couldreads

The kids are all right

Here’s how I see it. These days the life expectancy for women is somewhere around 86, which means I’m only a little less than a third done with my life, which means I still have two-thirds of said life to live as a full-on responsibility-having adult. Which means it would be fair, considering the math, to at this point in time consider myself a young adult, relatively speaking. Which means, as you may all be guessing by now, one very important thing: It’s totally okay that I keep reading all these novels intended for 13-year-olds.

My younger sister turned me on to the latest in my YA addiction: The Gone series, by Michael Grant. There are six books in the series, five of which are published (the sixth is due out next year) and two of which I’ve now finished. Since I value you people’s time (and it would be difficult to review later books in the series without giving away spoilers) I’ll kind of review the whole concept here, rather than in six separate posts. Also because I’m lazy.

Time travel travel speed

Guys, I am writing to you from space!

I mean, not actually. I’m actually writing to you from a plane, where apparently you can buy Wi-Fi access now (it seems “Internet isn’t safe on planes” only meant free Internet.) I’m on my way to Chicago, during which time I will hopefully be able to catch up on some book reviews that are long overdue. I’m a reading machine lately, and my writing machine (read: combination of brain, hands and laptop) is struggling to keep up.

It’s kind of appropriate to be writing this review from THE SKY (sorry, I’m still excited about it.) I fly very infrequently, and every time I do find myself on a plane I’m somewhat amazed at how jaded people are by the whole process. My fellow flyers are casually reading newspapers while a giant metal machine lifts off of the ground; they’re closing their little window shades and flipping through celebrity magazines instead of appreciating how crazy the earth looks from even 10,000 feet up. I’m not saying I expect everyone to still be drooling all over themselves a zillion years after the advent of commercial flying (I didn’t feel like looking it up) but a little reverence would be acceptable, no?

A short review of short stories

Etgar Keret strikes me as a weird dude. Like, if we went out to lunch, I’m not sure what we’d talk about. Somehow I suspect the short story author—whose vignettes generally cover such weighty fare as life and death, heaven and hell, and suicide bombers—would not care to hear me expound on the merits of this season’s Bachelorette contestants. Somehow I think maybe I’d run out of things to say.

Suddenly, a Knock on the Door is Keret’s latest volume of short stories, a former collection of which I’ve reviewed on this blog in the past. It’s a quick read—none of the stories are more than a few pages—and equally as odd as previous Keret books I’ve read. Interestingly, when people talk about short story authors they like (not that I have these types of conversations with any regularity), I often mention Keret, in part because a) I don’t really love short stories, so have a limited inventory of writers to bring up and b) whether or not I love each of his books (I don’t), I have to admit that what Keret does is seriously unique. His stories are funny, but not about funny things; they’re also serious, but not depressing. Maybe sarcastic? Maybe tongue-in-cheek? It’s hard to tell.

Have you ever met one of those people that’s just hard to read? (no pun intended) Like they’re just incredibly deadpan and you’re not always sure if it’s dry humor or if maybe they’re slightly autistic and don’t understand humor or general social interaction? Etgar Keret’s books are like those people—you’re never 100% sure what he’s trying to say, but you know he’s trying to say something. If nothing else, it’s interesting thing to watch (i.e. read).

Anywho, I’ve been plowing through books lately—I see it as my body preparing for summer hibernation, during which I sit within one foot of my air-conditioner at all times and read books or marathon-watch old shows on television—so Keret’s 188-page Suddenly, a Knock on the Door was a blip in my otherwise busy roster of longer reads. It’s a quirky little book—he strikes me as a quirky little guy—and if you’re into that sort of thing, you should read it, too.

🏆🏆

TITLE: Suddenly, a Knock on the Door
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AUTHOR: Etgar Keret
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PAGES: 188 (in paperback)
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ALSO WROTE: The Nimrod Flipout, The Bus Driver Who Wanted to Be God
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SORTA LIKE: Miranda July meets Jonathan Safran Foer
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FIRST LINE: “‘Tell me a story,’ the bearded man sitting on my living-room sofa commands.”

Santa! I know him!

I should admit right off the bat that I have a rather substantial bias when it comes to this week’s read. Modern New York, a veritable handbook for the state of the city’s economy over the last 50 years, was written by Greg David, onetime (and longtime) editor for Crain’s New York Business, where I’ve spent the last eight years of my employed life. Not only was Greg instrumental in the shaping of Crain’s—stories of his reign, laced with professional admiration of his unique management style, still circulate the newsroom—but he was fairly instrumental in my career, which is to say that without his faith in a completely inexperienced Fordham grad (who majored in the rather vaguely labeled “Media, Culture & Society”) I might not have the writing chops/Internet knowledge/general confidence in my own awesomeness that make it possible for me to ramble to you people today. (Also, I was footnoted!)

Dead boring

Given that it’s almost True Blood season, I found myself moderately excited—moderately—for the newest Sookie Stackhouse book, Deadlocked, which came out earlier this month. I say moderately because I am of the humble opinion that Harris has been phoning it in for a few years now, and/or ran out of supernatural creatures to cast in her increasingly redundant series.

Phoning it in can be a death knell for any author—to be discussed further when I review the latest Augusten Burroughs book, whose lack of substance is depressing me greatly. But Harris—as much as I love the fact that she’s inadvertently generated one of the most ridiculously fun shows on television—didn’t have much room to fall. The Sookie Stackhouse books are like Anne Rice for dimwits, and rival Twilight for the title of worst-written vampire series of all time (editor’s note: I have read about three vampires series and thus am wildly unqualified to make this claim.)

In a nutshell, this is how a Sookie Stackhouse novel goes: