Friday, December 30, 2011

The Forever War

Dexter Filkins


The military prism is an important way to view a war but not the only way. Written by a journalist, this book paints a picture of Iraq over the course of the war in snapshots, chapter by chapter. This book is difficult to read for the sheer truth it reveals in an almost painfully unembelished account of what has transpired in Iraq. It is a kind of raw exposure, experienced by the author and shared with the reader.


"In Afghanistan, the brutality and the humor went hand in hand; the knife with the tender flesh. There seemed no collapse of their fortunes in which the Afghans could not find some reason to laugh." Pg. 24


"Iraq was filled with people like Yacob. They weren't survivors as much as they were leftovers. The ruined byproducts of terrible times." Pg. 72


"There were always two conversations in Iraq, the one the Iraqis were having with the Americans and the one they were having among themselves. The one the Iraqis were having with us - that was positive and predictable and boring, and it made the Americans happy because it made them think they were winning. And the Iraqis kept it up because it kept the money flowing, or because it bought them a little peace. The conversation they were having with each other was what really mattered, of course. That conversation was the chatter of a whole other world, a parallel reality, which sometimes unfolded right next to the Americans, even right in front of them. And we almost never saw it." Pg. 115


"But there was nothing like facing death to feel it in the flesh. It was as if Omohundro wore a mask, and with that mask he gave everyone more courage than they knew they had. The trick was never showing fear." Pg. 191


"It was a joke among the marines posted there, 'the government center,' since there wasn't much of either. The center of the city was obliterated and the government had ceased to exist." Pg. 296 [referring to Ramadi]


"Whatever the motives of the people who expelled Hanoon, the effect on his own views seemed lasting and deep. His brian was turning. As he packed his belongings and prepared to leave his ancestral home, Hanoon said, not a single one of his Sunni neighbors stopped by to say goodbye. 'It's in their genes,' Hanoon said. 'It's a disease. They hate the Shiites. I don't think things will ever go back to normal between Shiites and Sunnis.'" Pg. 320


Book 75

Monday, December 26, 2011

Sunday, December 25, 2011

Current Stash of Library Books

Library is closed until Jan 3rd so I had to stock up on books!



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The City of Bones

By Cassandra Clare


YA fiction about a young girl discovering herself and the surprising world of not magic she didn't know existed. This is a very entertaining story with two more books to the series. An easy but thought provoking read exploring friendship, family loyalty, love, honor, truth and growing up. 


I am now following the YALSA (Young Adult Library Services Association) and this series was in the top ten when they came out (along with Harry Potter, Twilight, Hunger Games, etc.). 


I am reading books off this list:
http://www.ala.org/yalsa/booklists/bbya 


Book 73

Wednesday, December 21, 2011

The Intuitionists

By Colson Whitehead

Another wonderful, indescribable book by Colson Whitehead. 

". . . 'eccentric' being a word, Lila Mae notes dryly, that white people use to describe crazy white people of stature." Pg. 83

"She has not seen any of the other guests but can imagine them. The city's tidal forces wash the weak-treading citizens out here, to the edge to pitiless crags like the Friendly League Residence. Old men in gray clothes with beards like dead grass, stooped and shuffling. The alibiless. Jagged coughing haunted the halls last night, stealing out of multiple rooms, a sodden death-chorus." Pg. 185

"It's all bright and all the weight and cares you have been shedding are no longer weight and cares but brightness. Even the darkness of the shaft is gone because there is no disagreement between you and the shaft. How an you breathe when you no longer have lungs? The question does not perturb, that last plea of rationality has fallen away floors ago, with the earth. No time, no time for one last thought, what was the last thing I thought last night before i fell asleep, the very last thought, what was it, because before you can think that thought everything is bright and you have fallen away in the perfect elevator." Pg 223

"That she was a citizen of the city to come and that the frail devices she had devoted her life to were weak and would all fall one day like Number Eleven. All of them, plummeting down the shafts like beautiful dead stars." Pg 255

Book 72

Monday, December 19, 2011

The Virgin Suicides

By Jeffrey Eugenides


At once a funny parable about suburbia and a sad story of the casualties of it, the is a wonderful story about kids coming of age in modern, empty suburbia. As I found in Middlesex, Eugenides writes nimbly, weaving a compelling story told with grace and precision.                                                                                       


"We were amazed our parents permitted this, when lawn jobs usually justified calling the cops. But now Mr. Bates didn't scream o r try to get the truck's license plate, nor did Mrs. Bates, who had once wept when we set off firecrackers in her state-fair tulips - they said nothing, and our parents said nothing, so that we sensed how ancient they were, how accustomed to trauma, depressions, and wars. We realized that the version of the world they rendered for us was not the world they believed in, and that for all their care taking and bitching about crabgrass they didn't give a damn about lawns." Pg. 55


"It didn't matter in the end how old they had been, or that they were girls, but only that we had loved them, and that they hadn't heard us calling, still do not hear us, up here in the tree house, with our thinning hair and soft bellies, calling them out of those rooms where they went to be alone for all time, alone in suicide, which is deeper than death, and where we will never find the pieces to put them back together." Pg. 249


Book 71

Sunday, December 18, 2011

One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich

By Alexander Solzhenitsyn

I have been interested in Russia lately, the prisons in particular and the whole era of the gulags. This book is an essential read in the genre. The author literally chronicles one day of the prisoner Ivan Denisovich. Jimmy described it as claustrophobic. I agree, in so much that it is confined (a necessary feature of prison literature), but also condensed, which is not usually characteristic of prison literature since the long expanse of time is often being emphasized. Solzhenitsyn doesn't emphasize the brutality or horrific conditions within which the prisoners live or the common inexplicable reason why they are there; instead, both the injustice of being there and the inhumane conditions under which you live in a daily basis are so normal, so impossible to fight that to survive you just have to accept it and take each of the daily challenges that come your way in stride. Just as Ivan does.

Book 70

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Sunday, December 11, 2011

Zone One

By Colson Whitehead


This book is difficult to describe or categorize. It could be seen as science fiction and/or dystopic fiction. Ok, its a zombie book. But don't let that fool you. Whiteheads writing is an incredible experience. His language is playful and clever without trying to be either one. His words brought me great joy, he is a writer I will be following. 


The story itself takes place in a kind of post-apocalyptic setting. In this backdrop of the loss of everything humans have invented and all of human history, a unique window opens to look at the sublime and absurd world we have created. 


"He remembered how things used to be, the customs of the skyline. Up and down the island the buildings collided, they humiliated runts through verticality and ambition, sulked in one another's shadows. Inevitability was mayor, term after term. Yesterdays old masters, stately named and midwifed by once-famous architects, were insulted by the soot of combustion engines and by technological advances in construction. Time chiseled at elegant stonework, which swirled or plummeted to the sidewalk in dust and chips and chunks. Behind the facades their insides were butchered, reconfigured, rewired according to the next era's new theories of utility." Pg 6


"Once inside, the unit wplit up and he swept solo through the workstations. The office furniture was hypermodern and toylike, for for an app garage or a graphic design firm keen on sketching the future. The surfaces of the desks were thick and transparent, hacked out of plastic and elevating the curvilinear monitors and keyboards in dioramas of productivity. The empty ergonomic chairs posed like amiable spiders, whispering a multiplicity of comfort and lumbar massage." Pg. 11-13


"A society manufactures the heroes it requires." Pg. 42


"The last time he was his childhood home was on Last Night. It, too, had looked normal from the outside, in that new meaning of normal that signified resemblance to the time before the flood. Normal meant 'the past.' Normal was the unbroken idyll of life before.The present was a series of intervals differentiated from each other only by the degree of dread they contained. The future? The future was the clay in their hands." Pg. 65


"The soldiers took longer rest breaks, devising new branches of gallows humor, jokes that took root. They knew they were being fundamentally altered, in their very cells, inducted into a different class of trauma than the rest of the survivors. Semper fi. Then they went inside." Pg. 77


"The insomniac's brutal scenario had become the encompassing reality across the planet. There were hours when every last person on Earth thought they were the last person on Earth, and it was precisely this thought of final, irrevocable isolation that united them all. Even if they didn't know it." Pg. 87


"Everyone he saw walked around with a psychological limp, with a collapsed shoulder here or a disobedient, half-shut eyelid there, and the current favorite, the all-over crumpling, as if the soul were imploding or the mind sucking the extremities into itself.  . . Anyone with perfect posture was faking it, overcompensating for entrenched trauma." Pg. 92


"He told himself: Hope is a gateway drug, don't do it." Pg. 179


Book 69

The Magicians

By Lev Grossman


Aptly described as a postadolescent Harry Potter, the main character of the book struggles with a similar series of events leading him into the surprising world of magic. A world of magic with less clarity between good and evil, with not so heroic (nor sometimes likeable) heros, and with a story that is all together adult and in a strange way for a book of this title realistic. Surprising and delightful, an excellent read.


Book 68

Saturday, December 3, 2011

The Seamstress: A Memoir of Survival

By Sara Tuvel Bernstein


Sara Bernstein is independent, strong-willing, nurturing, wItty. And she tells a beautiful and horrific story of her life growing up pre-WWII and then as she watched her world unravel as the Germans strong armed themselves across Europe. It is an important story - the voices of women have been too small coming out of the nightmare of the ghettos and concentration camps. For her and her three female relatives, they entered the camps together and would not let each other go. They looked out for each other, shared food, used each of their own strengths to help the group stay alive. This was truly a unique accomplishment in such a chaotic and brutal environment. A beautiful and important story.


Book 67

Saturday, November 26, 2011

The Keeper of Lost Causes

By Jussi Adler-Olsen


This book was written by Denmark's #1 Crime writer. For anyone who enjoys crime fiction, this is an excellent book. It is styled after hard boiled crime fiction but had some very distinctly different features. The detectives assistant was a perfect compliment to the jaded cop. I enjoyed this book enough to look for more books by him but this was the only one the library had. 


"They told him that his eyes had a dead look to them. They thought it was the shock, but it was shame." Pg. 18


"We've all been up shit creek at one time or another. Anyone who hasn't is not a real cop. We just have to go our there, knowing that we might be out of our depth once in a while. That's our job." Pg. 286


Book 66

Saturday, November 19, 2011

Nightmares

Memoirs of the Years of Horror Under Nazi Rule in Europe, 1939 - 1945

By Konrad Charmatz

"The last safety plank had collapsed. There was nowhere else to hide, no one left to offer protection. No Jew was needed now. Hitler had kept his word: his fiendish project to destroy all the Jews was being carried out according to plan." pg. 49

"A command was heard, and the Nazi murderers began heaving the children out of the first of the wagons as if there were bags of coal or sacks of garbage....The ground actually shook from the screams of the children. The kapo stretched out on the ground and told us to do the same, but still we could see and hear what was happening at the crematoria, and it froze our blood. Two more transport wagons arrived full of children, and the same happened to them. Their terrified screams will never be forgotten by all those who witnessed this. We also heard the beastly laughter of the tower guards, who watched calmly as this spectacle took place.

Suddenly I heard a choked mournful outcry from the kommando. I looked around and saw the rebbe and his son had risen to their feet. Now they stretched their arms to heaven, and the rebbe called out with all his strength, "Lord of the Universe, where are you? How can you witness this and remain silent? No, no fellow Jews-there is no God!" pg. 103

"Here in this place of Jewish martyrdom, a few slaves were able to perform one year later a new act of Jewish holiness, continuing the tradition of generations." pg 142

"the kapos and the guards beat us pitilessly, and the number of dead grew steadily. We wanted either water or to be put to death." pg 169

"I wandered the city like a ghost, unable to stop crying. I looked into many Jewish homes and stores where at one time it had been so easy to encounter friends and acquaintances, handsome faces and friendly looks. I encountered none of the former owners. As I looked into the courtyards, scenes of Jewish children at play flashed before my eyes, th Shloimelech, and Peselech, the Hershelech, and Devorelech. All of them disappeared. I reminded myself of the long caravans and transports, the executions, the gas chambers and crematoria where I watched them being led to their deaths. The Nazis and their partners had thought of thousands of ways of death for their victims." pg 268


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Monday, November 14, 2011

A Match Made in Hell

The Jewish Boy and the Polish Outlaw Who Defied the Nazis


Larry Stillman from the testimony of Morris Goldner


This is the true story of Morris Goldner. As a young boy he witnessed, with his own eyes, Nazi horrors, somehow survives and then finds himself being mentored by a notorious criminal to stay alive. Their exploits eventually lead to sabotage against the Nazi's. This is an incredible survival story, told with courage and honesty; detailing experiences which unopen the spaces between good and evil particular to the hell that was WWII. I commend Morris' willingness to share his experiences in this important, and unique, Holocaust story.

"It was finally getting through to me that while the war lasted, my life could no longer be the same. Although I had not been happy going back and forth to school in Debica, now I felt like a prisoner in mu own home. Yet I had no idea how much better my life was compared to waht most families faced in the large cities." Pg. 25


"On another day I spent several fascinating hours - for I had never been a better student than when I learned about the weapons of war - reviewing the characteristics of various hand grenades." Pg. 37


"A howl of anguish rose suddenly to my left - cries of such piercing pain, it struck me as being almost inhuman in origin. I turned in that direction, toward the women's group, searching for Mama and Gita. I could not spot them, because soldiers had moved in among the frenzied women. What I saw taking place there, just meters away from where I stood, paralyzed me with such horror, I cannot find proper words to describe what I witnessed and what I felt. How can words describe such inhumanity?


This can't be happening! I thought at the time, and I think it anew each of the hundreds of times the scene replays itself, even now, in my nightmares. For this is what I see:


SS men are singling out all the women with babies and small children, brutally driving them at bayonet point toward the barrels. Give us your garbage! they are shouting in German. Put your babies in the barrels! The mothers are screaming louder than the children, They cannot believe they understand what the soldiers want them to do. The SS monsters push them harder, force them toward the barrels. Then one after another, they pry the babies from their mothers' protective arms and stuff the beautiful, innocent children into the barrels as if they are nothing more than freshly pickled cucumbers. As each barrel becomes filled with babies, the SS man slams its cover tightly into place and moves on to the next barrel." Pg 48


Encounter with the priest:
"'I am ashamed of my own people' - his precise words - 'both within the church and outside it. When the war ends and we have to answer to the rest of the world, what will we say? How will the Polish people face them?'"
Pg. 105


"Something gelled at that moment in the back of my mind, a hunger that had been there all along but had just now been given light and substance, like an image materializing on a sheet of photosensitive paper. From that moment on, it would remain in my consciousness, fixed indelibly, until my own plans for retribution could be put in action." Pg. 145

"It was at this moment the explosion blew apart the carriage I had just left. Projectiles of mangled steel splayed in all directions, destroying the carriages both immediately in front and behind, overturning several of the remaining cars and scattering others off the track.


I pulled myself deeper into the forest, wincing in pain from my bruised ribs and torn shoulder. I could have easily been killed three times over: by the force of the nearby explosion, or the carnage of flying glass and metal, or in my jump from the speeding train. This time I did not even try to understand why, once more, I had escaped with my life." Pg. 153
"In German-occupied homes the Russians spared no one, including the family pets. Men were forced to watch as their wives and daughters, screaming for mercy, were savagely raped by Russian soldiers - who, after having their way, slashed each German throat. From what I could tell, the Red Army authorities made no effort to reign in the barbarity. Stalin himself, I have since heard, shrugged off the rape and looting as 'having some fun' and 'taking a few trifles.'" Pg. 178


"And for the first time since my earliest missions with Kopec, I felt a vague sensation of uneasiness seeping down into the pit of my stomach, like water eroding rock. But this time it was not the anxiety of being caught, or tortured, or killed, or failing a mission that unnerved me so. It was something much less definable and far more paralyzing: 
The consternation of having survived, with no idea, no idea at all, of what to do about it." Pg. 179


Book 64

Crossed

By Ally Condie


This is the much anticipated second book to the YA dystopian fiction Matched. Given the conclusion to Matched, it should be no surprise that this book takes place outside of the Society. And strange as this may be, I missed it. There were some great parts of this book but it may be my least favorite in the series. There were some places I just wanted both the story and the characters to reach a little deeper and parts of the story where even my wide, wide net of suspended disbelief had to snicker. I look very forward to the next book which I have faith will continue the intriguing series and take the story to the next level.


Book 63

Forest of Hands and Teeth Book 2 & 3



The Dead-Tossed Waves
The Dark and Hallow Places


By Carrie Ryan


This YA series is probably the best series from a pure story telling perspective. Ryan writes an unpredictable story and is willing to take a lot of risks. By this I mean, in YA it is easy (and popular) to fall back on some of the simple formulas that teenage girls have fallen for time and time again. In my opinion, Ryan creates a much deeper story line by not taking that route. The result is much more difficult to endure as a reader, but far more rewarding. 


Book 61 & 62

Forever

By Maggie Stiefvater 


This is the third book in a young adult series which began with the book Shiver. The story is loosely about humans that turn into wolves under certain conditions and their struggle both internally to survive and thrive given their situation and their relationship with the external world and the small town they live in that does not understand. 


Other than that, here is not much I can tell you about the plot itself without giving far too much away. Let me just say that I highly recommend the series if you are into YA at all. It was a unique story with interesting characters and compelling language. Stiefvater has sentences or paragraphs sprinkled throughout her books that just move me. In her own words (from her blog): "I will sacrifice most anything in order to change someone's mood in a certain way. I can't do that without careful navigation of metaphor and character development." 

Book 60

Saturday, October 22, 2011

His Dark Materials Series

The Golden Compass, The Subtle Knife, The Amber Spyglass

By Philip Pullman

"'That's the duty of the old,' said the Librarian, 'to be anxious on behalf of the young. And the duty of the young is to scorn the anxiety of the old.'" Pg. 32

"It was a fine thing to be free again. She knew that Pantalaimon, padding on wildcat paws besider her, felt the same joy as she did to be in the open air, even if it was murky London air laden with fumes and soot and clangorous with noise." Pg 99

"To be sure, there's a warm passion behind what you say. But if you give in to that passion, friends, you're a doing what I always warned you agin: you're placing the satisfaction of your own feelings above the work you have to do." Pg 138 John Faa

"Under his guidance she found out that having something to do prevented you from feeling seasick, and that even a job like scrubbing a deck could be satisfying, if it was done in a seamanlike way. She was very taken with this notion, and later on she folded the blankets on her bunk in a seamanlike way, and put her possessions in the closet in a seamanlike way, and used 'stow' instead of 'tidy' for the process of doing so." Pg 165

"The idea hovered and shimmered delicately, like a soap bubble, and she dared not even look at it directly in case it burst. But she was familiar with the way of ideas, and she let it shimmer, looking away, thinking about something else." Pg 335 Lyra plotting for Iofur Raknison

The Subtle Knife
"And all the time he was intensely aware of the girl She was small and slight, but wiry, and she fought like a tiger; his fist had raised a bruise on her cheek, and she was ignoring it. Her expression was a mixture of the very young - when she first tasted the cola - and a kind of deep, sad wariness." Pg 24

"The Texan got to his feet, whiplashed-lean and courteous. He looked as if he were not conscious of the strangeness of the occasion, but he was. His hare daemon, Hester, crouched beside him, her ears flat along her back, her golden eyes half closed." Pg 51 Lee Scoresby

"'For a human being, nothing comes naturally,' said Grumman. 'We have to learn everything we do.'" Pg 298


Books 57 - 59

The Invention of Hugo Cabret

By Brian Selznick 

Read this book in one sitting, cover to cover. Part written story, part illustrated - it draws you into the book as if you were one of the characters. This style provides an incredibly rich experience. The story itself is wonderful. A unique, mesmerizing experience.

"There it was, like an accusation, reminding Hugo that everything in his life had been destroyed." pg 130

Book 56

Sunday, October 2, 2011

War

By Sebastian Jungar

In his introduction, Jungar has a warning for his readers: "In many cases I have shortened quotes from interviews and texts in order to ease the burden on the reader."

"The videotape I shot during the ambush in Aliabad shows every man dropping into a crouch at the distant popping sound. They don't do this in response to a loud sound - which presumably is what evolution has taught us - but in response to the quieter snap of the bullets going past. The amygdala requires only a single negative experience to decide that something is a threat, and after one firefight every man in the platoon would have learned to react to the snap of bullets and to ignore the much louder sound of men near them returning fire. In Aliabad the men crouched for a second or two and then straightened up and began shouting and taking cover. In these moments their higher brain functions decided that the threat required action rather than immobility and ramped everything up; pulse and blood pressure to heart-attack levels, epinephrine and norepinephrine levels through the roof, blood draining out of the organs and flooding the heart, brain, and major muscle groups." Pg 32 - 33

"Summer grinds on: a hundred degrees every day and tarantulas invading the living quarters to get out of the heat. Some of the men are terrified of them and can only sleep in mesh pup tents, and others pick them up with pliers and light them on fire. The timber bunkers at Phoenix are infested with fleas, and the men wear flea collars around their ankles but still scratch all day long. First Squad goes thirty-eight days without taking a shower or changing their clothes, and by the end their uniforms are so impregnated with salt that they can stand up by themselves. The men's sweat reeks of ammonia because they've long since burned off all their fat and are now breaking down muscle. There are wolves up in the high peaks that howl at night and mountain lions that creep through the KOP looking for food and troops of monkeys that set to screeching from the crags around the base. One species of bird sounds exactly like incoming rocket-propelled grenades; the men call them RPG birds and can't keep themselves from flinching whenever they hear them." Page 54

"Reporters often think that taking cover from small-arms fire is the same thing as getting pinned down, but its not. Getting pinned down means you literally can't move without getting killed." Page 55

"Mobility has always been the default choice of guerilla fighters because they don't have access to the kinds of heavy weapons that would slow them down. The fact that networks of highly mobile amateurs can confound - even defeat - a professional army is the only thing that has prevented empires from completely determining the course of history. Whether that is a good thing or not depends on what amateurs you're talking about - or what empires - but it does mean that you can't predict the outcome of a war simply by looking at the numbers. " Pg. 83

"The idea that there are rules in warfare and that combatants kill each other according to basic concepts of fairness probably ended for good with the machine gun. A man with a machine gun can conceivably hold off a whole battilion, at least for a while, which changes the whole question of what it means to be brave in battle. In World War I, when automatic weapons came into general use, heavy machine gunners were routinely executed if their position was overrun because they caused so much death. " Page 140

"The enemy now had a weapon that unnerved the Americans more than small-arms fire ever could: random luck. Every time you drove down the road you were engaged in a twisted existential exercise where each moment was the only proof you'd ever have that you hadn't been blown up the moment before. An if you were blown up, you'd probably never know it and certainly wouldn't be able to affect the outcome. Good soldiers died just as easily as sloppy ones, which is pretty much how soldiers define unfair tactics in war.
 Pg 142

"War is a lot of things and it's useless to pretend that exciting isn't one of them. It's insanely exciting." Pg. 144

"On and on it went, lives measured in inches and seconds and deaths avoided by complete accident." Page 197

"It's a miraculous kind of antiparadise up here: heat and dust and tarantulas and flies and no women and no running water and no cooked food and nothing to do but kill and wait." Pg 222

"Civilians balk at recognizing that one of the most traumatic things about combat is having to give it up. War is so obviously evil and wrong that the idea there could be anything good to it almost feels like profanity. And yet throughout history, men like Mac and Rice and O'Byrne have com home to find themselves desperately missing what should have been the worst experience of their lives. To a combat vet, the civilian world can seem frivolous and dull, with very little at stake and all the wrong people in power. These men come home and quickly find themselves getting berated by a rear-base major who's never seen combat or arguing with their girlfriend about some domestic issues they don't even understand. When men say they miss combat, its not that they actually miss getting shot at - you would have to be deranged - it's that they miss being in a world where everything is important and nothing is taken for granted. They miss being in a world where human relations are governed by whether you can trust the other person with your life." Pg 234

"War is a big and sprawling word that brings a lot of human suffering into the conversation, but combat is a different matter. Combat is the smaller game that young men fall in love with, and any solution to the human problem of war will have to take into account the psyches of these young men. For some reason there is a profound and mysterious gratification to the reciprocal agreement to protect another person with your life, and combat is virtually the only situation in which that happens regularly." Pg 234

"The willingness to die for another person is a form of love that even religions fail to inspire, and the experience of it changes a person profoundly." Pg 239

Book 55

Monday, September 26, 2011

Battle Royale

By Koushun Takami


Do you ever know what another person is thinking?


This wonderful piece of dystopian fiction, from a Japanese perspective, has been touted as the Japanese Hunger Games. I prefer to compare it to Lord of the Flies


More important, it is much longer and more satisfying than the Hunger Game series. I look forward to reading book two!


"Worse yet, it wasn't simply a mass execution. The students had to kill each other, competing for the throne of survivor. It was the most terrifying version of musical chairs imaginable. But . . . it was impossible to oppose the Program. It was impossible to protest anything the Republic of Greater East Asia did." Pg 43


". . . The hatchet was lodged in so deeply, it was stuck.
Shuya took a deep breath. Oh God.
Then he thought about it. No. What's this about God? Ms. Anno was a devoted Christian but no thanks to her faith in God she ended up getting raped by Sakamochi. Ah, praise the Lord.
Shuya felt another surge of anger." Pg 134


"'Exactly. That's why I think no one here really wants to kill anyone. I think it's because we're so terrified we become deluded that everyone else is out to kill us and so we resort to fighting. And in that state even if no one attacked, we might even end up attacking others on our own.'" Pg 157


"Shinji nodded and tried to write out the name of the fertilizer compound, but he didn't know how to spell it. He was a casualty of spellcheck. Anyway, what mattered was the molecular formula." Pg 316


"He couldn't blame Yutaka for doubting him. The path they'd taken here was covered with trees, both large and small. Even if they managed to drag the wire out while avoiding G=7 and tugged on it later, the wire might get caught. It would make for an odd-looking piece of outdoor contemporary art. 'This installation piece is gigantic, but five meters away it turn obscure. The piece addresses the delicate balance between nature and humans . . .'"
Pg. 354


"Shogo then continued,'What I mean is that, even a dumb ass like me can think everything's pointless. Why do I get up and eat? It all ends up shit anyway. Why am I going to school and studying? Even if I happen to succeed I'm going to die anyway. You wear nice clothes, you seek respect, you make a lot of money, but what's the point? It's all pointless. Of course, this kind of meaninglessness might suit this crappy nation. But . . . but, you see, we still have emotions like joy and happiness, right? They may not amount to much. But they fill up our emptiness. That's the only explanation I have."
Pg. 525


"But of course they're part of you now." Pg 616


Book 54

Thursday, September 15, 2011

Let the Right One In

By John Ajvide Lindqvist

A Swedish vampire tale told in an entirely unique way. Described as "romantic, social realist" in genre it is a story told from a young boys perspective. In the beginning I thought it was a good teen geared story but the unfolding story and complex characters, often gruesome in their humanity, convinced me this was not the case. An important vampire book for anyone series about the genre.

"It was school. That's all. This was school. They told you to do a lot of things and you did them. The whole thing had been invented so teachers would be able to hand out photocopies. It didn't mean anything." Location 1605

"The credits for the nature program rolled on the TV. Eli put a finger on the woman's throat artery. It felt like a beating bird heart under her fingertips." Location 3857

"Yes. Everything is in the brain. From the beginning. The body is simply a kind of service unit that the brain is forced to be burdened with in order to keep itself alive." Location 6729

Book 53


The Ledge

By Jim Davidson

A survival story about two friends falling into an ice crevasse on Mount Rainer. The determination and self discovery that take place through the colossal feat to get out of the crevasse  are the heart of this interesting story.

Book 52

Real World

By Natsuo Kirino

There is no easy way to describe this book. As all Kirino's books, I am not even sure how to put them in a genre. Case in point, her other books were in the Mystery section of the library and this one was in the Fiction. This story exposes the edges of identity in a gripping coming of age story of a group of school age girls. A murder in the neighborhood starts a chain of events that force each girl, in their own way, to look at themselves carefully. Each finding surprising pieces that don't always have a place to rest within them.

Book 49

Middlesex

By Jeffrey Eugenides

This was an incredible book about a young women's journey into boyhood. Eugenides has a lyric, dreamy and intimately engaging style of writing that ropes the reader in to being complicit with the story.

"To think that a toilet had once been a haven for me! That was all over now. I could see at once that men's rooms, unlike the ladies', provided no comfort. Often there wasn't even a mirror, or any hand soap. And while the closeted, flatulent men showed no shame, at the urinals men acted nervous. They looked straight ahead like horses with blinders." pg.451

"Every morning a great wall of fog descends upon the city of San Francisco. It begins far out to sea. It forms over the Farallons, covering the sea lions on their rocks, and then it sweeps onto Ocean Beach, filling the long green bowl of Golden Gate Park. The fog obscures the early morning joggers and the lone practitioners of tai chi. It mists up the windows of the Glass Pavilion. It creeps over the entire city, over the monuments and movie theaters, over the Panhandle dope dens and the flophouses in the Tenderloin. The fog covers the pastel Victorian mansions in Pacific Heights and shrouds the rainbow-colored houses in the Haight. It walks up and down the twisting streets of Chinatown; it boards the cable cars, making their clanging bells sound like buoys; it climbs to the top of the Coit tower until you can't see it anymore; it moves in on the Mission, where the mariachi players are asleep; and it bothers the tourists. The fog of San Francisco, that cold, identity-cleansing mist that rolls over the city every day, explains better than anything else why the city is what it is." pg 469

Book 51 (I caught an error in my numbering system back on book 11)

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Monday, September 5, 2011

The Forest of Hands and Teeth

By Carrie Ryan

"And suddenly I wonder what right we have to believe our childhood dreams will come true. My body aches with this realization. With this truth. It is as if I have cut something important away from myself. The loss is almost overwhelming. Almost enough to make me give up." Page 105

"I stand at the edge of Beth's grave and stare out into the Forest and wonder how it is that we are never truly prepared for death." Pg 174

Book 48

American Gods

By Neil Gaiman



Book 47

Thursday, September 1, 2011

Matched

By Ally Condie



Book 45

Saturday, August 27, 2011

The Year of the Flood


By Margaret Atwood

This is the book that sets up Atwoods book "Oryk and Crake," which I previously posted.

What breaks in daybreak? Is it the night? Is it the sun, cracked in two by the horizon, like an egg spilling out light?"
Time is not a thing that passes; it is a sea on which you float.” 


How easy it is, treachery. You just slide into it.” 

Nobody likes it, thought Toby — being a body a thing. Nobody wants to be limited in that way. We’d rather have wings. Even the word /flesh/ has a mushy sound to it.” 

Maybe sadness was a kind of hunger, she thought. Maybe the two went together.” 

Book 46

Friday, July 22, 2011

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time

By


“And that is why people think that computers don’t have minds, and why people think that their brains are special, and different from computers. Because people can see the screen inside their head and they think there is someone in their head sitting there looking at the screen, like Captain Jean Luc Picard in Star Trek: The Next Generation sitting in his captains seat looking at a big screen. And they think that this person is their special human mind, which is called a homunculus, which means little man. And they think that computers don’t have this homunculus.

But this homunculus is just another picture on the screen in their heads. And when the homunculus is on the screen in their heads (because the person is thinking about the homunculus) there is another bit of the brain watching the screen. And when the person thinks about this part of the brain (the bit that is watching the homunculus on the screen) they put this bit of the brain on the screen and there is another bit of the brain watching the screen. But the brain doesn’t see this happen because it is like the eye flicking from one place to another and people are blind inside their heads when they do the changing from thinking about one thing to thinking about another.

And this is why people’s brains are like computers. And it’s not because they are special but because they have to keep turning off for fractions of a second while the screen changes. And because there is something they can’t see people think it has to be special, because people always think there is something special about what they can’t see, like the dark side of the moon, or the other side of a black hole, or in the dark when they wake up at night and they’re scared.

Also people think they’re not computers because they have feelings and computers don’t have feelings. But feelings are just having a picture on the screen in your head of what is going to happen tomorrow or next year, or what might have happened instead of what did happen, and if it is a happy picture they smile and if is a sad picture they cry.” Pgs 118 - 119


Book 44

The imperfectionists

By Tom Rachman

Book 43 

No ordinary Joes : the extraordinary true story of four submariners in war and love and life

By Larry

Book 42

Displaced Persons

Lot’s wife: “To look back was to turn into a tall mound of nothing but grief, dry grief. Not a punishment but a natural consequence. She turned into salt because those who looked back turned into salt. Not a punishment. A fact.” Pg 72

“Lola had studied genocide at Yale University, years ago. What Chaim would not discuss at home, she discussed in class, read in books, wrote in papers. Sometimes, when she was home for vacation, he would steal a look at them.” Pg 281

No Ordinary Joes: The Extraordinary True Story of Four Submariners in War and Love and Live

Captain Fitzgerald “York leaned over to look, and read: ‘Keep your peckers up, men.’ It had been written in blood by Captain Fitzgerald.” Pg 167

On the theme of survival and just getting through the past, not ever being able to shake it, one of the guys from the story said so much. You can’t never get it over you just keep getting through it.
By Ghita Schwarz



Book 41

Monday, July 4, 2011

The Cave Man

By Xiaoda Xiao

Solitary confinement for nine months has its effects on an individual that stretch outside of the prison walls and beyond that deprived space. In this book, Xiao explores the complexity of gaining your freedom from imprisonment with the necessary illusion that you are putting that part of your life behind you. But is that possible? Can we ever free ourselves of what we have experienced in the past or do our experiences sometimes haunt us, propelling their painful reminders into the future? What of the dreams that willed one through the experience of imprisonment and isolation? Even they can be questioned or more confounding, simply dissolved in the day to day realities of existence. 

Book 40

The Madonnas of Leningrad

By Debra Dean

This book was recommended by both my parents.

"But now I know, while beauty lives
So long will live my power to grieve."
- Alexander Pushkin

This story moves between Russia during WWII and a modern elderly couple, one of whom is struggling with Alzheimer's disease. It is at once a story about that couple and how they survived the war and how they are currently struggling with how to survive this disease. 
It is a beautiful story seeped in rich descriptions of art, detailed history of a harrowing time in history and a simple story of love and age.

"The bond that had first brought them together as children existed whether they spoke of it or not, the bond of survivors. Here in America, a relentlessly foolish and optimistic country, what they knew drew them closer together. She was his country and he hers. They were inseperable.

Until now. She is leaving him, not all at once, which would be painful enough, but in a wrenching succession of separations. One moment she is here, and then she is gone again, and each journey takes her a little farther from his reach. He cannot follow her, and he wonders where she goes when she leaves." Pg 119

"No one weeps anymore, or if they do, it is over small things, inconsequential moments that catch them unprepared. What is left that is heartbreaking? Not death: death is ordinary. What is heartbreaking is the sight of a single gull lifting effortlessly from a street lamp. Its wings unfurl like silk scarves against the mauve sky, and Marina hears the rustle of its feathers. What is heartbreaking is that there is still beauty in the world." Pg. 161

Book 39

Saturday, July 2, 2011

Just Kids

By Patti Smith

I never listened to Patti Smith. Until after reading this book. I love her version of "Hey Joe" and "Smells Like Teen Spirit" (the extent of my post-book read you tube search for Patti Smith).

I loved this book. I loved her writing. What I really loved, was such a beautiful account of a deep and true friendship. This book is based on her long-standing friendship with Robert Maplethorpe; a friendship where each acted at once and alternately muse and artist. 


"I was both scattered and stymied, surrounded by unfinished songs and abandoned poems. I would go as far as I could and hit a wall, my own imagined limitations. And then I met a fellow who gave me his secret, and it was pretty simple. When you hit a wall, just kick it in." Pg. 170


"Robert took areas of dark human consent and made them into art. He worked without apology, investing the homosexual with the grandeur, a presence that was wholly male without sacrificing feminine grace. He was not looking to make political statement or an announcement of his evolving sexual persuasion. He was presenting something new, something not seen or explored as he saw it and explored it. Robert sought to elevate aspects of male experience, to imbue homosexuality with mysticism. As Cocteau said of a Genet poem, 'His obscenity is never obscene.'" Pg. 199


"Why can't I write something that would awake the dead? That pursuit is what burns most deeply. I got over the loss of his desk and chair, but never the desire to produce a string of words more precious than the emeralds of Cortes. Yet I have a lock of his hair, a handful of his ashes, a box of his letters, a goatskin tambourine. And in the folds of faded violet tissue a necklace, two violet plaques etched in Arabic, strung with black and silver threads, given to me by the boy who loved Michelangelo." Pg 279

Book 38

The Beauty of Humanity Movement

By Camilla Gibb

This was a wonderful book. Excellent story weaving together a simple tale about a family, poetry, and art with a real movement in Vietnamese history about a group of artists trying to hold on to their humanity in the complex face of communism. Its also about the life blood of a people: pho.
"Hung is the heart of this small community on the banks of a polluted pond; he is good to these poor people, keeping them fed and entertained He treats everyone with respect - from people in high places, like Miss Maggie Ly, to people without sense or legs, like his neighbor. It is humbling to have an Old Man Hung in your life It makes you want to be a better person." Pg. 79

"Having sent Tu on his way with a small packet of lotus seeds for his mother, Hung worries he has made the boy feel insecure. He understands Tus concern about the worth of one's life. . . . 
He should have told Tu that a hero is just a man, a person who makes mistakes from time to time. It is natural when speaking of the dead that we tend to remember the heroic things rather than the flawed. Hung has for so long been invested in giving Binh a portrait of his father as a hero that it seems he has forgotten Tu. The boy might actually be better equipped than someone of his father's generation to understand the imperfections and contradictions that characterize a man, however great." Pg. 170

Historical movement known as the Nhan Van - Giai Pham affair after two publications, Nhan Van (Humanism) and Giai Pham (Fine Works). Came to the west through the writings of Hoang Van Chi.
Book 37

namako - sea cucumber

Linda Watanabe McFerrin
A half-Japanese family moves to Japan after some questionable fidelity on the part of the parents. Told through the eyes of the oldest daughter, this unique coming of age story is told through growing pains and across the span of two continents.

Book 36

Lit

By Mary Karr

Karr writes a stark, honest memoir about her time as an alcoholic and the process of her recovery (kicking and screaming). Her dark side so dark it threatened to extinguish her, the double meaning of the word "lit" is both her years of heavy drinking and the experience of coming out of that time period. She writes like a pulsing vein. Which makes her story that much more profound.  


"Eventually I get drunk at her again, driving to the liquor store for a bottle of Jack Daniels like my poor Daddy used to drink (no scrap of awareness of the similarity), and I drink it in the garage while flipping through my wedding pictures, where Mother looks walleyed and very pleased with herself. I could drag her behind my car, I think. Instead, I drain the poison that I hope will kill her." Pg 130


"My body's a sandbag, but my eyelids split open like clam shells (3:10 AM). On the table, a tumbler of mahogany whiskey burns bright as any flaming oil slick. Gone a little watery on top, its still possessed of a golden nimbus.
     That's the secret to getting up: the glass talks and my neck cranes toward the drink like flower to sunbeam. My heavy skull rises, throbbing with a pulse beat. I grab the drink and let a long gulp burn a corridor through the sludge that runs up the middle of me - that trace of fire my sole brightness. A drink once brought ease, a bronze warmth spreading through all my muddy regions. Now it only brings a brief respite from the bone ache of craving it, no more delicious numbness.

     Slurping these spirits is soul preparation, a warped communion, myself serving as god, priest and congregation. I rise on rickety legs, dripping sweat despite the air conditioner's blast across my naked chest. Foregoing bathrobe, I pull on a wife beater T-shirt (3:15!).
     In the next room, my son, stout but saggy-kneed, clings to the crib bars like a prisoner. Menthol steam from the vaporizer has made a ghost of him. His ringlets are plastered to his head, and coughs rack his small frame. The animal suffering that's rattling him throws ice water on me, and I enjoy a surge of unalloyed love for him, followed by panic, followed by guilt.
     He sees me rushing toward him and abruptly drops his outstretched arms an instant to say, No pants? His head's tilted with bald curiosity.
     Which cracks me up, and he laughs till the coughs start exploding through him again, by which point I've cleaved him to me, both of us sweating. His diaper's sagging from the vaporizer's work, but fresh steam in his lifeline. Carrying him to the bathroom, I crank on the shower.
     But before I change him, before I squirt the syrupy acetaminophen into his mouth, I haul him whooping down the stairs to the kitchen. I open the stove where a near bottle of Jack Daniels squats like the proverbial troll under the bridge. Needing neither glass nor ice, I press my lips to the cool mouth, and it blows into my lungs so I can keep on." Pgs. 159-160
"It's unhip to fall to your knees, sentimental, stupid, even. But somehow I've started to do it unself-consciously.
     Behind a door, my body bends, and the linoleum rises. I lay my face on my knees in a posture almost fetal. It is, skeptics may say, the move of a slave or brainless herd animal. But around me I feel gathering - let's concede I imagine it - spirit. Such vast quiet holds me, and the me I've been so lifelong worried about shoring up just dissolves like ash in water. Just isn't. It its place is this clean air.
     There's a space at the bottom of an exhale, a little hitch between taking in and letting out that's perfect zero you can go into. There's a rest point between the hear muscle's close and open - an instant of keenest living when you're momentarily dead. You can rest there." Pg 296

Book 35