Title: The Ocean at the End of the Lane
Author: Neil Gaiman
Pub Date: 2013
Genre: Fiction, Fantasy
Nutshell: A man remembers his childhood friend and her family, and the unlikely experiences he had with them
So, as a self-respecting geek and lover of books, why is this the first Neil Gaiman book I've ever finished? Not sure. I suppose all the hype was part of it, the enthusiasm, the comic booky sort of aura that surrounded his work. It just kind of turned me off. Plus I tried to read American Gods a while ago and just couldn't quite get into it. If I'm remembering correctly, there was a sort of masculinity to it that I just wasn't able to get hold of for whatever reason. I liked the prose, but the subject matter just didn't entirely work for me.
This, however. This book. I am an American adult woman, and far, faaaaar past the point when the ideas of magic or faeries or any of that should be even remotely credible. And yet, this book tapped into that part of me that still absolutely believes in all of that. I can't entirely explain the feeling I had reading this book, other than to say that it almost felt like I'd read (if not actually experienced) something exactly like it before as a child. It felt familiar in a way that very few other books ever have. I don't know if any book has ever felt so innately perfect to my mind. Obviously, nothing in this book ever happened to me, but it feels almost like it did, because I had such a similar imaginative narrative growing up. It felt as though Gaiman tapped into my kid head and extracted exactly what I always suspected was out there. It was really a remarkable experience, reading this.
I don't want to ruin any plot. Suffice it to say that an unnamed narrator returns to the home of his childhood friend Lettie, who was more than she seemed, and he has a very vivid memory of some events that happened when he was 7 years old that involved this girl and her family and his family and things that lived outside but got in. If children in peril aren't your thing, you might steer clear, but honestly it's all handled so deftly that it's there and gone. And, as the book's opening quote by Maurice Sendak rightly declares, "I remember my own childhood vividly...I knew terrible things. But I knew I mustn't let adults know I knew. It would scare them."
I read this book in a matter of hours. I couldn't stop. It was so gorgeous, so ephemeral, so perfect. It is not snarky at all. I'm currently listening to the Secondary Phase of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy radio show, so I know snarky geek. And I love snarky geek. But this isn't that. It's just beautiful and haunting and just the faintest tinge of disturbing. Like something out of a Celtic myth, which I love precisely because they are so...the world is almost mundane in them until suddenly something is just slightly, but perceptibly, off. Like a dream.
I know I would have loved this book as a child, but I'm glad I read it now as well. It reminded me of what I believed then and what I believe still, somewhere.
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks
Title: The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks
Author: Rebecca Skloot
Pub Date: 2010
Genre: Biography, Medical
Nutshell: The story of the nearly forgotten woman behind some of the most famous cells in science
This book has been on my radar more or less since it was published. I'm a sucker for approachable medical matter, and I like a good biography. My family has also been--well, "touched" wouldn't quite cover it...smacked?--by cervical cancer. I lost a grandparent to it and nearly lost a parent. So I have kind of a weird relationship to the subject matter that sort of made me interested but weirdly repelled. But it was available as an ebook from my library, so I thought I would finally give it a shot.
And I'm pretty glad I did, actually. This is, as the praise will tell you, a well-written history of a lot of things. Cancer research, medical ethics, one woman's unwitting contribution, and the resulting fallout for her family. Obviously, the "human elements" are most compelling. Henrietta's life was short, but she left a legacy behind with her cells but also with her children.
There are a couple disturbing things that the book reveals. One is the overwhelming amount of fear and paranoia that the Lacks family and other older black residents feel about the white medical community. But if you look into the history, as Skloot does, you definitely see some of the reasoning behind it. While this is ostensibly a medical story, it really brings an era of terribly destructive racism into sharp focus. I was born well after the peak of the civil rights struggle, but I do understand a fair bit about it. I knew about the Tuskegee experiments, for example. But the overwhelming fear that Baltimore residents had of Johns Hopkins was new to me. Most of their fears were unfounded, but the paternalistic view that so many doctors had of their black patients went a fair way into creating some horror stories all the same.
The other troubling thing is how cavalier many researchers are toward the concept of who owns a person's tissues and blood. Members of the Lacks family donated blood without ever being clearly told what it was for, and their genetic information and names were subsequently made public without their permission. Doctors and researchers either assumed that the family knew what they were involved with or directly tried to keep them in the dark as much as possible. One researcher hands Henreitta's daughter a dense medical textbook and tells her that all her questions are answered there. These are very poorly educated people, and the way many medical professionals handled them was certainly enlightening.
Now, HIPAA and other laws have made some decent strides toward preventing some of what happened to the Lacks family. You can't just publish names and information now, you can't have access to medical records without direct permission. But doctors can still use or sell your tissues and blood for medical testing, and while it would be nice if they informed you what it might be used for and whether money might be generated from it, they certainly don't have to, and many don't. Your tissues aren't really you anymore. Which might not seem like a big deal, until you look at a family like the Lackses, who could not afford medical care while their mother's cells were selling for $100 a vial. They certainly felt it was unfair that they were in poverty while research companies had made billions selling what they viewed as parts of their mother. And while eventually most of them came to terms with the knowledge that there was really nothing that could be done, and that at least their mother was still helping people, there's still a stark and pretty inequitable contrast between a donor or a donor's family and the medical establishment.
There is also the matter of Henrietta's oldest daughter Elsie, who was committed to an asylum at a young age for what was probably epilepsy and mental impairment. Skloot uncovers details of her time at the Crownsville Hospital, and it is truly disturbing. It is a fairly small piece of the story overall, but what occurred there should not be forgotten.
Overall, this was not a hard book to read. Medical terms are explained, history is recounted, and stories are told fairly. There are no real bad guys in the story of Henrietta Lacks. There are certainly misguided people--products of their time who failed to uphold the standards of care we recognize today. There are careless people--professionals who did not do due diligence in obtaining even the slightest amount of informed consent, people whose zeal for discovery overwhelmed their better judgement. But there are no real villains, and that's probably a fair assessment. Henrietta was treated the same as any woman with cervical cancer would have been then. Her case was already far advanced and horribly complicated. My grandmother died over 20 years after Henrietta of the same disease. Doctors did their best for her person while she was alive (their best being rather primitive in today's terms, but still). It was after she died that they got a bit out of hand, but I don't believe there was evil intent behind their actions. It was standard practice for the time, and luckily for all of us, standard practice has improved quite a bit since then.
I'd recommend this book if you're interested in medical history, or just fascinated with the life of one woman who changed the world and never even knew.
Author: Rebecca Skloot
Pub Date: 2010
Genre: Biography, Medical
Nutshell: The story of the nearly forgotten woman behind some of the most famous cells in science
This book has been on my radar more or less since it was published. I'm a sucker for approachable medical matter, and I like a good biography. My family has also been--well, "touched" wouldn't quite cover it...smacked?--by cervical cancer. I lost a grandparent to it and nearly lost a parent. So I have kind of a weird relationship to the subject matter that sort of made me interested but weirdly repelled. But it was available as an ebook from my library, so I thought I would finally give it a shot.
And I'm pretty glad I did, actually. This is, as the praise will tell you, a well-written history of a lot of things. Cancer research, medical ethics, one woman's unwitting contribution, and the resulting fallout for her family. Obviously, the "human elements" are most compelling. Henrietta's life was short, but she left a legacy behind with her cells but also with her children.
There are a couple disturbing things that the book reveals. One is the overwhelming amount of fear and paranoia that the Lacks family and other older black residents feel about the white medical community. But if you look into the history, as Skloot does, you definitely see some of the reasoning behind it. While this is ostensibly a medical story, it really brings an era of terribly destructive racism into sharp focus. I was born well after the peak of the civil rights struggle, but I do understand a fair bit about it. I knew about the Tuskegee experiments, for example. But the overwhelming fear that Baltimore residents had of Johns Hopkins was new to me. Most of their fears were unfounded, but the paternalistic view that so many doctors had of their black patients went a fair way into creating some horror stories all the same.
The other troubling thing is how cavalier many researchers are toward the concept of who owns a person's tissues and blood. Members of the Lacks family donated blood without ever being clearly told what it was for, and their genetic information and names were subsequently made public without their permission. Doctors and researchers either assumed that the family knew what they were involved with or directly tried to keep them in the dark as much as possible. One researcher hands Henreitta's daughter a dense medical textbook and tells her that all her questions are answered there. These are very poorly educated people, and the way many medical professionals handled them was certainly enlightening.
Now, HIPAA and other laws have made some decent strides toward preventing some of what happened to the Lacks family. You can't just publish names and information now, you can't have access to medical records without direct permission. But doctors can still use or sell your tissues and blood for medical testing, and while it would be nice if they informed you what it might be used for and whether money might be generated from it, they certainly don't have to, and many don't. Your tissues aren't really you anymore. Which might not seem like a big deal, until you look at a family like the Lackses, who could not afford medical care while their mother's cells were selling for $100 a vial. They certainly felt it was unfair that they were in poverty while research companies had made billions selling what they viewed as parts of their mother. And while eventually most of them came to terms with the knowledge that there was really nothing that could be done, and that at least their mother was still helping people, there's still a stark and pretty inequitable contrast between a donor or a donor's family and the medical establishment.
There is also the matter of Henrietta's oldest daughter Elsie, who was committed to an asylum at a young age for what was probably epilepsy and mental impairment. Skloot uncovers details of her time at the Crownsville Hospital, and it is truly disturbing. It is a fairly small piece of the story overall, but what occurred there should not be forgotten.
Overall, this was not a hard book to read. Medical terms are explained, history is recounted, and stories are told fairly. There are no real bad guys in the story of Henrietta Lacks. There are certainly misguided people--products of their time who failed to uphold the standards of care we recognize today. There are careless people--professionals who did not do due diligence in obtaining even the slightest amount of informed consent, people whose zeal for discovery overwhelmed their better judgement. But there are no real villains, and that's probably a fair assessment. Henrietta was treated the same as any woman with cervical cancer would have been then. Her case was already far advanced and horribly complicated. My grandmother died over 20 years after Henrietta of the same disease. Doctors did their best for her person while she was alive (their best being rather primitive in today's terms, but still). It was after she died that they got a bit out of hand, but I don't believe there was evil intent behind their actions. It was standard practice for the time, and luckily for all of us, standard practice has improved quite a bit since then.
I'd recommend this book if you're interested in medical history, or just fascinated with the life of one woman who changed the world and never even knew.
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
House of Prayer No. 2
Title: House of Prayer No. 2
Author: Mark Richard
Pub Date: 2011
Genre: Memoir
Nutshell: A writer's story of his childhood in the south and his life before becoming a writer
This is a guy very obviously influenced by William Faulkner and Ernest Hemingway and the other big American writers, especially the southern ones. That's not a bad thing, mind. Richard's writing is definitely of a style, but not hard to read or uninteresting.
He tells his story from the beginning, growing up in Texas and Virginia as a "special" child with deformed hips. He details his repeated visits to the crippled children's hospital, where surgeons hammered nails into his bones and predicted he would be in a wheelchair by 30. He writes about his friends, the petty crimes they engaged in, the adventures they had, his troubled father and his Catholic mother. In the end, he talks about deciding to become a writer, his crisis of faith and eventual return to the church.
This is in many ways a story of faith, but in others just the story of a southern kid who becomes a writer, because Richard's early life is certainly something less than holy. It is not a preachy book, and there's plenty to recommend it even for those who aren't necessarily looking for a narrative on religion. If you like the memoir genre and are particularly drawn to the sort of masculine, southern style writing you find in a lot of the American classics, you will probably find this enjoyable.
Author: Mark Richard
Pub Date: 2011
Genre: Memoir
Nutshell: A writer's story of his childhood in the south and his life before becoming a writer
This is a guy very obviously influenced by William Faulkner and Ernest Hemingway and the other big American writers, especially the southern ones. That's not a bad thing, mind. Richard's writing is definitely of a style, but not hard to read or uninteresting.
He tells his story from the beginning, growing up in Texas and Virginia as a "special" child with deformed hips. He details his repeated visits to the crippled children's hospital, where surgeons hammered nails into his bones and predicted he would be in a wheelchair by 30. He writes about his friends, the petty crimes they engaged in, the adventures they had, his troubled father and his Catholic mother. In the end, he talks about deciding to become a writer, his crisis of faith and eventual return to the church.
This is in many ways a story of faith, but in others just the story of a southern kid who becomes a writer, because Richard's early life is certainly something less than holy. It is not a preachy book, and there's plenty to recommend it even for those who aren't necessarily looking for a narrative on religion. If you like the memoir genre and are particularly drawn to the sort of masculine, southern style writing you find in a lot of the American classics, you will probably find this enjoyable.
Friday, May 2, 2014
Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me?
Title: Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me (And Other Concerns)
Author: Mindy Kaling
Pub Date: 2011
Genre: Memoir
Nutshell: A very funny memoir from writer and comedian Mindy Kaling
I'll be honest: I've never seen anything Mindy Kaling has been in. I haven't seen one episode of the American version of The Office. I no longer have cable. TV is not really something I do anymore. But I had this weird job a few years ago wherein I basically had any random celebrity's face committed to memory, plus Mindy has been in the news recently for daring to be semi-famous and normal-sized. So I know who she is. And I'd heard this was funny, and I wanted something funny and easy to read that didn't suck. This fit the bill perfectly.
Mindy and I are the same age, so we remember some of the same things. Also, we are both nerds. She is funnier than me, though. But not so much funnier that I hate her. This book is basically a series of essays about random things. Some are about her childhood, some are about living in New York and Los Angeles and working on The Office and other life events. Some are lists or anecdotes about dating or friends. All are funny and well-written, and I laughed several times. I normally don't laugh when reading, so that's a compliment. As an author, she is personable, engaging, cute, and self-deprecating enough to be funny without becoming tragic. I recommend this for anyone who wants something non-taxing but still well-written and funny.
Author: Mindy Kaling
Pub Date: 2011
Genre: Memoir
Nutshell: A very funny memoir from writer and comedian Mindy Kaling
I'll be honest: I've never seen anything Mindy Kaling has been in. I haven't seen one episode of the American version of The Office. I no longer have cable. TV is not really something I do anymore. But I had this weird job a few years ago wherein I basically had any random celebrity's face committed to memory, plus Mindy has been in the news recently for daring to be semi-famous and normal-sized. So I know who she is. And I'd heard this was funny, and I wanted something funny and easy to read that didn't suck. This fit the bill perfectly.
Mindy and I are the same age, so we remember some of the same things. Also, we are both nerds. She is funnier than me, though. But not so much funnier that I hate her. This book is basically a series of essays about random things. Some are about her childhood, some are about living in New York and Los Angeles and working on The Office and other life events. Some are lists or anecdotes about dating or friends. All are funny and well-written, and I laughed several times. I normally don't laugh when reading, so that's a compliment. As an author, she is personable, engaging, cute, and self-deprecating enough to be funny without becoming tragic. I recommend this for anyone who wants something non-taxing but still well-written and funny.
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