the thinigs they carried and the lovely bones: a response

so i spent this past sunday afternoon reading two emotionally taxing books: the things they carried by tim o'brien and the lovely bones by alice sebold.

the things they carried

the things they carried is a shocking memoir from the vietnam war written by a veteran. it deals with war stories and not war stories. the writing is so realistic that the reader can almost feel the explosion of the nearby land mine. o'brien brings the reader so far into the story that it's impossible not to feel emotionally attached.

this one was difficult for me. the language is rough. the description is gruesome. but that wasn't the hard part. there was no emotional resolution. i put the book down feeling horrible. i felt horrible for not fighting. i felt horrible for fighting. i felt like running to canada. i felt like enlisting. and then i realized that this was a book. i didn't live in the seventies. i didn't know kiowa. i didn't know jimmy cross. but o'brien made me feel like i did. i mourned for the two that died. i learned morales from another. i learned the finer points of telling a war story from yet another. it was intense. it was painful. it was brilliant.

the lovely bones

the lovely bones is a painfully beautiful story about the rape and murder of a 14 year old girl. every moment of this book is hard to read. again, it ends and there is no happy feeling. no warm fuzzy. just a cold emptiness. it is one of the best books i have ever read.

suzie, her good judgment losing to her avid scientific curiosity, finds herself the victim of a serial rapist. her spirit ends up in heaven which is much like the playground at her junior high school. from there she watches her family and friends deal with her death and begin to move on. she sees her killing still living just down the street from her family. she sees the boy she loved become friends with the only girl who can still feel her presence.

there are more heartbreaking moments in this book than in any i have read in recent memory. i got completely freaked out so many times that at 1am (because i absolutely could not go to bed without finishing this book) i got up and locked the door to my room. i honestly felt like a serial rapist might come bursting through the door bent on killing me. the writing captures the character of suzie so perfectly that the reader cannot help but be sucked into the story.

reflection

i would definitely recommend both of the books to most people. i would recommend the things they carried to people who enjoy memoirs, non-fiction, historical fiction, and tragedy. it is not for the faint-hearted. i'd say that most people would find the lovely bones to be a good book, if not a good story. there is very little good in the story. it too is not for the faint-hearted, but for completely different reasons.

i would also recommend throwing a happy/fluff/emotionless book in between the two. i was kind of depressed most of the day monday.

happy (or at least good) reading.

this is how it feels to read again

i've definitely knocked out my share of books over the last week. three, to be exact. harry potter six and seven (completing my 9th straight runthrough of the series, 1st since deathly hallows came out) as well as invincible by troy denning. my summer list is painstakingly long, but i feel my ambition is equal to the task:

1. lies my teacher told me
   
2. the way of the shepherd
   
3. a few star wars novels here and there
4. everyman's talmud
5. the omnivore's dilemma
6. um summer book
7. slc summer book
8. and mostly likely about three or four others that i haven't decided on yet

i'm pretty pumped. not having cable has been great for my booklife. it's good to be reading again.

i think i'm just being childish

There are times when I am astonished by the inevitability of my life to be amazing and terrible at the same time. Here I am with three weeks of freedom before classes start and I can’t find it in myself to do anything productive. I love my new roommates. They are amazing. But at the same time I’m the “kid” again. I’m always the kid. Why can’t people see me as just me? Why do they have to attach my age to me? Just because I’m only 19 doesn’t mean that people have to treat me like I’m twelve. I don’t drink. I don’t plan on drinking until I’m 21. My roommates understand and respect it. I welcome jokes about it at my expense because I’m pretty damn proud of the fact that I am waiting. But sometimes it would be nice to not have to put up with that. I don’t know. Again, it’s such a hypocritical juxtaposition because I find the joke entertaining (and make a few myself) while at the same time incredibly annoying. And then I sit here and realize that this whole post actually makes me sound like I deserve to be treated that way because I’m hardcore whining here. I hate it. I hate the position I always find myself in. I just can’t catch a break in all this.

And hey, to make things more interesting, let’s throw in the drastic, ever-changing journey my spiritual life has been speeding down lately. One moment I’m thrilled by a conversation about theology with a friend who has had different life experiences from mine, and the next I feel completely disconnected from every portion of the faith I’ve grown up claiming to believe. Last night I was drawn to read my Bible, but, ironically, I couldn’t find one anywhere in the hell-hole that is my new room (the unpacking has barely begun). I ripped boxes and bags open looking for a Bible to no avail, but I was too stubborn to just run out in the severe thunderstorm to my car where I knew my Bible was. I finally found one, but by the time I did, I was too exhausted to read it. I am pathetic. The best description of my spiritual life right now is that I’m completely joyous and pretty put-out at the same time.

I apologize to the three of you who actually read this for not offering something interesting or insightful or even remotely controversial. Just me, the little teenager, complaining about the often unfair complexities of this simple life I lead. Which I guess leads me to believe that maybe the reason that people don’t see me as grown up is because I haven’t actually done it. But at the same time I wonder how I can be expected to act grown up if people continually treat me like I’m not. This is ridiculous. Now I’m just letting my mind and (inadequate) logic run away. I quit.