Ah, the consummate Jane Austen. The Most Popular Jane Austen (thanks, Colin Firth…). The Chick Lit Jane Austen. What is there really to say about Pride and Prejudice??

I used to say that I read it annually, that it was my favorite Jane Austen. Honestly, though: I don’t, and it’s not. But, I do love it for what it is: a genuinely funny, sweet, wonderful romantic comedy. (My mother’s complaint about the A&E version of the book is that they played up the romance too much and short-changed the comedy. It really is a funny book.) Lizzy and Darcy are the perfect romantic leads: the lovers who don’t realize that they’re in love until they’re already most of the way there. (I thought reading this was very appropriate after having seen Much Ado About Nothing. Lizzy and Darcy have much in common with Beatrice and Benedict.) The man who can’t resist the woman, even though he really tries hard. The woman who loathes the man until she realizes that he’s really much more than he appears. They fight the urge to fall in love, for different reasons: there are no star-crossed, obsessed (Bella and Edward!), pining lovers here. And, because of that, because of their wit and banter, and because of the whole tension surrounding their relationship, that final kiss (well… in the movie), their final tumble into and acceptance of their love is that much more sweet and fulfilling. It is truly a perfect book to read on a hot, summer day.

That is what I can say.

I decided, since we own the BBC version of this, to attack this play differently than I read Shakespeare last year. I am happy to report that not only did I actually get it this time, I even actually enjoyed it (as much as one can enjoy a Shakespearean tragedy).

Thoughts:
On the movie: the costumes were horrible, and watching Anthony Hopkins in blackface was a bit odd and uncomfortable. That said, the acting was superb. Hopkins does crazy violent, jealous rages excellently.

Othello isn’t a very sympathetic tragic hero. Then again, I’m not sure tragic heroes are supposed to be sympathetic. His tragic “flaw”, if you can call it that, is that he wants to know too much and is willing to listen to (very lousy, superficial) anything to believe what he wants to believe.

Iago is a racist, and an ambitious man who will stop at nothing to get what he wants. He’s also a butt-kissing ass. No, I didn’t like him either. (Though Bob Hoskins performance made me laugh on occasion.)

Desdemona is a victim of the fact that men will always believe other men rather than listen to the sense women talk.

It has one of the more pathetic endings of any Shakespeare play. Save Romeo and Juliet. I think their end is even more pathetic.

I have no tolerance for pathetic characters. (If you haven’t noticed.)

I think there are some interesting things to say about race, stereotypes (both racial and about women and men), jealousy, ambition, curiosity, and jumping to conclusions.

At this rate — one a year (though maybe we can call it two a year, since we saw Much Ado About Nothing last week… and thought that the local company did a fine job with it. We had a very spirited discussion about Claudio and Hero afterward.) — it’ll take me 35 more years to get through all of Shakespeare’s plays…

I have mixed feelings about this one. I’ve been a fan of Ellen Kushner’s Sound and Spirit for years now, and I had high hopes that I’d enjoy her written work as much as I enjoy her PRI program. And I did enjoy this book for the most part, but it fell short in the end.

I won’t — because it’s just not possible — go into the plot here. I tried to come up with a neat and tidy summary, and I just can’t. There’s so many characters — one of the flaws for me; I just couldn’t keep everyone straight — and there’s so much going on. That’s actually one of the things that appealed to me. I liked that this book was a long and involved chess game, people maneuvering other people around to their advantage; characters falling into (and sometimes out of) traps delicately laid for them. I liked the intrigue — there’s one character that you’re left in suspense of for a good portion of the book: who was he, how did he end up where he did, why does he have a death wish? — and the action was well-written. Actually, that’s one thing I can say I really enjoyed: Kusher’s as good a writer as I hoped: descriptive, but not too flowery (well, mostly), and she sketches out characters and situations that were interesting and fun to read.

But….

She fell short with the end. I’m not sure it could have ended any other way, but I felt as if I were watching a game of chess, and then at the end, everyone got up and said “Oh wait! It’s Parcheesi, not chess, that we’re playing.” I was left with a big Huh. Too many threads that she wove were left hanging, and the ending was much too pat for what had been set up during the course of the novel. If only… I don’t know what. I do know that there were several short stories set in the world (which reminds me: this is only fantasy because it’s not historical or contemporary fiction; it has very few of the hallmarks of what I usually consider Fantasy…) and I tried to read them. And either Kushner isn’t a great short-story writer (which she readily admits), or I just wasn’t all that interested in the end.

I’m still trying to make up my mind whether or not to venture into the other two books. Maybe I’ll like them better… or maybe they’ll end up with the same flaws that doomed this one. But then, I won’t know until I read them, will I?

If you had to choose one leading man from any Jane Austen book as your absolute all-time favorite, which one would you choose? Me, I would choose Mr. Knightly. Sure, I love Mr. Darcy, or Captain Wentworth, and Henry Tilney even managed to make me smile. But Mr. Knightly… he’s just about perfect, in my humble view.

See, he puts up with Emma, who is — by all accounts — a very silly, vain, misguided girl. And not only does he put up with her, but he gently (mostly) corrects her, helps her become the woman she really should be. And he loves her for and in spite of it all. (Throughout the whole book, too. I think that’s one thing that really hit me on this re-read: the evidence for Mr. Knightly’s love was there from very early on, even if neither one of them knew it.) Perhaps that’s why I love this love story best. Because, while I love Lizzy’s wit and perception and assertiveness and Anne’s goodness and long-sufferingness, I think I find Emma — for all her class snobbery (that’s the other thing that stood out on this re-read; it’s a very class-centric book) — the most imperfect, the most accessible, the most real of all of Austen’s heroines.

Which is also probably why I find this one highly entertaining. I know many people find Emma (both the character and the book) grating, but I am constantly amused by her antics, her desire to try and make people’s lives in her own image. (There’s a lot that I could say about silly, sweet Harriet; or even the grating Mrs. Elton; or Mr. Elton who aspires to be a rich snob and only comes off with the snob part; or Jane Fairfax, who comes off much better in the book than she does in the movie; or Frank Churchill, who should be a scoundrel, but in reality is just an immature guy… but I won’t.) And I think that’s why Mr. Knightly, as the counter-balance to Emma’s flightiness, has found a special place in my heart.

That, and this one line: “Men of sense, whatever you may choose to say, do not want silly wives.”

Sigh.

It occurred to me fairly early on in this book that it would make a pretty good stand-alone. There’s a lot of exposition up front, which I found tedious, but which would make The Last Enchantment a book that would hold up pretty well by itself. The only downside is that you’d be reading the least enjoyable of the three books.

That’s not to say that it’s a bad book. It’s not. It’s a good book, but it pales in comparison to the other two in the series. (I’m not even going to bother with the fourth one, having read it years ago and disliked it greatly. I’ll live without the conclusion of Arthur’s story.) I was trying to figure out why I didn’t enjoy this one as much; the writing isn’t lacking, and it deals with the part of Arthur’s story that’s usually ripe for the telling. It comes down to that, compared to the Merlin of the first two books, this Merlin — the aging, dwindling Merlin — isn’t as interesting. He’s likeable, but really boring. It wasn’t until the end when he picks up with Nimue that I really became interested (the part where Arthur breaks it to Merlin that Nimue is really a girl is quite amusing) again. But then, after a few short chapters, Merlin “dies” and is buried in his living death.

And then the book keeps going. This is what really bugged me. Merlin dies, and yet we still have to have a happily-ever after… ta, da! He’s not dead. He was just faking it (a “malady” like unto death). And so he comes back alive, only to fade away (again). It wasn’t bad, just a bit hokey. I think I would have been happier if he’d just left it with the cave part. (But then, I realize as I’m writing this, how on earth could this story come out? If it’s written in Merlin’s hand, it’s his story, and he just dies in the cave, how on earth could it ever be published? Of course he couldn’t be dead; he had to live to tell his story. Then he could die.)

As an aside: I still didn’t like the women, except for Nimue, and she only had a limited role. It did make me want to go back and read Mists again (don’t know if I will, though), if only because I really feel that Marion Zimmer Bradley’s tale is the flip side of Stewart’s. It seems to me, in recollection, that the two books balance each other out. Perhaps that’s as it should be.

At any rate, it’s a fitting conclusion to Merlin’s story. (one can’t expect him to have power the whole time; I did like, on some level, that Stewart made the book fit Merlin’s situation. It didn’t have to be that way, but it was, and it worked.) For Merlin’s story it is. Yes, Arthur plays a role, just as Merlin plays a role in Arthur’s story, but it isn’t the Arthurian legend, at least not as we really know it. Even so, I think it’s an important part of the Arthurian canon, and a good place for someone to start a foray into the Arthurian legend.

I had originally picked this up to finish off my Expanding Horizons Challenge list because the review by CdnReader made me curious, but then Sarah gave me Interpreter of Maladies and I read that one instead. Still, it was sitting on my dresser, not due yet, and so I picked it up. I thought it was interesting, but like CdnReader, I wasn’t overly impressed by it.

Devi — a late-20s Indian woman — decides to commit suicide. Her life is terrible, especially in comparison to her father’s and her older sister’s, and there’s nothing left to live for. But, her mother saves her, and as a result, Devi moves in with her parents, stops talking and begins cooking. It also causes a chain reaction, causing everyone in her family to reevaluate whether or not their life is worth living.

I liked that there was a lot about decisions and comparisons. Everything everyone does in this book has some sort of consequence, whether it was a recent decision, or something more in the past. I liked that; I liked that people had to deal with the consequences of their own lives. I thought the observations that Amulya Malladi made about sisters and family and comparisons and parenting were good ones. I even liked Devi as a character, though the rest of her family took a bit of getting used to. The prose felt a bit clinical at times, but that’s possibly due to the switching of the narratives; you get portions of the story from different points of view, and it didn’t really work as well as I hoped it would.

But, I think one of my biggest disappointments was the lack of food. Yeah, it was there, hanging out in the background with Devi’s experimental fusion Indian cooking, but it wasn’t as delicious or as sensory as I hoped it would be. I wanted to get a feel for the Indian food, and I felt that I was missing something because I didn’t know what half the dishes were. I wanted this book to make me desire to eat Indian food, but it fell flat. I was even disappointed by “mouthwatering recipes”. They were mostly just lists of ingredients and ways to throw them together, not the how of it all. Which I found disappointing.

So, in the end, it’s a decent novel — kind of soap-operaish, but with interesting people — but nothing to jump and shout about.

Forgive the bad Asian food metaphor. I thought of it early on while reading American Gods, and I liked it so much that I had to use it.

See, Stardust is fried rice. It’s nondescript. Everyone likes it. Sure, it may have elements that you don’t like, say watercress, or things that you wonder why it’s in there — broccoli or celery — but pretty much, everyone likes fried rice. It’s good. It’s simple. It’s tasty.

But, American Gods is kim chee. (Hubby took issue with this; he likes Korean food. I have to admit that I do too.) It’s loud. It’s obnoxious. It’s spicy. It’s not easily accessible. It takes some real getting used to. Not many people eat kim chee for the first time and say “Wow! This fermented spicy cabbage is THE BEST THING OUT THERE!” (I know I didn’t. I thought, when Hubby and I were dating and he took me to a Korean restaurant that he was eating one of the grossest things I’ve ever seen.)

American Gods is one weird book. As I thought about it, I’m not sure if it’s awful weird or brilliant weird. While I was reading, it was kind of awful weird. It’s incredibly vulgar and basically without a plot until the last 1/4 of the book. I felt like I was a car stuck in the mud, wheels spinning. Shadow, as a main character, is interesting, but actionless. He’s just a drifter, someone who moves from story to story within the book. I skipped whole sections, wondering about the point of that particular weird encounter or story. (Especially the interludes. They were really weird, and pretty pointless.)

But, after finishing it (at the end I thought, “REALLY! That’s it? That’s the whole point?!”), and thinking about it, and talking to Hubby about it, I began to realize the brilliance of the whole thing. You’re supposed to feel like a car spinning in the mud. The main character’s supposed to be a ruse, a distraction. That’s because (sorry, can’t avoid the spoilers) it’s all one big con. Not just for the characters, but for reader as well. Sure, if you’re a close reader (which I’m not), you would have picked up on the clues (brilliant foreshadowing), and figured it out way before I did. But, even so, when it’s all said and done, I think it’s a brilliant concept.

See? It’s Korean food. It takes some getting used to, but once you do, it just might be some of the best stuff you’ve eaten. (It just might not be for everyone.)