52 Books 52 Weeks

Oh my it's been awhile.

11. Real Man Adventures by T Cooper (finished March 19th)

Safe to say that before I read this book, my experiences with literature by trans authors was minimal to most likely none. This pseudo-memoir by T Cooper recounts what it's like to transform from a female to male, through interviews, anecdotes, lists, poems, and other various formats. While no one wants to be known solely for their "Otherness," a trans author still probably sticks out more than a female, minority, or even gay author. But hey, it's 2013, and as Next Magazine points out, more trans-authors are getting into the novel and fiction game. For now, T Cooper offers a wonderful insight into the hopes, dreams, and fears of a transgendered person, happily married with two kids.

(click here for my full, original review on Frontier Psychiatrist)




11a. Piano Rats by Franki Elliot (finished March 22nd)

It's a bit unfair of me to not include this as a part of my 52 books. Yes, it is a short collection of poetry that I read on a couple train rides to and from work, but why should brevity deprive from merit? I'm mostly not including this since I've flipped through it a few times last year, but finally read the collection in full. Dark tales of love, broken-hearts, unsent letters, insanity, hook-ups, "melancholy is just beauty of a different flavor," Pilsen, a seven hour kiss, mermaids, y mas. Looking forward to her next book out later this year, "Kiss As Many Women As You Can."








12. Spilt Milk by Chico Buarque (finished March 25th)

In preparation for my trip to Brazil, I felt to at least introduce myself to Brazilian literature. Naturally, time got away from me, but I was at least able to finish this on the plane to New York. From the perspective of a crumbling patriarch restricted to a nursing home bed, he recounts his of married life, his machismo father, to the dissolution of his wealth and changing culture in 20th century Brazil. The unreliable narrator is in full effect, as he repeats himself over and over again, but that's what we all do even with a conscious mind isn't it? "If I don't remind myself about this, how do I know it happened?" I only hope my delirious rants are as interesting when I reach that age.







13. Drown by Junot Diaz (finished April 9th)

With 11 hours to kill on the plane between Buenos Aires and New York, I managed to knock out the entire collection of Diaz's debut collection of short stories. I've read his two other books, both of which not without their own colorful language (doesn't it sound racist to describe a Domincan author as colorful?), but this early collection certainly has a rawness that not even his later stories have shown. Mostly, I'm guessing due in part to being from the perspective of a child. Overall, I think this is probably the best introduction to Diaz's work, primarily for its rawness; an unfiltered, sultry, "fuck"-filled collection of stories from the island.









14. Hard Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World by Haruki Murakami (finished April 17th)

My second trip into the bizarre and absurd world of Murakami. With alternating tales from (presumably) present day Tokyo and what comes across as a medieval, walled-in community, with little-to-no culture and unicorns. Our main character is unwittingly cast up a path to discover what exactly is at the depths of the mind, the duality of its limits and limitlessness. While the book certainly kept me rapidly flipping pages, I didn't find it nearly as masterful as The Wind Up Bird Chronicle. And there is either a simplicity in dialogue I don't remember from that book, or the translation leaves something to be desired, or he just writes dialogue that...placidly. That said, Murakami's books exist in quite the unique universe, and he is an author I certainly need to spend more time with.

2011 Earthquake and Tsunami in Japan

(photo source)

I can't remember where I was when I first heard about the tsunami and earthquake in Japan in 2011. I know I was in France somewhere, probably too concerned with my immediate surroundings (ie, going to art museums and drinking wine) to worry about breaking world news. I do remember seeing images of whole buildings swept away by fantastic waves, resulting in towns that used to exist but no longer do.

Today is the anniversary of when the gigantic storm first hit. The nearest major city to the earthquake's epicenter was Sendai. I don't remember this name from news coverage back then, but I know it now. Coincidentally, I finished reading Ruth Ozeki's newest book today, A Tale for the Time Being. At the risk of violating critical ethics and saying too much before my official review, this was the most inspiring, brilliant page-turner I have read since Teju Cole's Open City. In short, it involves a woman in a small town near Vancouver who discovers a diary that washes up on shore from a girl in Japan, presumably killed in the 2011 tsunami. The book investigates time, fiction, quantum mechanics, and ecology all in one ambitious, but immensely gripping and satisfying story.

I have no real connection to Japan, but the more I read, the more interested in it I become. While Ozeki was born in America, half the book is from the point of view of a Japanese teenage girl, who uses many Japanese phrases which Ruth translates for us. Between this, recently reading Out, and Haruki Murakami in the past, it is definitely a culture of literature I need to explore more. And to find out if cats find their way into being a major character in every single Japanese novel or if this has just been a coincidence between the three.

In wake of such tragedies, it is always moving to find the ways humanity endures. One of my favorite art blogs, Colossal, posted today about an 88-foot tall sculpture that represents one remaining pine tree that survived for a year and a half after the storm hit. 

The Lit Log: Shannon Aliza

This is the first in a series called the Lit Log, where I ask people to document what and how they read. If you would like to contribute to the Lit Log, hit me up at andhertz [at] gmail.

Shannon is currently trolling the streets of Beijing with a Leica lens at earthisboring.blogspot.com.

How many books (approximately) do you read a year:  I'd like to say more than ten novels, but time and space are hard to gauge.
How many book do you read at a time: I read one at a time. I like to read graphic novels in one sitting, if possible.
The last great book you read: Winter Journal by Paul Auster was the perfect book to read at the time I was reading it. Auster is my literary soul mate. He opened up fiction for me with the New York Trilogy. Philip K Dick is noted for his mind-bending-ness, but I don't think Auster is as recognized for fucking with peoples brains. Similar to ALL Haruki Murakami novels, The New York Trilogy has always stuck in my veins in a way I feel both uncomfortable with and excited by. Winter Journal is the type of autobiography I would write about myself if I were to do that kind of thing.
Your desert island book: Welcome to the Monkey House by Kurt Vonnegut
Prison cell book: Hardboiled Wonderland and The End of the World by Haruki Murakami
Autumn book: Autumn is both exciting and depressing. I tend to read new things in the fall, rather than reread or go back to old favorites. I just finished The Autograph Man by Zadie Smith and will start NW soon.
Are you satisfied with your literary intake: No, absolutely not. I would love to have more time to read, but I have photos to take and the state of my existence in China to contemplate.
Thoughts on contemporary state of literature: The biggest disappointment to me this year in the literary world, was when Jonah Lehrer was discovered to have MADE UP information in his book Imagine. He is a young, smart, relevant guy who has completely discredited himself (he was often a guest on RadioLab-- the best podcast around!). The news of this broke just after the Mike Daisy incident on This American Life. Smart young people need to step up their game. Success is such a smack in the face and really seems to signify not needing to work hard anymore. I don't think I can trust a writer who isn't tortured. Not that I want David Foster Wallace type smart and tortured writers, but there is an element of truly hard work that goes into really great novels. A lot of people in their twenties are too into themselves to see the world on a larger scale-- to see that their laziness effects others. Look at all of the literary prizes that are given out almost solely to an older generation (Julian Barnes' The Sense of an Ending won the 2011 Booker Prize. A totally incredible novel that largely takes place in the 60s).  They are working hard to stay relevant. Does it really take 30 years of writing to achieve literary acclaim? Absolutely not. Most people we admire these days (Hemingway wrote The Sun Also Rises when he was 27, Mary Shelley was 21 when she wrote Frankenstein, and Kerouac wrote On the Road when he was 25 ) were young. Unfortunately, young writers, especially those who have not graduated from esteemed MFA  or ivy league thesis programs are incredibly overlooked. What I LOVE about contemporary literature is that there are so many venues for writers who are not in the mainstream to get their work into the public sphere. Small start up literary zines like The Logan Square Literary Review or websites like McSweeneys and The Diagram are all amazing ways to showcase writers who are honing their craft. Most of the writers are unknown because they have 9-5 jobs, do not come from privilege, and have to hermit away their time to make their way. Similar to the days of the Beat Poets, writers nowadays have to create communities inside their hometowns/cities and become big from there. One of the most exciting readings I went to in Chicago was a poetry reading done by two guys who were touring around the country, just like musicians, from reading to reading and selling their books. It was great.