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Chris Crutcher makes my day. And he doesn't even have to half try. If you've read Athletic Shorts, you've pretty much got the idea of how Angry Management works: familiar characters in new situations. More than the characters will be familiar, though. Censorship, abuse, anger, religion all get aired with the customary loud-mouthed fireworks. This is escapism in the key of Crutcher.
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Shakespeare: The World as Stage
That Bill Bryson is some kind of writer. With enough verifiable facts on Shakespeare to fill, oh, five pages or so, he somehow managed to entertain and enlighten me for over four hours. (Granted, I'd probably consider listening to Bryson's voice read the phone book, but I doubt I'd hang in there for hours on end without his jaunty prose to engage me.)
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The Willoughbys
I sniggered my way through the print edition last year, and I sniggered my way from Detroit to Grand Rapids with the audio edition all over again. The whole thing's basically one great big inside joke for kidlit mavens, and man, it's fun being on the inside.
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The idea was to see if it isn't possible to understand and appreciate - marvel at, enjoy even - the wonder and accomplishments of science at a leve that isn't too technical or demanding, but isn't entirely superficial either. Yes, it is eminently possible. If a self-proclaimed science-hater like me can whiz through nearly 500 pages from protons to hominids and like it, anybody can. The key: this is not a book rammed full of formulas, equations, and tedium. It's about people, and the brilliant, stumbling, sometimes accidental and/or lethal paths we've followed to in an attempt to educate ourselves about how we and the universe around us work. Bryson never forgets he's telling a story, not whacking you over the head with a parade of facts, and he's got a heckuva knack for putting numbers and concepts of cosmic proportions into language the average lunk can wrap his head around: Our own attempts to penetrate toward the middle [of the Earth] have been modest indeed.... If the planet were an apple, we wouldn't yet have broken the skin. I can't remember the last time I've been so simultaneously bemused and informed on such a vast scale. And now I can proudly proclaim, I have a clue. (Mrs. Morr would be so proud.)
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Buddha Boy
In spite of a techno-glitch that cut off the last two seconds of every single track, I could not escape noticing this is a darn good book. I did, however, manage not to yell "Hi Kathe!" into the empty car when her voice suddenly surrounded me during the afterword.
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First I read the words, and I said, "Wow." Then I re-read the pictures, and...what was left to say? As much as the story, the art is bleak and often disturbing, yet fascinating -- like David and his brother huddled over the forbidden images in their father's medical books, you can't look away. Perhaps because converting emotions into words is essentially a process of translation, while images (especially images like these) forge a much more direct connection between artist and audience. The emotion is laid plain in the brush strokes themselves, with little need for explanation or description. We talk sometimes about getting inside a character's head, or reaching the heart of a story. Instead, Small's memoir goes straight to the gut, so that reading Stitches actually feels different from reading other books. With its economy of words, it forces the reader to process the images into language, leaving you momentarily speechless. And is there any more just reaction to the story of a boy who lost - and then found - his own voice?
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The Unfinished Angel
Quite a quirkiful little book, I must say. Charmed by the angel's offbeat voice (think just a little bit of J. Lo the Boov in Adam Rex's The True Meaning of Smekday) I bobbled along on the surface of the story until the characters finally got hold of me. Apparently, pigeons and preemies are all it takes to win me over. Sample a tiny sippling of Angel's voice for yourself here. (Available in September)
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Charles and Emma: The Darwins' Leap of Faith
A solid, concrete dual biography rammed full of Darwin family tidbits and factoids. And copiously footnoted to boot. This is the first book I've read on Darwin, and I have a feeling there's not a whole lot missing from this account. Personally, I prefer a bit more zip in the style department, but that's more a mayonnaise vs. Miracle Whip issue than a matter of good writing vs. bad.
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The Magician's Elephant
If you were feeling pedantic, you might call the plot outlandish instead of fantastical. You might be tempted to fuss about not getting a detailed portrait of every character. But if you did, you'd be missing the point. This story has the aura of a folktale about it, with its impossibilities and matter-of-fact narration. Like a fairy tale, you don't holler nuh-uh! when an elephant crashes through the roof of the opera house; you don't feel deprived by the lack of immersion in the minutiae of each and every character's life. Instead, depth mixes with the superficial and surreal in just the right proportions. It's a little like an out of body experience, a little like a Tim Burton movie, and not much like anything Kate DiCamillo's written before. That's why I like her so much. Never the same book twice, that Kate.
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Love is the Higher Law
Took my time warming up to this one. Maybe because there wasn't a glimpse of the characters' lives Before? But delving into the aftermath of 9/11, Levithan really shines. Somehow, even though I was pokey about connecting with the three narrators, I couldn't fail to see how profoundly the tragedy affected each one of them. Their mutual affection for the city of New York itself, the ways they all find to tend its wounds and scars, was particularly affecting to an out-of-towner like me.
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I climbed aboard fully expecting Justine Larbalestier to mess with my head, and manalive did I get my wish. You know Micah's a liar. Says so right on the cover, right on the first page. Yet when she promises to tell you the truth, you can't help trying to believe her. And the seesaw effect that sets up in your poor little brain is a wonder to behold. Not to mention the way the chapters tinker even further with your mind by ping—ponging between Before and After. So when Micah lays out the most extraordinary claim of all, it's dumbfounding. You just can't believe something like that. Can you?
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Fine, I'm a sicko. Put "1918 influenza pandemic" on the dust jacket flap, and I'm pumped for raging fevers, chills, chamber pots, and bedside vigils. Didn't get that here. This is more a story about aftermath than the pandemic itself, though the body count is still plenty high and what the plot lacks in bedside drama, it makes up for with mystery and mayhem. Mercy herself seemed to get attached to her supporting cast a lot faster than I did, but by the end she had me by the heartstrings.
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Angry Management
