lection gilberthome authors titles dates links about
lection's "new and noteworthy" page is named after Gilbert, in Oscar Wilde's "Critic as Artist," who opines:
To know the vintage and quality of a wine one need not drink the whole cask. It must be perfectly easy in half an hour to say whether a book is worth anything or worth nothing. Ten minutes are really sufficient, if one has the instinct for form.On the lection gilbert page, I present occasional brief notes on recent books that I've picked up and tasted. I try to read enough of each book to deliver some sense of its "vintage and quality," while at the same time some sense of why I didn't keep reading. My not keeping reading is not to be counted against a book, of course. Vita brevis . . .
Pedestrian Modern: Shopping and American architecture, 1925-1956. David Smiley. U of Minnesota P, 2013. How American cities and suburbs got their various layouts, adapting older grids to auto traffic and creating newer housing and shopping centers along more "organic" lines, is a fascinating topic. It's well illustrated in Pedestrian Modern but somewhat less well told. David Smiley's book is above all academic: it deals with the intermeshed networks of careers, aesthetic theories, and criticism that surround the building of mid-20th-century America. It doesn't have a governing polemic, and it sure doesn't patronize readers; both of these are admirable traits. But since it lacks those audience-conscious qualities, its thesis becomes somewhat esoteric. For Smiley, the history of modern architecture per se, as a discipline, is more important than the history of modern America. No harm in that; he's an architecture professor. But Pedestrian Modern is mainly for graduate students of architecture. [11.28.13]
July 1914: Countdown to war. Sean McMeekin. Basic [Perseus], 2013. Highly regarded by reviewers and academic historians alike, and highly readable, July 1914 just wasn't the book I wanted to read at the moment. The immediate events that led to the First World War, between the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand and the first troop engagements, are a compelling and agonizing theme. McMeekin approaches them via the personalities and motives of many (many, many) high government officials, who really did behave in the summer of 1914 as if they were playing a game of Diplomacy for unserious stakes rather than turning Europe into an abbatoir. I'd simply like to read a more "meta" treatment of how such insanity could flourish, rather than a play-by-play of its workings-out. [11.10.13]
Revolver: How the Beatles reimagined rock 'n' roll. Robert Rodriguez. Backbeat [Hal Leonard], 2012. Revolver is a perfectly good book; it's just so detailed that any commentary seems superfluous. Beatles completists will want to get it, to ensure that there isn't a single stray fact about the album "Revolver" – composition, content, reception – that escapes them. Rodriguez is not very critical, either in the negative or the disinterested sense: he champions the Beatles against the Beach Boys and the Rolling Stones and anyone else you want to mention, and he's also adamant that "Revolver," not "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band," is the Beatles' magnum opus. [10.14.13]
Architecture of Canterbury Cathedral. Jonathan Foyle. Scala, 2013. I'm fascinated by buildings that have accreted over a long time. And I have some personal experience of Canterbury Cathedral, a frequent destination and landmark for my travels across Kent over the decades. Architecture of Canterbury Cathedral is a beautiful book, and caught my attention immediately from my library's new-book shelf. But it proves impossible to read. Text and illustrations don't match well; usually, you can't tell what you're reading about from the illustrations that supposedly accompany it. The text rambles, and though the book is apparently for beginners, it assumes a level of knowledge that the Archbishop himself probably doesn't possess. (He was nice enough to write a preface for the book anyway.) [07.03.13]
Bruegel. Philippe & Françoise Roberts-Jones. 1997; translated 2002 as Pieter Bruegel by "Translate-a-Book." Flammarion, 2012. I wanted to know more about Bruegel, who appears as touchstone and illustration in my Western Civ courses. My ignorance of Bruegel is extreme, extending even to how many Bruegels there were and what they all had to do with one another. The whole family seems to have stepped out of a Woody Allen movie, where Bruegel the Elder is younger than Bruegel the Younger, and such. Unfortunately Flammarion's new "Master Artists" volume on Pieter Bruegel won't help me at all, and for a reason new in the annals of non-reading: I can't make out the font! The designers of this 2012 edition put lavish care into wonderful illustrations, and then consigned the text by Philippe and Françoise Roberts-Jones to minus-4-point sub-cubic-zirconium tininess. This is just a weird fault in this day and age, when you can change type sizes across an entire book with one click of a button. But perhaps that was the problem: editors used to instantaneous size changes, particularly in virtual documents, didn't realize they'd be condemning print readers of this book to weeks of squinting. [12.18.12]
Embassytown. China Miéville. 2011. Del Rey, 2012. Intrigued as I was by China Miéville's City & the City and Perdido Street Station, I couldn't get through Embassytown. The novel has a tremendous setting, and is one of the most interesting SF ideas (the science being primarily linguistics) that I've ever come across. But as my reading consultants warned me, it lacks the narrative energy that made the other two Miéville novels I'd read hang together. Avice Benner Cho is an interplanetary adventurer who figures as a "simile" in the language of a species at the ne plus ultra of human exploration of the Universe. When one of the few human Ambassadors who can speak that language says some weird things, the Host species goes haywire, and the delicate balance of Embassytown disintegrates. Cool, except that after about the halfway point, Avice begins to tell her story in the generic first- and third- person plurals, describing events that sweep over her planet in disinterested fashion, introducing characters we never care much about and then killing them off in plausible but uncompelling ways. As I always say, the bedrock necessity for a plot is to feature characters you care about, who want conflicting things. It worked for Homer and Aeschylus, and it works, at his best, for China Miéville. [10.12.12]
The Art of Fielding. Chad Harbach. Little, Brown, 2011. I tried to read The Art of Fielding – it was incumbent on me as a bibliographer of baseball fiction to read possibly the most-promoted and most-acclaimed baseball novel ever – and I was looking forward to it. When I finally borrowed a copy, I found the first 15 pages intriguing, the next 50 readable, and the next 120 a kind of stationary pattern waiting for a plot to take shape, and finally I decided, with regrets, that life was too short. Even with the attitude "this is work and I just have to suck it up and get through it," I couldn't justify the hours that the novel was taking from my life.
What specific kind of disappointment is The Art of Fielding? The book is certainly good in many respects. The writing is fluid, the characters attentively drawn. The baseball in the book is plausible enough, and the game scenes purposefully and accurately depicted. But it's more than a baseball novel, and though that's a good thing for marketers, it's not good for the novel intrinsically. It's also a campus novel and a study of families and friends. They all seem to be these witty, high-verbal, gently eccentric characters we love to get to know. And they don't do anything (at least as far as I read): they mill around in search of some action or conflict – some plot – that might justify their existence in a novel. Perhaps this plot develops at some point after page 185, but there comes a point when a reader is throwing good energy after bad. It might be simplest to say that this book is not to my taste. Bad as I am at remembering or using plots, I crave them in fiction; I go nuts in the presence of lifelike characters who can't put it together to do something, whether that something is formulaic or eccentric. I will say that The Art of Fielding is a first novel from someone who really writes well. I might pick up his second novel, but it will take a lot of motivating to get me back into his first. (But ultimately, I was so motivated.) [02.15.12]
Seeing through Music: Gender and modernism in classic Hollywood film scores. Peter Franklin. Oxford UP, 2011. I often join my local classical-music station mid-broadcast and think "that sounds like a movie score." It usually isn't; it's Brahms or Tchaikovsky instead of Korngold or Rósza. But the Romanticism of early film scores is a distinctive adaptation of high Romanticism in music generally. I picked up Seeing through Music intrigued by a possible discussion of this lush music and its thematic relationship to the movies. And it's there somewhere; it's just well-padded beyond an extensive literature review that stakes out Peter Franklin's intellectual territory among the other academic books on film music. There's nothing wrong with this kind of writing; I suspect this is a fine academic book. But it points to the essential difference between academic and general audiences. General audiences want to know about a topic; academic audiences want to know where you stand rhetorically vis-à-vis other academic commentators on a topic. The proportion of meta to matter in such writing deters me more and more as I get older and more thirsty for knowledge. [02.02.12]
Sex, Drugs, and Sea Slime: The oceans' oddest creatures and why they matter. Ellen Prager. U of Chicago P, 2011. I would seem to be the target audience for a book about sex, drugs, and sea slime, but unfortunately not for Ellen Prager's book about all three. Prager writes engagingly and knowledgeably about everything under the sea, but the book is hard to slog through precisely because it's about everything under the sea. She deals with dozens and dozens of interesting creatures, devoting about two pages and not enough illustrations to each one. The result is a compendium of topics without the energy or coherence (or style) that can redeem such compendia. [01.18.12]
JFK Assassination Logic: How to think about claims of conspiracy. John McAdams. Potomac, 2011. On a roll after reading Vincent Bugliosi's Reclaiming History, I picked up John McAdams's JFK Assassination Logic expecting to be edified on many small points and large theoretical implications that I hadn't gotten from Bugliosi's magnum opus. Come to find that McAdams, while very sharp and very sensible, adds almost nothing to Bugliosi's analysis. In fact, he only refers to Bugliosi once, in qualified terms (175), even while debunking many of the same conspiracy theories that Bugliosi debunks, in similar terms. This is not to suggest that McAdams's work is cribbed from Bugliosi's. (Or vice versa; though Bugliosi claims rather crabbily not to own a computer, he cites McAdams's splendid website The Kennedy Assassination approvingly from second-hand knowledge, and Bugliosi's treatment is far-ranging and independently sourced.) If you don't have time for Reclaiming History or even its redaction Four Days in November – or, perhaps, if you are taking a different tack on the JFK assassination, like treating it in terms of logic for a college course – JFK Assassination Logic is a useful book; but it brings little new material (as of 2011) to the discussion. Though perhaps its virtue is just to add more weight to the anti-conspiracy side of the scales. [01.13.12]