Mechelle Morrison's Blog: in a world where ...., page 10

I must take a break from reading a book a week. Seriously. It's BOW on the rocks in my living room tonight.

I dove into 'All the Light We Cannot See' head first. Sucked in a lung-full of text on the way into its depths. Ate it, breathed it and dreamed it for a solid week. It was a serious commitment between me and a story set in Saint-Malo, right from the start. I could practically wear its ring.

Then, hundreds of pages in, thousands of words in, I came to the end and **SPOILER ALERT**

hit rock bottom, which has left me bruised and bleeding and desperately desperate. The author shorts every single character--I hate that--unless we're talking the rock. And we're not.

After investing so much energy in a book that in its earliest beginning introduced me to 'The Girl' and 'The Boy,' thereby creating an expectation of said girl and boy, it was just too much for the story to end the way it did.

I may need therapy....

Oh, and here is the only quote from the book I can bring myself to quote. And it was written by Jules Verne: "Science, my lad, is made up of mistakes, but they are mistakes which it is useful to make, because they lead little by little to the truth."

That quote was worth the whole sorry story.

I just ordered the final proof of 'The Seeds Project Interviews.' I'm super psyched.

The Goodreads Giveaway is soon. Whoo hoo!

What makes something magnificent? Is it the opinions of others, or the perspective of our own hearts? Does magnificence depend solely on perception, and if so, mine or yours? Is a piece of art magnificent because I say it is, because you say it is, or because an art historian decrees it so?

Speaking as an artist I can tell you: everything I do is not good enough, and at the same time, it is magnificent because it is my best—at that moment. Art is a push-pin in the fabric of time; that’s why I love it, and why I’ll always be an artist. There is nothing more satisfying to my creative spirit than to stand back—from a book I’ve written, from a painting I’ve painted, from a garden I’ve planted—and realize that I have captured thousands of my own moments in a way more unique than any photograph ever could. I have bent paint to my will; arranged words to my desire; planted flowers and set rocks in a way I would hope nature approves. Finishing art is magnificent—but no less magnificent than the moment when I can let go of what I’ve created and move on to my next idea.

This week’s BOW, 'All the Light We Cannot See' by Anthony Doerr, is dubbed “the magnificent #1 New York Times bestseller.” I interpret that to mean many people have bought the book, many have read it, and many enjoyed it. In truth I have yet to open the cover. I chose the book because of its magnificent cover—it is a picture of Saint-Malo, one of my favorite places in France and the place I used as sanctuary to my characters in 'Being,' my second book.

I look forward to reading this story, in part because I loved writing about Saint-Malo. It is an island as magnificent as an island can be, a place with a long history of being both connected to and fiercely independent from France. To me, any story about Saint-Malo is magnificent.

Read on,
M

Tonight on the blog--a taste of the Topaz Museum, or 'life on the bottom of Lake Bonneville':

www.mechellemorrisonbooks.blogspot.com

Driven by curiosity and my recent reading of 'When the Emperor was Divine,' I've just returned from visiting the Topaz Museum and the Japanese internment camp site in Delta, Utah. I'll post a full accounting of my adventure this week, rather than subjecting you to this week's BOW. (It's boring beyond words and I can't bring myself to finish it, let alone mention it on-line.)

But I digress. Let us wrap 'The Mammoth Hunters,' the book I've been reading for the past fourteen days.

So this is an older book, written in a more descriptive style than is currently in vogue, and it's long ... over 700 pages. That said, it's interesting in an historical sort-of way. I like history; I'm a sucker for PBS and Barbara Tuckman, so for me, it was the dangling carrot of a fictionalized history about a pre-history people that drew me in.

Don't get me wrong here because I like steamy romance, but the sex in this book felt like it was there to attract readers. The book is essentially about Ms. Auel's incredible capacity for prehistoric research. This was obvious to the point that I felt, at times, that the book was about her awesome research. Ayla and Jondalar were there to serve the function of descriptive eye-candy.

The thing is, and maybe it's just in the way the sex was written, I often found myself rolling my eyes in a 'here we go again' sort of way whenever Ayla jumped into the sack with someone. This may have simply been my gut-reaction to Ayla herself: she is a strong character when it comes to survival and an unquestioning lass when it comes to men. This personality trait was, well, annoying. I am admittedly weary of stories that over and over again, show me how ridiculous women can be in the grip of love's blindness....

*sigh*

Read on, Goodreaders.
M

So 'The Mammoth Hunters' is a super-long book, and it will be a few days more before I'm finished. So let's check out one of Utah's spooky places. Like ghost stories? This place is one in the making:
http://altereddimensions.net/2012/ski...

This book has a fair amount of sex--and not the kind that's mentioned in mere passing. I'm talking descriptive, page-turning, prehistoric sex, sex minus the guilt trip. If you're under eighteen ask your parents before reading. I'm quite naive at times. I probably should have asked mine.

But. The dialogue sort of wrecks it:

"Ayla! Oh my Ayla, my Ayla! I love you!"

"Jondalar, Jondalar, Jondalar!"

Uh. Jondalar?

But even with the steamy prehistoric sex and its trite dialogue, (or maybe because of it....) this book is interesting. The author, Jean M. Auel, clearly researched every detail as best she could, right down to its microscopic structure. Prehistoric times being, well, pre-history, so much of what we think we know is conjecture. But Ms. Auel makes it real--you sense the survival of these people, their will to thrive. And I don't just mean by reproducing.

I'm reminded of the series 'Rome.'

Try imagining this: strip away the influence of modern religions (I essentially refer to the middle-east big-three) and conjure a culture untouched by our definition of guilt, proper, right and wrong and acceptable.

The MC, Ayla, is nineteen. She had a baby at eleven because, well, I won't go into that. It was part of the cultural ritual she was brought up in--when girls were ready to reproduce, they did.

SO removed from our way of thinking. I hope.

I didn't realize it, but 'The Mammoth Hunters' is part of a series (I never read the 'Clan of the Cave Bear;' my bad). Now I find myself interested in Ayla's past--as well as her future, one that apparently takes place in another of "the acclaimed Earth's children series" (the publisher's words, not mine).

We'll see how I feel once I've reached page 723....

Read on,
M

'Everything Beautiful Began After,' by Simon Van Booy, is a love story--though not the kind you'd pick up in the airport while waiting to catch your plane. There are no ravaged bosoms or chiseled abs on even one of the book's 402 pages. No. This book is deep and insightful and impeccable, with so many quotable passages a person could spend days lost in contemplation.

For example: "Language is like drinking from one's own reflection in still water. We only take from it what we are at that time."

and...

"You feel the world going on without you. And soon you become starkly aware that in the great history of life, you mean absolutely nothing."

and...

"What happens to one person is felt by everyone."

and...

"Somewhere across the city, among the thousands of thumping hearts, was the one he wanted."

and...

"Every man has perfect freedom, provided he emancipates himself from mundane desires."

and...

"The passions we cannot control are the ones that define us."

I could go on and on, but at this point you're likely crossing your fingers in hope that I don't.

I loved this book. The writing style took a bit of patience to sync with, but I'm glad I stuck with it. And the book uses a few story-telling angles I suspect one doesn't much encounter: a)the story shifts from third person to second person then back to third person, and while in second person, the author is speaking to Henry [one of the characters]. b) in a few places, the story is told through letters, faxes and at one point, a telephone conversation. c) something very unexpected happens to one of the characters [I was, shockingly, reminded of 'Hell on Wheels' and had to work through it]. d) the entire book answers the inner question of a little girl who is the focus of the prologue, and she has nothing more to do with the book even though she is the result of everything in the book.

If you follow all that, I applaud you.

Read on!
M

This week's BOW is a doo-sie. I've got to read the whole thing before I venture a comment. So in the meantime, enjoy a scenic detour to Bryce Canyon:
www.mechellemorrisonbooks.blogspot.com

I had wondered why 'When the Emperor was Divine' was prominently featured in my local library. It is an older story, after all. So I Googled Topaz Utah. From a bird's eye view the place is ghastly; as desolate as anything on the planet, though farmers have managed to plant right up to the camp (I doubt farms were anywhere near the camp in the 1940s).

The renewed publicity is due to the Topaz Museum having just opened [in Delta, the town nearest the internment camp]. The camp maintained an art school, as a means of something to do, and the museum displays collected art and stories from those who lived in Topaz for the three years it operated. In a few weeks I'm going to pack my family into the car and drive down there. After reading 'When the Emperor was Divine' I need a closer look. I'll post pictures when I return.

Now to the book. I can't sugar-coat this story. It's desperately bleak. So beautifully written that almost every word makes a person want to wring their hands in sympathy. So horribly personal you can feel yourself there. For all the sadness I felt and still feel, I'm glad I read the story. (It's quite short--144 pages--and excruciatingly succinct.) I had a hard time finding quotes to share, maybe because I felt that taking the words out of context somewhat diluted their impact. But here are two:

from the father: (who is interned elsewhere throughout the story) "Remember it is better to bend than to break."

from the mother: (speaking to her children of why she declined a terrible job after returning from the camp) "I was afraid I might accidentally remember who I was and offend...myself."

The names of the protagonists are never revealed. This anonymity added deeply to the story's meaning. You knew their souls so completely, but you didn't know their names, and the result was the protagonists become everyone and anyone. They become you.

Read on,
M