conduct research on peer reviewers, attend a meeting, do some filing-type tasks, and begin organizing my very own office. It was a pleasant surprise to feel utterly comfortable on the first day of a new job in a new environment. On my second and third days I was put to even more work and the first day high diminished. It is hard to feel successful or productive when every task takes several times longer than it should as I learn my way around a new building, new procedures, and a new copier (I swear, no two are ever the same). However, as I left messages with prospective peer reviewers, was shown how to prepare packets for the bi-weekly meetings, snatched my favorite pens from the supply area, sent rejection emails, and drafted descriptions for manuscripts, I knew I had found a place I will soon feel is my professional home.

After my first week, I woke up Saturday morning with a great deal of anxiety of all the things I could have done better over my first three days. I was worried I should know things already and not have to ask questions, and I had convinced myself I made a terrible blunder during a confused phone call. Then I walked to the Urbana farmer’s market, and I did it without getting lost. Image that! Last weekend I had never been to Urbana, and this weekend I navigated it. Contemplating that progress led me to this conclusion: I got embarrassingly lost my first few days in Urbana, and I will get lost and make mistakes at work. It may take time to navigate my new position at UIP, but it will happen eventually, and I reassure myself that, just as my hair always seems to grow back, surely but gradually, my confidence, efficiency, and knowledge in my work will grow as well.

Further and Further East: Easter

Poland is one of the most predominantly Catholic countries in Europe, if not in the world. Because of this, the country is known for its Easter celebrations. One of the cities best known for such celebrations is Krakow. The week leading up to Easter is filled with events and traditions, including Easter markets, similar to the Easter and Christmas markets found in most European countries. One of the most charming traditions occurs on Easter Saturday. In the US, we associate Easter baskets with the Easter bunny, Cadbury eggs, and jelly beans. As we walked the streets of Krakow, we saw a very different type of Easter basket: children and adults alike carried simple baskets with the food that would be eaten at Easter Sunday's meal. The baskets included small portions that were taken to be blessed, and churches were filled throughout the day as people got their baskets blessed and attended mass.

We arrived in Krakow around 7 am after taking a night train from Prague. The train ride itself was amazing, and we woke up to a gentle knock by the train steward who told us our stop was coming up and he had coffee and croissants for us. After exiting the train station, we were greeted by a large plaza with historic buildings on one edge, and a giant, modern mall on another edge, which gave an apt first impression of a city that embraces its past while moving forward. When we arrived at our hostel, we were beyond impressed by its cleanliness, chicness, and friendliness. It was not long before Mike also made it to the hostel, and we ditched our bags and set out to explore the city. We began in the Jewish quarter. We walked by synagogues, over a bridge, and through the streets where Schindler's List was filmed. In Hero's Square, there are empty chairs lined up in perfect rows, which provides a haunting effect in a place where Jews were once forced to run in circles until the Nazis decided which people to kill. We also went to Schindler's factory, which is now encased in glass and has been made part of a museum. The day became less somber as we sat down to our first, but not last, meal of pierogies. We then visited Wallel Hill where we perused the castle, 14th century cathedral, and breathtaking views of the city and river. Afterwards, we wound our way through the park which extends down the middle of the city. We then happened upon Krakow's Easter market in what we soon realized was the major square of the town. We ate spinach, Russian style, and cabbage pierogies from the market that day and the next. We also ate delicious fried cheese made in the high mountains outside the city, drank beer that they put a strange but glorious syrup into, and shopped around the market that had Polish arts and crafts. On Easter Sunday, we returned to the market in the pouring rain to enjoy the same tasty treats. We also saw packed churches everywhere we went, and though the masses were said in Polish, it was easy to understand the intense smell of incense and the joy in the voices of singing churchgoers. Though many restaurants, shops, and museums were closed because of the Easter holiday, having the streets of Krakow almost to ourselves, coupled with the special Easter celebrations, created a unique and unforgettable experience.

On Easter night, we took a night train to Lviv, Ukraine. Instead of waking to a kind steward, we awoke to a harsh knock an hour earlier than we had anticipated because of the time difference between Poland and Ukraine. We looked out the train window to see our stop, but because we do not know Cyrillic, we had to trust that the steward was kicking us off the train at the right stop. As we exited the train station, we were met with more Cyrillic, and the challenge of navigating the public transportation system. The cost of a ticket for the tram is 1 Ukrainian Hryvnia, which converts to about 15 cents. We set out to find our hotel with directions that were in English, only to find that most of the street signs were in Cyrillic; however, once we figured out where we were, the city became very easy to navigate. We were greeted at our hotel by the sight of dozens of empty beer bottles all over the patio and the receptionist sleeping on the couch in the reception area. Although unconventional, we quickly learned that Monday is also part of the Easter holiday, and given the Ukrainian, Polish, and Russian propensity to drink, the hotel patrons and staff had taken complete advantage of the holiday. So, once again, we found ourselves in a city where many shops and restaurants were closed for the holiday, but this time around, we spent a great deal of time attempting to acquire train tickets to our next destination, Debrecen, Hungary. As if a language barrier is not difficult enough, the alphabet barrier proved highly frustrating. We did not actually get the whole situation sorted out until the next day, when we finally got tickets for a train that night. As for the rest of our time in Lviv, we hung out with a friendly American Peace Corps volunteer who had a friend visiting from Virginia and we toured the streets. Lviv is also very Catholic and has many beautiful churches and cathedrals. The town is beautiful, and has a breathtaking park. I feel so lucky to have gotten to see it in the prime of spring, with flowering trees and warm sunshine. Kids were playing on playgrounds, people were playing with dogs, and everyone was doing some people watching. We sat at sidewalk cafes and had some Ukrainian food and beer. I had some delicious borscht (beet soup) and more pierogies, though in Urkaine they are called varenyky. We visited the town square, which is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and we also took a hike up to Lviv's High Castle. To get there, we walked up a steep hill, then about 250 stairs, and then climbed more stairs and ramps around a citadel-type structure with a flag on the top. Though I dispute the application of the term castle, it did lead us to amazing views, and made us realize we had only encountered a small, touristy fraction of Lviv and Ukraine. Overall, the initial obstacles and frustrations we had met with in the city were overshadowed by the city's beauty and simplicity, plus I am pretty excited about the Ukrainian stamp in my passport.

Up until Lviv, our travels had taken us further and further east. With Easter over, we headed south to Satu Mare, Romania, where we stayed with a friend I met on my first trip to Romania. Tomorrow we are going to see Romania's largest waterfall and a cemetery famed for being the only merry cemetery. I am intrigued to discover what makes the cemetery so merry!

Prague Spring

As we wandered the winding streets of Prague, it was impossible to avoid the sense of history, the majesty of the buildings, and the allure of spires sprinkled across the skyline. Prague tries to embrace and capitalize on all of these aspects: the Bohemian origins, twice the capital of the Holy Roman Empire, the story of not one but two defenestrations by the Hussites, the reign of the infamous Hapsburgs, and the Communist takeover and subsequent effects and revolutions. In 1968, under the Czech leader Alexander Dubcek, many of the facets of Communism were removed despite the negative and threatening reaction of Moscow. This political move ushered in decades of usually peacefully resolutions and movement away from Communism. It also helped to create the political temperment that has helped Prague establish itself as one of the wealthiest cities in Eastern Europe and as a tourist destination. The precipitating event to all this came to be known as the Prague Spring.

Now, I have found myself in Prague during spring, and it is gorgeous. The weather, which we anticipated to be cold and rainy, has been warm and sunny. The gardens on the hill around Prague castle were in full bloom, and every flowering tree and plant was breathtaking, especially with the castles and Prague skyline as the backdrop. Upon our arrival, reception made some recommendations for authentic Czech food and gave us some very useful advice: "Here, beer is cheaper than water, and so I recommend you just drink beer." She was not joking: she was seriously telling us to drink beer over water, and beer was seriously cheaper than water. Obviously, we went with her advice, and most of our outings and sightseeing involved regular beer breaks, which we regarded as cultural immersion time.

Though Prague is large, we walked almost everywhere, because all of the historical and notable places are within close range of one another. We stayed next to the Charles Bridge, which gave us conventient access to both the castle and old town areas. We went on a free tour of the city (though the guide frequently reminded us that tips were accepted). The tour covered the old town buildings, the Jewish section of the city, St. Wenceslas Square, some historic musical and theater buidings, and some churches and statues. One of the most remarkable statues was the Franz Kafka statue. There is also museum devoted to Kafka's life and work that we went to on our last day in the city. Seeing what an influence he was artistically and philosophically make me regret not having read his works. Another notable place on our trip was a rather small church in Stare Mesto that had an interesting legend. According to the legend, a statue of the Virgin Mary was adorned with a beautiful necklace. One night, a thief hid in the church until all the priests had left. He climbed up to the statue, reached out for the necklace, and much to his surprise and chagrin, the statue grabbed the man's arm and held him aloft until the next morning when the priests returned and summoned the executioner with his axe. The thief assumed they would cut off the statue's arm, but he was wrong. The thief's arm was cut off and he was sent to jail. Whether the story is true or not, an old, blackened, shriveled, severed arm remains hanging in the church as a warning to theives.

Over the next few days, we saw too many people wearing Czech Me Out shirts, learned that sitting inside a smoky bar (all of which are smoky) makes your clothes smell too terrible to wear, ate Bohemian and potato dumplings ( knedliky), found a delcious bagel place, and ate traditional cuisine at some of the Easter markets. Czech food is heavy in nature and usually incorporates a cream of some sort, meat, potatoes, and bread. They also had the most genius idea: fried toast. We discovered this upon ordering beer cheese and toast. The beer cheese was unique, a little stinky, and unforgettably delicious. The toast was the real treat. It wasn't merely toasted; it was crispy, greasy, and beyond grilled. I think fried bread should be a staple on any menu. One of the other amazing dishes we sampled was garlic soup (cesnekova). The broth is garlicy to the point of perfection, and crouton-type-breadcrumbs are dropped into the soup right before it is served, so the bread is still a little crunchy, and therefore amazing. On a visit to a monastery, we saw the monastic library collection and also visited the monastic brewery, which had a seasonal Easter beer, so we had some cultural immersion time at the monastery. We also found an amazing microbrewery called Pivovarsky Dum (pivo is Czech for beer) that served traditional beer in addition to banana, sour cherry, nettle, and coffee brews. We went there twice and banana was by far my favorite. After spending too much time at Pivovarsky Dum, we also learned that the Prague metro is amazingly efficient and was probably the reason we made our train on time.

In many ways, visiting Prague in spring has accompanied a sort of spring awakening in my traveling mentality. After becoming a little jaded in my travels, it was nice to go to a place where no one tried to buy me, where prices were set on a menu instead of being inflated based on my passport, and where I was not considered scantily clad while wearing a short-sleeve shirt. So, we have now moved on to Krakow, Poland, where we have met up with Mike and are currently holed up, with some friendly American students studying abroad in France and some very rowdy Spaniards, inside a rather posh hostel on a rainy Easter Sunday.

Kate Jacobs' The Friday Night Knitting Club

I have not posted a book review in awhile. One of the reasons for this is because every now and then I stumble upon a book that is so unappealing that it takes me a long time to read, and this was one of those books. It is almost as if I procrastinated and would do things other than read because I disliked the book so much. Reading Friday Night Knitting Club felt like a chore on two accounts. The first: it was loaned to me, randomly, by a coworker's mother, who frequently asked about my reading progress. The second: wading through Jacobs' sentence fragments was a consistent frustration. I admit, I cried at the end. Yes, even I can be moved despite shoddy punctuation placement. However, the plot that pulled at my heartstrings did not make up for the rest of the book's faults.

The first fault that impeded my reading pleasure was simply the sentence fragments. For example, "really open" (274) is not a sentence. Yet in the book, r was capitalized, and a period followed open. While I can make certain exceptions for dialogue, I encounter comprehension problems when I am faced with an onslaught of non-dialogue fragments, pronouns with no antecedents, and an infestation of comma splices. Most writing conventions and grammar rules are there for a reason, and that reason is to make writing accessible to the reader. The second fault involved the predominance of cliches. The novel included every stereotypical plot line one can imagine: scorned lover, betrayed best friend, elderly patron, unexpected pregnancy, mixed-race child issues, cheating and adultery, [WARNING: spoiler alert] a surprise death by cancer that brings everyone together. Knitting is the theme that connects all the plot lines, but the final product was like a loose, patchwork sweater that your grandmother made and that you are forced to wear.

Though the novel successfully borders on the inspirational, it does so in the most predictable of ways. I may as well have read a daily calendar of Deepak Chopra quotes. I can only assume that its inspirational qualities are what warranted a sequel to the book: Knit Two. (If the name had been Saturday Night Knitting Club, I might have been slightly amused.) I just hope no one loans me the sequel to read, and if someone does, I hope I can work up the gumption to just say no.

RECOMMENDED: No

NEXT READ: Hillary Mantel's Wolf Hall

REREAD: Our Town

Jacobs, Kate. The Friday Night Knitting Club. New York: Penguin, 2007.

Egyptian Demands: A Baksheesh for Your Thoughts

For those of you who may not know, baksheesh is the Arabic word for tip or bribe, which I also wrote about in “Honk If You’re Egyptian.” I cannot emphasize the prevalence of this Egyptian practice: one cannot escape baksheesh! Even the smallest favor seems to warrant financial reciprocation, where a similar situation in most places in the world would require a simple thank you. At a tourist-oriented restaurant, I once saw an employee go into the ladies’ room ahead of me, flush the toilet unnecessarily, and then demand baksheesh from me before I entered the stall.

So, am I surprised to hear rumors that Egyptians are demanding baksheesh from travelers attempting to leave the country to ensure their safety in the midst of political uprising? Absolutely not. This led me to think, however, that if the Egyptians apply the persistence they exhibit when demanding baksheesh, they have a pretty good chance of receiving the democracy they demand. If I were to describe the Arabic culture, I would characterize it as passionate and determined. In some cases, these characteristics manifest themselves in the interminable sales pitches enticing you to buy a carpet or hookah. In other, more moving cases, passion and determination is manifested in the reliability of the muezzin’s beautiful call to prayer, in a candid and proud religious celebration in the street, or, in the case of Egypt, in the tenacity of a very poor, but culturally rich people.

As I watch and read the news, I am most struck by where the Egyptian people are demonstrating: I have been in some of those places. I travel because it opens my mind to experiences and cultures; it makes me a better person, and, at times like these, it personalizes the struggles I am witness to via various media outlets. When I see demonstrations outside the Library of Alexandria, I fear that the impressive structure I was awed by may be burned down yet again. But who am I to put a price on democracy? Maybe a library is a fair cost? I think the beautiful and friendly Alexandria deserves the government it wants. When I see pictures of Midan Tahrir (Tahrir Square), I remember a dangerous, chaotic, and indescribably intricate roundabout where there was a major Metro stop, access to a bridge to cross the Nile, dozens of tour operators, and, oddly enough, a KFC. Midan Tahrir was always a bustling square, but now it is the locus of a rebellion. I feel privileged to have been to some of the places that have become rallying points for a revolution, and I wish the Egyptians luck as they fight for something in which they believe. Whether it is for baksheesh or democracy, I think the Egyptians will put up a good fight until their demands are met.

Lev Grossman's The Magicians

In an unplanned sequence of events, I bought this book almost as soon as it came out in paperback. I came across the book at a freestanding Waldenbooks, which are clearly the rarest of breeds these days. I took special delight in finding out from the friendly Waldenbooks salesperson that it is also the last Waldenbooks in the state of Arizona. (It is located on Bell and 3rd Street in Phoenix if you would like to pay them a visit.).

Now, onto the book. Have you ever read a book that is hard to get excited about? Maybe it takes you a few chapters to warm up to the protagonist? Perhaps it takes you 50 pages or so to get invested in the plot? Well, this is not one of those kinds of books. The Magicians is the type of book that had me completely engaged from the beginning, made me stay up far too late reading, and had me reconsidering why I do anything but read books. (Shameless plug: I must do things other than read because I have bills to pay, so if anyone would like to pay me to read, please contact me immediately.)

As you are all savvy readers, I am sure you have gleaned from the title that the book indeed involves magic. One could say that Grossman's prose borders on magic, but the true magic is, literally and figuratively, the plot, which includes magicians and all the magical problems they encounter. Almost immediately, the reader finds references to the mythical, magical land of Fillory. Fillory is an only slightly veiled allusion to Narnia of C.S. Lewis and The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe fame. The main character, Quentin Coldwater, grew up reading novels about Fillory (much like I grew up reading novels about Narnia), and he earnestly wishes that magic were real (much like I think it would be awesome to have a magic wand and do spells). SPOILER ALERT: He got his wish. (I did not.) In Harry Potter-esque fashion, Quentin finds himself at a school of magicians and adventure ensues. The remarkable thing about the story is that the adventures are quite gritty, complete with sex, jealousy, guilt, and a bunch of other non-magical things. Through Quentin, Grossman explores the existence of someone with the magic of a post-Hogwarts Harry Potter and the cynicism of Holden Caulfield from J.D. Salinger's Catcher in the Rye.

As readers, we do not often consider the disenchanted, sexualized wizard searching for a life purpose. Upon entering Narnia or Hogwarts, the Pevensie children and Potter have an obvious opponent: some manifestation of the forces of evil. For Quentin and his magical cohort, the forces of evil are not as obvious, and are more internal: egoism, arrogance, the torture of guilt, and uncensored magical abilities. The true story within The Magicians is how Quentin copes with the non-magical.

RECOMMENDED: Definitely

NEXT READ: Kate Jacobs' Friday Night Knitting Club

REREAD: C.S. Lewis' The Chronicles of Narnia

Grossman, Lev. The Magicians. New York: Plume-Penguin, 2009.