Author Archives: TheEnabler

Rob writes a review! No Alternative by William Dickerson

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Book: No Alternative

Author: William Dickerson

Published: April 5, 2012 by Kettle of Letters Press

First Line: “Suicide is a universally human phenomenon.”

Rating: 5/5 Stewart Copeland Tama Signature Snare Drums

(A review copy was provided by the author.)

No Alternative is one of those sparkling little independent gems that makes you want to stand up celebrate your literacy….with cake and punch.

Perhaps I feel that way because it’s my kind of read. Or perhaps it’s just a damn brilliant little book, The subject of music in novels, particularly rock, does tend to thrill me, possibly because it delineates bits and pieces of my own experience. And possibly because it’s so rare. I can name, off the top of my head, only two other books that used rock as a theme.

Music is only a vehicle for this book. It is far less about grunge or punk or rap than it is about why this music bubbles to the surface of society the way it does, why it takes hold of you as a teen and becomes a way of life. It isn’t about the music itself, it’s about why we listen to it, how it makes us all feel a little less fragile in a great big scary world, and why we feel so fragile to begin with–ideas that Mr. Dickerson has hidden underneath his, I suspect, deliberately misleading synopsis. While the book takes place in 1994, some months after Kurt Cobain’s death, it serves only as a focal point; Cobain’s spirit serves as a sort of guide. Not in the sense that he’s a character in the book, just as something you’ll keep in the back of your mind as you read. It doesn’t really matter if you’re a child of the ’60s, ’70s, ’80′s, or ’90s, this book will speak to you. The guiding spirit could just as easily be Hendrix or Morrison. As I said, it’s not about the music, it’s about why we need it.

I wont say more than that since this is one of those books where the experience would be ruined by even the most inadvertent of spoilers. And, speaking briefly of spoilers, I should warn you that if you decide to get your mitts on this book and happen to stroll off to Amazon to acquire it, do not, I repeat, DO NOT read the reviews of it therein, unless you enjoy having the whole of a book handed to you on a plate before you even ‘go to checkout’. This is a book that would particularly suffer from any in-depth review. (Cretins. What IS the damn point of reading a book like this, a book that can so adroitly fuck with your perceptions, if some idiot ‘helpfully’ gives you a goddamn book report on it that includes the whole damn plot?) I can be only thankful that I read these silly reviews after I finished it and not before. Go into it cold, people. Trust me, you’ll enjoy it far more.

But now, let’s leave the story, and plots, and stupid reviews, and go briefly to the nuts and bolts of the book.

Characters: every one etched with the brutal clarity of a razor blade and shining as bright as a diamond. These characters breathe. You’ve met them. Convincing, compelling, they are about as real as fictional characters can get.

Humor: sad and cynical, and often painful.

Writing: direct, sympathetic, and not a little cunning. My emotions were engaged from the first line (in fact, the first line pissed me off) and didn’t let up once til the end and all without making me feel as if I were being blatantly manipulated. That’s a personal pet peeve of mine, one that would likely make a good topic for Reading Rage. I don’t like it when my emotions are being jerked around in an obvious way, which Mr. Dickerson does not do. He writes his story and leaves it up to you to feel. Or not. But I did say he was cunning, yes? You won’t notice it though, not til the end.

And when you finish No Alternative, I predict that, as I did myself, you’ll go back to page one and read it all over again.

Review: Almost Never by Daniel Sada

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Book: Almost Never

Author: Daniel Sada

Published: April 10, 2012 by Graywolf Press; 320 pages

First Line: “Sex, as an apt pretext for breaking the monotony; motor-sex; anxiety-sex; the habit of sex, as any glut that can well become a burden; colossal, headlong, frenzied, ambiguous sex, as a game that baffles and then enlightens then baffles again; pretense-sex, see-through-sex.”

Slide Ruler Rating: 3 1/2 to 4 1/2 stars

When someone like Roberto Bolaño speaks on literary matters, even from the grave, one tends to stand up and take notice, and I won’t say he was wrong here. ‘Daring’ Daniel Sada certainly is, but, for myself, I don’t think this will be the start of the sort of literary love affair that I tend to forge with Latin-American writers. However, this book defies a pithy ‘That sucked!’ or ‘That was brilliant!’, which is how I tend to judge books and be done with it; hence the sliding ruler rating because sometimes it was one, or the other, or both together, or neither. But then Latin-American literature tends to be full of layers, and the layers have layers. So reviews should always take this into consideration, right? but I’m unnerved by the sneaking suspicion that Senor Sada is sitting on a cloud smirking down at me while I write this, which is a pisser.

Did Mr. Sada write this book to be exasperating on purpose? Of that, I have no doubts whatsoever.

Even so, while reading I felt he sometimes went too far with it, dumping the reader all too often, and gleefully, I don’t doubt, into the ‘Tedious Zone’ with his narrative. His well-known wit sparkled most brightly when his characters were talking, but with his narrative I found myself gritting my teeth and snarling for him to GET ON WITH IT!

But that was his whole point, wasn’t it? This glacial development of the story wasn’t there to just drive the reader insane but to allow us to share, viscerally, in a slice of time and culture that is his own.

(Sighs) When you deconstruct a book for review it’s another pisser to know exactly what the writer is doing while only partly enjoying the experience. Sada writes in a series of staccato run-on sentences that has you reading quickly, but no matter how fast you read you never seemed to go anywhere. Was this effect done on purpose, too? Oh, you betcha. And it can be fun watching Sada spin his yarn knowing that he was probably cackling gleefully as he wrote the damn thing. (Huffs in disgust)

All right, we’ll skip the ‘the writing was brilliant but it drove me nuts’ phase of this review, the smirking is getting too damn loud.

So, story…that might have been part of the problem for me. There’s Demetrio ‘our hero’ (snorts) who has a big problem; should he stay with the nice whore who’s willing to bang him anytime, anywhere, and as often as possible? Or should he listen to his mother and aunt and go for the socially acceptable, demure, proper, and damned annoying virgin? Ah, here’s where we oscillate back down the rating star slide; who cares? But that’s the whole point of the story. It doesn’t help that Demetrio is a skunk, who I didn’t find the least bit lovable, and his meandering, zigzag, unlovable, and skunkish thoughts committed the fatal error of being boring all too often. However, there was a counterpoint to this since the strength of the story rested more on the other characters, particularly his Aunt Zulema and his mother.

As to Katherine Silver’s translation, it’s hard to judge that sort of thing when you don’t speak, let alone read, in Spanish, but I’ve read her work before with César Aira and Horacio Castellanos Moya and she was talented enough to tease out the best of those writers without getting in the way, and so with this, meaning that while I was reading Almost Never it was the smirking, wiseass writer I heard in my head narrating his exasperating story, not Silver, and I can’t think of a better compliment to give a translator, and I hope we’ll soon see more of Sada’s work in English, with Silver, who probably understood him best, taking point. We might just get to be friends.

But all in all, Bolaño was right. He usually is.

Get the book: (Powell’s) (Amazon) (Kindle)

Review, IB Favorites Edition: Perdido Street Station by China Miéville

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Book: Perdido Street Station 

Author: China Miéville

First Published: 2000 by Macmillan, 710 pages

First Line(s): “A window burst open high above the market. A basket flew from it and arced toward the oblivious crowd. It spasmed in mid-air, then spun and continued earthwards at a slower, uneven pace.”

Genre: Steampunk/fantasy

Bookslut who hearts this book: Rob

Rob’s review, as told through interpretive interview:

Interviewer: What is the scariest book you’ve ever read?

rob: Perdido Street Station.

I: Um…what?

rob: Perdido…Street…Station.

I: But…I don’t recall Stephen King writing a book with that title.

rob: That’s because King didn’t write it, you cretin.

I: Heh…may I ask who did?

rob: China Mieville.

I: Um…who?

rob: Chi-na Mie-ville.

I: (laughs nervously) Heh…that’s his real name?

rob: Let me guess, the ‘I’ there stands for ‘Idiot’, your real name, right?

I: Heh…you’re funny.

rob: No, I’m a bitch. In any case, you asked what the scariest book I ever read was and I told you – Perdido Street Station by China Mieville.

I: He must be a new to the Horror genre, then? Since I know everyone in that genre.

rob: I bet you do. No, he doesn’t write Horror. If you’re one of those who must put all things in their corresponding cubbyholes, he is generally referred to as a writer of what’s called ‘Steampunk’.

I: Oh! I’ve heard of that!

rob: Congrats. One is truly impressed.

I: (big grin) Are you really?

rob: No.

I: Oh.

rob: Next question?

I: What? (looks around vaguely)  Oh! Next question, yes. Um…so, China Mieville, eh? Can you tell us something about him?

rob: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/China_Mieville

I: (pouts) That’s cheating.

rob: Is it? I think of it more along the lines of not wanting to waste time.

I: (sighs) You’re giving me a headache.

rob: Tsk.

I: Can you maybe…please…tell us about the book?

rob: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Perdido_Street_Station

I: (bashes head on the table several times)

rob: (slips a pillow under Mr Idiot’s poor head) There, there…

I:  Can you at least tell us why it’s scary?

rob: (gives Mr Idiot a look of pity) Heard of ‘spoilers’, have you?

I: Oh…(pleads)…can’t you tell us anything?

rob: (sighs) Well, if I must…

Ever pick up a book that answers every sort of wish-fullfilment you’ve ever wanted as a reader? If you have, you know what I’m talking about; if you haven’t, well then, Perdido Street Station is where you are likely to find it. Exciting, terrifiying, baffling, funny, and unbearably moving, PSS serves it all, and then some. Mieville is a virtuoso of writers. Keep your dictionary handy, as you’ll find words you’ve never heard of before. He’s a master of prose narrative, a story-teller of such imaginative power that finishing PSS is like waking up from a days’ long coma of disturbing dreams.  Be prepared to be sucked into its brilliant and grim poetry. And oh yes–make sure you have a clear schedule when you start it, ’cause it will suck you in, you will not pay any attention to anyone or anything; you will neglect your spouse, forget your kids’ names, and starve your little pets until you are finally done. New Crobuzon will be your new home. The weird and the wonderful will be your new neighbors. You will never look at spiders the same way again. Or sewing. Or toe shoes. Or swirling colors. Or cacti. Or spit.

Mind-bending, extraordinary, disgusting, painful, glorious, filthy, and fascinating, it’s an adventure you never want to end.

Go read the damn thing now.

There. How’s that?

I: (pouts) It’s still not Horror.

rob: Horror tends to make me laugh. Heard of Bentley Little, have you?

I: (grins and bounces in his chair in excitement) Oh, yeah!

rob: I find him hilarious.

I: (sighs) Why does that not surprise me?

rob: Heh…one learns so much during these interview thingies, doesn’t one?

I: I learned they make my head hurt.

rob: I can’t imagine why.

Triple-Decker Review, pt. 2: 11/22/63 by Stephen King

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This is the third review of our triple-review of 11/22/63, the first parts of which were posted here yesterday.

 Book: 11/22/63

Author: Stephen King

Published: November 8, 2011 by Scribner; 849 pages

First Line: ”I have never been what you’d call a crying man.”

Genre: Science fiction/alternate history

Rob’s rating: 2.5-3/5 magic Mannlicher-Carcano bullets

Rob’s review:

con•spir•a•cy [kuhn-spir-uh-see]
noun, plural -cies.
4. Law – an agreement by two or more persons to commit a crime, fraud, or other wrongful act.

Well, it’s nice to know that some things never change…

I haven’t read Stephen King in, um…(counts on her fingers)…23 years. IT is the reason for that. I, by some miracle of fortitude, managed to get through three-quarters of that damn book before I came to my senses and realized that I did not care one miserable iota what happened to these characters – in fact, I hoped the spider-clown thingy massacred them all and good fucking riddance to them. So I flung my copy out my bedroom window, where all books I hate and consider unreadable go to their ignoble death, and since it was winter I had the unspeakable joy of watching it rain and sleet and snow all over it so that by spring it was little more than the pulpy, disintegrating mess it deserved to be.

I cackled when I finally picked it up and chucked it into the garbage. (smiles beatifically at this very pleasant memory…)

(coughs) Anyway, that is why I have not read King in twenty-odd years, but 11/22/63 could not be ignored as easily as the rest of his work has been since IT was destroyed. Anything JFK and RFK has always been a pull for me, and I was curious about King’s take on it all.

Question One: Was it a good book?

In its way…page-turning, certainly. But he usually is, as far as my memory reminds me.

Is he still in possession of his many irritating writerly habits?

Oh, God…yes. He’s still aggravatingly windy, still repetitious in a way that I always found insulting; phrases that he repeats and repeats and repeats, over and over and over until you want to hunt him down and beat him to death with his own hardback – which is entirely possible with this damn brick of a book. Go ahead, drop it on your socked foot. I double dog dare you.

Yes, I get what he’s doing. I get that it’s a narrative device, one he thinks is pretty fucking nifty, and in the right hands can be useful keeping the theme front and center in the reader’s mind, blah blah…it doesn’t make it any less annoying, repetitive, or insulting – to me, a writer uses it only when he expects his readership to be made up entirely of cretins.

‘Life turns on a dime.’
‘The past harmonizes.’
‘The past is obdurate.’

Get used to them now.

Next question: Did I find King’s take on time-travel plausable?

Eh, well…are any of them? Standing stones, complicated contraptions, rips in the air, flying DeLoreans…none of them are, really, but some fit more smoothly than others. Was King’s scenario smooth? heh, well…possibly more so than the flying DeLorean, but it was clever enough, as these things go, so points for that.

Next: And the story?

Ach…it wasn’t bad, all in all. However, I could have done without his endless nattering and repetitious rhapsodizing of the 1950s…yeah, yeah, they were swell, peachy-keen, yowsa…can we now move the fuck on, please? He bogs himself down in this shit like a plesiosaur in a LeBrea tar pit so that the story doesn’t move already. It’s maddening.

And Jake Epping? Our adventurous protag?

(sighs) He made me tired…especially from the halfway mark on. Some writers just don’t know when to shut the fuck up. Dickens had this same problem, so I suppose Stephen thinks he’s in good company.

Yeah, well…I don’t like Himself* either.

Was it well plotted, well-thought out, blah blah?

Huh…I suppose it was, (sneers) the past harmonizes, after all. Or so we’re told endlessly.

What about King’s research?

Hard to say, since he doesn’t include a bibliography, which is rather bad form for any book using history as its framework. But I get the impression that it’s spotty. There’s plenty on the assassination, on Oswald, on the faboo 50s – there seemed to be far less though on JFK himself, on RFK, on Jack’s presidency. You want to study the man’s death, you have to study his life and his work, because therein lies the answers. otherwise you’re getting only half the picture which makes one more susceptible to the likes of Gerald Posner.

So, did I buy King’s version of 11/22/63?

Not. I’m a ‘contrarian’ like his wife. Though since far more people believe something other, that would make King himself the ‘contrarian’, not his wife..

Oh, and Posner’s book?

Discredited long since by those who know what they’re talking about. But King is the new kid on the block on this subject, so you can almost forgive him. Almost. But using Posner’s book as a template for your opinion that was obviously already decided on the subject is just sloppy research with a good dose of wishful thinking. Was he using Posner’s book purely for fictional reasons? No, he makes that quite clear in his afterward. He buys what Posner was selling.

What about Occam’s Razor?

(snorts) Please…William of Occam always seems to be trotted out when the other side doesn’t have a plausible argument of their own to render for public consumption. ‘All things being equal’. Sure. ‘The simplest answer is usually the right one.’ You bet. Simple is nice, and convenient, especially for the novelist writing a big book on a complicated subject. But ‘all things’ are never equal, and there is nothing simple whatsoever about that damn magic-bullet theory – if it was, Posner would not have needed 640 pages to explain it.

Was the damned thing entertaining, at least?

Sure. King usually is. But if you’re a student of JFK’s assassination, wait for the paperback because there’s nothing new here. But if you’re just a King fan I doubt you’ll be too disappointed. (Eyes her blog partner’s review above) or maybe you will.

For myself, will I read more King? Possibly backtrack and read all the stuff I’ve missed in the last twenty-odd years?

Um…no. I think not. Why? Because some things do not change. And here I was all worried, but not very, that I might have been missing out. Thanks for setting my mind at rest on that, Stephen.

One more question. Do I believe there was a conspiracy, myself?

Well, let’s just say that I don’t believe Oswald was there all by his psychotic lonesome – or that the bullet from his rifle was the money shot. Posner, and many others who believe in the one man, one rifle, one bullet business, tend to ignore some wery simple impossibilities, and some equally simple physics. As well as their own eyes.

Occam’s Razor, indeed.

*my affectionate title for Charles Dickens.