I don't normally recommend books unasked (at least, I don't think I do), but I feel compelled to in this case, since I just finished a book that I thought was really, really good: Sonia Faleiro, Beautiful Thing: Inside the Secret World of Bombay's Dance Bars.The book really was fantastic. I want to write more, but the library called the book back, and I feel like it's so good it deserves a "review" written with book in hand, for checking stuff. So I think I will need to call it back myself.
http://www.amazon.com/Beautiful-Thing-Sonia-Faleiro/dp/0857861697
I had some issues with the way the book handled non-English words and phrases - some were "translated," others weren't, and I couldn't always figure out from context what the characters were saying, which was a problem. But I also appreciated the way they were used to set the scene, so it might have been the right call on the author's & editors' parts. Maybe less of an issue for my Desi friends?
Overall it's an impressive book, though; incredibly funny, despite being about a prostitute - although just what she is, and isn't, is part of the story - in Bombay, and, obviously, also incredibly sad. "Leela," the main character, is just an amazing figure, though, the kind of subject I would think journalists spend their lives looking for (and the NY Times agrees - see their review). Not that this is strictly journalism, if that kind of distinction still holds in this day and age, but the book is based on the research the author did into the women who worked in Bombay's "dance bars" (kind of like clothes-on stripping, but generally stemming from sexual exploitation and poverty, and leading to more). And the relationship between the author and Leela is one of the best parts of the book.
So...anyways, of course no pressure to read it, but if anyone's looking for a book that is as easy to read as a novel, but is nonfiction, and totally engrossing, I vote for this one :)
Showing posts with label nonfiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nonfiction. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Reading Recommendation
I just emailed ten friends (well, eight friends, two brothers) the following:
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
I generally don't write about books before I've read them, but I can't get my hands on The Lifespan of a Fact yet, as excited as I am to read it (I've requested that the library order it, so now I need to wait). But I've been hearing about it for a while, and am eagerly anticipating getting to watch the drama - essayist vs. fact-checker - unfold, and in the mean time, the New York Times has an interesting take (the article itself is interesting, vs. the viewpoint, in particular) on it:
http://www.nytimes.com/2012/02/26/magazine/the-fact-checker-versus-the-fabulist.html
The Times also did a review and a hilarious (intentionally?) adapted exerpt from the book.
Basically, the book, credited to John D'Agata and Jim Fingal, traces the history of one of D'Agata's essays, after Fingal, on the publisher's side, calls into question some facts. And D'Agata, being who he is, takes umbrage not so much with Fingal's questioning of the accuracy of the facts, but with the latter's concern that the facts be accurate.
"Accuracy" in nonfiction is something I have struggled with for a few years now. More or less up until I took a writing class, Advanced Narrative Nonfiction, I was working under the assumption that nonfiction was "true" and fiction was made-up. Since most of the nonfiction I read was history, and I am a historian by training (or so they tell me) I was used to a pretty rigorous dependence on verifiable facts. Certainly, a lot of speculation was normal, and acceptable, but there was a line, and if you couldn't be damn sure something happened the way you were saying it did, you had to at least be clear when you were moving into the murkier waters of partial evidence and supposition. People weren't always, of course, but that is where peer reviewers and cranky grad students jumped in to rake your argument over the coals.
I think I interrupted the class several times at the beginning of the semester to say things like "but...how can the author be repeating whole conversations she overheard as a child? She can't possibly remember each word. This is at best an approximation of what she thinks was said, based on her memory of the event."
Yes, I was a super annoying and boring pedant. But it bothered me that we were saying this was non-fiction, and yet there were clearly "fictional" - that is to say, wholly or partially based in imagination - aspects.
The professor very patiently led us through a discussion of the...shall we say "grey zone" in modern (and earlier, but whatever) essay writing, in which the emphasis is placed on the overall, sort of metaphysical "truth" of the whole, rather than the quantifiable & confirmable accuracy of the individual elements.
Eventually I (semi-grudgingly) conceded (sort of) the point. My "eureka!" moment came when I realized that, humor aside, the Colberian "truthiness," which delighted me when it first came out, could be applied. It was a little like when I finally figured our the distinction between "gender" and "sex" (in so far as historiography, that is). More to the point, though - much like pornography, some things are accurate, but others are "real," in ways, without being strictly, by-the-book, real, and you just need to let it slide, and see the work as a whole, and in its place in the grander scheme of things.
I was actually quite proud of myself. I am not exactly prone to accepting new and different viewpoints, so I felt very open-minded and intellectually advanced. That acceptance, though, created in part by our discussion which featured D'Agata and his philosophies prominently, was frequently challenged by my irritation with my idiot classmates (not all of them, but a solid percentage).
It turns out I can roll with a lot more blurring of the lines between nonfiction/fiction and real/not-real, even leaving aside the fact I had supposedly learned those were not necessarily corresponding categories, when in the hands of an accomplished writer like D'Agata. So I have never quite decided how I feel about the whole thing, although I am decidedly clear on the fact that better writers can get away with more.
Generally, though, I tend to think that if something can be verified, it should be, and facts should be used carefully. This may be my history background again; I am really sensitive to how easily facts can be manipulated, and even something as seemingly solid as figures can be used to argue differing, even opposing, points.
"Facts," particularly when presented as "the truth" or as being "real," can be very, very dangerous. So it makes me nervous when they are handled carelessly...carelessly isn't the right word, but I can't think of a better one at the moment...without due caution?
In any case - it's an intriguing question, and one that I enjoy following down its twisty logic roads. Hence, this super-long and probably unnecessary post about a book I haven't even read yet. But it's a good excuse to get the links on here so I won't forget about them, because I want to go back and read the reviews/comments again after I read the book.
And just for fun:
http://www.nytimes.com/2012/02/26/magazine/the-fact-checker-versus-the-fabulist.html
The Times also did a review and a hilarious (intentionally?) adapted exerpt from the book.
Basically, the book, credited to John D'Agata and Jim Fingal, traces the history of one of D'Agata's essays, after Fingal, on the publisher's side, calls into question some facts. And D'Agata, being who he is, takes umbrage not so much with Fingal's questioning of the accuracy of the facts, but with the latter's concern that the facts be accurate.
"Accuracy" in nonfiction is something I have struggled with for a few years now. More or less up until I took a writing class, Advanced Narrative Nonfiction, I was working under the assumption that nonfiction was "true" and fiction was made-up. Since most of the nonfiction I read was history, and I am a historian by training (or so they tell me) I was used to a pretty rigorous dependence on verifiable facts. Certainly, a lot of speculation was normal, and acceptable, but there was a line, and if you couldn't be damn sure something happened the way you were saying it did, you had to at least be clear when you were moving into the murkier waters of partial evidence and supposition. People weren't always, of course, but that is where peer reviewers and cranky grad students jumped in to rake your argument over the coals.
I think I interrupted the class several times at the beginning of the semester to say things like "but...how can the author be repeating whole conversations she overheard as a child? She can't possibly remember each word. This is at best an approximation of what she thinks was said, based on her memory of the event."
Yes, I was a super annoying and boring pedant. But it bothered me that we were saying this was non-fiction, and yet there were clearly "fictional" - that is to say, wholly or partially based in imagination - aspects.
The professor very patiently led us through a discussion of the...shall we say "grey zone" in modern (and earlier, but whatever) essay writing, in which the emphasis is placed on the overall, sort of metaphysical "truth" of the whole, rather than the quantifiable & confirmable accuracy of the individual elements.
Eventually I (semi-grudgingly) conceded (sort of) the point. My "eureka!" moment came when I realized that, humor aside, the Colberian "truthiness," which delighted me when it first came out, could be applied. It was a little like when I finally figured our the distinction between "gender" and "sex" (in so far as historiography, that is). More to the point, though - much like pornography, some things are accurate, but others are "real," in ways, without being strictly, by-the-book, real, and you just need to let it slide, and see the work as a whole, and in its place in the grander scheme of things.
I was actually quite proud of myself. I am not exactly prone to accepting new and different viewpoints, so I felt very open-minded and intellectually advanced. That acceptance, though, created in part by our discussion which featured D'Agata and his philosophies prominently, was frequently challenged by my irritation with my idiot classmates (not all of them, but a solid percentage).
It turns out I can roll with a lot more blurring of the lines between nonfiction/fiction and real/not-real, even leaving aside the fact I had supposedly learned those were not necessarily corresponding categories, when in the hands of an accomplished writer like D'Agata. So I have never quite decided how I feel about the whole thing, although I am decidedly clear on the fact that better writers can get away with more.
Generally, though, I tend to think that if something can be verified, it should be, and facts should be used carefully. This may be my history background again; I am really sensitive to how easily facts can be manipulated, and even something as seemingly solid as figures can be used to argue differing, even opposing, points.
"Facts," particularly when presented as "the truth" or as being "real," can be very, very dangerous. So it makes me nervous when they are handled carelessly...carelessly isn't the right word, but I can't think of a better one at the moment...without due caution?
In any case - it's an intriguing question, and one that I enjoy following down its twisty logic roads. Hence, this super-long and probably unnecessary post about a book I haven't even read yet. But it's a good excuse to get the links on here so I won't forget about them, because I want to go back and read the reviews/comments again after I read the book.
And just for fun:
Truthiness is a quality characterizing a "truth" that a person claims to know intuitively "from the gut" or because it "feels right" without regard to evidence, logic, intellectual examination, or facts.For the full, awesome Wikipedia entry: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Truthiness
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Quick notes
A lot has happened in the last couple of weeks; mostly personal, some reading.
My Noni, one of the most loving, generous people I have ever known, and the maker of the world's best spaghetti sauce, became very ill and then passed away, but only after beating back cancer for 18 years after being told to go home and prepare to die, and not to bother fighting. But nothing could ever stop her from fighting, and her strength and tenaciousness gave all of us who loved her almost two more decades to benefit from her huge heart and inspiring grace and humor in the face of (almost) overwhelming odds.
While this was going on I kept reading; killing time, and trying to escape (both my grief and sometimes my family). Off the top of my head, I read/finished: The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart, Spider Bones, The Hunger Games, and I think something else.
Clearly there's a lot I need to add in here, but the most pressing issue is Niall Ferguson's Civilization: The West and The Rest, which the library is calling back on me. Suffice it to say, for now, that from the opening lines of the introduction, I kept wanting to heave the book across the room. Ferguson may be smart, but I suspect he is also a pompous, self-righteous, and unimaginative ass. The book really deserves a longer and more vituperative review, but I need to finish the book and then really look at my notes and think about making valid, as well as angry, comments. Since I am already two days overdue with the book, for future reference, pages that I found particularly offensive, problematic, laughably self-centered or small-minded, or in need of further research (to refute his stupidness, obviously) are: 4, 8, 76, 77, 88, 90, 97, 105, 111, 132, 135, 136, 138, 140, 145.
My Noni, one of the most loving, generous people I have ever known, and the maker of the world's best spaghetti sauce, became very ill and then passed away, but only after beating back cancer for 18 years after being told to go home and prepare to die, and not to bother fighting. But nothing could ever stop her from fighting, and her strength and tenaciousness gave all of us who loved her almost two more decades to benefit from her huge heart and inspiring grace and humor in the face of (almost) overwhelming odds.
While this was going on I kept reading; killing time, and trying to escape (both my grief and sometimes my family). Off the top of my head, I read/finished: The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart, Spider Bones, The Hunger Games, and I think something else.
Clearly there's a lot I need to add in here, but the most pressing issue is Niall Ferguson's Civilization: The West and The Rest, which the library is calling back on me. Suffice it to say, for now, that from the opening lines of the introduction, I kept wanting to heave the book across the room. Ferguson may be smart, but I suspect he is also a pompous, self-righteous, and unimaginative ass. The book really deserves a longer and more vituperative review, but I need to finish the book and then really look at my notes and think about making valid, as well as angry, comments. Since I am already two days overdue with the book, for future reference, pages that I found particularly offensive, problematic, laughably self-centered or small-minded, or in need of further research (to refute his stupidness, obviously) are: 4, 8, 76, 77, 88, 90, 97, 105, 111, 132, 135, 136, 138, 140, 145.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Paging Dr. House...
My writing class (ha, yes, I am in one, not that you would know from this blog) teacher assigned us a piece that originally appeared in The New Yorker a few decades ago, by the "Annals of Medicine" staff writer, Berton Roueche (accent on the final E - need to figure out how to do accents in this thing). In order to get a literal hold on a copy of the essay, "The Incurable Wound," I checked out of the library a collection of his work, The Medical Detectives. So far I am totally loving it - I just started with the first essay last night on the bus, and have been zipping through. Going to skip over "Incurable" when I get to it, so I can read it closer to next Tuesday's class, but I am already regretting there aren't more stories in the collection. According to some of the stories that Prof. T referenced last week, when she was talking about the writer/book, I am pretty sure this is where some of the "House" plotlines come from - when C and I heard her say a teenager is poisoned by wearing pants that were soaked in a chemical while they were still baled, we were like "House!" simultaneously - and these are just as fun, so far. The strictly medical stuff is a little dry, although Roueche does a great job of writing about science/medicine for a lay audienence, but the fun really is in the "detective work" that the doctors do, tracking down first what could have made their patients sick, and then how it could have happened. Our teacher kept saying this would be a great book "to give your dad" but I already want to share it around to everyone I know who appreciates an engaging story and nice (humorous, concise, literate) writing. Weirdly, the book is strongly reminding me of this book of ghost stories I had, and read to pieces, as a kid. Don't remember what it was called, but I think it had a purple and black cover. And I think maybe they weren't necessarily ghost stories, but just, like, mysterious occurrences. I think one might have been something to do with spontaneous combustion, and I think something else was maybe a house that was haunted by Dolly Madison??? In any case, I don't know why, except for maybe the shared spare-but-active prose, but Medical Detectives kept making me think of that other book - which I probably haven't thought of in years. I need to do some digging, because last time I felt this way I was reading Farenheit 451, and kept thinking - for weeks - of Something Wicked This Way Comes (the movie) for some reason, before I realized that the movie was based on another book by Ray Bradbury. Ugh. And Something Wicked This Way Comes makes me think of The Watcher in the Woods, which still scared me, even when I got
older. Well, okay, Bette Davis, all balding and creepy, scared me.
older. Well, okay, Bette Davis, all balding and creepy, scared me.
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