The Help

Kathryn Stockett’s debut novel The Help quietly landed on the shelves of bookstores over the summer in 2009. Originally it was thought that the novel wouldn’t do so well considering Stockett received a total of 60 rejection letter from publishers (as the saying goes: try, try, and try again my fellow writers!)

The Help, however, sells over 3 million copies and winds up on the New York Times bestseller list for more than a hundred weeks and is still one of the most read novels in book clubs. The Help is a collection of heart-warming, hilarious, chagrin literature that satisfactorily meets expectations but doesn’t quite surpass them. The novel extrapolates issues on civil rights and gender politics, ostensibly presenting an untold story, when it’s the same story we see and read every day: the privileged and the oppressed. Despite the good feelings the novel emanates, it merely scratches the dichotomy of racial and political tensions, which ends up being the book’s pitfall.

The Help takes place in Jackson, Mississippi in the 1960s. Narrated by three women—Aibileen, Minny, and Skeeter—they each tell a different story. Aibileen and Minny are both working African-American maids while Skeeter is the daughter of a Caucasian family owning cotton farms. The novel opens with Aibileen working for Elizabeth Leefolt and taking care of Leefolt’s baby girl. We also learn about Aibileen’s friend, Minny, who’s been fired from her maid job. In a string of convenient events, Minny lands a job working for the ostracized Celia Foote. In the meantime, Skeeter arrives back home after finishing college and wants to find work as a writer. When Skeeter arrives home, however, she learns her maid, Constantine, who was more of a mother than her biological mother, has supposedly moved to Chicago to be with her family. Skeeter probes about Constantine’s whereabouts but comes up empty-handed. During this time, Skeeter finds work as an advice columnist, giving tips on easier ways to clean utensils. Skeeter, having no knowledge of how to clean anything apparently, asks her friends if they could talk to their maids, which eventually leads to Skeeter talking to Aibileen. The friendship is slow at first, but once the sparks are lit, the two are the catalyst for inspiring change.

The plot of The Help launches slowly like an insect going through the process of metamorphosis; it takes a while for the story to come out.  Stockett lays out the groundwork by introducing the cast of maids and their white, female employers. The workings of the plot heavily rely on the feminine vernacular of gossip. Minny’s story doesn’t occur until Hilly spreads a nasty rumor. Stockett revisits this concept with all of her characters, using gossip as a kind of plot agent to motivate her characters and show who they are. Gossip, or the rumor mills, are multifaceted in the novel, not only in how they can damage and improve one’s reputation, but also the effects that occur when one chooses to respond or even ignore rumors. The nature of gossip is infectious and works really well in moving the story.

The cultural and racial issues that are prevalent in the book are considerably polite and tamed. The characters, more importantly the protagonists, were predictable—with the exception of Minny and her infamous chocolate pie. Minny, who is by far the most outspoken, feels contained and yet, when allowed to speak her mind, her character ends up perpetuating the capricious stereotypes of an angry black woman.

Although the book attempts to transform the characters’ preconceived attitudes between the different ethnic groups, there’s hardly a sense of reproach or animosity beforehand, which is perhaps omitted in favor of boosting the protagonists’ popularity. We see this suggested in how Stockett flatly writes her antagonist, Hilly, who could only do evil things, her wickedness laid on thick like slabs of butter. By the end of the novel, it’s clear as to who is generically good and who’s evil.

Stockett seems to incite stereotypes with her writing style, reflecting a deep Southern, minimalistic, grammar dialect. When Aibileen and Minny are narrating, the dialect is more pronounced and archaic contrasting with Skeeter’s narration, intelligible and matured. Arguably Skeeter has more education, plus a degree in English studies; however, the writing style isn’t always consistent or feels authentic. Sometimes this writing style works, and in The Help it only sometimes works. It’s believable at times but falters amongst the characters toward the end. It sometimes feels forced instead of sounding palpable.

When the ending finally arrived, I sighed in relief. I was both disappointed and blithe about the outcome. Stockett’s novel isn’t enlightening; it’s a book designed to make us feel good, which probably explains its constant book tour in book clubs. The only way the book could possibly be revolutionary to you is if you’ve been living under a rock, especially in the last year with the news being flooded with new cases of civil right oppression and heated racial arguments. Once in a while, I will pick up a book to feel good. Who doesn’t? It’s a book to cozy up to and read, right up there with Eat, Pray, Love—but it’s certainly not groundbreaking.

Rating: 3.2 out 5

Looking for Alaska

John Green’s debut novel, Looking for Alaska, garnered attention and praise by critics when it was released in 2005. Since its release, Green has written and published several books, including his most recent bestselling book, The Fault in Our Stars, which is considered by many as his crowning achievement thus far. Although his books and recent film adaptation are commercial successes, mostly thanks to the Nerdfighter community and his media plateform, Looking for Alaska captures what his other novels overlook: the tangled threads of human existence. It’s messy, complicated, and it does so without using restraint or clichés in telling the story. Alaska is uncomfortably honest, padded with deadpan humor, and it philosophizes without becoming preachy.

When Miles Halter, otherwise known as Pudge, is enrolled into Culver Creek Prepatory High School/Boarding School at Birmingham, Alabama, he hopes to find a “Great Perhaps.” He meets his roommate, Chip Martin, also known as The Colonel, who introduces Miles/Pudge to the beautiful, witty, seemingly worldly girl Alaska Young. Miles/Pudge is instantly enamored by Alaska, and maybe she is his Great Perhaps. After one night, his life completely changes, and there’s no going back.

The plot is like a slow crawl. It’s divided into parts: Before and After. Before the terrible event, Green invests time introducing the humid, clothes-sticking heat of Alabama. The first half is a massive built up to the main event of the novel. Green almost convinces us that this novel is devoted to shenanigans at its best: teens playing pranks, smoking in the woods, cornucopia of fried food, and yes, oral sex. Green also has a way of seamlessly peppering literary allusions into the narrative. He skillfully incorporates these allusions and references that are thematic and at the story’s central meaning; he also does this without losing the novel’s idiodynamics. The novel, however, is aimless for the first half and does not gain momentum until the second half, which is a shame as it takes this terrible, awful event to move the story forward. It’s the shock value that reboots the novel and creates this mythos around Alaska Young, which brings us to the novel’s themes: if we see people for whom they are or if we look at them like extensions of ourselves.

Green writes his characters like they’re young adults, as in, someone in their early years of adulthood. Calling these characters simple teenagers is misleading. They deal with loss, guilt, an estrangement from normalcy. Green doesn’t overstep when he writes his characters drinking and delivering awkward, first-time blows jobs. He shows them as being invincible and vulnerable. They’re explorative, emotionally shrewd, and pensive. They shower the story with amusement, profound thoughts, and brokenness that belong in any coming-of-age novel. In comparison with Green’s future works, these characters are better developed and more existential versus his other characters in his other books that are oversaturated with snarky humor and pretentiousness.

But Green’s writing isn’t a jewel. Although it’s simple and flows across the page, it stumbles during the book’s awkward moments and fluffs it with self-deprecating dialogue like it’s trying to ease the tension and apologize. Please don’t. This doesn’t hinder the entirety of the novel, however. It’s only until the second half of the novel that we start to notice the style evolve into something more crudely honest and mature.

Green’s ending is a quick tumble down the mountain. The prose picks up and ends with a touching farewell. There’s a lot of puzzlement and turmoil between the second half and the ending. It seems too simple for a book full of complexities. It’s beautiful and perhaps a fitting goodbye, but with how much Miles/Pudge and The Colonel were wrought with guilt, guilt that clings to you like a ghost, the thoughts and feelings just drop off in favor of a more sentimental ending. Green chooses to leave certain events unexplained. He doesn’t even disclose or tie up intimate relationships. He merely gives suggestions. It’s very open-ended. The ending focuses on grief and closure to the point of simplifying these tumultuous and tangled emotions. With a novel so complex, it’s fair to say that these characters will have an ongoing inner monologue for years to come. Even the slightest suggestion of this would have been more believable than concluding with a prank in her honor.

Rating: 4 out 5

P.S. – Yes, I reached 50,000 words for NaNoWriMo!!! Thank you all for indulging me while I took a hiatus from book reviewing.

Persepolis

I’m not ashamed to admit this but a bulk of what I read when I was a kid was Manga. Some of my favorite stories are from such works as Pandora Hearts, Fruits Basket, and xxxHolic. At the time, I was mortified because that’s just not what people read. They were reading Artemis Fowl and Harry Potter. Nothing is wrong with these books or what I had/have read. But for a long time, I thought there was something wrong with because I loved books with pictures. Several times I was even accused of reading only “low-brow” work, which is just silly.

Persepolis chronicles Marjane Satrapi’s life during the war between Iran and Iraq, her time abroad in Austria, her return to Iran, and eventual departure. A coming-of-age story, Persepolis originally was two separate graphic novels in a series. I was fortunate enough to read the complete work.

With novels like Persepolis, the movement of the plot is conventional and reads like a memoir should. From the perspective of Marjane Satrapi, the story heavily relies on the keen observations and self-interjections of Satrapi for narration. What makes the story interesting is, of course, Satrapi’s perspective. It’s the way she internalizes and externalizes her experiences that elevate the story.

The novel’s emphasis on femininity and national identity remain faithful throughout the story with independent, intelligent characters. Satrapi’s parents and grandmother influence Satrapi’s beliefs and development, and they engrain in her the significance of a formal and informal education, something I’m thankful my dad did for me. Education often is a means to self-liberation, not exclusively to employment opportunities, but in learning who we are and how we fit into a world where domestic violence exist, women are attacked sexually for campaigning for equal rights, or there’s disparity in wages between men and women. These are relevant to anyone. I loved that the people in the book generate these discussions and provide sophisticated, critical points discerning women’s roles during wartime and in an oppressed culture. Because the novel follows Satrapi’s life from start to finish (sort of), we are able to see Satrapi’s ideas evolve into something more complicated but in terms she can identify with.

Loaded with content, the writing and dialogue laser in on issues with beautiful and disturbing candor. There’s a myriad of issues such as war, loss, freedom, drugs, and separation that I thought the cartoonish illustrations would desensitize. The illustrations don’t take away from the darker parts of the novel but instead lends us a pair of eyes that help us better understand the conflicts and how Satrapi conceptualized these events when she was a child.

The ending is more like a beginning. Satrapi undergoes a transformation and is ready for the next phase of her life. So often novels conclude as if this one single event defines life, but as Persepolis suggests, several instances and experiences are what lead us to become the people we are today.

Rating: 4.6 out of 5

The Honey Thief

Sometimes it’s easy to categorize the books we read while other times we’re not sure what we’ve just read. This is not bad—just difficult. The Honey Thief by Elizabeth Graver fell under this indistinctive classification for me but according to Goodreads, it belongs under the genre known as Literary Fiction which umbrellas a range of themes forming thoughts or criticisms reflective of social and/or political issues exploring some aspect of the human condition. Certainly parts of The Honey Thief have this nuance; yet, it doesn’t fully develop and ends up undercutting the characters’ stories and conclusions.

Eleven-year old Eva and her mother Miriam uproot to a small town leaving behind their lives in New York City in hopes of starting somewhere fresh. Miriam wants to move on from the loss of her husband, but she’s also keeping a secret that is the primary reason for her and her daughter moving to the boonies. It’s summer though, which means Eva is left exploring the town by herself until school starts. During one of her days outside, she happens upon some jars filled with honey, which she steals. We’re then introduced to the bee keeper named Burl who’s enamored by bees, and when little Eva comes along; the two of them form a bond.

The structure of the story is worth mentioning for its multifaceted viewpoints. The plot at times is ostensibly stagnant and aimless, and its external environment scarcely influences the story’s trajectory. Like most works of literary fiction, the story occurs internally. Eva wanders around town before meeting the Burl, but it’s not her adventures that we notice but how she internalizes her experiences that give the plot momentum. Otherwise we superficially have Burl the fanatical-bee-loving bee keeper and an eleven-year-old klepto Eva who ends up adopting the same fascination toward bees. These obsession, however, expose the book’s intention to demonstrate people’s need for companionship and studies arbitrary definitions of happiness. In addition to the semi-occurring plot, a bulk of the story is told through a series of flashbacks commenting on the fragility of human intimacy and companionship. The characters anchor the plot from floundering.

Not only are the characters vastly different and generate diverse opinions, it’s the tension shared between them that renders an authentic humanistic portrayal, which I typically expect in literary fiction and what I love about the genre. In trying to understand each other, the characters reveal more about themselves than the person or object they are fixated on. But what makes this disappointing is the disproportional narration. Miriam tells a majority part of the story which contains the scope of her life while Eva and Burl don’t have nearly as much disclosure. Although Eva’s youth doesn’t allow for this, Burl certainly has a handful of experiences that are mentioned but are treated with no merit. By the novel’s conclusion, it’s the mother and daughter relationship that offers the novel’s last words and subsequently snubs Burl out despite the novel’s forthcoming presentation of the plot and of its well-developed characters.

For a lack of better words, the writing is literary meaning it emulates the best and worst qualities innate with being human. The style remains consistently the same amongst each character, which subdues forming individualized voices for them; however, the content contained within the writing makes up for this, which is how the book is able to create such concerning, thought provoking characters.

The novel’s conclusion delays satisfaction by ambiguously resolving the overarching issues—which, I realize, is what most literary works do. Near the conclusion though, the novel takes a drastic turn disheveling the well-established tone and meanings prior. The story shifts from everything happening internally to something externally occurring. The novel imposes on us immediate conflict that is such a sharp contrast to the rest of the novel that it feels like it’s only added to give us some action when it’s not warranted. I’m grateful it doesn’t undermine itself by squarely giving us a finish, but at the same time, it feels incomplete in the way it doesn’t fully develop its characters, or how it discontinues the story after introducing this conflict and propels the story in a new direction. Contrary to most people’s complaints about literary fiction having no plot or having little of it, The Honey Thief certainly exemplifies some of the genre but also subverts some of the literary fiction conventions too.

Rating: 3.8 out of 5

Dark Places

My friend Don warned me before reading Dark Places that I’d have to prepare myself and come armed with rainbows and kittens and find something immediately afterwards to raise my spirits—or what remained of my spirits as this book obliterated them, which is not to say I didn’t like the book because I really did enjoy it. I’d rather not think what that says about me.

On one hand, I enjoyed the book immensely for its writing, its brittle settings, and the sharp, brooding characters, but there are parts, such as the characters and story structure that disagree with me and weakens the climax and resolution of the book, making my experience reading this disjointed and less satisfying.

“I have a meanness inside me, real as an organ.”

What a way to introduce a book.

This impressive first line encases the book’s themes, plot, writing style, and sets the tone. You’re not gradually introduced to Dark Places; you’re already in it.

Dark Places by Gillian Flynn tells the not-so-happy tale of Libby Day after her family’s demise. This is putting it lightly, however. On the night of January 2 in 1985, Libby Day’s brother Ben Day slaughtered their mother and their two sisters. Ben Day is convicted based on DNA evidence, Libby’s testimony, and spliced stories about Ben Day’s involvement with satanic worship and occult rituals. Case closed. Libby Day is the hero and all’s well that ends well, except our Libby has to grow up with her family still dead and her brother still locked in prison. She’s jobless and living off people’s charities and donations. A guy named Lyle shows up and invites her to a club called the Kill Club, fanatics who gather to discuss all things murder oriented. Reluctant but desperate, Libby attends one of these meetings, and everyone there reopens the Day case. None of the members believe Ben actually killed the Day family. Libby, despite how furious she is at first, starts to question the same thing herself. She was a kid then. She wasn’t sure that what she was told was what actually happened. Did her brother really kill the Day family? Why was she the only survivor? What actually happened the night of January 2, 1985?

Although Dark Places is a murder mystery suspense novel that will lock you into its pages until you figure out the truth, it’s not reliant on its plot entirely. The plot structure is what we’d typically expect for a murder mystery. We have the protagonist questioning other characters to piece together missing chunks of time in order to solve the mystery. The witness interrogation, however, is less about unveiling the true murderer and is more about Libby Day relearning who Ben Day is. Until now, she’s only been able to see him as two things: her loving brother and a sick psychotic killer. Even as the story is mostly told from Libby’s perspective, the plot is not tied to her. In many ways, Libby Day is not even the focus of this this story. She’s more of Nick Carraway character observing the bigger picture. Everyone has stories going on simultaneously that are not directly related to Libby herself. It better reflects reality and takes readers away from a plighting egocentric universe.

Flawed and broken, the characters are fascinating to read. While it may be difficult to relate to any of these characters due to their traumatic upbringing or lack thereof, you’ll find yourself liking them and, at the same time, having a hard time accepting them. We can know them, but it’s hard to understand them. They’re morally complicated characters. All of them.

In the case of Libby Day, Libby lives only to survive. She initially starts to investigate her family’s murder to turn a profit but later on shows some interest in learning as to what actually happened that night. This becomes apparent after she speaks with her brother in prison. The characters’ morality is contingent on their motivation.  In the heap of all things twisted in the book, it’s interesting to find that what remains good, the virtuous meaning of the term, is preserved within the characters’ intentions. Ben Day’s reasons are considerably selfless even chivalrous including Patty Day’s reasons. The characters undergo stages of development that are simply sublime and interesting to read. As you can tell, I cannot get enough of studying them.

The language in the book and style invite you to read more. It captures the depth of poignant and raw feelings that mercilessly plunge you into a cold place with no air and little chance for hope. It’s important to note that the style of writing works in favor of the three narrators: present day Libby Day, 1985 Ben Day, and 1985 Patty Day, the mom. Usually I would expect the voices of the narrators to shift, but in general, the narrators all sound like the same person. To some readers, this may be problematic. But the writing is so chilling and cutting that I’d hate to go to something different. It also helps that each of the characters are of a similar mind set. As they transition, they go through the same inflection of feelings despite being in drastically different situations. If nothing else, this book’s writing needs to be savored.

The novel’s conclusion left a somewhat bitter taste in my mouth, however. Without spoiling it, the ending compromises the novel’s continuity and the structure. Some could argue that this is a semblance of real life interjecting into literature. For the most part, I agree with incorporating fragments of reality into literature to keep the piece grounded and familiar. But a novel is a work of art and part of what makes a novel successful is the style in which it ends, and this one, sticks out too much for me to accept. This is not to say you shouldn’t read this novel, but do expect something abrupt to happen and then have everything end nicely.

Rating: 3.75 out of 5

The Fever

I consider myself a book polygamist since I tend to read more than one book at a time. How do I do this? No idea. My brain just works that way.

I started my mornings with Megan Abbott’s The Fever. Now I know it’s hard to compete with coffee and the instant, gratifying caffeine boost it gives you, but I really didn’t need it. This book caffeinated my interest right away, describing in the first few pages what I thought could only exist in science-fiction horror via alien insemination. It really makes you guess and stimulates your brain.

The Fever probes the lives of high school girls, mean girls. When one of their own suddenly collapses in the middle of class and starts to convulse and froth at the mouth, hysteria snakes its way into the minds of the girls, their parents, and the entire community. Once another girl succumbs to these strange symptoms and is hospitalized, the police and media colonize the town. It doesn’t take long for rumors to spread and theories to surface. Bio terrorism. HPV vaccine conspiracies. STD. The water. It’s the type of book that weaves a bunch of ridiculous and very possible conclusions while continuing to feed you clues and give you an ending that will either leave you reeling or wishing it had been one of the hocus-pocus conclusions; sometimes the truth is more painful to believe.

In several ways, The Fever is like a modern adaptation of The Crucible. Girls. Gossip. Witch-hunt. The Fever studies the psychology of its characters’ sexualities, perversions, intimacies, and the effects of hysteria, which I love, and what makes this book hard to ignore.

The disparity amongst the characters occurs from the varying viewpoints of the Nash family, Deenie (sister), Eli (brother), and Tom (father). The viewpoints argue different theories and opinions of the mysterious illness and provide some insights to the girls. While the narrators give us some history about them, it’s not enough to really know who the girls are, shedding only a few peculiar character traits. Considering the story’s plot, I thought it would take place on a larger scale, but it’s relatively contained to just a few characters. The police, media, and gossipers generate enough dialogue for speculation, but are not noteworthy characters themselves. If you’re looking to read something aimed specifically at the mean girl archetypes, then this won’t scratch your itch. Not entirely.

The story is very much about the girls, their friendships, their budding sexual feelings, sexual maturity, their insecurities, and social pressures. But it also conveys the boys and adults having similar problems too, thus, aligning the characters’ stories and converging themes. It had me contemplating if anyone really grows into being an adult or if we’re all in a perpetual state of adolescence, always changing physically, mentally, and emotionally.

Abbot’s writing beautifully captures the mean girls’ vernacular. The writing details the girls’ sexual curiosity and prowess piquing. The way the strange illness is described and compared to the girls’ hormonal and sexual feelings brings out what I love about this book. The title plays on both the epidemic and the girls’ sexuality. I’m now more than ever itching to read other works by Megan Abbott.

The ending did not disappoint. Not a bit. It ends as it started: ambiguous. It’s one of those endings that didn’t neatly wrap up everyone’s story. I’m relieved not everything is resolved. I personally like stories that don’t answer everything for me, and The Fever still keeps me guessing as to what actually happened, and if we ever truly know anyone, let alone ourselves.

Rating: 4.5 out of 5

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