Every once in awhile I find myself in the mood for a good mind fuck. Usually when I'm in a particularly dark mood, I find myself gravitating towards books of a similar theme, like when I picked up Gillian Flynn's Dark Places. Although I felt the pull of that in the dead of January, I found myself craving a Gone Girl-esque book in the dead of summer so I picked up Erin Kelly's The Burning Air, a book I took a chance on because it was on the Dollar Tree bookshelf so I couldn't justify *not* buying it. After reading the inside flap and the goodreads.com synopsis, my expectations were fairly low and I thought I had it all figured out, not at all prepared for Kelly to take me on the literary ride of my life.
Kelly's The Burning Air is in a word, brilliant. Having read Gone Girl, the epitome of psychological thriller, and having polished off last summer's literary pop culture hit, and soon-to-be-movie-produced-by-Reese-Witherspoon, The Girl on the Train, I naively had little hope that another author would be able to weave such an intricate, creepy, and dark tale about the lengths we go to for family. But I am now willing to start my own campaign to add this to Reese's long list of projects. Or at least make it a Lifetime movie.
Split into four points of view, Kelly subjects the reader to movie-like, heart-pumping, surprise scenes - like a white face reflected through a black window - from the get-go. Banking on the already large creep-factor of being set in a BFE London barn, readers start out on the edge of their seats and have little elsewhere to go until they take a break from reading to let their hearts begin to still. With any large family, secrets are what rule the MacBrides, who are coming together to spread the ashes of their matriarch. Of course, things go less than smoothly and what are originally perceived to be horrible coincidences are revealed as dark, vengeful spirits working like puppet masters behind the scenes.
Written clearly and concisely, with fluid details that are rarely confusing, Kelly creates a haunting and sinister world that gives us goosebumps and makes our blood run cold, but manages to steer clear of horrifically gruesomely, unnecessary violence. The Burning Air enters Kelly into the foray of stiff competition among Stephen King and other Masters of the Plot Twist, gently manipulating readers' brains and down-right tricking them, then offering one last surprise on the second-to-final page.
While Far Barn is definitely not a place I'd like to visit - nor the MacBrides a family I'd like to befriend - this Couch Explorer will definitely visit another dark world created by Erin Kelly.
Wednesday, July 13, 2016
Thursday, June 2, 2016
Blind Your Ponies by Stanley Gordon West
Most novels make you wait for the inevitable explanation of the title in a miss-it-if-you-blink, blow-your-mind kind of moment. Blind Your Ponies by Stanley Gordon West waited no such time, revealing the meaning of the title in the sadness-packed, depressing, foreshadowing-of-self-loathing beginning that carried through the rest of the novel; well, at least the first 469 pages, which is about all I was able to stand.
Last year my good friend and fellow bibliophile and I decided to play Reading Bingo, in which one square was labeled, "A book a friend RAVES about." Having her - as well as others in my book club - speak its praises, I concluded there was no better book to satisfy that square than Ponies. While that still may be true, I definitely don't share their affinity for this particular work, and will be using it for the 500+ pages square instead.
Since I'm afflicted with the most common, yet most severe, mental illness known today - called Life - I found the immediate beginning of Blind Your Ponies to be an instant turn-off. Not only did my lips physically curl in disgust just looking at the cover - as I now knew what the title meant - but the very thought of reading the book became the last thing I wanted to do behind laundry, watching PBS Kids, or just staring off into space. I didn't even actually finish the book, not being the least bit interested in the assumed climactic ending, something that is supposedly guaranteed in all books. From skimming and reading the few paragraphs I could tolerate, I was able to gather that the ending would have provided little in turning the tide for me on whether or not I felt anything positive towards this book. Generally speaking, the ending lacked any sort of real conclusion beyond the ending of the basketball season.
Reading this novel reminded me of my high school days, only not those spent cheering on the basketball court, but those spent shoveling metaphorical bullshit into my English papers in preparation for blowing the minds of my future college professors. My Junior Year English teacher called me out on it, if only he had been available to West, he could have saved him an entire novel's worth of overly-contrived crap.
Old, hopeless competition - check!
Will-they-or-won't-they romance - check!
Tragic death - check!
Cancer - check!
Rape - check!
West cornered the market on sad story lines, which may have accounted for the unnecessary page-length, and was an excuse for the turgid, overly-dramatic, incredibly unrealistic plot-twists and accompanying metaphors that littered the story like so much garbage along a majestic mountain highway. (See.) About 150-pages in, I found myself confused as to why this book came so highly-recommended. And although it usually takes me about 60-pages to get hooked on a book, I held out Willow-Creekian-style hope and forged ahead.
Close to the halfway point is when I started to vaguely understand - though completely disagree with - why a lot of people would put this book on their Top-Ten list. West narrated the ebb and flow of life as someone who has lived it, but with particular focus on human suffering, even as he attempted to do the exact opposite. Unfortunately his message of "life sucks but there are moments worth celebrating," got lost amongst his obvious unseasoned abilities as a writer. West ended countless sentences with awkward prepositions, used an inordinate and pointless amount of sentence fragments, and let the cart run away with the horse in terms of metaphors. His imagery flowed well, but only in the places you don't want (Tom's horse, anyone?!?); and while the story, about love, life, taking a village, teamwork, and loss, is more than just about basketball, the execution came off more like a Hallmark-movie gone wrong. The only places where West put nose to the grindstone and propelled the story forward were the game scenes - at one point I actually found myself shoveling handfuls of popcorn into my mouth with excitement. But ultimately anything even remotely climactic could be seen a mile away and was met with an inevitable eye-roll and tall glass of wine to accompany the cheese. And after awhile, following the book's general theme of extreme excess, even the game scenes became too much.
My experience with Blind Your Ponies was similar to that of reading Outlander in that I found an uncontrollable desire to mark out every arbitrary sentence and/or word and watch the book magically (and blessedly) shrink by half and become remarkably more interesting. But that would mean I would need to put more focus into this book and I just can't do that; as West reminds us, life is just too short.
I rode off into the sunset on my pony with this book, hopeful for it's unfolding, but wound up plummeting (albeit slowly and boringly) off the cliff instead.
Last year my good friend and fellow bibliophile and I decided to play Reading Bingo, in which one square was labeled, "A book a friend RAVES about." Having her - as well as others in my book club - speak its praises, I concluded there was no better book to satisfy that square than Ponies. While that still may be true, I definitely don't share their affinity for this particular work, and will be using it for the 500+ pages square instead.
Since I'm afflicted with the most common, yet most severe, mental illness known today - called Life - I found the immediate beginning of Blind Your Ponies to be an instant turn-off. Not only did my lips physically curl in disgust just looking at the cover - as I now knew what the title meant - but the very thought of reading the book became the last thing I wanted to do behind laundry, watching PBS Kids, or just staring off into space. I didn't even actually finish the book, not being the least bit interested in the assumed climactic ending, something that is supposedly guaranteed in all books. From skimming and reading the few paragraphs I could tolerate, I was able to gather that the ending would have provided little in turning the tide for me on whether or not I felt anything positive towards this book. Generally speaking, the ending lacked any sort of real conclusion beyond the ending of the basketball season.
Reading this novel reminded me of my high school days, only not those spent cheering on the basketball court, but those spent shoveling metaphorical bullshit into my English papers in preparation for blowing the minds of my future college professors. My Junior Year English teacher called me out on it, if only he had been available to West, he could have saved him an entire novel's worth of overly-contrived crap.
Old, hopeless competition - check!
Will-they-or-won't-they romance - check!
Tragic death - check!
Cancer - check!
Rape - check!
West cornered the market on sad story lines, which may have accounted for the unnecessary page-length, and was an excuse for the turgid, overly-dramatic, incredibly unrealistic plot-twists and accompanying metaphors that littered the story like so much garbage along a majestic mountain highway. (See.) About 150-pages in, I found myself confused as to why this book came so highly-recommended. And although it usually takes me about 60-pages to get hooked on a book, I held out Willow-Creekian-style hope and forged ahead.
Close to the halfway point is when I started to vaguely understand - though completely disagree with - why a lot of people would put this book on their Top-Ten list. West narrated the ebb and flow of life as someone who has lived it, but with particular focus on human suffering, even as he attempted to do the exact opposite. Unfortunately his message of "life sucks but there are moments worth celebrating," got lost amongst his obvious unseasoned abilities as a writer. West ended countless sentences with awkward prepositions, used an inordinate and pointless amount of sentence fragments, and let the cart run away with the horse in terms of metaphors. His imagery flowed well, but only in the places you don't want (Tom's horse, anyone?!?); and while the story, about love, life, taking a village, teamwork, and loss, is more than just about basketball, the execution came off more like a Hallmark-movie gone wrong. The only places where West put nose to the grindstone and propelled the story forward were the game scenes - at one point I actually found myself shoveling handfuls of popcorn into my mouth with excitement. But ultimately anything even remotely climactic could be seen a mile away and was met with an inevitable eye-roll and tall glass of wine to accompany the cheese. And after awhile, following the book's general theme of extreme excess, even the game scenes became too much.
My experience with Blind Your Ponies was similar to that of reading Outlander in that I found an uncontrollable desire to mark out every arbitrary sentence and/or word and watch the book magically (and blessedly) shrink by half and become remarkably more interesting. But that would mean I would need to put more focus into this book and I just can't do that; as West reminds us, life is just too short.
I rode off into the sunset on my pony with this book, hopeful for it's unfolding, but wound up plummeting (albeit slowly and boringly) off the cliff instead.
Saturday, May 7, 2016
Black Like Me by John Howard Griffin
Your first thought upon cracking open this biographical work is, "Wow, I can't believe this was written in 1959! This could be about [insert current year here]!" I mean, after your actual initial thought of, "I'm reading a piece of culturally significant material that enlightens me to the world beyond my own backyard, go me!"
But as the story develops, cultural implications give way to a bland overview of 1960's Deep South racism, spectral division, and a sense of hatred that would be powerful and life-altering had the story execution been even remotely interesting.
What would have ordinarily been a rather quick read ended up dragging on slower than the buses that begrudgingly carted Mr. Griffin around Alabama, Georgia, Mississippi, and the like. Distantly telling of the obstacles he encountered after altering his white skin to become black - colored bathrooms miles away from convenient, denied cups of coffee or glasses of water, looks of disgust from obvious strangers - Mr. Griffin spoke more of the general segregation and corresponding consequences of blacks - oftentimes horrific - than of his own, often horrific, experiences. And although they were shocking in nature, Griffins' portrayal of them was distant, vague, and lacked the sort of intensity one would expect from a white man going from his seemingly privileged existence to the suppressed, harsh life of a 1960's Negro man; especially coming from his own personal journal.
Afforded the luxury of being able to switch from black to white skin, Griffin instead wasted it by describing his experiences is generic prose, as if he were standing outside a window looking in. Constructed as his personal journal throughout his seven-week experiment, his freedom to paint a more specific picture of 1960's racial injustice was supremely wasted, though he was still subjected to his own brand of racism once the experiment was made public. Not until the epilogue, which I almost didn't read, did Mr. Griffin delve deep into what his experiment revealed, why, and any possible moves toward national harmony, though he stopped short of making any actual suggestions.
Obviously this work was culturally significant in it's 1960's publication, and is still relevant today, which is both sad and promising. Sad because we're dealing with the same issues as a nation over 50-year later, and promising because although racial harmony alludes us, and springs up in new, ugly ways, our ability to recognize the problem of judging someone based on skin color alone is what separates us from the animals. But, if we're being honest, animals have us beat in this area; I've never seen a dog attack another dog simply for being black.
But as the story develops, cultural implications give way to a bland overview of 1960's Deep South racism, spectral division, and a sense of hatred that would be powerful and life-altering had the story execution been even remotely interesting.
What would have ordinarily been a rather quick read ended up dragging on slower than the buses that begrudgingly carted Mr. Griffin around Alabama, Georgia, Mississippi, and the like. Distantly telling of the obstacles he encountered after altering his white skin to become black - colored bathrooms miles away from convenient, denied cups of coffee or glasses of water, looks of disgust from obvious strangers - Mr. Griffin spoke more of the general segregation and corresponding consequences of blacks - oftentimes horrific - than of his own, often horrific, experiences. And although they were shocking in nature, Griffins' portrayal of them was distant, vague, and lacked the sort of intensity one would expect from a white man going from his seemingly privileged existence to the suppressed, harsh life of a 1960's Negro man; especially coming from his own personal journal.
Afforded the luxury of being able to switch from black to white skin, Griffin instead wasted it by describing his experiences is generic prose, as if he were standing outside a window looking in. Constructed as his personal journal throughout his seven-week experiment, his freedom to paint a more specific picture of 1960's racial injustice was supremely wasted, though he was still subjected to his own brand of racism once the experiment was made public. Not until the epilogue, which I almost didn't read, did Mr. Griffin delve deep into what his experiment revealed, why, and any possible moves toward national harmony, though he stopped short of making any actual suggestions.
Obviously this work was culturally significant in it's 1960's publication, and is still relevant today, which is both sad and promising. Sad because we're dealing with the same issues as a nation over 50-year later, and promising because although racial harmony alludes us, and springs up in new, ugly ways, our ability to recognize the problem of judging someone based on skin color alone is what separates us from the animals. But, if we're being honest, animals have us beat in this area; I've never seen a dog attack another dog simply for being black.
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Me Talk Pretty One Day
Always late to the pop-culture party, I'm probably the last person on earth to pay any member of the Sedaris family any sort of attention. I vaguely remember the hoopla surrounding David Sedaris' latest release, Let's Explore Diabetes With Owls, but mainly just that all of my bookish friends were creaming themselves over it. Having had his Me Talk Pretty One Day taking up residence on my bookshelf (thus satisfying the criteria for Reading What Is Already On My Shelf), I thought it was high-time I see what all of the fuss was about. Turns out, not much.
What is described as a witty, sarcastic, artful re-telling of his weird adolescence is actually nothing more than Chelsea Handler with asmaller penis. But unlike Handler who seems to soften with age, Sedaris only hardens and becomes more bitter, and rapidly becomes the guy at the party you talk about later as, "Man, he was a real asshole."
Playing off the theme of his speech impediment - something that could have taken one good, lengthy chapter to cover, as opposed to the multi-chapter ramble he subjected us to - we're taken on a bumpy ride through his self-described crappy life. Or maybe that's just his super-cheerful tone. *raises one eyebrow*
By the time he's found a partner who can stand him for longer than five minutes and followed him to France, Sedaris has become that friend we only talk to sporadically because they Debbie-Downer every situation. Against my honor as an avid book-reader, I actually skipped pages. (You're never going to learn French well enough, and the food in New York City is way too pretentious, I GET IT!)
To be fair, there were some parts - mostly in the beginning - where I found myself relating and even laughing out loud. I suppose that is what makes him even remotely appealing, as we often feel like our own lives are complete crap. But we generally don't feel that way 100% of the time, so having a book that contains 100% bitterness and negativity is discouraging. While this book is in no way a reflection of his every day life, it can make you wonder: did this guy ever have an enjoyable moment that wasn't tinged with cynicism?
Regardless of your level of enjoyment as you read this (because everyone else seems to love these Sedaris people so much, I won't even waste word space and typing energy to tell you to skip this particular read), it's a quick read that won't take up too much room in your tote (though, it's not particularly worth hauling around).
I'll most likely read another of Sedaris' books if I ever find myself trapped on a deserted island and stumble upon it. When it comes to being bitter, having wonky childhoods and growing-up years, and indulging in negative reactions, we all can write our own essay-novels. Sedaris acts like he owns the market when, really, he's only perfected the art of whining.
What is described as a witty, sarcastic, artful re-telling of his weird adolescence is actually nothing more than Chelsea Handler with a
Playing off the theme of his speech impediment - something that could have taken one good, lengthy chapter to cover, as opposed to the multi-chapter ramble he subjected us to - we're taken on a bumpy ride through his self-described crappy life. Or maybe that's just his super-cheerful tone. *raises one eyebrow*
By the time he's found a partner who can stand him for longer than five minutes and followed him to France, Sedaris has become that friend we only talk to sporadically because they Debbie-Downer every situation. Against my honor as an avid book-reader, I actually skipped pages. (You're never going to learn French well enough, and the food in New York City is way too pretentious, I GET IT!)
To be fair, there were some parts - mostly in the beginning - where I found myself relating and even laughing out loud. I suppose that is what makes him even remotely appealing, as we often feel like our own lives are complete crap. But we generally don't feel that way 100% of the time, so having a book that contains 100% bitterness and negativity is discouraging. While this book is in no way a reflection of his every day life, it can make you wonder: did this guy ever have an enjoyable moment that wasn't tinged with cynicism?
Regardless of your level of enjoyment as you read this (because everyone else seems to love these Sedaris people so much, I won't even waste word space and typing energy to tell you to skip this particular read), it's a quick read that won't take up too much room in your tote (though, it's not particularly worth hauling around).
I'll most likely read another of Sedaris' books if I ever find myself trapped on a deserted island and stumble upon it. When it comes to being bitter, having wonky childhoods and growing-up years, and indulging in negative reactions, we all can write our own essay-novels. Sedaris acts like he owns the market when, really, he's only perfected the art of whining.
Monday, March 3, 2014
The Bean Trees
Given my new reading goal of Reading What is Already on My Shelf, I haven't put much offer as of late into my local book club's latest picks. Also, I might have a tiny bug up my butt that no one read my pick. But then my crack dealer book supplier lent it to me, it was a short read, so I figured, what the heck and read Barbara Kingsolver's The Bean Trees.
I'm glad it was a relatively short read because it definitely wasn't worth the detour from my bookshelf. A story about a young girl who feels she should be congratulated for escaping her hometown without getting pregnant, The Bean Trees is one of very little substance. Aside from suddenly being saddled with an abused Native American toddler in the beginning of her journey west from Kentucky, and the very last 45 pages of the book, absolutely nothing happened besides a lot of reminiscing over the past, how everyone has baggage, and how everyone carries it differently. The human condition, if you will.
Faced with sudden motherhood, Taylor is forced to live the life she tried to avoid. And although her new-found friendships help her along the way, as a mother myself, I have to wonder if the author, editor, publisher, or anyone who pre-read the story knew anything about having babies or motherhood.
Overall, I was largely unimpressed by this book. I'd be interested to know the reasoning behind its choice, and given the date of publication, I wonder if I somehow avoided reading and junior-analyzing it for High School English class. Back then it might have moved me in some profound way, but for now, it's not worth hauling in your tote and really should only be read by obligation.
I'm glad it was a relatively short read because it definitely wasn't worth the detour from my bookshelf. A story about a young girl who feels she should be congratulated for escaping her hometown without getting pregnant, The Bean Trees is one of very little substance. Aside from suddenly being saddled with an abused Native American toddler in the beginning of her journey west from Kentucky, and the very last 45 pages of the book, absolutely nothing happened besides a lot of reminiscing over the past, how everyone has baggage, and how everyone carries it differently. The human condition, if you will.
Faced with sudden motherhood, Taylor is forced to live the life she tried to avoid. And although her new-found friendships help her along the way, as a mother myself, I have to wonder if the author, editor, publisher, or anyone who pre-read the story knew anything about having babies or motherhood.
Overall, I was largely unimpressed by this book. I'd be interested to know the reasoning behind its choice, and given the date of publication, I wonder if I somehow avoided reading and junior-analyzing it for High School English class. Back then it might have moved me in some profound way, but for now, it's not worth hauling in your tote and really should only be read by obligation.
Saturday, February 8, 2014
Certain Girls
Once again, I will gush about the wonder that is Weiner. Jennifer Weiner, to be exact, but I guess the other kind has its positives too.
After you've read a couple of Weiner's books, there are certain characteristics and a certain tone that you eventually come to crave, actually being drawn to reading one of her books, knowing nothing other than that she wrote it so it has to be good. Weiner's Good In Bed is what initially sparked my love of her so you can imagine my excitement when I happened to find a sequel: Certain Girls.
Reading Good In Bed first is a must if understanding auxiliary characters is something that is important to you. Otherwise, I think the overall theme and general plot of the book is something a lot of women can relate to, especially mothers and daughters.
Cannie Shapiro I Won't Even Attempt Her Married Last Time, is the very understatement of "helicopter parent," long before that was even a thing. Her now-teenager, Joy, is your typical, American teenager, embarrassed by her mother and critical to everything she says, does, and wears, but is otherwise beautiful, intelligent, and empathetic. When curiosity gets the better of her and she picks up the fiction-based-on-non-fiction novel her mother published shortly after she was born, Joy's life feels turned upside down. While both blaming her mother and dying to know about a part of her mother's past, she sets out in search of it, be damned she's only 13!
What she finds is both heartbreaking and heartwarming. Through personal experience and by traveling through her mother's past, Joy learns what makes us all human, not perfect and worth understanding and at least sympathy. She learns things aren't always what they seem and that maybe most dark clouds do have silver linings. And that loving your mother really isn't so terrible after all.
With a certain amount of humor you come across in her other books noticeably absent, the laugh-out-loud moments were few and far between, something that also surprised me with her The Guy Not Taken: Stories. But she touches on some difficult subject with charm, wit, and a healthy dose of sarcasm. It's a good curl-up-with-an-Irish-Coffee kind of book while still making you think - especially as a mother to a daughter - how will I handle her questions to me about my past? It also proved to be a beacon of how my writing might one day affect her. It also made me think about my mother and how she handles my questions about her past. What we all want, when we're Joy at age 13, is to not know our mothers are human. When we're an adult with daughters of our own, what we want to know is that they are human.
After you've read a couple of Weiner's books, there are certain characteristics and a certain tone that you eventually come to crave, actually being drawn to reading one of her books, knowing nothing other than that she wrote it so it has to be good. Weiner's Good In Bed is what initially sparked my love of her so you can imagine my excitement when I happened to find a sequel: Certain Girls.
Reading Good In Bed first is a must if understanding auxiliary characters is something that is important to you. Otherwise, I think the overall theme and general plot of the book is something a lot of women can relate to, especially mothers and daughters.
Cannie Shapiro I Won't Even Attempt Her Married Last Time, is the very understatement of "helicopter parent," long before that was even a thing. Her now-teenager, Joy, is your typical, American teenager, embarrassed by her mother and critical to everything she says, does, and wears, but is otherwise beautiful, intelligent, and empathetic. When curiosity gets the better of her and she picks up the fiction-based-on-non-fiction novel her mother published shortly after she was born, Joy's life feels turned upside down. While both blaming her mother and dying to know about a part of her mother's past, she sets out in search of it, be damned she's only 13!
What she finds is both heartbreaking and heartwarming. Through personal experience and by traveling through her mother's past, Joy learns what makes us all human, not perfect and worth understanding and at least sympathy. She learns things aren't always what they seem and that maybe most dark clouds do have silver linings. And that loving your mother really isn't so terrible after all.
With a certain amount of humor you come across in her other books noticeably absent, the laugh-out-loud moments were few and far between, something that also surprised me with her The Guy Not Taken: Stories. But she touches on some difficult subject with charm, wit, and a healthy dose of sarcasm. It's a good curl-up-with-an-Irish-Coffee kind of book while still making you think - especially as a mother to a daughter - how will I handle her questions to me about my past? It also proved to be a beacon of how my writing might one day affect her. It also made me think about my mother and how she handles my questions about her past. What we all want, when we're Joy at age 13, is to not know our mothers are human. When we're an adult with daughters of our own, what we want to know is that they are human.
Monday, February 3, 2014
A Captain's Duty
This particular story flew onto my radar by way of the thing that controls all of our televisions: The Today Show, which is regrettable for a few reasons: 1) The story of Captain Phillips and his kidnapping by Somali pirates, as documented in his memoir, A Captain's Duty, happened not that long ago in April of 2009 but I was just made aware of it in December 2013; and B) The show was interviewing Tom Hanks about his role in the newly released film as Captain Phillips himself. *shudder* After spending most of The DaVinci Code and Angels and Demons wishing someone else had played Robert Langdon, I find it hard to watch a Tom Hanks movie that's not A League of Their Own. So when I heard them discuss the movie, I jumped up to my computer to search for the book. No way there wasn't a book to precede this new Hollywood spectacle. Of course there was a book, and fortunately written by the Captain himself (and Stephan Talty).
I read this in December, long after I had called it quits on the Summer of the Memoir. But after reading several non-fiction, I now consider it one of my favorite genres, and one that I'm inexplicably drawn to. A Captain's Duty did not disappoint.
Phillips is an experienced Merchant Marine with a love and passion for the trade that not everyone shares or understands. He's dealt with his share of ups and downs, crews that wouldn't cooperate or that he had to replace altogether, near-death accidents, and the surprisingly common pirate warnings and seizes. He's learned that remaining calm is the best route to take especially, and which he exemplifies, as he's taken by pirates to use as ransom on the mainland, only heightening his danger as the chance for locating him once on land would be slim to none.
Written with the blunt honesty of a man who spends most of his life at sea, but with an easy-to-understand flow even when it came time to insert all of those blasted Merchant Marine facts and figures, Phillips expertly conveys the waves of emotions during those perilous days at sea. Gripping yet solemn, once Phillips is taken hostage by pirates, the reader can almost imagine him huddled in the life-raft with a pen and paper, documenting every move and breath rather than suffering as he did. Or maybe that is just more comforting for us readers to picture.
The story takes a bit to get going because, as with any book, a certain amount of set-up information is involved. And if you watched any of the news coverage back in 2009, as I didn't because I haven't had cable in a few years, you already know what went down. Was it important is that he lived to tell the tale. And oh what a tale it is, the least we can do is carry it around in our tote and read what actually happened instead of the overblown Hollywood version.
I read this in December, long after I had called it quits on the Summer of the Memoir. But after reading several non-fiction, I now consider it one of my favorite genres, and one that I'm inexplicably drawn to. A Captain's Duty did not disappoint.
Phillips is an experienced Merchant Marine with a love and passion for the trade that not everyone shares or understands. He's dealt with his share of ups and downs, crews that wouldn't cooperate or that he had to replace altogether, near-death accidents, and the surprisingly common pirate warnings and seizes. He's learned that remaining calm is the best route to take especially, and which he exemplifies, as he's taken by pirates to use as ransom on the mainland, only heightening his danger as the chance for locating him once on land would be slim to none.
Written with the blunt honesty of a man who spends most of his life at sea, but with an easy-to-understand flow even when it came time to insert all of those blasted Merchant Marine facts and figures, Phillips expertly conveys the waves of emotions during those perilous days at sea. Gripping yet solemn, once Phillips is taken hostage by pirates, the reader can almost imagine him huddled in the life-raft with a pen and paper, documenting every move and breath rather than suffering as he did. Or maybe that is just more comforting for us readers to picture.
The story takes a bit to get going because, as with any book, a certain amount of set-up information is involved. And if you watched any of the news coverage back in 2009, as I didn't because I haven't had cable in a few years, you already know what went down. Was it important is that he lived to tell the tale. And oh what a tale it is, the least we can do is carry it around in our tote and read what actually happened instead of the overblown Hollywood version.
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