Reading now

Reading is possibly the best way to fill open time, next to listening to This American Life and baking (in conjunction). In the past two days I have made a pizza, chili, and oatmeal-coconut-raisin-chocolate chip cookies, listened to two holiday spectaculars from TAL, and learned one amazing fact: The true birthplace of Santa Claus is the same as Uncle Sam's - the oft-ridiculed, yet symbolically historically significant city of Troy, New York! Yes, what is now considered the crappiest third of the Tri-Cities (the others being Albany and Schenectady, no gems themselves, though also historically significant) was home to the meatpacking plant that stamped meat sent to troops in World War 2 with the emblem of Uncle Sam. Troy now has an Uncle Sam parade every summer. But lesser know is that Troy originally published "The Night Before Christmas" in its newspaper, birthing the myth of Santa Claus that Naomi worked so hard to combat as a precocious and moral Jewish preschooler in Utah.

But anyhow, reading. I've been reading a few books all at the same time, making it hard to finish any single one, and thus all my judgements are "in progress."

Reporting, by David Remnick

This is a collection of writings from The New Yorker, of which Remnick is the editor. He's amazing. His access to important people is really unsurpassed. The last piece I read had him chatting with the leader of Hamas right after Hamas came to power. Then he's chilling with Al Gore. Seeing Vaclav Havel leaving the palace in the Czech Republic. Talking to Solzhenitsyn, author of The Gulag Archipelago, in exile and then in Moscow. The thing about Remnick is that he manages to underscore how incredibly important everyone is in a way that doesn't emphasize the journalist himself. He's there, but he's not. It's awesome.

The force of the past, by Sandro Veronesi

It's generally hard to find interesting new books at some of the smaller libraries - most of the shelf space is devoted to chick-lit, the mystery/thriller/suspense/popular fiction genre, and large-print. But every so often, a book that was probably popular enough in its own country to make it into the Pikes Peak Library District appears on the shelves under a mask of intrigue and manages to stay distinct and aloof from Jackie Collins and Danielle Steel. The last one I read was Budapest by Chico Buarque, a Brazilian lyricist, which was nice yet confusing and at times tumultuous in style and plot. The force of the past is the same ways, in that the male narrator writes and acts in ways I cannot explain, which is something that goes for most European men (I generalize). For example, an unknown man offers him a ride in a stolen car, and the narrator goes through a long explanation of why he knows you can never trust a man who wears short sleeves under his jacket. Nonetheless, he gets into the car. At the beginning of the next chapter: "And as for the reason, let's put it like this: because I'm full of shit." He has just given away his entire prize money from winning an award for children's books to a woman who was sitting in the first row and said her son had cancer. These unpredictable and irrational plot twists make for beautiful reflection, but are frustrating as a reader. I feel like I'm being punished when someone I sympathize with does such stupid things. It reminds me of some writerly advice I was given: Stick your character in a tree, and then throw rocks at him. Ouch.

Oh The Glory of It All, by Sean Wilsey

I recognized the cover of this book as winning a design award from Print magazine. It's leaves exploding from the type of the title, very beautiful. But not one to judge a book exclusively by its cover, I read the introduction and was enraptured. It's Wilsey's memoir, and he was born into San Francisco society, but when his parents divorce his life is one long sob story, because his parents don't love him anymore. Something like that. Interesting things happen, but right now I'm kind of trudging through, because right now I'm in the stoner period, which tends to drag. I feel like he must have rewritten the intro over and over again and then pooped out on the third edit of the rest.

Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events

Had I read these when I was a child, I don't know if I would have liked them. They're scary and full of bad endings, and premonitions about these bad endings that amount to beating a child over the head with foreshadowing. I don't think I would have been ready for literary bruisings at a tender age. But now, I love them. They are smart, and funny, and I like that kids less delicate than me love them. Also, they are the perfect length to read if you are bored of Self-destructive magazines at the gym. Unlike those overblown Harry Potter books. I recommend you wait for the movie on those. You can also see a movie version of this, which the back of the book recommends. "And even children know that books are more depressing than movies."