I've been thinking a lot lately about the benefits (and drawbacks) of listening to an audiobook rather than reading it on the page. My in-laws gave me an mp3 player, prestocked with several recent fiction titles, for Christmas this year (which is how I'm "reading" The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo). But this isn't the first time I've ventured away from the written world: I used to download audiobooks from the Boulder Public Library and have purchased books on CD in the past. I tend to listen to them when I'm working out or cleaning the house -- it's a way to force myself to go to the gym or pick up a dustrag, because I won't let myself listen any other time and I always really want to know what happens next! I also find that, while it's hard to read multiple works of fiction at once, I have no problem reading one book and listening to another.
Some audiobooks work better than others. I love Anne Lamott, but her speaking voice just doesn't match the dry sarcasm of her written works. And trying to listen to Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell proved more difficult than anticipated just because of its enormity; it would have taken me several months to get through it so I finally just gave up. But the audio version of Ian McEwan's Saturday grabbed me right away -- I declared it a "top 5 favorite books ever" before I had even cracked the spine of a print copy. I probably got more enjoyment out of listening to The Lovely Bones and The Time-Traveler's Wife than I would have reading them. And who wouldn't love to settle back and listen to Seamus Heaney read his beautiful translation of Beowulf in a lilting Irish accent?
I have a hard time coming to terms with the thought of reading on a Kindle or Nook -- but somehow audiobooks don't seem in conflict with my identity as a reader. Maybe it's because storytelling originated as an oral artform...or maybe I just like company on the elliptical machine.
Click here and here for more thoughts on audiobooks.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Friday, January 22, 2010
A Reliable Wife -- Robert Goolrick
I've been forcing my students to write summaries in 50 words -- no more, no less. Let's see if I can take my own medicine:
Don't be fooled by the promise of mystery: this tawdry bodice-ripper is predictability defined. The characters are static and you won't feel any stirrings of sympathy for them, no matter how many dead loved ones they may pretend to mourn for. Far too much sex with far too little meaning.
In Ron Charles' review for The Washington Post, he says "I'm reluctant to quote much more for fear of making the book sound silly." That, my friends, is a bad sign if ever I saw one. I had been looking forward to reading this book for quite some time and was pretty disappointed to find out it was essentially soft-core porn with a plot "twist" so tired I was actually dreading the resolution of the story. Only one other time in our relationship has my husband expressed such disdain for a storyline, and it was for an equally ridiculous tragic romance -- only Charlotte Bronte* in all her Victorian sensibility would never have dreamed to write about Mr. Rochester placing his hand on Jane's "sex."
Author Robert Goolrick claims to have gotten the idea for his novel from a book published in 1973 titled Wisconsin Death Trip. 36 years later, and the "tantalizing secrets hidden beneath the surface of quaint small-town life" has already been done -- and done much better.
Final Verdict: *
* I can't seem to figure out how to add the accent mark over the "e." Apologies!
Don't be fooled by the promise of mystery: this tawdry bodice-ripper is predictability defined. The characters are static and you won't feel any stirrings of sympathy for them, no matter how many dead loved ones they may pretend to mourn for. Far too much sex with far too little meaning.
In Ron Charles' review for The Washington Post, he says "I'm reluctant to quote much more for fear of making the book sound silly." That, my friends, is a bad sign if ever I saw one. I had been looking forward to reading this book for quite some time and was pretty disappointed to find out it was essentially soft-core porn with a plot "twist" so tired I was actually dreading the resolution of the story. Only one other time in our relationship has my husband expressed such disdain for a storyline, and it was for an equally ridiculous tragic romance -- only Charlotte Bronte* in all her Victorian sensibility would never have dreamed to write about Mr. Rochester placing his hand on Jane's "sex."
Author Robert Goolrick claims to have gotten the idea for his novel from a book published in 1973 titled Wisconsin Death Trip. 36 years later, and the "tantalizing secrets hidden beneath the surface of quaint small-town life" has already been done -- and done much better.
Final Verdict: *
* I can't seem to figure out how to add the accent mark over the "e." Apologies!