Death in Venice (Thomas Mann)

Good, of course. Quite good. However, I originally know this story through the Benjamin Britten opera (which I happen to think is amazing), so I was unable to encounter the genius of this work through impartial eyes. Instead, I was always waiting to read the part I knew would come next, to see how similar to eachother the novella and the opera actually are. Pretty similar. But, as is the case with most of these adaptations, the novella is more compact, and accomplishes quite a bit in a short time. What more can I say about this book? It's great, it's a classic, and well worth the two days it'll probably take to read it.

It (Stephen King)

I'm not sure exactly how I feel about this book. There was a point, maybe somewhere in the middle of the book, when I said to myself "If Stephen King ever did produce a masterpiece, I'm sure this is it". Then something happened. I don't know. Somehow it dragged on too long, and the horror dulled, and after a while I began wondering "what's this all about, anyway?". There certainly is an adequate helping of real, human terror: Beverly receiving horrific beatings by her father as a child, then from her husband as an adult; Ben getting wounded by the crazy bully's knife. Maybe these things are what ground the more surreal terrors in a sense of humanity, and thus try to help the book transcend the simple genre of horror. There is also a somewhat convincing love story--the love between the seven childhood friends at the center of the story. I couldn't really tell what "It" really meant though.
But...this book was pretty amazing. And pretty imaginative. I appreciated the variance in narrative style and the diversity of characters, the exquisitely frightening (often demented in a simple, childlike way) scenes of horror, the extensive character development. I just think it could have been about 500 pages, rather than 1,100.

Collected Novellas (Gabriel Garcia Marquez)

Both of the novellas I read in this collection took me back to the magical, dusty world of Macondo, to my delight. However, Leaf Storm was a very difficult read, and sometimes frustrating. Since it switched irregularly between the voices of three different narrators, it was often difficult to tell who was narrating until as late as a few paragraphs into any given section. But, it's interesting to have a different perspective on life in Macondo. No One Writes to the Colonel was much more engaging. Typical of Marquez's mythical world of solitude, The main characters wait endlessly for a letter that will never come, and occupy themselves with hopeless undertakings, somehow seeming to live in a magical sort of realism.

The Coming of the Night (John Rechy)

Well, I thought this was entertaining, very dark, and also quite brilliant...even if it still stands in the shadow of Rechy's earlier, and more brilliant City of Night. True, both of these novels come from the same depressing world of gay male after hours sleaze, but really I think it's stupid to compare, because they are not the same book. Sort of belonging to that "random strangers randomly becoming marginally involved with eachother's existences" genre that is often so intriguing, but doesn't always mean anything, The Coming of the Night makes good use of this particular narrative device (maybe the fact that this is a book about gay men cruising for sex is enough to fully justify it). The story pounds and throbs through the lives of maybe 10 or so strangers on the same day--a day destined to be memorable--plummeting towards a truly monumental climax. It's both sexually arousing and deeply disturbing, at times reading exactly like pornography, other times more like psychological drama, even horror.
I wonder if a novel like this is anywhere near as powerful to a reader who has no personal investment in the sordid games of gay men...to me this is a disturbing thought. Do these Rechy novels really belong in the gay fiction section?

Pet Sematary (Stephen King)

I'm not sure what it was that made me pick up this book. I guess a friend had told me the premise, and I simply had to know what happened. I was also waiting for my copy of "It", and had to satisfy my craving for horror in the meantime. I don't know. It wasn't really a waste of reading, but I don't think I'll put it on my list of classics. It's fun. That's what it is.

If on a Winter's Night, a Traveler (Italo Calvino)

Another Calvino gem. While reading this book, I felt: amused, enthralled, frustrated, and bored. However, this is truly a unique and exciting reading experience, and definitely very appropriate for anyone who is an avid reader of fiction. Half the book is told in second person, and the other half is made up of the beginnings of novels (never finished). The story is essentially about the quest to get to the bottom of a ridiculous conspiracy that is preventing you from finishing a single novel in a chain of apocryphal translations. Quite brilliant, worth the frustration.
Calvino is a smartass and a beautiful writer. I will read a lot more of him.

Fight Club (Chuck Palahniuk)

I'd like to forget that Fight Club was so popular when the movie came out. Personally, I think the whole nihilistic, anarchist, "it's cool to beat eachother up and make explosives" cult following of Fight Club, is stupid. I guess I liked Fight Club because I thought it was a good satire on American culture...but also, I have to admit that it is a pretty cool story. And a good read.

Marcovaldo, or Seasons in the City (Italo Calvino)

Very joyful, light reading. Brought me many smiles and chuckles. As far as I can figure out, this is an adult children's book, about an adult child. A Marcovaldo, who lives in a city with his family, and does unskilled labor for a living. In order to enhance his quality of life and his sense of purpose, he often pursues childlike notions that usually end up not completely working out (with some exceptions). He harvests city mushrooms, catches a bird on the roof of his building, cuts down billboards for firewood, and adopts a plant, which he carries around on his motorcycle. Fun, fun, fun.

Postcards (Annie Proulx)

A tale of molasses-paced loneliness and estrangement, taking place in America's most American: Vermont farm country, and midwestern plains. I know this seems typical of Proulx, even though this is actually the first novel of hers I have read...but the rustic and pungently American language which is also typical of her (and, I think usually very compelling), I felt was too self-aware, and kind of unconvincing at times. That said, I did appreciate this book. It's not the smoothest read, and there are moments that get tedious, but overall, it's a pretty moving story.

American Psycho (Bret Easton Ellis)

Oh my. I couldn't wait to get my hands (and my eyes) on this book. I was desperately in the mood for something morbid and misanthropic, and I got what I paid for (yes, I did go into a *non-corporate* bookstore to purchase my own copy). This book is humorous, deeply disturbing, and rather profound, I think: as a cultural satire, an exploration of insanity, and a story from the point of view of a truly despicable villain. Amazingly, by the end of the book (which consists mostly of descriptions of five things: articles of designer clothing, food at fancy restaurants, the villain's favorite music, his sexual adventures, and the appalling ways in which he tortures and murders his victims), our villain manages to become almost a tragic protagonist. I'm not sure how this happens, but it does.
This book is certainly not for the faint of heart.

Wicked (Gregory Maguire)

The biggest piece of Oz-related Apocrypha ever published. As an L. Frank Baum purist, I was appalled by Maguire's revisionist history, but simultaneously enthralled to the very end. A very good read, especially for anyone who has ever been enamored of Baum's uniquely imaginative fantasy world. After reading this book, I wanted to vomit every time I thought of the name "Stephen Schwartz". I don't think he deserved to write the musical. I think I should have written it...

Nikolai Gogol: Selected Stories

Of course I had to read "The Nose", a story about a man who wakes up to realize that his nose is missing from his face, and goes on to discover that his nose is masquerading around town as a state counsellor. The absurdity in some of these stories is often hilarious, as in "Ivan Fyodorovich Shponka and his Aunt," which ends abruptly after a nightmare about wives with the faces of geese, and never resolves the story. Also hilarious is the...(how should I put this?)...comical sadomasochistic story of "The Overcoat", with the ridiculously named Akaky Akakievich, who becomes more ridiculous and comical with the continued accumulation of misfortunes.
I enjoyed these stories.

One Hundred Years of Solitude (Gabriel Garcia Marquez)

A sort of a bible for the religion of Solitude, the most basic and human spiritual text. Begins with a creation myth: the founding of the holy city, Macondo, built from the swampy ground by a primitive, incestuous family named Buendia. A family that spawns a whole race of beings: a community cursed by melancholy, war, insanity, and solitude.
I read somewhere, in relation to this book, the term "magical realism". I can't think of a better term to describe Marquez's delicious style of writing. Some times you think you are reading a dry historical document, other times you feel it is a humorously sly collective memoir of sorts...then, it turns into a fairy tale.
Difficult in the beginning, I think, but at a certain point, it begins to enchant. If it is at all possible to sort through the muck of the Marquez muddle, which consists largely of multiple characters of multiple generations bearing the same (or maddeningly similar) names, and events of confused chronology, then it is thoroughly worth the effort for this amazing story told in amazing language.