This Too Shall Pass? Thoughts on The Pale King Release

I have to stop. I am driving myself utterly mad. In the last week or so, I've read approximately 244 articles, reviews and retrospectives about David Foster Wallace and The Pale King. As a result, I spent most of last Friday — the book's official release date — in something resembling the state of mind of the character in DFW's story "The Depressed Person."

And I still haven't been able to bring myself to actually buy the damn book. The reason, I think, is that there's something really final about that. It's something I'll never do again: Buy a new novel from my favorite writer of all time. It's that thought alone that brings about nearly soul-crippling sadness. Not helping matters is the fact that, in a somewhat cruel twist of fate — which isn't really fate, because I freely chose these books myself; it's more like an evil masochistic coincidence — I'm currently reading not one, but two, books about suicide (Anna Karenina and The History of History).

And but so, it's hard for me to account for why DFW's suicide has affected me so forcibly. After all, it's been two-and-a-half years now. But it might as well have been yesterday. I won't bore you by rehashing why I love his writing — you can read that here, in a post I did in Dec. 2009 celebrating my one-year anniversary of finishing Infinite Jest. It's not like his writing disappeared when he did. I don't know. To state the obvious, it's just overwhelmingly sad that such an awe-inspiringly brilliant writer offed himself in the midst of his prime.

Okay, time to sack up. The Pale King's in my cart ready for check out. Nothing left to do but click............

Unfamiliar Fishes: Hawaiian History With a Bit of Punch

When I made my first trip to Hawaii on vacation earlier this year, I quickly realized two things. First, I suck at pronouncing Hawaiian names. Secondly, I know embarrassingly little about Hawaii's history.

So I was delighted when I learned that noted witticist Sarah Vowell's new book, Unfamiliar Fishes, provides a quick, glib guide to 19th century Hawaiian history. I've always meant to read Vowell, and never have, so Unfamiliar Fishes provided an opportunity to kill two Hawaiian nene geese with one lava rock: learn history, read Vowell. (Also, it mercifully allowed me to abandon my original plan to learn Hawaiian history: Trudge through all 1,140 pgs. of James Michener's Hawaii.)

Beginning with King Kamehameha's unification (read as: conquest) of all the islands in the early 19th century and continuing through the arrival of the first American missionaries in 1820, the book explains how various events, factors, influences, etc. all led up to the US's rather underhanded annexation of Hawaii in 1898. Along the way, we get some fascinating tidbits about whaling, the founding of Punahou School (an elite private high school that happens to be our president's alma mater), a Hawaiian princess conflicted about marrying her brother, and a crazy pseudo-Mormon guy named Walter Murray Gibson who made friends with a Hawaiian king, but was excommunicated from the Mormon church for misappropriating funds.

Vowell is a thorough researcher and a wonderful writer — switching seamlessly between historian, travel writer and humorist. She's certainly the most fun-to-read when she's cracking wise and pointing out contradictions and stupidity. She's no fan of the missionaries and generally let's 'em have it throughout the book. My favorite line, which I judge to be pure genius: "In America, on the ordinate plane of faith versus reason, the x axis of faith intersects with the y axis of reason at the zero point of 'I don’t give a damn what you think.'"

The black-and-white historical sections are still interesting, but lack that Vowell flair. Near the end of the book, as Vowell rushes through the (il)legal maneuverings that led to the annexation, she barely stops to take a breath, much less throw in her signature wit. Here, you learn more than you're entertained — which isn't of itself a bad thing, but it feels more like a college textbook.

So, four stars for Unfamiliar Fishes. I realize now I liked it a lot more, and learned much more, than I thought I did while reading it. Isn't it cool when a book sneaks up on you? If you like Vowell, you won't be disappointed here. And I liked it enough to try some of her other stuff now.

By the way, the title is a reference to a quote by a native Hawaiian and Christian convert named David Malo, who in his old age, became concerned that the old customs were being abandoned and that the Haole (Hawaiian for "outsider", basically) or "unfamiliar fishes" would soon dominate the islands.

The Omega Theory: Everything Is Information

What if the universe is nothing more than an incredibly intricate computer program? Sounds a bit Matrix-y, yeah? But apparently famed physicist John Archibald Wheeler theorized this "It From Bit" idea -- that literally everything in the universe could be described with 'yes' or 'no' binary choices -- near the end of his career. And it's an idea still being kicked around in some scientific circles. This It From Bit theory is the basis for Mark Alpert's taut, fast-paced scientific thriller The Omega Theory. Only Alpert poses the question: If the universe is a computer program, what could cause it to crash?

As our thriller opens, Columbia University science historian David Swift and his wife, physicist Monique Reynolds, are opening a Physicists for Peace conference in New York City. But just before Swift gives his keynote, the news arrives that Iran has just tested a nuclear weapon. Meanwhile, David and Monique's adopted autistic son Michael is kidnapped by some religious nut-jobs who are after a secret stored in his head.

We soon learn, though, that the nuclear test may not be quite what it seems. And with the help of the FBI and a mysterious Israeli physicist and computer scientist, David and Monique race through the back alleys and secret tunnels of the Old City of Jerusalem to the deserts of Turkmenistan to try to rescue Michael and find the truth about a dastardly plot to destroy the universe.

Along the way, Alpert gives us some fascinating tidbits about everything from quantum computing to particle physics to code-breaking to the always-interesting science vs. religion debate. In fact, Alpert primes the pump with a quote from Albert Einstein to kick off the novel: "Science without religion is lame, religion without science is blind."

The Omega Theory is the second book in Alpert's David Swift series, and it's everything the first book in the series, Final Theory, should've been. I'd even go so far as to recommend skipping the first book and starting with this one. You'll pick up the gist of the first one along the way. Four stars for The Omega Theory -- it's a fantastic read for science-based thriller fans!

Where Ya At? A Look At Favorite Literary Settings

Earlier this week, a friend told me she'd just finished, and really loved, Sarah Dunant's The Birth of Venus. I have that book (only because I forgot to return the damn selection-of-the-month form from The Quality Paperback Book Club several years ago) but I've never been that tempted to try it. In fact, it currently resides on my "D-list" shelf in the basement. I didn't even know what it was about until my friend described it. And then she said it takes place in 15th century Florence. Now, I am interested.

Why? Because to me 15th century Florence with the Medicis and Leonardo da Vinci and Michaelangelo and the wars and crazy Savonarola's "bonfire of the vanities" is fascinating! Florence in the 1400s was pretty much ground zero for the Italian Renaissance, and as such, is very fertile literary ground. In fact, I'd go so far to say it's one of my favorite literary settings. I've read several books set there — including a biography of Leonardo, and Irving Stone's "biographical novel" of Michaelangelo titled The Agony and the Ecstasy.

And that got me thinking about other literary settings. And what I realized is that the setting of a novel is an enormous deal for me in terms of deciding whether I might be interested in it. Remember your high school English class when you learned that the Mississippi River is actually a character in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn? Since learning that, the idea that good writers make the setting as much a character as the characters has really taken root with me. To wit, I just bought a debut novel by a writer named Ida Hattemer-Higgins titled The History of History solely because it takes place in Berlin, Germany — an amazing city I was lucky enough to spend 10 days in last year. (Thank you, Icelandic volcano, for "sticking" me there for an extra week.)

Perhaps my favorite literary setting of all is New York City. The self-proclaimed greatest city in the world is also the greatest literary setting in the world, in my humble view. I actually wrote about this last year, including a Top 11 list of my favorite NYC books. It's certainly no coincidence that the center of the publishing universe is a common setting for novels. I'm glad things worked out that way.

Another favorite setting is Israel. I've actively searched out really obscure books, like A Palestine Affair by Jonathan Wilson, and By The Rivers of Babylon by Nelson DeMille because they take place in Israel. No matter your politics, you have to agree that Israel's just an absurdly fascinating place. I've read a ton about its history and a ton of novels set there — and the more I read, the more interested I am. David Grossman's To The End of The Land is up soon.

So what do you think — is this fascination with setting quirky or normal? Do you place high importance on the setting of a novel when book prospecting? Do you read novels solely because they're set somewhere you find interesting? Examples?

Is It Worthwhile To Review Crappy, Obscure Novels?

I was going to write a review of the crappy, obscure thriller Final Theory for today's post, but as I started writing, I started thinking: What's the friggin' point? You've probably never heard of this book, so it's not like you were on the edge of your seat wondering if it's any good or not. And so then by writing a negative review about it, I've just convinced you never to give it a second thought. 

So why waste my (and your) time? I'm not sure why this just occurred to me. I certainly don't feel obligated to review every novel I read (and I don't). And I don't accept self-published books to review — partially for this reason: If I hate it, then I'm pasting a novel no one's ever heard of anyway, and so it's like adding insult to injury. Sure, if an obscure novel's great — Teddy Wayne's Kapitoil is one example — it's fun to sing its praises and therefore try to find it a wider readership. But an obscure novel being really good is a rarity, isn't it? That's why it's obscure. 

Of course, the deeper issue here is just the idea of the effect of negative reviews. Personally, I hate writing them — but dutifully do so when it's a book people need to know isn't that good; and more importantly, why. To me, writing a negative review is 100 times more difficult than a positive one. It's often tough to enumerate why I disliked it without just saying some form of "I disliked it."

And it's fair to say people don't like reading negative reviews, as well. It's funny how the percentage of "Not Helpful" votes on Amazon increases in precisely indirect proportion to the number of stars you give a review. A two-star review is guaranteed to garner several not helpful votes, a one-star review even more. Even if, by any objective measure, it's a bad book, people still seem angry at you for pointing that out.

I'm interested to hear from you. Do you review crappy, obscure books? What do you see as the benefit of doing so? Do you also struggle writing negative reviews, or at some level, is it therapeutic to lambaste a crappy book?