Keeping Up With The Penguins

Reviews For The Would-Be Booklover

This Guy!: The Most Unlikeable Narrators in Literature

It’s all well and good for an author to write a book with a likeable narrator, don’t you think? Kind, empathic, brave, warm, honest, well-meaning, and funny narrators jump off the page. They’re the type of people we aspire to be, or at least befriend. On the other hand, it takes a special set of skills to write a book from the point of view of a truly despicable person. Unlikeable narrators do things that we readers would never dream of doing, admit to things that make our skin crawl, and (in the case of narrators that are both unlikeable and unreliable) make us question whether we should even believe the story they’re telling us. And yet, we don’t throw the book across the room. Sometimes, we even enjoy them enough to list them among our favourites, or chalk them up as classics of literature.

I thought about that a lot as I read A Clockwork Orange for this week’s review. I like to think I’m generally a pretty forgiving reader, but there are least a few narrators that have really horrified, disgusted and angered me. So I’ve put together a Keeping Up With The Penguins list of the most unlikeable narrators in literature. Prepare to raise your hackles…

The Most Unlikeable Narrators in Literature - Keeping Up With The Penguins

Alex (A Clockwork Orange – Anthony Burgess)

If you’ve seen the film adaptation, you may think you’re familiar enough with the misdeeds of Alex in A Clockwork Orange. Let me tell you’re now: you’re in no way prepared for reading chapter after chapter of extreme graphic violence from Alex’s own perspective. Alex is the instigator of vicious assaults, violent rapes, and all manner of hideously anti-social behaviour. What makes it worse is that he knows all the while that what he’s doing is wrong (“you can’t have a society with everybody behaving in my manner of the night”), and yet he’s simultaneously full of self-pity and wide-eyed confusion as to why anyone would want to “cure” him. It all makes for an extremely confronting read.

Humbert Humbert (Lolita – Vladimir Nabokov)

Humbert Humbert was the first narrator who made me feel truly disgusted, as far as I can recall. Bear in mind that he is a sexual predator who fetishises the twelve-year-old Lolita, trying desperately to convince the reader that it was in fact she who seduced him (ick) and that his love for her is simply mischaracterised as perverse. It is a true credit to Nabokov that Lolita remains a fascinating, beautiful read – albeit one narrated by a truly abhorrent man. (Humbert Humbert got what was coming to him in the end, though, and that always feels good.)

John Self (Money: A Suicide Note – Martin Amis)

John Self is perhaps a lesser-known example of the unlikeable narrator, but he is well deserving of his place on the list nonetheless. Amis had his work cut out for him in Money: A Suicide Note, crafting a protagonist that captured all of the hedonism and excess of the late 20th century. John Self eats, smokes, drinks, and fucks himself into oblivion for the entire duration of the novel. His hubris is (of course) his downfall; his business associate swindles him, and his entire orgy of consumption collapses around his ears in the end. John Self is not the kind of man you would want to invite to dinner, but Money: A Suicide Note is artfully written.




Alexander Portnoy (Portnoy’s Complaint – Philip Roth)

Alexander Portnoy is often lumped into the same category as John Self, but really he’s more of a “love him or hate him” kind of guy. Portnoy’s Complaint reads as a monologue of Alexander’s frustrations, as described to his psychoanalyst. He describes his life as being akin to living “in the middle of a Jewish joke”, complete with a domineering mother, an urgent sex drive, and a heaping serve of guilt. It’s hard to look away, the obscenity certainly draws your eye, but it’s equally tough to shake the nagging repulsion one feels for Alexander.

Holden Caulfield (The Catcher in the Rye – J.D. Salinger)

Personally, I kind of liked Holden Caulfield, but that was mostly due to the nostalgic kick I got out of his character being so similar to the angry teenage boys I knew growing up. Holden is miserable, self-pitying, angry, vague, prone to flights of fancy, and – most of all – he shits on everything. In The Catcher in the Rye, he represents everything that everyone dislikes about self-centered teenagers, and his unrelenting whinge-fest can certainly grate on the nerves. He lacks the true darkness of other, more mature characters on this list, but he is certainly unlikeable in his own way.

Patrick Bateman (American Psycho – Bret Easton Ellis)

I would be remiss if I didn’t include Patrick Bateman on this list of unlikeable narrators, he’s basically the poster-child for them: detail-oriented, stylish, aloof, and filled to the brim with murderous rage. He has a real penchant for torture, dreams up particularly gruesome methods to kill, and to top it all off he targets the most vulnerable women he can find… or does he? We never quite get to the bottom of Bateman’s psychopathology, and the reader’s frustration at the end of the novel is probably enough on its own to make him deeply unlikeable (you know, in the event that you can get past the whole chainsaw-a-sex-worker-to-death thing).

So, why do we even read these books? These are no-good, very-bad people, after all. I think, in large part, it’s because we find them interesting. They’re so far removed from what we experience every day, the types of people we know and love, and that makes them fascinating. What do you think? Do you have a “favourite” unlikeable narrator? Let me know in the comments below (or share with us over at KUWTP on Facebook!).

 

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A Clockwork Orange – Anthony Burgess

Given that I’ve pulled together a List of mostly popular and classic books, I’ve stumbled across a bunch that have been made into movies. I only mention that here because this is one of the very few times I’ve actually seen the film adaptation prior to reading the book, so I had some idea of what was up with A Clockwork Orange before I read it.

A Clockwork Orange - Anthony Burgess - Keeping Up With The Penguins

A Clockwork Orange, the novella, was published in 1962, but reached peak saturation after the Kubrick film adaptation was released in 1971. I saw the movie sometime in my mid-teens, fancying myself a bit disaffected and angsty, but hadn’t read the book until now. In terms of genre, it’s a hard one to pin down. I’ve seen it referred to as science fiction, which almost fits, but I would describe it as truly dystopian (as opposed to the cutesy Young Adult type of dystopian to which we’ve all become accustomed). Burgess wrote the whole thing in three weeks, and by all accounts he thought it kind of sucked, and yet it remains the work for which he is best known.

Shit gets very real, right from the outset. The narrator is Alex, a hardened juvenile delinquent with a passion for classical music. He spends a night with his friends, stealing cars and beating the living daylights out of unsuspecting civilians. The next day, he lures two very young girls home from the record store, and brutally rapes them in his bedroom. At this point, we’re only forty pages in. I mean, I’d heard that the book depicted a “subculture of youth violence”, but when this is the starting point… well, that description doesn’t seem to cut it, does it?

As A Clockwork Orange unfolds, Burgess just flat out makes up his own words. He called it “Nasdat”, a kind of Anglo-Russian slang. I’d imagine it’s a lot like reading a book written in a language in which you’re almost fluent – it gets easier and easier, but you still find yourself stumbling on a word now and then. It’s less like reading and more like a jigsaw puzzle, piecing together the context clues to work out what the hell is going on.

For some reason reading about the violence, delivered rapid-fire in this nonsense language, is a lot more confronting than seeing it on the screen. All of the nonsense language in the world can’t cloak or soften it. Perhaps I’m desensitised to violence in film and television (aren’t we all?), but not so much with book; in fact, I don’t think I had ever read a truly violent book… until now. I like to think I’ve got a fairly strong stomach for this kind of stuff, but Burgess really put it to the test. “Anti-hero” doesn’t quite suffice in describing Alex – he is unsympathetic in the extreme. I didn’t think I could dislike a narrator more than I disliked Nabakov’s Humbert Humbert (from Lolita), but here we are.




Anyway, Alex gets caught by the authorities about a third of the way into the book, which is the first indication that something’s a bit hinky. In a traditional goodies-catch-the-baddie story, you’d expect him to get caught at the very end, after a bitching chase scene or something. In A Clockwork Orange, the actual story isn’t Alex’s crime(s), it’s his punishment.

The only bit of Burgess’ story that I didn’t quite buy was the politics of Alex and his “droogs” (translates roughly to “homies”, I think). Alex only gets caught because one of his droogs beats him with a bike chain and leaves him unable to escape from the cops, after an earlier leadership squabble. The cops don’t believe Alex’s bullshit story (about being led astray and lured into crime by a group of violent thugs), so he goes to prison. He gets by inside by cozying up to the prison chaplain and snitching (sometimes honestly, sometimes not) on his fellow inmates. His droogs inside end up dogging him too, blaming him for the death of a cellmate (when really they all got a few kicks in). He bitches about their hypocrisy and wails about their violent perversions, but doesn’t count himself among them. None of this seems like it would hold up in the real world of gangland violence. Snitches get stitches, after all, and a little bitch like Alex would be wearing concrete boots before long. It felt like maybe the only mechanism that Burgess had to drive Alex first into prison, and then into an experimental punishment/”cure”.

“In a sense, choosing to be deprived of the ability to make an ethical choice, you have in a sense really chosen the good.” – Prison Chaplain

Ah, yes, the punishment. As a psychology graduate (yes, I studied psych in a former life), it was both fascinating and (frankly) offensive to see old, basic concepts of behaviourism bastardised by a desperate government. Burgess called it the Ludovico technique – a form of aversion therapy, where the authorities injected Alex with nausea-inducing drugs while forcing him to watch violent films (the logical conclusion being that he becomes physically sickened at the thought of violence). In that sense, the book really takes aim behavioural psychology, but that’s just one thread of the ugly sweater vest. Is goodness still “good” if it’s not a choice? Given that we’re all exposed to persuasive powers on a daily basis, do any of us really still have “choices”? Is violence still violence when it is perpetrated by the State? Unraveling the philosophical questions raised by A Clockwork Orange would take a decade. For now, I’ll just get on with it, because thinking about all of this for too long really bums my flow.

Alex gets out, apparently “cured”, but finds himself homeless, rejected by his parents and looking for a way to end it all. He is attacked by a former victim, the police who rescue him turn out to be former droogs who just beat him further, and when he stops at a house to end it all – guess what – the resident is the husband of a former victim, too. Alex is really shit out of luck. It’s all very convenient, but at least the story moves quickly and there’s no bones about what Burgess is doing.

Alex ends up in the hands of a political group who are highly critical of the current government, and want to turn Alex into a symbol of police brutality. Facing a life as a cautionary tale puppet, and realising that his “cure” has also made listening to his beloved Beethoven unbearable, he figures now is as good a time as any to execute his suicide plan. He cocks it up, winding up in hospital only to find that he seems to have been “cured of the cure” in recovery. He can go back to a life of violence and orchestral music without enforced illness and revulsion. Lovely!

In the original American publication, the story ended here, but there’s actually a 21st chapter, which was included in my edition. I guess this true ending is “happy” in a sense – Alex decides to give up his life of violent crime to seek a wife and have a child. Only, he acknowledges that – try as he might to renounce his life of crime, he won’t be able to exert any control over his hypothetical son who will go on to fuck everything up the way that he did, and have a son who goes on to do the same. So everything’s fucked, and none of it will get any better, even if Alex redeems himself in a life of domesticity (so maybe not that “happy” after all). The book is arguably more realistic without this closing passage, and Kubrick famously refused to include it in his film adaptation.

A thought that struck me in the final chapters: is this what The Catcher In The Rye could have been, or tried to be? Funnily enough, A Clockwork Orange – undoubtedly more violent and confronting in basically every respect – didn’t face anywhere near the same level of censorship. Removal of the book from a handful of schools and libraries in the U.S. only happened after the release of the film, which was substantially more controversial. Really, it’s the ultimate case of literary one-upmanship; Burgess took the disaffected youth trope to its logical extreme, and forcefully confronted his readership in places that Salinger only gently poked.

I couldn’t possibly argue that A Clockwork Orange is an enjoyable read. I don’t think that I could bring myself to recommend that somebody read it, but simultaneously I wouldn’t discourage anyone from reading it either. My tl;dr summary would be that everyone is evil, there are no good guys, and everything sucks. If you can accept that reality with a heaping serve of extreme violence, then this might be the book for you.

My favourite Amazon reviews of A Clockwork Orange:

  • “…. If the book had been written using the King ‘s English, it certainly would not have been a candidate for the Book of the Month Club. However, as I read the last page, I felt as if I had stopped to eat at an ethnic restaurant in this ethnic neighborhood where I ordered my meal from a menu written completely in this bizarre language, but I knew precisely what I wanted to eat.” – Barbara Moore
  • “I cannot like this book. How did this become a classic? The gibberish throughout hurts me. I feel dumber just attempting to read this ‘book’. My feelings are the characters are stupid. They beat people up, smoke, and cause trouble all in a language that is not English. Not fun to read. Not engaging. Not anything worth recommending. If I wanted to read nonsense I would find Dr Seuss books, at least those make sense.” – Amazon Customer
  • “the negative actions depicted in this book are not a good thing… duh. that was tony’s point! ‘no good, no bad’ idiocy makes tony barf his other lung. take responsibility for yourselves!!! (read that again!) try shock therapy if you’re still watching sports on TV. help someone today!” – A customer

 

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What Book Makes You Ugly Cry?

This week on Keeping Up With The Penguins, I made a confession: I actually got a little teary reading the book for this week’s review! Still Alice is the heart-wrenching story of a woman losing her mind to early-onset Alzheimer’s. I was fine for the most part, until her final student wrote her a letter to thank her for teaching him so well and remind her of all the wonderful things she had done…! Until I found my eyes welling up, I had been pretty sure I was made of stone 😉 It’s super-rare that a book moves me to tears, but I kind of love it when they do. Is there anything more satisfying than a good ol’ cry?

This week, I asked Keeping Up With The Penguins readers what book makes them ugly cry. The answers are really surprising!

What Book Makes You Ugly Cry? Black text in text bubble overlaid on a photo of a woman resting her head on her knees as though crying - Keeping Up With The Penguins

The Fault In Our Stars – John Green

OK, fine, I wasn’t really surprised by this one. A book that chronicles the relationship of two teens living (and dying) with cancer is pretty much guaranteed to make most readers tear up at some point. In fact, John Green seems to have picked a topic for The Fault In Our Stars specifically designed to pull on the maximum number of heart strings. A doomed romance between two youngsters who should have the rest of their lives ahead of them? Next stop, Ugly-Cry City!

The Bell Jar – Sylvia Plath

Now, this is more surprising territory! The Bell Jar is on The List and I’ve been looking forward to reading it for a long time – now even more so, knowing there’s a chance it might thaw my icy heart and draw forth a few tears! Plath’s real-life story is sad enough (she died by suicide barely a month after The Bell Jar was published), and this – her best-known work – draws a lot from her experiences of mental illness.

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince – J.K. Rowling

I chuckled appreciatively when one lovely reader confessed to crying in Harry Potter – specifically, the scene where Dumbledore dies (and no, I’m not giving a spoiler alert for that, because if you haven’t read Harry Potter by now…). I don’t remember crying myself, but surely I must have – what kind of monster doesn’t get sniffly when Dumbledore is murdered by Snape… and then again, when we find out the heart-breaking reason why?




We Were Liars – E. Lockhart

You might have noticed a bit of a trend emerging here: a lot of the books that make us ugly cry are written for and marketed to young adults. Why is that? Whatever the reason, according to KUWTP readers, we can count E. Lockhart’s We Were Liars among them. This thriller follows the Sinclairs, a wealthy family, as they gather on a private island each summer… but there’s a dark secret (isn’t there always?). This one is also on The List – review coming soon!

To Kill A Mockingbird – Harper Lee

Most of us had the privilege of reading Harper Lee’s essential, heart-wrenching classic in high-school (… except for me, but it’s also on The List, so I’ll be making up for lost time soon enough!). Through the eyes of Scout, the young daughter of a criminal defense attorney in 1930s Alabama, To Kill A Mockingbird depicts the story of a black man accused of raping a white woman. If the beautiful simplicity of Lee’s prose doesn’t make you cry, you’re guaranteed to at least feel something for the victims of racial oppression in America’s Deep South.

The Kite Runner – Khaled Hosseini

Jumping forward to a contemporary setting, what could be more likely to induce an ugly-cry than a touching father-son story told against the backdrop of the Taliban regime’s ascendancy in Afghanistan? That’s what you’ll find in The Kite Runner. It’s a multi-dimensional story of guilt and redemption, universal themes plonked into the middle of a setting that most of us struggle to imagine. More than one KUWTP reader has found some ugly tears here!

The Art of Racing in the Rain – Garth Stein

And here’s one for the dog-lovers! I’ve got to admit, I haven’t found the courage to read The Art of Racing in the Rain yet – even though I love animals in literature, stories about dogs just pull on my heartstrings too damn hard and I’m a mess for weeks afterwards. According to the blurbs, it follows the story of a race-car driver and his dog; the dog believes that he can be reincarnated as a human in his next life, and sets about doing everything he can to prepare himself for the transition. I can feel myself tearing up just thinking about it…


What book makes you ugly cry? Have I missed your special favourite? Let me know in the comments below (or tell us over at KUWTP on Facebook!).

 

Still Alice – Lisa Genova

You know what? We’ve been buried in the classics for a while – let’s jump forward to a contemporary New York Times bestseller. Still Alice by Lisa Genova was another great bargain bin find ($5!). I must say, the review excerpt from Australian Women’s Weekly on the cover was almost enough to give me pause, but I bit the bullet.

Still Alice - Lisa Genova - Keeping Up With The Penguins

Lisa Genova self-published Still Alice back in 2007. She had tried for years to get an agent or a publisher interested in the novel, but went on to have great success off the sweat of her own brow. It’s one of those Cinderella-publishing stories that struggling, neurotic writers hold close to their hearts late at night, when the demons come…

The language and rhythm of Still Alice was a big shift from Moby Dick, and it took me a minute to re-orient my dish. However, much like The Book Thief, despite the really heavy content the book is actually very digestible. I powered through it in less than 24 hours. I did notice as I sped through that some of the editing is a bit rubbish (which is unsurprising for self-published work), but I can still understand how it made the Dymocks 101. It isn’t a timeless classic, or a work of art, but it’s an interesting story rooted in heart-wrenching subject matter, and it’s told in a very engaging way.

Still Alice focuses on the onset of dementia, specifically Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease. Alice (the protagonist, duh) begins experiencing symptoms, and the story follows her diagnosis and mental disintegration as the disease advances. I was initially kind of disappointed to find that it wasn’t written in the first person – I thought that would have been a really cool and interesting technique given the subject. I came to eat my words, though. The limited-third person narrator still captures Alice’s internal world, but that coupled with the objective perspective on her symptoms (we see her repeating herself in the dialogue, acting in ways that clearly demonstrate she’s forgotten what she’s supposed to be doing, etc.) is really jarring in an oddly delightful way.




Genova has worked really hard to give the reader a special-access pass behind the scenes of what is unfortunately a very familiar set of circumstances. She makes a point of privileging the perspective of the patient, rather than the caregiver. In subsequent interviews, Genova talked about this a lot; she notes, sadly, that almost all of our existing stories about dementia are caregiver-centric. Personally, one of my pet peeves is medical professionals and family members talking about a person with dementia as though they’re not in the room – so Genova’s focus on avoiding that really got me on side. As a result, Still Alice is honest and provoking, without being preachy.

It’s clear that Genova has Done A Lot Of Research, and she wants you to know it. She uses all the proper scientific words and everything. There’s a massive acknowledgements section (at the beginning of the book, no less, so you can’t overlook it) with the names of lots of doctors and scientists. But the family relationships are clearly the central focus on the story. We delve deeply into Alice’s terror on behalf of her children (the genetic mutation that caused her Alzheimer’s is genetic), and her ongoing difficulty managing her husband’s emotional reaction to her diagnosis, while simultaneously trying to navigate her early symptoms. Much is also made of Alice’s youth, which is a point of difference to other Alzheimer’s narratives; Alice is in her 50s, still working and running and living a full life, setting her far apart from the stereotype of an 80-something nursing home resident becoming more forgetful and clumsy.

I did have a bit of a teary moment towards the end, but not when you’d expect! Alice’s failure to execute her own suicide plan, and her inability to recognise her newly-born grandchildren, didn’t touch me in the slightest. It was her final student writing down his words of gratitude for her, so that she could re-read them every day when she inevitably forgot how much she meant to him, that got me in the end. Turns out I’m not made out of stone, who knew? 😉

I find it really hard to criticise Genova, and Still Alice: not because the book is so brilliant that it wouldn’t warrant criticism, but because basically every review out there hammers home the same perceived shortcomings. They talk about the limited access to the caregivers’ perspective, and the repetition of scenes – but I think it’s those same “shortcomings” that were the most valuable and deliberate parts of the book, they set it apart from others on this subject. If I’m being brutally honest, I’ll tell you again that the writing and editing isn’t great (it’s kind of a non-smutty 50 Shades of Grey style), but hell, it was Genova’s first go, and she did it all on her own without a publishing house dumping a truckload of money and resources on her doorstep. Given all of that, it’s a perfectly fine book.

I’m probably not going to read it again, but I might give it to my Mum or something, and I would definitely want to shake Genova’s hand if I ran into her in a cafe.

My favourite Amazon reviews of Still Alice:

  • “the story is an eye-opener about Alzheimer’s. Heartbreaking but revealing. My biggest complaint is it is fiction.” – Barbara
  • “I chose predictable because it wasnt a surprise I didn’t read it.” – Joey M
  • “The reason I hated the book is because I hated what happened to the person in the book. I realize that is not very mature, but I am the reader and in this instance, I will say what I like. I think what Alzheimer’s does to its victims stinks…” – Linda Layne
  • “dog ate before i could read” – kro

 

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Who’s a Good Boy?: The Best Animals in Literature

If you’re joining us here on Keeping Up With The Penguins, chances are you’ve long outgrown The Very Hungry Caterpillar and Fantastic Mr Fox. It’s a sad fact of life for animal-lovers that our favourite furry friends are usually only given star billing in books for children. Animals – especially the ones that talk, wear pants, befriend humans, and/or do magic – are left behind as we age. And yet, animals were once the central focus of storytelling. Look at the stories of the Dreamtime, or more recently our mate Aesop’s fables: animals feature prominently as heroes and villains, plots center entirely around the relationships between them, and their narrative arcs are never questioned or reasoned away as childish fancy.

Luckily, there are still many authors giving animals a look-in, even in books written for grown-ups. In celebration of this week’s review, let’s take a look at some of the best animals in literature.

The Best Animals in Literature - Keeping Up With The Penguins

Moby Dick (Moby Dick – Herman Melville)

Of course, we must start with Moby Dick, the albino leviathan who drove Captain Ahab to madness. Moby Dick is widely considered to be one of the most significant non-human characters of all time, and this is largely due to his chameleon-like symbolic attributions. The gigantic white sperm-whale might represent the power of nature, the ravages of colonialism, the futility of our quest to understand God through religion, or about a dozen other things depending how you read the book. Whatever your fancy, I think we can all agree that in the end it’s nice to see the whale get a win, dragging the obsessive and vengeful Ahab to his death, entangled in his own harpoon. Well done, Moby D! Well done!

Charlotte (Charlotte’s Web – E.B. White)

I know we’re supposed to be focused on books for adults here (and, come to that, I know Charlotte isn’t technically an animal), but even grown-ups can enjoy the heartwarming tale of an intelligent spider saving her friend (Wilbur, the pig) from becoming breakfast. Charlotte weaves special messages into her web, at great personal effort, and Wilbur repays the favour by helping to protect Charlotte’s egg sac. Who can resist such a touching display of cross-species friendship? If you left this one behind in primary school, I strongly recommend going back to revisit it; if nothing else, the nostalgic kicks will make it worth your while.

Ghost (A Game of Thrones – George R. R. Martin)

Everyone comes to Game of Thrones for the dragons, but the direwolves are the unsung heroes. Ghost was the runt of his litter, small and white and mute, but under the care of the similarly-beleaguered Jon Snow he grows into a strong and powerful companion. He saves the day on more than one occasion, usually when you’ve lost all hope. George R. R. Martin famously kills off his human characters with such speed and cruelty that a lot of readers abandon his work early on, but so far most of the animals have met a kinder fate. At this point, he can do what he likes with Jon and the rest of them, as far as I’m concerned – on the condition that he leaves Ghost and the other direwolves alone.




Mr Toad (The Wind in the Willows – Kenneth Grahame)

Who doesn’t love a classic cocky rogue? Albeit, this one’s a toad, but still! Mr Toad is resourceful, intelligent, and possibly the only one of his kind that hasn’t made me recoil in disgust (no way would you find me kissing a toad in the hopes of finding Prince Charming, so not worth it!). Plus, it turns out a toad can make tweed suits look good – who’dathunkit? Mr Toad is, of course, surrounded by a host of other charming animal characters (including Ratty, and Mole) in Grahame’s celebrated classic, making The Wind in the Willows a huge bang for the animal-lover’s buck!

Toto (The Wonderful Wizard of Oz – L. Frank Baum)

I have always maintained that Toto is the superior character in Baum’s fantasy world, and I stand by it. My insistence might be hard to understand if you’ve only seen the film (most people don’t even realise that it was based on a series of books), but even next to Judy Garland Toto was a total bad-ass. He was a true and loyal friend to Dorothy – indeed, the only one she seemed to have at home in Kansas. He totally saved the day when he escaped from the clutches of the Wicked Witch, guiding Dorothy’s friends back to her so she could be freed too. Plus – bonus point! – it’s revealed later in the books that Toto had the power to talk all along, he just didn’t feel like it so he never did, which makes him pretty much the queen of sassy animals.

And there you have it: yes, I snuck a couple of children’s books in there, but there’s definitely plenty to keep the adults entertained as well. I personally get far more emotionally attached to the animals in books than I do the humans, and their character arcs become the most important aspect of my enjoyment of the book. What about you? Who else should be on this list of the best animals in literature? Let me know in the comments below (or answer over at KUWTP on Facebook!).

 

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Moby Dick – Herman Melville

Here at Keeping Up With The Penguins, I think we’re on a bit of an American classics kick. My next selection from The List came in the form of an excessively dog-eared Penguin Classic edition of Moby Dick, once belonging to my husband. (I can’t believe I married a heathen that defaces books in such a manner, forgive me.)

Moby Dick - Herman Melville - Keeping Up With The Penguins

Moby Dick was published in 1851 and – like all of our favourite classics – it was a complete commercial failure, out of print by the time of Melville’s death 40 years later. It wasn’t until the 20th century that it gained a reputation as The Greatest American Novel Of All Time (Suck It Hawthorne, No Takesibacksies). The story is based on Melville’s experience as a whaler in the 1840s, and appears to draw from the story of an actual boat that tragically sank (the Essex, in 1820), and an unrelated albino whale called Mocha Dick (which was killed in the late 1830s). So, the story practically wrote itself, by the sounds…

It kicks off with the narrator, Ishmael, meeting his exotic lover friend Queequeg in Nantucket, and they seek to go a-whaling together. (There’s a lot of veiled homoeroticism, but I think you’re supposed to ignore that.) They end up aboard the Pequod, with a mysterious one-legged Captain Ahab that you don’t see much for the first couple hundred pages. Once he appears, however, he has them all just sail around the world, bumping into other ships and asking them if they’ve seen Moby Dick, the infamous white whale that bit off his leg.

The book is over 600 pages long, and 235 pages go by before anyone actually sees a whale. So how does he fill in the time? Well, Melville takes it upon himself to teach us all about whales. The etymology of the word “whale”. The history of all the whales (and I mean history – it starts with Genesis). An amateur taxonomy of whales (unfortunately for Melville, it doesn’t really hold up with the hundred and fifty years of scientific findings that followed). See, being that it was published in the middle of the 19th century, a reader couldn’t simply Google the terms with which they weren’t familiar, so Melville took it upon himself to write entire Wikipedia entries into the book itself.

He maybe takes it a bridge too far at times. I mean, he does a whole chapter on Things That Are Both Big and White. It doesn’t move the story along at all, it’s like he’s just sharing some fun facts.




When we get around to some actual narrative, Captain Ahab goes more and more nuts, pistol-whipping his employees and insisting that he can kill the unkillable white whale with a glorified sharp stick fashioned for him by a carpenter on board. To be honest, I almost preferred Melville’s tangential rambling chapters on whales to the actual narration of the story; action scenes bore me in movies, they do even less for me written down, and Melville writes so beautifully (when he feels like it) that I quite enjoyed his seemingly endless descriptions of all things big, white and whale-like.

Still, as Captain Ahab got increasingly pissed off, so did I – it got to the point where I had a couple hundred pages to go, and I started to wonder how much more there really was to say about whales. We’d already covered their shape, their skin, their spout, whether or not they can smell. We’d discussed whales in history, whales in religion, whales in art, whales in folklore. At that point, what stone possibly remains un-turned? What’s more (less than a hundred pages to go now), are they ever going to find this fucking Moby Dick creature? Maybe Melville was being super-meta, and his reader’s terminal wait for a resolution was meant to echo the experience of the whalers on board the Pequod waiting for Moby Dick to emerge. That’s clever, and all, but come onnnnnnnn.

Just as I decide I’m ready to throw the book across the room, there’s an absolute ripper of a storm, and the crew is ready to mutiny but Ahab gives them the old what-for and insists they press on (the guy is a study in the sunk-loss fallacy). Finally, finally, on page five hundred and ninety-fucking-five (only a couple dozen pages from the end), we actually lay eyes on Moby Dick!

Hold the champagne, though, because the boat promptly sinks and everyone dies. WTF, Melville?!

The book was originally published without an epilogue, which completely changes the story. The epilogue as it stands in all editions today reveals that not quite everybody dies; Ishmael floated away on a coffin-turned-life-raft and got picked up by another ship. So, without that bit, the whole thing seems to have been narrated by a perish sailor. The narrators back in the day got all mad at Melville for “breaking” the rules of fiction and narration. Wouldn’t they all absolutely shit if they could see them mess we’ve made of them today?

Initially, I really liked Melville’s style of writing, his rhythm, but I quickly learned that you can’t get too comfortable. He experimented with style and rhythm throughout, sometimes sounding like Shakespeare, sometimes sounding like a biology textbook, sometimes just making shit up on the fly. He did a lot of whacky things with narration and perspective. He writes for pages about an oil painting. He uses words like “abstreperously”. He shares some amazing pearls of wisdom, like “ignorance is the parent of fear”, and “better sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunk Christian”. But the best moment, no question, was his actual unironic use of the world “whelmed”, which excited me (a dyed-in-the-wool child of the ’90s) no end.

Can You Ever Just Be Whelmed? 10 Things I Hate About You - Keeping Up With The Penguins

I liked that there was no one over-arching ThemeTM constantly smacking you over head (a la The Scarlet Letter – Melville was miles ahead of his buddy Nathaniel Hawthorne, in my opinion). Reading Moby Dick is more like panning for gold, sifting out slivers of wisdom and brilliance and insight. There are some chunks of “search for truth”, and “perception is deception”, but on the whole there’s a lot going on and you can take from it what you will.

One minor 21st century critique (I can’t help myself, I’m sorry): there were precisely two female characters. Both of them appeared in the first 120 pages, and from there, nada. Only one of them had any actual dialogue. Once the ship sailed, it sailed on any hope of gender balance. I had unconsciously half-expected the white whale itself to be female (thinking that’d be a nice little piece of gender commentary maybe, a ship full of men chasing after a mythical female beast), but we were denied that also. So, don’t bother with Moby Dick if that bothers you.

Sexist narratives and tangential writing aside, I was very pleasantly surprised. I’d expected Moby Dick to be heavy and impenetrable and sure, it’s wordy, but it’s engaging and funny and brilliant. I enjoyed it. I can’t put my finger on exactly why I enjoyed it, other than it was just fun. I stop short of putting Moby Dick on our Recommended list, because I’m not sure you can enjoy it without patience and a sense of humour. If you’ve got those, and you want to learn a fucktonne about whales, dive on in because Moby Dick is perfect for you.

My favourite Amazon reviews of Moby Dick:

  • “I enjoyed it, but it has hundreds of pages describing the whaling experience.” – John McDaniel
  • “It may be a classic, but it’s a boring classic.” – Cindy M. Downs
  • “The book is fantastic, but the page numbering is not correct.” – Brodi
  • “I was told this was about fishing. It’s not. Because a whale is a mammal.” – Joe Octane
  • “I SURE HOPE YOU ENJOY LEARNING ABOUT WHALES!!!! Listen I read this book hoping to get a pretty good story hoping to see some of the solidarity in man by reading about his voyages in water hoping to relate to some of the struggles from being solely focused on obtaining a certain goal etc. But honestly good Lord! I swear 85% of this book is various lessons on whaling the origin of whales, whale distinction, whale body parts, whale sperm, different color whales. Oh my goodness the book starts off quick with the appearance of Queepeg you think ok we might have something here but NO! this book drags on and on and on. Gets off topic ALL of the time. The majority of this book is about how Ismael feels and about whale parts. And when Moby Dick does show up AT THE END OF THE BOOK Captain Ahab vs Moby Dick was as big a mis-match since the Super Bowl between Denver and Seattle. IT was anticlimactic some people might get this book but please don’t put me down as one. SAVE YOURSELF THE TIME AND ENERGY READ THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA A MUCH BETTER BOOK” – Pen Name

 

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Do You Read The Introduction First?

Pick up any classic book from a reputable publishing house, and you’re (almost) guaranteed to find in the front some combination of a foreword, preface, introduction, note on the text, chronological note, a further reading list… hell, Wuthering Heights even had a genealogical table, to help you keep track of all the characters that married their cousins. Ultimately, it’s all just commentary – sometimes written by the author themselves, sometimes written by editors or academics or experts – included to enhance your understanding of the book. (You’ll notice that usually these sections are numbered with numerals; page “1” of the book is the first page of the story itself. For simplicity, we’re going to call all of the Roman numerals stuff the “introduction” here.)

So, this leads me to the $64,000 question: do you read the introduction before you read the book?

Do You Read The Introduction First? - Keeping Up With The Penguins

The Case For Reading The Introduction

The main purpose of an introduction is to provide context for the story, but it can achieve that in a bunch of different ways. For instance, the introduction to my edition of The Scarlet Letter provides some background information about Hawthorne’s inspiration for the story, drawn from his very own family (check out my full review for the deets). Other introductions might provide context by giving you an idea of the time period in which the author lived, the education he or she received, the political situation where he or she lived, and so on. It might sound boring as all hell, but don’t underestimate how much better the story can be when you understand where it’s coming from.

An introduction can also point out aspects of the story that you might not otherwise notice. It might be the writer’s style, the way they use language, the unique ways they tweak grammar, what they do with their characters, how the setting they chose relates to the story… Sure, sometimes it can sound like a bunch of pretentious guff, but it can bring to light things you wouldn’t know to look for.

The people who write introductions are experts. They’ve probably studied the author – or sometimes even just that book in particular – for years. This can be both a pro and a con, I suppose. Sometimes it means that they talk a lot of smack that goes right over your head, and you end up either Googling or ignoring half of what they say. Still, even if that is the case, you can bet that they’ll provide some interesting tidbits that will come in handy later on. Some introductions (or parts of them) are written by the author themselves (as was the case with my edition of Brave New World, for instance); it can be really interesting to know how they feel about the work in retrospect, and what they want you to think about it. You don’t get that kind of insight anywhere else.

Ultimately, being handed a guide about what to expect makes me feel smarter as I’m reading, and who doesn’t want to feel smart? I know what to look out for, and which parts have special significance. Plus, if I reach a section that’s really confusing or seems out of place, coming armed with some context clues (courtesy of the introduction) helps me navigate my way out of it.




The Case Against Reading The Introduction

I always thought it was pretty self-explanatory that you should read the introduction first. I mean, it introduces the test, right? If you weren’t supposed to read it first, why would they put it there? It’s only recently I’ve learned that there are stacks of people who ignore this basic logic and just skip right ahead to the story. Why?

The most common reason against reading the introduction first is spoilers. If you’re the kind of person that likes being surprised by the twists and turns in a story, or figuring out for yourself how the story is going to end, the introduction is likely going to ruin all of that for you. Most of the introductions assume that the reader is already familiar with the book, or at the very least doesn’t mind knowing what is going to happen before they read it. Comments sections on bookseller websites are filled with complaints about spoiler-ridden introductions. Some publishing houses are nice enough to include a note before the introduction that says “this introduction discusses plot elements in detail”, or something like that – it’s essentially a fancy spoiler warning.

Even when the introduction falls short of outright spoiling the story, it can definitely colour your impressions of the story as you read it. If, for instance, you learn in the introduction that the author has a reputation for being super wordy and long-winded, you brain is going to be primed to look out for that as you read the book. Chances are, if you hadn’t read the introduction, you might not have noticed at all, and maybe you would have enjoyed the book more.

Despite my brilliant logical deduction about the introduction coming first, it is really written as an afterthought, so I suppose that should be taken into account. Introductions are penned by people who have already read the book (many, many times over), and they’re well-familiar with the characters and the plot. If it’s the first (or even the second, or the third) time you’re reading it, you’re not on that level yet and the writer didn’t introduce the text with you in mind. In that sense, reading the introduction after you’ve finished the book seems the most logical thing to do.

So, what’s the answer?

Well-written and easy-to-understand introductions can be really valuable, but it’s basically up to you when you read them. Whether it’s before or after the book in question, you’ll hopefully get something out of it and it will help you enjoy the book all the more. Personally, I’m going to continue reading them before, perhaps you might get more value out of reading them after… Maybe you could get the best of both worlds by reading the first few chapters as a “test run” before deciding whether you want to read the introduction before you carry on. You could try skimming the pages of the introduction, just stopping for anything that catches your eye, before you dive in. There isn’t really a “best” way to do it, only what works best for you. Isn’t that nice? 😉

What about you? Do you read the introduction first? Has anything in this article changed your mind or inspired you to try it differently? Let me know in the comments below (or tell us over at KUWTP on Facebook!).


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As I Lay Dying – William Faulkner

As promised, inspired by Cheryl Strayed in Wild, I went ahead and picked up As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner for my next undertaking from The List. I’d scored a copy for the princely sum of $4 – that secondhand bookstore bargain bin strikes again!

As I Lay Dying - William Faulkner - Keeping Up With The Penguins

My husband chuckled with glee when I told him this one was next. Apparently, I was going to be “so confused”! Well, fortune only favours the brave.

William Faulkner won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1949, and As I Lay Dying is widely regarded as one of the greatest American novels of all time, so plenty of people far smarter than me seem to think that it’s very good. Apparently, he wrote it in six weeks while working night shifts at the local power-station, and didn’t change a word of it after the first draft was completed (what a show-off).

I’m not sure if I was “confused” per se, but a genealogical table (a la Wuthering Heights) sure would have come in handy. Unfortunately, this edition didn’t include one, so I took the liberty of creating one myself…

See, As I Lay Dying is narrated by no fewer than fifteen different characters over the course of 59 chapters, so that’s a bit much. Luckily, the name of each character was used as the title of each chapter in this edition, so that was very helpful. Faulkner virgins should definitely use the guide above to keep track, because I’m going to break the story down as best I can and it’s fucking convoluted (scroll up to review the chart as often as you need).

So, we kick off with a woman (Addie) laying in bed, dying. Seems about right. And her eldest son (Cash) is building her coffin right outside her window, where she can hear. And the whole family is arguing about whether that’s cool or not. And they’re trying to figure out whether they can get $3 together in time to bury her. Then she dies, and everyone’s upset. The youngest son, Vardaman, catches a fish. You following so far?




The story goes on to follow the death and burial of Addie, as described by various members of her family and other hangers-on. They carry her coffin from their bumfuck-nowhere town to some other bumfuck-nowhere town, telling themselves and each other over and over again that it’s “what she would have wanted”. They almost lose her coffin a couple of times, because the rains come and the rivers get fucking hectic in that part of the world. Cash breaks his leg, Darl burns down a barn, Jewel wants to bail on the lot of them because they’re fucking mental, Dewey Dell tries to buy an abortion at a corner store, and Vardaman just wonders what the hell is going on, all the while firmly believing that the fish they caught is actually his dead mother. Papa Anse ends up taking Dewey Dell’s abortion money to buy new teeth, and marrying the woman from whom he borrowed a shovel to bury his first wife. And… um, the end?

It’s all a bit weird, sure, but that didn’t turn me off. I was actually really touched by the description of the family electing to lay Addie top-to-bottom in her coffin, so that the wedding dress they buried her in could flare out and not get crushed. I mean, that’s really sweet (if a little morbid), right? Another highlight was the chapter narrated (posthumously) by Addie herself; it was captivating and beautiful. For me, it puts to rest any argument as to whether it is possible to write from the perspective of a gender or creed that is not your own. Faulkner deftly and skilfully captures the lived experience of a poor woman trapped in a shitty marriage and a small town. I doubt I’ll read As I Lay Dying in full again, but I’ll re-read Chapter 40 on many occasions, I’m sure of it.

“In the afternoon when school was out and the last one had left with his little dirty snuffling nose, instead of going home I would go down the hill to the spring where I could be quiet and hate them.” – Addie

Prepare yourself, though: the further in you get, the more Faulkner’s writing sounds like drunk texting. That’s my tl;dr summary of As I Lay Dying: Faulkner drunk texts the death and burial of a Southern woman with a crazy family. I would recommend As I Lay Dying to people who are already familiar with Faulkner, and/or like their stories short and weird.

My favourite Amazon reviews of As I Lay Dying:

  • “…. Faulkner is NEVER light reading, if this intimidates you, save your money, don’t buy this book and don’t leave a useless review of this fine work.” – Dennis
  • “Incomprehensible. At least for the first 1/3, after which I stopped reading. I am sure literature majors love trying to figure this one out, but eventually I had the epiphany that I want to actually enjoy novels – go figure.” – Thor Albro
  • “I did not like the languages written in the book.” – Bob
  • “It took me looking at clifnotes to understand the character relationships and the time skipping back and forth. I was a confused.” – JenRebekah

 

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What’s Your Desert Island Book?

This week on Keeping Up With The Penguins, I’m tackling one of those dinner party questions that haunts all bookworms: what’s your desert island book? I was inspired by Cheryl Strayed’s memoir (Wild, I reviewed it this week); she trekked over a thousand miles on the Pacific Crest Trail, carrying with her Adrienne Rich’s The Dream of a Common Language (which she described as her “religion”), and William Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying (which, incidentally, is also on The List), among others. It led me to think long and hard about what book I’d want with me if I were lost in the wilderness. I asked KUWTP readers this very question a couple of weeks ago (by the way, are you following us on Facebook and Instagram?), and got some fascinating responses!

It’s tough enough to imagine a situation where you’re stuck on a desert island indefinitely, with just a single book – but there are many factors to consider. Do you take your favourite book? Do you take a really heavy read, one that you’ve been putting off, so that you can capitalise on all that uninterrupted reading time? Maybe you want to choose a really light and funny book that will take your mind off your troubles. Of course, you could think laterally, and take a really thick book with lots of pages, so you can pull out as many as you need to use as kindling for a fire. The KUWTP community came up with a bunch of options for each, so let’s take a look at the definitive KUWTP Desert Island Book List.

What's Your Desrt Island Book? - black text in a square speech bubble overlaid on an image of palm trees, sand and sea - Keeping Up With The Penguins

Ulysses – James Joyce

This one was my idea, mostly because I suspect that being trapped alone on a desert island, with no other entertainment, might be the only circumstance under which I could motivate myself to finish the notoriously unreadable Ulysses. Unfortunately for me, it ended up on The List, but I’m putting it off as long as I can (I’ll let you know as soon as the review is up, wish me luck!). Still, I wasn’t the only one to nominate Joyce’s seminal work as my desert island book for that reason, so it’s nice to know I’m not alone!

Don Quixote – Miguel de Cervantes

Don Quixote was the most popular choice, which took me by surprise! A whole bunch of readers chose this weighty 17th century tome (most editions run to almost 1,000 pages), out of the blue as best I could tell. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised, though – I later learned that Don Quixote is the best-selling single-volume book of all time. With over 500 million copies in circulation, it seems inevitable that at least a few would end up on desert islands…

Collected Works – William Shakespeare

There were a few creative “cheat” choices (among them the Harry Potter series, the New York Trilogy, and the collected works of Charles Dickens), but I think this one technically passes free and clear because it can frequently be found in a single volume (indeed, I own two of them). The Collected Works of William Shakespeare would certainly keep you going for a while, and it covers all manner of genres and storylines, so you can pick whatever you’re in the mood for: comedy, history, tragedy, romance…

Lord Of The Flies – William Golding

I loved this suggestion, purely for the irony: stuck on a desert island, with nothing to read but a book about a bunch of boys stuck on a desert island (that ends pretty badly to boot). Ha! If nothing else, Lord Of The Flies would make a good what-not-to-do manual. Fingers crossed the KUWTP readers that chose this for their desert island read wouldn’t take the story too literally (lest a few pigs meet unkind ends)…




Wuthering Heights – Emily Brontë

As one reader cleverly deduced, one of the most distressing parts of being stuck on a desert island would surely be the intolerable heat. Thus, ever so wisely, she named Wuthering Heights as her desert island book. A story full of chilly winter nights on sweeping moors, complete with howling winds and stiff breezes, would be the perfect antidote to scorching island sun. I almost considered taking this answer for my own, because I didn’t love Wuthering Heights the first time around, and I’ve been meaning to re-read it – deserted on an island would be the perfect opportunity!

Charlotte’s Web – E.B. White

This was, undoubtedly, the cutest choice for a desert island book! Charlotte’s Web would be the perfect cosy, feel-good read, full of childhood nostalgia, to comfort you in your lonely hours. Plus, if I had the chance to ask the desert-island-book-fairy for an audiobook, I’d definitely want the version read by E.B. White himself – could there be anything better?

Shantaram – Gregory David Roberts

Now, this one came out of left field, but the more I looked at it, the more sense it made. A dear friend of mine (who is also, of course, a dedicated KUWTP reader) said that she’d choose Gregory David Roberts’ Shantaram – an Australian novel, published in 2003. It tells the story of a convicted bank robber and heroin addict, who manages to escape prison and flee to Mumbai, India. Coming in at some 900 pages, it’s another desert island book that would keep you entertained for quite a while, if the rescue boat is slow in getting to you. In the end, I had to concede, it’s an excellent call!

Waiting for Godot – Samuel Beckett

I saved my favourite choice for last: Samuel Beckett’s tragi-comedy, Waiting For Godot. This play tells the story of two characters who are waiting for the arrival of a bloke named Godot (thus, the title – der). The ultimate joke is, of course, that he never turns up. Perhaps, if I were actually in the desert-island situation, a book that so closely mirrors my own experience of waiting for rescue without a happy ending wouldn’t be so great for my mental health… but as it stands, I think it’s a fucking hilarious answer, and I’m going to steal it for my own from now on.

So, what’s your desert island book? What do you think of the ones suggested here? Let me know in the comments (or join the conversation over at KUWTP on Facebook!).

 

Wild – Cheryl Strayed

For the first time since starting this project all those weeks ago, I’ve decided to go with a decidedly contemporary selection from The List. I’d been looking forward to reading Wild for a while, especially since listening to Cheryl Strayed’s appearance on Liz Gilbert’s podcast. I was well set, at this point, for a memoir about losing and finding oneself in trying times.

Wild - Cheryl Strayed - Keeping Up With The Penguins

Wild was published in 2012, a memoir about Strayed’s 1,100-mile hike on the Pacific Crest Trail, following the traumatic death of her young mother in the mid-90s. I knew all of that going in. What I didn’t know was how young Strayed was herself when all of this went down. I’d been picturing her as a late-30s suburban mother with a mortgage on a three-bedroomed house in the ‘burbs, abandoning it all to find herself. In reality, she was a mid-20s recent divorcee with a heroin habit and a pretty transient life, subsisting on the few dollars she could scrape together from waitressing jobs, and that’s where the story begins.

Strayed sets out on this grueling undertaking almost entirely unprepared; she had essentially no prior hiking experience, figuring – like we all do, I think – that hiking = walking, and what’s so hard about that? There are two stories that weave together across the memoir: her mother’s death (and we get all of the weren’t-we-so-poor-and-dysfunctional-but-we-loved-each-other-so-much backstory, gratis), and the at-times comical dire realities of a haphazard trek through the wilderness.

Strayed devotes a lot of air time to the heaviness of her pack and the weight that she’s carrying, which is a clumsy metaphor but it’s somehow forgivable. As I was reading, I noted that, as a novel, this story would be annoying and trite and cliché. Strayed’s story derives all of its value from being an actual lived experience. She is brutally honest, in every sense, relaying her self-awareness in a way that I deeply admire.




I must say, though, I wasn’t sold on the “beauty” of the wilderness in Wild – I’m not a country girl at all, and those descriptive passages sounded like my own personal hell. I’d much rather hike 1,100 miles in a concrete jungle CBD any day (and, indeed, I often do, when a water pipe bursts on Pitt Street and the bus timetable is fucked).

I was fully prepared to cry reading Wild, but I didn’t. It was good – it didn’t change me as a person, but it enjoyed reading it. It made me think a lot about survival and determination. Getting by. Sometimes you’re under-prepared and things go wrong (you lose a hiking boot, you find yourself with just two pennies to your name, you run into a bear), but you cop onto yourself and you keep going anyway. For a time, it became a sort of mantra for me: “if Cheryl Strayed can hike a million miles in too-small boots that are giving her blisters, then I can walk home in the rain”. Having a dream isn’t enough, after all: you have to actually do the thing.

There was a film adaptation released in 2014, which I’d love to see – not because I think it make a great movie, necessarily, but more because I’m curious as to how a book about a mostly-solo hike, driven entirely by internal monologue, could be adapted for the big screen.

Tl;dr? Wild is Eat, Pray, Love meets Survivor. I would recommended it to mid-20s fuck-ups like me, who don’t mind clumsy metaphors.

My favourite Amazon reviews of Wild:

  • “I haven’t actually read it – the one star is for Amazon charging 9.99 for Kindle (paperless) and 8.35 for paper – basically incentivizing cutting down trees to read their books. Bad form Jeff, very bad form” – R1952
  • “… the author seems to be the typical liberal feminist – no recognition of the greatness of God, everything should be handed to her, everything is centered around her and her feelings. Especially her feeling – feelings to her are the most important aspect of her life. Bottom line – do not waste your time reading this book unless you are a flaming liberal. Than you will probably love it.” – Seventh Son
  • “I did not appreciate the use of the f- word. Especially in a prayer.” – Janice Wester

 

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