Escape by Carolyn Jessop

As a work of literature, this book could have used additional editing. As a story, however, it's compelling and disturbing.

Escape is the personal account of Carolyn Jessop's life and eventual escape from polygamy in the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints (FLDS). Married at 18 to a man three times her age, Carolyn recounts harrowing memories of abuse in every sense of the word--physical and mental abuse, the abuse of power, and even spiritual abuse. It's truly disturbing when ever she mentions specific dates; it reminds the reader that these events occurred only a few decades ago, and continued into the 21st century.

The story is interesting and somewhat well strung-together. My main issue with the editing was that many details were repeated multiple times, and I felt that some of the stories were redundant, particularly those relating to Carolyn's sister-wives. I also had a difficult time following Carolyn's actual evolution throughout her journey. Perhaps because it's written in hindsight, she chose to emphasize mainly her rebellious qualities (or rather, the situations where she was willing to stand up for herself--regarded as rebellious by her husband and sister-wives). While I'm sure her experiences over nearly two decades of abusive marriage significantly changed her over the years, I felt that since it was being narrated from the already-changed Carolyn's perspective, it was difficult to understand or get a genuine feel for her initial faith in the FLDS religion and culture.

One aspect of the book that I found particularly interesting was how men were also manipulated and mistreated in the FLDS. Since Escape is the story of a woman's experience, it often emphasizes the crimes committed by men in the community, and women are generally presented as mere pawns within a larger power-play. Carolyn does mention quite a few times, however, the abuses that men suffered and how men also served as pawns within the power-structure of the FLDS (particularly when Warren Jeffs came to power). Although her husband, Merrill Jessop, is undeniably a cruel, monstrous person, Carolyn does present us with a sliver of his his own sad story. She describes how as a young man Merrill had fallen in love with a woman, and everything was done to prevent him from marrying her. He was forced into an arranged marriage, was not allowed to see the woman he loved, and was forced time and time again to marry women he did not love or want.

I find it deeply touching that Carolyn included this detail about her husband, who is otherwise described as a cruel, manipulative man, who was essentially a puppet to Warren Jeffs and his power-hungry wife Barbara. Carolyn mentions other crimes committed by the FLDS against men in the community, and these details make her a particularly compelling narrator. Although Carolyn suffered as a woman, she understands the seriousness of the FLDS's crimes from a holistic humanitarian perspective.

Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life by Barbara Kingsolver

I browsed some of the reviews for this book on Goodreads while I was still in the process of reading it. Many found it inspiring, some daunting, and others seemed to be just plain put off by Kingsolver's "pushy" attitude. I did feel that Kingsolver occassionally seemed to be scolding me. As much as I'm sure she'd like this book to appeal to everyone, for the most part I think she's probably preaching to the choir (or at least, people who agree with her views even if they aren't quite living according to them yet). Nonetheless, Kingsolver and her family provide a wealth of information--anectodal, factual, and delicious (recipes!)

I would group myself among the people who found this book absolutely inspiring. Each semester I drudge through in college draws me ever closer to the idyllic vision of living in the mountains, growing my own food, and being surrounded by beauty and life. Perhaps not exactly where a college degree "should" take me, but I feel increasingly attracted to such a direct way of living. Kingsolver emphasizes how this directness--planting, nurturing, and harvesting foods right in your backyard, or purchasing them from your neighbors--creates an invaluable link between people and their food. Quite a few times she mentions that Americans are increasingly disconnected from their food sources, and this may be why we are hard-pressed to define an actual American food culture.

Additionally, and despite Kingsolver's tut-tutting, she repeatedly states that eating local and organic is something that everyone can do (perhaps in varying degrees, but she also proposes that every little bit helps). She backs these claims up with hard facts by analyzing the funds her family spent on growing their own food and buying food from farmer's markets, compared to the "hidden" fees that consumers pay when they purchase food that has traveled a great distance to get to the grocery store.

And I must say...the recipes at the end of each chapter sound divine--I'll definitely be trying many of them. Homemade mozerella? YES PLEASE!

Overall, I think Kingsolver presents an insightful, humble, and well-researched solution to many of America's food problems. The solution isn't to make farms bigger and ship foods cross-country. The solution, instead, involves stepping out into our own yards and cultivating even the smallest garden; seeking out local farmers and farmers markets in our communities; and learning (and appreciating) what the earth beneath our own two feet has to offer.

The Convalescent by Jessica Anthony

I literally just finished reading this book today during my morning commute on the train. Still not quite sure how I feel about the ending, but I loved the rest of the book. I suppose the ending is kind of amazing because it's so bizarre (although that certainly isn't the only part of the book I would describe that way).

Anyway, The Convalescent is about a small ugly man named Rovar Pfliegman who sells [stolen] meat out of a broken down bus in the middle of a field in Virginia. The narrative jumps back and forth between the history of the Pfliefman's and Rovar's day to day existence and occasionally also his childhood. All of these aspects are seamlessly woven together to create a portrait of a simultaneously humorous and somber existence.

I could probably ramble forever about all the little things in this book that were interesting and funny and contribute to making it totally-worth-reading. However, one thing in particular has been nibbling on my brain as I've been thinking about this book. Rovar is a strange narrator. About 3/4 of the way through the book, he gets a look at his folder in Dr. Monica's office, and sees her notes about him: "Pseudomaniacal tendencies...Invents various illnesses for personal attention...PHYSICALLY, THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH HIM" (187). This blunt note comes as a surprise, as Rovar laments his unfortunate physical state repeatedly throughout the narrative. Is it all a lie? Or do others simply not perceive his pain? Are his claims of disfigurement not physical but rather a metaphorical reflection of himself, or society?

Rovar's reliability as a narrator comes into question, but it's not quite as simple as just that. Since throughout the book he also is relating the history of his people, Rovar's narration also represents a construction of history--an untold history, no less. And with Rovar as the supposed last remaining Pfliegman, he is the only source for this history aside from a book given to him by his grandfather: The Rise and Fall and Rise of the Hungarians by Anonymus (sic) (as for the title...I think that's about right). Throughout the book, it is implied that the weakest members of a society, those whose history is forgotten and left untold, are often the ones who hold society together, the ones who create an invisible skeleton upon which the epic "mainstream" version of history can be constructed. Perhaps not a novel concept necessarily, but Anthony presents it with enough humor and fantasy to make one really wonder what could be missing from our history books, and how that history was decided on.

Aside from the epic question of HISTORY, The Convalescent also simply calls attention to the small things in life--whether the small things are actually things, or even people.

It's a beautiful book and I highly recommend it. The book design and bookjacket are also wonderful so even if you hate reading it, I'm sure you'll at least enjoy holding it.

Lucy by Jamaica Kincaid

I decided to mooch this book on a whim because I read Annie John a few semesters ago for a World Lit class. While Annie John wasn't exactly my favorite book from the class, I remember feeling like certain major themes in the novel stood out to me and stayed with me, and I was curious to see how it compared to some of her other work. It seemed like Lucy was a continuation of Annie John, which, if I remember correctly, ends with the main character leaving her family in the West Indies for North America to begin nursing school. Lucy is about a 19 year old girl who has begun a new life in North America as an au pair for a seemingly perfect family (which quickly unravels as the novel progresses) while pursuing an education to become a nurse. There's also a similar love-hate relationship between the main character and her mother and father. Again, this relationship and even the parents are almost identical to those in Annie John. I'm guessing Kincaid's novels are autobiographical in nature and that's why there are recurring characters and this almost obsessive examination of mother-daughter relationships. I've yet to read her book Autobiography of My Mother but I'm sure that would answer some of my questions.

Anyway, I was not terribly impressed by this book. It seemed bland and Lucy, the narrator, is so cold and pessimistic that it's difficult to feel any sort of connection to her. Perhaps a feeling of alienation was what Kincaid was going for, but I found it off-putting. Throughout the novel Lucy begins to realize herself sexually and also remembers some of her early sexual experiences back home. These too seem cold, like recollections of someone else's memories. Overall, I got the feeling that Lucy did not feel like a part of anything, nor did she desire to be a part of anything or create a deep connection with anyone. However, she has a "best friend" named Peggy and she claims to be friends with Mariah, the woman for whom she works during the first 3/4 of the book. Maybe Lucy is supposed to be a more dynamic character with a wider range of emotions, but the writing style (which is very straight-forward and dry) doesn't communicate that very well.

I did think Lucy was interesting because of her rebellious spirit. She is determined to carve out a life of her own, away from her family, and she does this without hesitation or excessive emotion. Perhaps she realizes that by moving to a new country and burning her mother's letters, she is violently cutting an essential part of herself off: her homeland and her family. Lucy certainly makes no attempts to cover up her bitterness and while she moves forward and gets an apartment with Peggy, begins a new job, and pursues photography as a hobby, perhaps the most crucial element that seems to be missing from Lucy's attitude is hope. Maybe that's the component that I felt was lacking here, but maybe I'm also being a little naive in that expectation.

Aside from Lucy as a character, I thought that Kincaid made some interesting commentary about colonialism and how the world as seen through the rose colored glasses of the coloniser is quite different from the shattered view of the colonized.

Overall, I think this book is worth reading but not fantastic...I definitely enjoyed Annie John more. However, if you're a fan of Kincaid's work then you'll easily make connections to her other books and admittedly, I did feel like having previously read Annie John added considerable depth to my reading of this novel (perhaps it would have been even better if Annie John was fresh in my mind!).

Fruitless Fall by Rowan Jacobson

In Fruitless Fall, Jacobson addresses the sudden disappearance of bees over the past few years which has come to be known as CCD--colony collapse disorder. A mystery to scientists and beekeepers everywhere, CCD may not be a disorder (in the sense of something being wrong with the bees) as much as it is an indication of environmental degradation and the destructive impact that humans have had on ecosystems. Globalization has also undoubtedly had a hand in CCD, with bees being carted across the country and imported from across the globe, allowing pathogens to enter into bee populations without any immunity. This of course combines with issues of pesticides and antibiotics which--though they may provide a quick fix--ultimately weaken the bees and prevent them from building up a natural resilience that could be passed to future generations.

Jacobson manages to cover an immense amount of information in this relatively small book, ranging from the inner workings of hive life to the global impact of honey bees to the healing power of honey, and beyond honey bees to industrial agriculture and factory farming, all of which have to do with CCD, as much as we would probably like to hope that it's an isolated problem with a simple solution.

Unfortunately for bees and pollinating insects everywhere, humans have their own plans when it comes to making food, and nature's way usually isn't fast enough or hyperproductive enough for our tastes. Almond growers must saturate their carefully planned and planted fields with bees to ensure pollination of a maximum number of flowers. Obviously, this isn't quite what would occur in nature:

If you're wondering how almond trees ever got by before mankind figured this out, remember that, in their homeland, wild almonds didn't evolve to grow in great stands of clones. There was plenty of genetic diversity in the forest. They also didn't need to produce banner crops of almonds every year; a few new seedlings was enough. Only in the weirdness of hyperproductive clonal forests do you need weird pollination strategies.

We've ignored the natural tendencies of the bees (and the very plants that we grow and harvest) and have attempted to change their nature to fit our needs. Unfortunately, this sort of stress can only lead to collapse.

Although Jacobson attempts to get to the bottom of CCD throughout the book, he concludes in the end that CCD is not a single problem with a single solution. Jacobson insists that a more holistic approach must be considered if we value the environment and our most treasured sources of food:

...To me, trying so hard to find a single cause of CCD misses the point. CCD, like varroa, is a symptom of a larger disease--a disease of fossil fuels and chemical shortcuts, of billion-bee slums and the speed of the modern world. An imbalance in the system. Maybe IAPV or imidacloprid or fluvalinate is the latest manifestation of the disease, but until local agriculture replaces global agriculture, there will always be another parasite, another virus, another mysterious collapse. 'You keep digging to the bottom,' said Webster, 'that's what you'll always find. It's not a problem with the bees; it's a degradation of the whole environment.'

House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski

What miracle is this? This giant tree.
It stands ten thousand feet high
But doesn't reach the ground. Still it stands.
Its roots must hold the sky.

I loved this book. I first heard of it in the englishmajors community on LJ, and was instantly intrigued. It's been on my to-read list ever since, and this summer I finally had time to tackle this beast of a book. It really drew me in, so it took me less time to read than I predicted.

I loved this book for a few reasons: it's self-referential, it has an attitude, it pokes fun at scholarship, it questions assumptions. It is quite frankly pretentious, but in an amazingly fun way (is that possible? Apparently it is). There are extensive footnotes, some of which are composed of references to imaginary sources, some of which are written by Johnny Truant, who tells his own story of psychological and physical deteroration alongside the unfolding of the Navidson report.

In terms of being a horror story, I found Johnny Truant's portions far more chilling than those by Zampano, perhaps because, like Johnny himself, I too found myself in the position of reader. His mental breakdown seems to imply how books (or texts in any format--even just a bunch of mixed up pages gathered in a chest) construct a reality of their own, unencumbered by physical limitations or logic, but with a history of their own and an existence that will extend far beyond that of both author and reader.

Overall I found House of Leaves simultaenously amusing and thoughtprovoking. It's a simple enough plot: a house that's bigger on the inside than it is on the outside. But this simple idea is then expanded and entwined with the legacies of literature, philosophy, fantasy, mathematics, psychology, and all manner of imaginary academic writings. It's amazing how much work must have gone into writing this book.

Definitely a must read.

__(o)___(n)
A sun to read the dark.

Man Crazy by Joyce Carol Oates

Man Crazy begins on a seemingly "normal" note, albeit sad and heartrending. About halfway through, it takes a turn toward the bizarre, but I'll get to that in a moment. Ingrid, a young girl, is in hiding with her mother, Chloe. Her father is a wanted man, and despite his charm and "love" for Chloe, he is violent and possessive. Ingrid idolizes her father and desperately misses him, yearning for the day he will return and make their family complete again. Ingrid witnesses firsthand the many disfunctions of her family, including a brutal fistfight between her father and one of Chloe's suitors, who has been supporting her with a house, car, and job as his secretary.

Ingrid leads an awkward childhood, and develops a tic in which she compulsively picks at her face and body. She is smart, but anxious and shy, so her teachers and the other students often make fun of her. She is popular because of her beauty, but has no friends. She repeatedly describes how she has dozens of friends, and no friends--no one who wouldn't betray her in a heartbeat, that is. Ingrid soon finds herself in a situation similar to her mother's: she is a beautiful woman, and men's eyes follow her everywhere. She finds pleasure and power in this, but is ultimately disempowered completely because of her utter submission to being a sexual object, one whose sole purpose is to please and then be cast aside.

About halfway through the novel, Ingrid runs away from home. By now she's already involved with drugs and alcohol, but that pales in comparison to the latest trouble she lands herself in: she is abducted into a gang called Satan's Children, in which she is raped and tortured. Despite this, she and the other women worship Enoch Scaggs, the leader of the group, said to be Satan's own son. It soon becomes apparent that rape and torture aren't the full extent of the horrors committed by Satan's Children--they also engage in ritual human sacrifice. Eventually it is Ingrid's turn to be sacrificed, but she manages to escape. She's so emaciated that she manages to slip through the slit of an open window in the garbage dump of a basement in which she's being held captive.

Ingrid reconnects with her mother, and goes through rehab and psychiatric evaluations and therapy. She falls in love with her therapist, and tells her mother she plans on marrying him. Chloe, too, seems to be settling into a calmer life, one safe from her ex-husband. In the last chapter, Ingrid observes the results of a winter storm, and how many of the ruins aren't actually new, but have been there all along, years perhaps. The broken trees are evidently a metaphor for her own broken, but alive, state:

You wondered how they could survive but of course they did. In the skin were marks just visible through the ice-coating, like a secret writing, scars. Nor were they dead exactly, those fallen trees. They were alive, only not vertical. The heartbeat inside them had maybe slowed, only a murmur but if you squatted to listen, if you knew how to listen, if the wind would die down you would hear it.

Ingrid has her own scars, both phsyical and psychological, some more apparent than others. And although her time with Satan's Children resulted in some of the most brutal damage, it's undeniable that some scars run deeper and were inflicted much earlier in her life. Her mother, too, carries scars as well, and both women deal with their pain as best they can. They are alive, even if bent and broken.

I found a few aspects of this novel very interesting. The story is told from Ingrid's perspective, looking back on her life as though recounting these events to a therapist (perhaps the very one she speaks of marrying? It's unclear, and given her manic state, it almost seems like she may have relapsed and is not actually as well as she seems at the end of the novel). Her narration comes as a stream of consciousness, sometimes with a paragraph composed of a single sentence. Thinking back on it now, I'm beginning to think Ingrid may not be a reliable narrator. The novel begins with her entering a women's detention facility. She is on suicide watch. The doctor asks her to tell him about her life, and the story begins, although she tells the doctor that she will not tell him of her life. Is it not her life being recounted then? Perhaps all of it is merely a fabrication.

Anyway, aside from the narrative structure of the novel, it is also interesting how Oates creates a dynamic in which the main female characters (Ingrid and her mother) are located at the center of male violence. Chloe tries to use her beauty as a weapon and means of controlling men--she attracts suitors who can support her and uses them for her own benefit, giving in return, of course, her beautiful body. This power is taken from her when her husband asserts his own claim over her mind and body, beating her suitor and eventually murdering him (being sure to snap some polaroids, which he sends to Chloe just make sure she knows her place). Ingrid, too, attempts to hold some sway over men with her physical attractiveness, and flaunts her sexuality. She feels confident and strong (and perhaps tries to overcompensate for other insecurities), but one day she flirts with the wrong man, and is promptly taken home by Enoch Scaggs, who essentially makes her a sex slave to him and the other men in Satan's Children.

It becomes clear that neither Chloe nor Ingrid are able to assert their own sexual power because they are expressing their sexuality within the limited structure prescribed for them by society. They become prisoners of their own sexuality because what they are expressing is a male construction of female sexuality. While Chloe and Ingrid are both beautiful, intelligent women, in many ways independent and strong, they embody the opposite of the femme fatal trope (perhaps even parodying it). They need men because their very sense of sexuality is defined by them, but that sexuality and sense of self is also, at a basic level, what imprisons them in a cycle of abuse.

This is a compelling novel. Deeply disturbing, but compelling. I'm still not certain of how reliable Ingrid is as a narrator, but the question of reliability only adds to the intrigue of this twisted tale.