For Feisty Feminists

These books make up the 2nd, 4th and 5th installments in the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy series. (I read the 1st and 3rd a few years ago. It doesn’t make sense, but deal with it).

Life, the Universe, and Everything is likeable, if you’re into British humor - in these books, the best humor is found in the witty diversions from the plot, such as this definition of a word:

The word can also, according to the Ultra-Complete Maximegalon Dictionary of Every Language Ever, mean the noise made by the Lord High Sanvalvwag of Hollop on discovering that he has forgotten his wife’s birthday for the second year running. Since there was only ever one Lord High Sanvalvwag of Hollop and he never married, the word is only used in anegative or speculative sense, and there is an ever-increasing body of opinion that holds that the Ultra-Complete Maximegalon Dictionary is not worth the fleet of trucks it takes to cart its microstored edition around in. Strangely enough, the dictionary omits the word “floopily,” which simply means “in a manner of something which is floopy.”

It has nothing to do with the plot, really, but  gives the book its flavor.

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If you liked Casino Royale, you will probably enjoy Quantum of Solace. For this movie, I was happy they had talented people in the cast - like Jeffrey Wright, Judi Dench, and Giancarlo Giannini - instead of feeling like they were wasting their time (see The Dark Knight). Olga Kurylenko, the female lead, adds some depth and a believable backstory to the movie - and Daniel Craig, once again, kicks ass. The most memorable scene takes place at a production of Puccini’s Tosca, where Bond is trying to listen in on a meeting that the bad guys are having during the opera through earpieces. And you know what? That sentence I just wrote is preposterous, but I didn’t think so during the movie.

Ah, the joys of reading P.G. Wodehouse. The characters are amusing, the plots predictable enough that we go along with all the twists and turns - yet fresh enough that we do not know exactly how they will be resolved - but really, it is the writing that makes his Jeeves & Wooster series so enjoyable. Wodehouse somehow managed to have a first person narrator who is profoundly dense, yet write through this character’s eyes with sparkling wit and intelligence.

The book is littered with gems such as this:

His whole attitude recalled irresistibly to the mind that of some assiduous hound who will persist in laying a dead rat on the drawing-room carpet, though repeatedly apprised by word and gesture that the market for same is sluggish or even non-existent.

Or this:

I rose. It was my intention to say goodbye to all this. I don’t mind people talking rot in my presence, but it must not be utter rot.

There’s not much else to say; those who have already read and enjoyed Wodehouse know why his writing is so great. Those who haven’t, well, go read some Wodehouse.

As I mentioned in my previous entry, I read Obama’s biography in tandem with John McCain’s. The differences between the two books is as stark as the difference between the two men’s styles of public presentation. While McCain’s book is matter of fact and not that impressive in terms of writing skill, Obama’s book is lyrical, evocative, and fairly well-written. Whether Obama’s oratorical skills and charisma are preferable in a president is a question up for debate; there is no question in my mind that Obama’s writing makes for a better book. Although McCain’s story of his years as a POW is naturally more compelling, Obama’s self-reflection and exploration of his family’s history draws the reader in and gives one a window into his own experience.

While McCain’s book reads like he just sat down and told stories to his ghostwriter, who wrote them out unedited, Obama has written a book with the structural complexity of a novel. He begins in the middle, with the phone call that informs him of the death of a father he barely knew, and goes back to his roots, starting with his grandparent’s courtship and migration around the country, finally landing in Hawai’i, where Obama would spend much of his childhood. Like many novels, I found myself losing interest around the 2/3rds mark, as the book seemed to lose its way. I paused both of the autobiographies at one point to start P.G. Wodehouse’s Code of the Woosters as a palette cleanser.

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I read John McCain’s 2000 autobiography in tandem with Barack Obama’s Dreams From my Father for a book discussion. The first 200 pages are so boring and badly written that I didn’t even get to his time as a POW before the discussion. I am amazed that neither the ghostwriter nor the editor cut the book by 50-100 pages.

The first 80 pages consist mostly of 1-2 paragraph anecdotes about McCain’s father and grandfather, and are supposed to give an impression of the character of the two men – honorable, honest and tireless servants to the military, who were disliked by some but respected by all – and how they influenced the author. But who thought it was a good idea to relay this information in this way? It reads as if McCain just sat down and told stories for hours, and the ghostwriter wrote them down and published them as is.

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