You can’t swing a cat this week without hitting a reference to the write-up ofJonathan Franzen’s Cartagena, Colombia press conference. That’s right folks, Jonathan Franzen held a press conference. In Colombia. No, we don’t have any idea why.

The bestselling and oft-derided author stated his opinions on Barack Obama’s reading habits (it’s great that he’s a fan, but shouldn’t he read something more important than a novel?), the dangers of combining technology and capitalism (wonder how he rationalizes his HBO deal…), mortality (no joke), and the never-ending print vs. ebook debate (which, I hasten to add, is a false dichotomy). It comes as no surprise to anyone who’s been paying even minimal attention that Franzen prefers the printed word, but HOO BOY did he ruffle some feathers when he stated that real “serious readers” (like himself, natch) require a “sense of permanence” he believes ebooks can’t provide. So, you know, if you like ebooks, you’re obviously not a serious reader. Jonathan Franzen is smarter than you, and he wants you to know you’ve been conned.

Insulting? Sure it is. But consequential? Hell to the no. It sucks that Franzen is so judgy–especially at a time when the literary community is working hard to demonstrate that books in any format are still relevant–and we do wonder what he thinks about readers who are serious enough to enjoy Freedom but who read it on digital devices. Yeah, what of them? It’s a headscratcher…but that’s all it is: a sucky, insulting, totally inconsequential headscratcher of a statement from an author who we are nearly positive did not consult his publicist before he opened his mouth.  

So Jonathan Franzen has an opinion, and he thinks it is superior to all others. So what? Why should anyone care? It’s not as if this is the first time that an author has gotten up on their high horse and alienated a sizable chunk of their potential readership. Also, the last time we checked, writing books did not make someone an expert on the publishing industry or reading technology. We have people for that. Jonathan Franzen is a writer–just a writer, and one who prides himself on being disconnected from technology. And that, as my mother would say, is his little red wagon to pull.

The rest of us don’t have to take offense, and we don’t have to follow Franzen’s lead and put on our Judgy McJudgerton pants, and we really don’t have to attack each other in vitriolic comment threads (take a gander at that one, really) or declare that we’ll never read Franzen again (why should bad behavior keep you from reading something you might enjoy?). In fact, we don’t have to pay attention to this at all. Why should we care what authors thinks about our reading preferences? Or about anything else for that matter? Is there anything we would be interested in their opinion on? And why is this even a story? That’s the question we should really be asking. Slow news day at The Telegraph, or does someone really think readers are sitting around wringing our hands, hoping authors approve of what and how we read?

Let’s take our toys and go play somewhere else now, and let’s agree that next time an author decides to make such a silly (and hello, borderline paranoid) statement, we’ll do what our kindergarten teachers told us to do and just ignore it.

Originally published at Book Riot

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Published February 1, 2012 by Reagan Arthur Books

Oh, this book. I wanted to love it. I looked forward to it for months. The Willa-Cather-meets-Gabriel-Garcia-Marquez blurb on the front of the galley got me all hot and bothered–I adore Cather’s way of making the landscape so present that it is virtually a character in the story, and, well, who doesn’t love a little Garcia Marquez-ian magic? But you know that thing about damning with faint praise? I think this blurb might have done the opposite for me. I enjoyed the book, but I never got fully immersed in it because I was busy waiting for it to reach Garcia Marquez levels of awesome. And that’s not really fair, is it?

But I’m getting ahead of myself. You probably want to know what it’s about, huh? [warning: spoilers ahead]

After many attempts to have children and one devastating stillbirth, Jack and Mabel moved to the Alaskan wilderness to build a new life from scratch. It’s the 1920s, so homesteading in Alaska qualifies as roughing it for real. Jack and Mabel have had a hell of time and seem to be growing further apart by the day when, during the first snowfall of the year, they enjoy a fleeting moment of connection and build a child out of snow. The next morning, the snowchild is gone, but they see a little blonde girl running through the trees near their home. Eventually they make contact with the girl, who calls herself Faina, and as they develop a relationship with her–over many years–they never fully understand if she is human or some sort of snow fairy/sprite/pixie/insert-magical-woodland-creature-here. Or maybe both?

After several encounters with Faina, Mabel realizes what’s been troubling her: a fairy tale she read as a child told of a couple very much like herself and Jack. The couple build a child out of snow, and the child comes alive, and they love the child…and then she dies. (That’s the TL;DR version.) Mabel is already prone to worrying, and the idea that Faina is going to leave them is never far from her thoughts. And so begins the dance of the “do you believe in magic?” fairy.

The tension between Jack and Mabel–and the tension inherent in their desire to believe that Faina is both real and magical–is palpable and ever-present, but Ivey goes a few steps too far in the direction of indicating that Faina is human for the possibility of her being magical to carry real weight. Yes, Jack is sure that he saw snow come out of her fingertips, and yes, there is a scene in which she summons a blizzard, but neither is made believable. Instead of using Faina’s humanity to highlight her possibly-supernatural characteristics, Ivey weakens the latter by overdoing the former. Additionally, the fairy tale frame story, while chilling, is unnecessary and distracting. Mabel’s desperate need for Faina is sufficient to make readers understand why Mabel might think she is magical (and also that she is doomed). Mabel has neuroses aplenty, but this doesn’t ring true. Ivey would have done well to leave the “inspired by a fairy tale” bit to the acknowledgments.

Despite its weaker points, The Snow Child is quite enchanting. Ivey’s writing is beautiful and shows great promise, and I will certainly pick up whatever she does next. I’m happy to have discovered a new writer I look forward to watching develop and mature, and I won’t be surprised if my less-than-rave review puts me in the minority on this one. If you’ve read it, I’d love to know what you think.

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Everybody loves a good end-of year list, and we at the Bookrageous Podcast are no different. Since we were already a couple weeks into the new year by the time we recorded the show, we discussed our favorites of 2011 threw in some 2012 “can’t waits” for good measure.

Enjoy, subscribe, and keep an eye out for details about the Bookrageous BEA Bash coming soon!

Show notes with links to all books discussed after the jump.

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Published January 9, 2012 by Little, Brown

American Dervish is about Hayat Shah, a young Muslim boy growing up in the American midwest in the 1980s, trying to make sense of his faith and his identity. Hayat’s parents have raised him in Muslim culture but have not given him any religious training.  When his mother’s dear friend Mina–who is deeply spiritual and devoted to her own interpretation of Islam and with whom Hayat is quite taken–moves in with the family and takes Hayat under her wing, he explores his beliefs for the first time. Tied up in Hayat’s discovery of what it means to be Muslim is his first exposure to anti-Semitism within his community, and it contributes to turmoil that results in Hayat doing something that hurts Mina irreparably.

While I have some mixed feelings about American Dervish, I was quite struck by many parts of it, and I’m really pleased to have my friend Kalen Landow, who first recommended the book to me in mid-2011, here discussing it with me today. [warning: some light spoilers ahead]

____________________

RJS: I spent the better part of 2011 looking forward to American Dervish after you read a galley and said that it goes to a place you’ve never seen a book go. What did you mean by that?

KL: I wanted to re-read American Dervish to make sure my reaction to what had shocked me before was the same. I originally read this about nine months ago–given the volume you and I read, that was a lifetime ago.

Yes, my reaction was the same. I’ve never, that I can recall, read a novel where characters are so blatantly anti-Semitic. Being Jewish, you read the lines, cringing, not quite believing you’re reading what you’re reading. And you remind yourself these are only characters in a book, while knowing at the same time there are plenty of people out there–of all faiths–who feel exactly this same way. When I was 14 or 15, one of my best friends at school told me I was going to hell for not believing Jesus was the son of God and reading this made me recall that and other similar memories and experiences. (Some not nearly so distant….)

I read a lot of novels that deal with graphic, raw themes but this one hit closer to home than I ever anticipated it would.

Can you recall a book with such anti-Semitic characters?

RJS: I can’t. And I find it remarkable–and brave–that Akhtar pulls back the curtain on anti-Semitism within the Muslim community as candidly as he does. I was too young in the early 80s to know about or remember the events and political tension that appear in the book, and Akhtar’s characters made the history real for me in a way that learning about it in school never did. I think there’s an interesting role reversal happening here, too–the anti-Semitism Akhtar reveals within the Muslim community is parallel in many ways to the anti-Muslim rhetoric we’ve been hearing from ultra-conservative Christian communities since 9/11. I don’t think that’s an accident. Akhtar forces readers into a difficult conversation, and I wondered at times if he saw the anti-Semitism as a way to make Muslims the bad guys and get even closed-minded readers on his side before he came around to the real point. What do you think?

KL: Yes, I think you may be right and I also agree with your assessment about anti-Muslim rhetoric. It seems everyone in the book, with the exception of perhaps Nathan, had a prejudice against one of the three primary religions. We all think we’re right and the others are wrong. On that note, I found Naveed’s character to be the most complex and the most fraught–even more than dear Hayat. He was the most accepting of Nathan, yet he was riddled with his own contradictions. He was the least pious character in the story.

Whose story intrigued you the most?

RJS: I  agree about Naveed. I found some of the characters to be more like caricatures or archetypes than fully realized, and Naveed was one of the exceptions. I was also very drawn to Mina. That she worked so hard to escape the restrictions of orthodox Muslim life–fleeing her husband, moving to America, taking up with a Jewish man–only to find herself trapped and nearly killed by it was heartbreaking. While I’m thinking of that: many of the female characters in American Dervish, Hayat’s mother chief among them, are quick to criticize Muslim men for their behavior in relationships and their treatment of women. I got the impression that Akhtar had great sympathy for his female character but wanted to call out or indict the male characters. And that made me wonder what he was really trying to say about Muslim culture. Did you read this as a criticism? An indictment? Something else?

KL: A criticism, definitely. I sense Akhtar has a strong mother, one who feared he would turn out like other Muslim men. Funny, all the stereotypes. I’m sure some of them ring true, but that the women thought Jewish men were the model makes me laugh. I guess we all have our prejudices! Mina was a fascinating character, and speaking of her, I want to talk about Hayat, particularly her relationship with him.

I still can’t decide if he took to Islam so fervently because of Mina or if he would have with any teacher. I guess now with a little distance, it was probably because of her. Hayat was so smitten with Mina, that she could have introduced any philosophy or religion and he would have bitten. Yet, this fervor for Islam is exactly what lead to the biggest conflicts of the story–the conversation Hayat had with Imam and the actions that followed. I also think we would have had a completely different book had Hayat been, say, 17 and not 12 when the critical parts of the story took place. I doubt he would have become radicalized but would have had a better understanding of the consequences prior to putting his plans into action.

RJS: You’re right that Hayat’s age is crucial. At 12, he’s entering that adolescent search for identity, and he’s impressionable. When Mina takes him under her wing, she hands him a ready-made identity; when he visits the mosque, he picks up another one–one that seems more manly and powerful–from the Imam. The story turns on Hayat’s youth and inability to reason out the flaws in the Imam’s logic; his morality isn’t developed enough for him to be able to put what’s right ahead of his desire to be accepted. I agree with your point that Hayat would have picked up whatever Mina wanted to teach him–since his parents didn’t give him any philosophical/religious upbringing, he was hungry for something.

KL: On that note, at first I was surprised by Hayat turning on Nathan. It seemed out of character, yet maybe it wasn’t. Hayat was so devoted to his study of Islam that the rhetoric coming from the Islamic Center had more influence on him than his own father did. He didn’t respect Naveed, yet Naveed loved Nathan as a brother and would have done anything for him. Was that a plotting misstep or an insightful move on Akhtar’s part? Hayat had known Nathan for most, if not all, of his life. He’d never had a reason to hate Nathan before. And in fact, Muneer had always praised Jewish men.

RJS: You know, now that I think about it, I think it was a misstep. Sociologists talk about the mere exposure effect–that once we have a positive experience with someone from a group we have stereotypes about, our stereotypes begin to erode–and it seems to me that Hayat’s relationship with Nathan, his knowledge that Nathan is a good man who loves Mina and will care for her, and the messages he received from Muneer should have made him, if not slower to accept the Imam’s anti-Semitic teachings, at least more hesitant to apply them to Nathan. If Akhtar wanted readers to get inside the head of an anti-Semitic character, he should have given the existing ones more screentime instead of pulling Hayat into it.

KL: But, Hayat was so smitten with Mina that he didn’t want Nathan to have her. I’m not sure at 12 years old, you’re that in love with someone, but in the context of the book it was believable enough.

Overall, I enjoyed the book a lot and it held up on a second reading. I’m curious to see what Akhtar does next and I hope to see him mature as a writer. His storytelling abilities are impressive and I do stand by my original reaction that I’ve never seen a novel go where this one went. This will be a fantastic book for book groups–there is just so much to talk about in terms of stereotypes and all of our prejudices.

RJS: I second the recommendation for book groups–there is (obviously!) a lot to discuss here–and I’m also curious to see if/how Akhtar will grow. I wasn’t impressed with the writing (and we agreed on Twitter that American Dervish doesn’t qualify as literary fiction), but I really appreciate the issues and original perspective. This is an engaging read, and I’m glad you mentioned it all those months ago to pique my interest. Thanks for re-reading it so we could discuss it together!

KL: Thanks for suggesting we talk about it together. The best part of reading isn’t being moved by a book–it’s being moved by a book and then discussing it with a friend.

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I’ve been reading Townie for an upcoming interview with the author, and I’ve taken so many notes and underlined so many passages that I’ve run out of space on the pages and had to tuck extra paper into my book. Townie is a memoir about Dubus’s hardscrabble childhood in New England mill towns and how he found his way out of violence and into writing as the means of expressing his pain. It’s an astounding read, and I’m looking forward to sharing more with you soon. For now, there’s this:

Somehow…studying all I’d studied, I’d felt like more than just me. My reading had joined my mind to the thinkers before me, to the millions of people whose lives they indirectly wrote about, these scholars who sat in a tower so high they could see everyone and I could too.

Don’t you love that? “My reading had joined my mind to the thinkers before me.” That’s why we do it, right?

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Good morning from Richmond, where we are not having a snowy weekend and are deeply jealous of all of you who are. We’re observing a snowday in spirit, though, by staying in our pajamas, drinking a lot of coffee, and doing as little as possible. (Okay, that’s what we do every Sunday, but still.) It’s been a few weeks since I did a Salon post, so let’s get caught up!

Reading Life

The closest I’ve gotten to winter weather this year has been in my reading of The Snow Child by Eowyn Ivey (out February 10 from Reagan Arthur). Set in Alaska in the 1920s, it’s about a couple who desperately want a child but cannot have one. Their attempt to build a homestead in the wilderness is a constant struggle that pulls them further and further apart. In a rare moment of buoyancy, they build a little girl out of snow only to discover the next morning that she is gone. Then they see a young girl running through the forest, wearing the mittens they left on their snow child, and despite the niggling sense that they might be coming down with a shared case of cabin fever, they hope that she is real. Or at least really magical. It’s a thoroughly enchanting story and a very strong debut novel, and I certainly hope it’s not the last we’ll hear from Eowyn Ivey. I’ll be writing more about it later. For now, you can check out the gorgeous book trailer.

It was quiet around the blog this week because I couldn’t bear to tear myself away from the new John Irving novel long enough to write much of anything. I always think it’s a good problem when I’m enjoying reading too much to blog. I’ve also been dipping into Edna O’Brien’s short story collection Saints and Sinners. I’m liking it well enough, but it took me longer than usual to get into it because the opening piece is more than 40 pages long–easily the longest in the bunch–and collections that start with long pieces are one of my readerly peeves. I know collections are organized as they are for artistic reasons, but I find it’s harder to get into the flow of reading short fiction when the first story feels more like reading a novel. But that’s my problem, not the book’s. And because I’m a good little book polygamist now, I’m also reading Townie by Andre Dubus III. I’m not far enough into it to have an opinion yet, but I have high hopes. Finally, I’m working on a collaborative post about American Dervish by Ayad Akhtar, which is remarkable in several ways and disappointing in several others.

Writing/Blogging Life

I’m still having a blast with my gig at Book Riot, which is a delicious mixture of writing and social media (which is a sort of writing, too). It’s exciting to be part of a young site trying new things and keeping the conversation about books fun and irreverent, and the smart, creative posts our contributors write have pushed me to crack a different part of my brain open and start thinking and writing about about books in a new way.  This week, I had a post about how to merge bookshelves with your partner, started a collaborative column with Liberty Hardy called The Well-Readheads, and took a deep dive into Pinterest. I’m still figuring out how to balance Book Lady with Book Riot, and I expect it to be more of an ongoing process than a one-time solution. Again, a great problem to have.

If the number of internet kerfuffles this week is any indication, the bookosphere has officially woken up from its holiday slumber. I won’t pretend to be in the know about the YA blogging world, but I saw enough this week to know that there’s been yet another argument about the definition of “review” and the standards of professional behavior. I’m on record in many places with the opinion that a review is an objective examination of a work–it is about the book, the writing, the craft–whereas a discussion of a book that is primarily about the reader is something not-review–a reaction or response, perhaps. My thoughts on use of the term “review” have evolved quite a bit in the four years I’ve been blogging, and while I don’t think we should ever expect to get to standardized terminology, I do think the conversation about what bloggers do and how it is similar to and different from traditional reviewers is important, as is the conversation about the value bloggers add to the literary community. I also think that Kit Steinkellner’s suggestion that the only way to prevent ridiculous drama that is counterproductive to bloggers’ struggle for credibility is to disengage from it is right on–her post about it is possibly the smartest thing I’ve ever read about the author-blogger relationship, and I’m not just recommending that you read it because it appeared on Book Riot.

And then there’s the asshat who wrote a complaint-riddled post about the press kit that accompanied a galley he received, accusing the publicist of “intellectual bullying.” I can’t decide what’s more absurd–that a blogger is upset about a publicist doing her job and sending information about a book she is paid to promote–and that he received for free and was in no way required to pay attention to–or that Publishing Perspectives actually ran the post. Must have been a slow news day.

This concludes the latest bloggy brain dump. What’s up in your reading and writing life these days?

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Cue up the Sister Act 2 Oh, Happy Day video, it’s time to celebrate! Or, it will be on May 8, when new books from John Irving (the original #pantyworthy author) AND Toni Morrison hit the shelves. I’ll be taking the day off to observe what is essentially a literary holiday (employers: consider yourselves warned), but I couldn’t wait to start talking about the Irving, In One Person.

When the galley arrived last week, I entertained the thought of waiting until closer to the release date to read it for approximately 3.8 seconds. But who am I kidding? I love John Irving, and after the disappointing embarrassment of Until I Find You and the almost-there-but-not-quite Last Night In Twisted River, I needed to be sure we weren’t looking at a “three strikes, you’re out” situation. I don’t like to break up with authors, but I’d rather quit while I’m ahead and can preserve the good memories than force myself to continue reading them after the magic is gone. Good news, ladies and gents: the magic is not gone.

In One Person is about Billy Abbott, a bisexual man who grew up on the campus of an all-boys boarding school in the late 50s and early 60s and discovered at a young age his tendency to have crushes on “the wrong people.” The narrative follows him into an adulthood marked by loneliness (straight women don’t trust him; gay men suspect him of being a fraud) and loss (in true Irving style, Billy’s father is absent and his mother dies tragically) and through the horrors of the AIDS crisis of the early 1980s. Many of the Irving hallmarks are present–wrestling, chief among them–and they fit naturally into the story (as opposed to the shoehorn-them-all-into-one-scene-ness of Twisted River). Notably, the only bears are of the hirsute gay male variety. However, adults making questionable decisions abound! And no one loses a limb!

Just as The Cider House Rules is Irving’s abortion book, In One Person is his sexual diversity book. Characters do not hesitate to express their distaste for rigidly conventional people–admittedly, the proportion of characters who are sexually unconventional is far from realistic, but that’s what Irving does, right, quirks writ large? And he has a point–everyone has *some* taboo desire, however repressed–and the sooner we acknowledge that and accept each other, the better off we’ll be.  Irving avoids most of the pitfalls that make politically motivated fiction so often problematic, though In One Person has a distinct “preaching to the choir” feel at times. Will he change minds with this book? Maybe. Is the book a wash if he doesn’t? Not at all. With In One Person, Irving presents an affecting story with timeless themes about a very specific time in American culture. It’s what he does best, and I, for one, am glad he’s back.

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If you’d told me a year ago that not only would I be reading a zombie novel, I would be loving it, co-hosting a book club podcast about it, AND interviewing the author, I don’t think I’d have believed you. But such is the beauty of collaborative projects that breed comfort-zone-expanding recommendations, and I couldn’t be happier. Zone One was awesome; Josh, Jenn, and I had a fun conversation about it; and Colson Whitehead was a terrific guest.

There’s an embedded player for your listening pleasure below. Enjoy, subscribe, and join us for the next Bookrageous Book Club: Swamplandia!

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One of the great pleasures of working in the book industry has been discovering how many book people are also food people. I’ve eaten some of the best meals of my life with fellow bibliophiles who love food almost (or even equally) as much as they love books. So it came as a total surprise to me when I realized, while perusing the shelves of the Blue Bicycle Books on a trip to Charleston, SC last week, that–cookbooks aside–I had never read a book about a food. This troubled me so much that I made charts for you! (Pie charts, natch.)

Before the trip, my reading-and-eating life looked like this:

Charleston is an incredible town for eating, and I didn’t plan to do much reading on the trip, but when I spied a copy of Ruth Reichl’s Tender at the Bone, I just couldn’t say no. I mean, I must have been high when I packed two longish novels for a trip whose itinerary was basically eat, walk, shop, walk, eat, nap, eat, walk, eat. (Or maybe I was too busy fantasizing about Husk’s pork fat-infused butter, so good it made my pal Emily declare that Jesus himself must have been out back churning it.) But essays? About food? Perfection. And now my graph looks like this!

Hooray for the tiny purple sliver! 

In Tender at the Bone, Reichl recounts her childhood in New York, with a mother who would eat literally anything (spoiled or not!) and a father who was too absorbed in his work (as a book designer! *swoon*) to notice. Her mother’s dinner parties were known far and wide for the, uh, creative (and frequently dangerous) fare, and early on, Reichl took it as her duty to warn her favorite guests away from the worst dishes. Not a very promising beginning for a cook, but luckily, her encounters with food didn’t end with her mother, and there were family friends and cooks who willingly shared their culinary tricks with her even when she was quite young. Reichl’s chronologically organized essays create a charming narrative that takes her from New York to boarding school in Canada, to graduate school in the midwest, and eventually to California, where lived in what was essentially a commune while working at a local cooperatively run restaurant.

There’s a lot to enjoy and appreciate about Tender at the Bone simply as a memoir–Reichl’s life is fascinating, and her confession that some of the details are fudged makes her all the more likeable–but as a meditation on what food can mean in our lives, it is terrific. As in, not to be missed. And there are recipes!

This book was something of a revelation for me. For as long as I’ve understood that reading is how I make sense of the world, I’ve understood that other people use other art forms to do the same. I’ve known people who made sense of the world through music, painting, dance, poetry. For some reason, though I’ve always considered good food to be a kind of art, I never thought of food as the same kind of conduit. (This despite the fact that I spent every evening of my own childhood perched on a stool in my parents’ kitchen and have grown to love cooking as an adult.) When Reichl stated clearly that cooking and eating were her ways of making sense of the world, something clicked, and I was officially in love with her and with the idea of a food memoir in general.

And that’s where you come in! I have Anthony Bourdain’s multiple memoirs already on the TBR list, and I’m planning to read Reichl’s later books, but I want more. Please, tell me about your favorite food memoirs and help me end 2012 with a graph that looks more like this:

And if you’re headed to Charleston, I’d be happy to talk your ear off about the adventures in food I had there.

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Maybe it’s my I-took-a-lot-of-English-classes Stockholm syndrome talking, but I think we should. I’m over at Book Riot this week proposing diplomacy by literature, and I’d love to hear about the books that would make your “if everyone read this, the world would be a better place” list. Put practicality, logistics, and translation issues aside and join me for a moment of idealism!

Required reading…for everybody?

What do you think?

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