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Looking
back at 2007, I realize there were a lot of books published
this year that I meant to read. Somehow I didn't get the chance.
I did, however, manage to watch every episode of The Office
and 30 Rock, and I sometimes read through 425 comments
at a time on Fark.com, so obviously I wasn't that busy.
Let's not even discuss the amount of time I spend on Gawker.
Books, though—they're so heavy, some of them! And the
light in my apartment is bad, I don't have enough pillows
on my bed, and my tub is a little too short. Sometimes my
hands fall asleep and my mind wanders away. The world thwarts
my efforts to read. I don't know how the rest of you do it.
So here
is a list of books I meant to read but didn't. Sadly, this
doesn't mean I'll get around to reading them later, either.
While it's true that the best literature has a timeless quality,
my attention span and memory don't.
 The
Emperor's Children by Claire Messud
Did you know that The Emperor's Children author Claire
Messud is married to a famously cantankerous literary critic?
No, not Michiko Kakutani! Although that would be so hot, right?
No, it's James Wood, the former New Republic (and current
New Yorker) literary critic who called Zadie Smith's
White Teeth "overblown, manic." He coined the term
"hysterical realism," but he meant it as an insult. Can you
imagine how he must have hounded poor Messud until she produced
what he might consider the perfect novel? It must be good,
right? I picked up The Emperor's Children in my laundry
room, where I often get my books (I think every Harlequin
Romance ever published has passed through my laundry room).
I got through about 40 pages of The Emperor's Children.
It was OK, but I had no desire to go back right away—though
I do plan to go back someday. Apparently, James Wood and I
have different tastes in authors! Quel surprise. I
tend to like my literature overblown and manic.
Against
the Day by Thomas Pynchon
Look, people, I still have to get through Mason & Dixon.
I'll be about 90 and living in a trailer with my 109-year
old mother before I get to this one.
The
Raw Shark Texts by Steven Hall
Eeeee Eee Eeee by Tao Lin
What a magical year this has been for large sea creatures.
No fewer than two hipster neo-classics include sharks and
dolphins. I'm a fan of both, but I think if I read just one
fish tale this year, it will be Eeeee Eee Eeee—I
like the name, and it seems like the sort of book that is
 frivolous
but deceptively deep. That's what I'm telling myself anyway.
And, yes, it features a dolphin, which is not a fish at all.
Dolphins will beat me about the head if I call them fish,
as well they should. I may read this one before the year is
up. And if I do, this text will magically disappear from this
page.
The
Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz
Drown—did you all read Drown? It was amazing.
I couldn't stop talking about it for week. I had it out on
my kitchen table one day when my Chilean father came over.
He's my only father—it's not like I have a Hungarian
father, too—but I'm just telling you his ethnicity because
it's important to the story. Anyway, he picked up the book
and said "Junot Diaz?" and I said "No, ju?" It's funny if
you're Chilean, I swear. I will read this book one day, probably
when it comes out in paperback. Or when it shows up in my
laundry room. These 6x9 hardcovers vex me—they don't
fit in my knock-off Tokidoki handbag.
Dishwasher:
One Man's Quest to Wash Dishes in All Fifty States
by Pete Jordan
Back when I was punk rock zine girl, I used to let a lot of
funky travelers stay at my apartment. By funky, I mean unshowered.
I learned that there's a fine line between punk rock and hippie.
Anyway, Pete Jordan traveled across country and washed dishes
for everyone with whom he stayed. Sweet! I would have definitely
welcomed Pete into my squalid punk rock home. I have a feeling
this book is a little deeper than descriptions of washing
dishes, though. How much could one guy say about only that?
Sex
with the Lights On by Ducky Doolittle
I don't need any sex instructions, thank you. If I don't know
how to do that by now, I'm in trouble. But I think I should
read this just for the looks I'll get on the subway. Besides,
Ducky is an informed and engaging writer, and who knows? I
might learn something that I didn't learn while working as
a phone sex operator.
 Small
Town Punk by John Shepard
I should have read this book when it first came out, self-published
by Shepard. Now it's out by a "real" publisher and has been
through the chopper a few times, I hear—but I've also
heard it's still definitely worth reading. Small Town Punk
is a book about the people I used to make fun of when I was
a teenager: those suburban punk rock kids who could, in no
way, ever be as punk as me. Of course, I was a total poseur—I
grew up on Staten Island, which may as well be suburbia.
Tree
of Smoke by Denis Johnson
I was all over Johnson ten years ago, buying multiple copies
of Jesus' Son to give to my friends (I initially lent
them out, but they mysteriously never returned). And the gorgeous,
devastating, and completely underrated Fiskadoro? Fiskadoro
was one of three books that have made me cry. And Resuscitation
of a Hanged Man? God. Too, too beautiful. All of those
books are tiny perfect gems. Then, I read the giant Already
Dead, and I was like, "¿Que?" It was big,
and not so super-awesome. It made me sad. Not in the same
way Fiskadoro did, but because Johnson just couldn't
bring the same intense beauty to such a huge book. Tree
of Smoke is 624 pages and I suspect it may be as lumpy
as Already Dead. You've burned me once, Johnson! I
know—it won the National Book Award, but I keep thinking
they gave it to him because they neglected to give it to him
for his better books. I might wait to read this one when I'm
living in the trailer with my mom. And when I'm finished,
we can use it to prop open the window in the kitchen that
will always fall down.
I suspect 2008 will be very similar to 2007—too many
books, too much TV, too many cocktails, and too little focus
on my part. Sure, I could read more, but I won't.
(December,
2007)
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