So, I've been lent a copy of The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins. I know, I'm probably one of the last people in the United States to have picked it up but... it happens.
Sadly, I am unmoved by this national bestseller; so much so that this 374 page YA novel has sat on my pillow, undisturbed, for 5 days straight. I hate to say it but, I'm giving up on this one.
Ms. Collins has created an intriguing world; a dystopian society arisen from the ashes of a post-nuclear U.S.. I'm a sucker for dystopian fiction, as well any political criticism, thinly veiled or otherwise. And the thing is, I'm fairly certain that her novel will delve into political waters; the dangers of complete government control of a nation, the strength of the people, the will to unite and rebel.
But I don't care.
And that's my problem with this story. The plot, while, in theory, is something I should be drooling over, has failed to move me toward anything but complete and utter boredom. Told in first person, present tense, the story moves at a fast pace but does nothing to inspire feelings of fidelity for either (or any, for that matter) of the characters. I don't care if Katniss -the main character and narrator of the story- wins the Games. I don't care if she lives or dies. I don't care if the family she left back home in impoverished District 12 starve to death... I just don't care.
Turning each page is a chore; one that I'm am, unfortunately, going to drop like a bad habit.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
That Is Why
A few days ago, a young lady came into the shoppe. She asked if I could find a book for her mother as she didn't read and wouldn't know where to begin.
I stared at her.
The conversation that followed went a little something like this:
Me: What do you mean, you don't read?"
Her: (shrugs) I dunno; I just don't really like to.
Me: Why not?
Her: Because it's kinda boring.
Me: You're doing it wrong.
Her: (stares)
Me: And besides, you cannot walk into a book shoppe and say thing like "I don't read" and "Reading is boring". That's grounds for being escorted out with your head hung in shame.
Her: (stares)
Me: (sighing) Alright, let's find something for you mum and then we'll find something for you.
So, I find a book for her mother; then:
Me: Now, let's find you something to read.
Her: I didn't come for a book.
Me: I didn't ask, I said let's find you something to read.
Her: Okay.
Me: Have you ever read anything that you really enjoyed.
Her: Not really.
Me: What do you watch on television?
Her: Umm... girl stuff?
Me: (nodding my head) That's good, that's a good start. What kind of girl stuff? Flower, fairy, fantasy girl stuff or dramatic, teenage angst girl stuff?
Her: I like MTV.
Me: Great!
So, I head toward teen fiction and pick up a novel from a lengthy series and hand it to her.
Me: Now, you're going to take this home. You're going to read it; all of it. Then you're going to bring it back and you're going to tell me about it, even if you don't like it. That way we can figure out what it is you like to read and go from there.
Her: (nodding) Okay.
She came back today. Brought the book in and said she'd started it last night and finished it today; she loved it and wanted to get the next one...
And that, is exactly why I do this. :)
Happy reading, everyone.
-Britaini
I stared at her.
The conversation that followed went a little something like this:
Me: What do you mean, you don't read?"
Her: (shrugs) I dunno; I just don't really like to.
Me: Why not?
Her: Because it's kinda boring.
Me: You're doing it wrong.
Her: (stares)
Me: And besides, you cannot walk into a book shoppe and say thing like "I don't read" and "Reading is boring". That's grounds for being escorted out with your head hung in shame.
Her: (stares)
Me: (sighing) Alright, let's find something for you mum and then we'll find something for you.
So, I find a book for her mother; then:
Me: Now, let's find you something to read.
Her: I didn't come for a book.
Me: I didn't ask, I said let's find you something to read.
Her: Okay.
Me: Have you ever read anything that you really enjoyed.
Her: Not really.
Me: What do you watch on television?
Her: Umm... girl stuff?
Me: (nodding my head) That's good, that's a good start. What kind of girl stuff? Flower, fairy, fantasy girl stuff or dramatic, teenage angst girl stuff?
Her: I like MTV.
Me: Great!
So, I head toward teen fiction and pick up a novel from a lengthy series and hand it to her.
Me: Now, you're going to take this home. You're going to read it; all of it. Then you're going to bring it back and you're going to tell me about it, even if you don't like it. That way we can figure out what it is you like to read and go from there.
Her: (nodding) Okay.
She came back today. Brought the book in and said she'd started it last night and finished it today; she loved it and wanted to get the next one...
And that, is exactly why I do this. :)
Happy reading, everyone.
-Britaini
Sunday, April 8, 2012
I Disagree, Scott Westerfield
I have some (well, several, actually) customers who are awesome in epic proportions. One of those epically awesome people is Danielle.
I mentioned to her that I had wanted to read The Forest Of Hands And Teeth by Carrie Ryan and she said she had them and would be happy to lend them to me.
Yay, books!
So, she drops them by and I bring them home and curl up with the first of them.
Let me preface this by saying, I am not a teen fiction reader. I think some people assume that because I own a book shoppe, I've read just about everything in existence.
I have not.
Nor do I want to.
My foray into teen lit consists of two titles: one, The Unbecoming Of Mara Dyre by Michelle Hodkin which was fantastic and two, a title which will remain unnamed as I run the risk of offending several people when I say it was the worst piece of tripe I've ever had the displeasure of wasting three minutes of my life on. I read 4 pages before chucking it across the room.
Yeah; it was that bad.
So; I sit down with The Forest... and take a look at the cover. The blurb on the front reads: A post apocalyptic romance of the first order, elegantly written from title to last line. -Scott Westerfield
I know of Scott Westerfield; he wrote an incredibly popular and very relevant series for teens, The Uglies, which was well received by its target audience and critics alike, and I think, "Let's do this."
I open to the first page and begin.
... ... ...
(An aside: I'm a lit snob. I admit this fact wholeheartedly and with very little shame. But it's the only thing I'm a snob about and I figure, if your going to be up your own @ss about something, it may as well be literature, right?
Right.
Moving on...)
It's a good story, I'll give Ms. Ryan that. Outside of the tiniest hint of teenage angst (which is to be expected in any teen lit title) the characters are believable if somewhat one dimensional, and the plot moves quickly and with quite a bit of suspense and mystery.
I'm not going to give a summary of the book or review it; that's not what I'm here to do, today, at least.
My point is that, while the story is good, it is enjoyable (it doesn't make me want to rip the pages out and use them to cut my eyes just so I don't have witness the abomination those damnable publishers are trying to spoon feed me, as was the case with aforementioned unnamed title), it lacks depth.
Ryan's words do an admirable job of painting a picture, she tells a fine story; but the words are flat, black lettering on a page, she has no voice. Where is this elegance Mr. Westerfield speaks of?
Ray Bradbury is elegant. D.H. Lawrence was elegant. H.P. Lovecraft was elegant. David Moody, with all his gore and violence, is elegant. Their words don't just tell a story, they create art. They are deep and meaningful; each one is delicious as it goes down.
It's not a bad book. I will recommend it again and again because I've thoroughly enjoyed it; but elegant?
I'm sorry, Mr. Westerfield, but I call bull-#*!.
Until next time, happy reading...
-Britaini
I mentioned to her that I had wanted to read The Forest Of Hands And Teeth by Carrie Ryan and she said she had them and would be happy to lend them to me.
Yay, books!
So, she drops them by and I bring them home and curl up with the first of them.
Let me preface this by saying, I am not a teen fiction reader. I think some people assume that because I own a book shoppe, I've read just about everything in existence.
I have not.
Nor do I want to.
My foray into teen lit consists of two titles: one, The Unbecoming Of Mara Dyre by Michelle Hodkin which was fantastic and two, a title which will remain unnamed as I run the risk of offending several people when I say it was the worst piece of tripe I've ever had the displeasure of wasting three minutes of my life on. I read 4 pages before chucking it across the room.
Yeah; it was that bad.
So; I sit down with The Forest... and take a look at the cover. The blurb on the front reads: A post apocalyptic romance of the first order, elegantly written from title to last line. -Scott Westerfield
I know of Scott Westerfield; he wrote an incredibly popular and very relevant series for teens, The Uglies, which was well received by its target audience and critics alike, and I think, "Let's do this."
I open to the first page and begin.
... ... ...
(An aside: I'm a lit snob. I admit this fact wholeheartedly and with very little shame. But it's the only thing I'm a snob about and I figure, if your going to be up your own @ss about something, it may as well be literature, right?
Right.
Moving on...)
It's a good story, I'll give Ms. Ryan that. Outside of the tiniest hint of teenage angst (which is to be expected in any teen lit title) the characters are believable if somewhat one dimensional, and the plot moves quickly and with quite a bit of suspense and mystery.
I'm not going to give a summary of the book or review it; that's not what I'm here to do, today, at least.
My point is that, while the story is good, it is enjoyable (it doesn't make me want to rip the pages out and use them to cut my eyes just so I don't have witness the abomination those damnable publishers are trying to spoon feed me, as was the case with aforementioned unnamed title), it lacks depth.
Ryan's words do an admirable job of painting a picture, she tells a fine story; but the words are flat, black lettering on a page, she has no voice. Where is this elegance Mr. Westerfield speaks of?
Ray Bradbury is elegant. D.H. Lawrence was elegant. H.P. Lovecraft was elegant. David Moody, with all his gore and violence, is elegant. Their words don't just tell a story, they create art. They are deep and meaningful; each one is delicious as it goes down.
It's not a bad book. I will recommend it again and again because I've thoroughly enjoyed it; but elegant?
I'm sorry, Mr. Westerfield, but I call bull-#*!.
Until next time, happy reading...
-Britaini
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)