Consider Death

... and life. That’s what this book makes you do. It also makes you see your neck in a whole new light....

From StarMag, 29th July, 2007

Review by DAPHNE LEE

I FEEL BAD ABOUT MY NECK: And Other Thoughts on Being a Woman
by Nora Ephron
Publisher: Knopf, 137 pages
(ISBN: 978-0307264558)

COINCIDENTALLY, the day after I finish reading this book, Nora Ephron appears on Oprah Primetime to talk about it and discuss (alongside Diahann Carroll and Geena Davis) ageing (or, really, anti-ageing).

What I find interesting is that Ephron answers questions (from Oprah and members of the audience) by “quoting” almost verbatim from the book. It doesn’t sound like she’s quoting, though. You’d only know if you’ve read it.

I am disappointed because I thought she’d have more up her sleeve than that. I mean, this is the woman who wrote When Harry Met Sally, Sleepless in Seattle, and Heartburn (to name a few modern masterpieces) for goodness’ sake. Still, although I’ve heard it all before, I laugh. The woman has perfect comic timing.

Heartburn, by the way, is a novel based on Ephron’s divorce from Carl Bernstein (the Washington Post journalist who, with Bob Woodward, broke the Watergate presidential scandal in the 1970s). Just months away from delivering their second son, Ephron (Rachel in the book) finds out that her husband is having an affair. It’s heartbreaking, but Ephron manages to make you laugh about it. What’s funniest (both ha-ha as well as bizarre) is how a seemingly intelligent man like Bernstein could have (if you believe Ephron) behaved like a complete ass.

Anyway, if you’ve ever had to deal with a donkey in man’s clothing, Heartburn is a must-read. The movie, starring Jack Nicholson and Meryl Streep, is also pretty good.

Back to I Feel Bad About My Neck and Other Thoughts on Being a Woman. I do not feel bad about my neck, but I’m certainly not over the moon about various other body parts. This book is, of course, not about necks per se. It’s about how we women are never happy with the way we look. However, Ephron herself has problems with her neck. She appears on Oprah with a scarf wound round it and, watching her, I wonder the whole time what on earth she is hiding.

We know about necks, though. We’ve noticed wattles on our grandmas and grandpas. I feel bad about my thick waist and have done so ever since I had one, which is practically forever. But I have never considered my neck. This is probably because I don’t have a problem neck. Ephron writes that one of her biggest regrets is “that I didn’t spend my youth staring lovingly at my neck. It never crossed my mind that I would be nostalgic about a part of my body that I took completely for granted.”

I guess I should start staring lovingly at my neck from now on.

Ephron’s neck is just one chapter in this collection of essays about the trials and tribulations of being a woman of a “certain age”. She writes about hating her purse, about her life as a serial monogamist, about maintenance (or “Pathetic Attempts to Turn Back the Clock”), about falling in love (with an apartment), about falling out of love (with Bill Clinton), about the joy of reading (my favourite chapter – surprise, surprise).

There’s a list of all the things she wishes she’d known as a younger woman: nothing on it surprised me, which probably means I am no longer a young woman.

The book ends with thoughts on death. I have re-read this chapter a couple of times. It’s very funny and extremely moving, and just a tiny bit depressing. It would probably be much more depressing if you were in your 60s and above, or if you were ill.

Death seems unreal when you’re young. It might even seem glamorous. Or romantic. The older you grow, the more you realise that death is the least of your worries. Dying is the real problem. If only we could all slip away peacefully in our sleep, fully moisturised and wearing our best silk nighties. Oh, the horror of a painful death. A long, lingering, conscious and painful death. Incontinent. Ga-ga. Drooling.

And so, you close the book in a thoughtful mood. You consider death. You consider being happy about your nice neck. You think that no matter how ridiculous you look in a bikini now, you might later regret not ever having worn one. You consider death. You feel happy that you are not dead and not dying. You consider life. You count your blessings. Including your neck.

A Reader Unravelled

From StarMag

Review by DAPHNE LEE

THE COMPLETE POLYSYLLABIC SPREE: THE DIARY OF AN OCCASIONALLY EXASPERATED BUT EVER HOPEFUL READER

By Nick Hornby
Publisher: Penguin Viking, 278 pages
(ISBN: 978-0670916722)

I LOVE spying on people as they browse in bookstores. I pay attention to what the person in front of me at the cashier is buying. I always want to know what my friends and family are reading and what they have blown their allowance/pay packets on at their favourite bookshops.

That's why I love Nick Hornby's collection of articles about books. I was thrilled to see, on first flipping through this book, that each chapter begins with two lists: “Books Bought” and “Books Read”. If you are a book addict, you'll know that the two lists don't always overlap. If you own over a thousand books and you haven't stopped buying more, it's unlikely that you will read every book you buy the moment the shrink-wrap comes off.

First of all, there's the question of mood. You may want to (nay, need to) buy a book on the spot, but, years may pass before you feel like reading it! This is why my bedside table is stacked with books. I'm usually in the middle of at least three at any one time because I never can tell what I'll feel like reading first thing in the morning or last thing at night.

It's good to see Nick Hornby publicly identifying with and acknowledging the problem. Not that it really is a problem. It's only those spoil sports who read maybe half a book every couple of years who see it as such. Their main concern would probably be shelfspace or lack thereof, but if you truly love to read and like owning what you read (or will, one day, so help you God, get around to reading), shelfspace ceases to be an issue. Who needs bookcases when there are other kinds of surfaces that will as readily hold your books? Who says your wardrobe is only for clothes? Or kitchen cabinets are just for crockery? Has it ever occurred to you that there's a lot of useable space under your bed?

Anyway, if you're an enthusiastic reader and buyer of books (and if you're a Hornby fan) you will love The Complete Polysyllabic Spree. It comprises two year’s worth of the author’s column, Stuff I’ve Been Reading, for American literary magazine The Believer, and, besides revealing that Hornby buys a lot of books and reads a lot of books but that the lists don't necessarily overlap, it also describes the method-in-the-madness way he chooses his reading material; how one book or author leads to another; what makes him want to read more, and what puts him off the activity.

It's all written in a very chatty style. And at times Hornby also nags and whines, scoffs and simpers. But that's the book's greatest charm. You don't feel intimidated by Hornby. You don't think, “Cor, he's so widely read, how will I ever catch up?” and “My goodness, that book sounds deep! He must be a clever clogs!” Hornby is like that friend with whom you go book-hunting on weekends, who sometimes buys books simply because of their cool covers and who's looked at his copy of Candide for the past seven years and never ever felt the slightest inclination to read it. In short, a perfectly normal, ordinary guy who just happens to like reading.

He does read widely, but he's guided by curiosity and a desire to have a good time, not worthy reasons like the pursuit of knowledge and the quest for peace. We've all been at the mercy of people who stroke their chins and say stuff like, “Denise Robbins? What could a book by her possibly teach you?” Oh, yawn.

I have not learnt a whole lot from Polysyllabic apart from the titles of some books that I might very well enjoy and the fact that Hornby is, like me, the sort of person who panics about silly things like not having something to read (even though they live in a house where there is no where to park your bum because there are stacks of books on all the chairs). He is also the sort of person who might impulsively buy books on obscure subjects like the migration patterns of the peregrine falcon. I am much comforted by this fact as I once bought a book on fly fishing in New England.

Hornby is as funny, wry and sarcastic in Polysyallabic as he is in his novels, but this book is a much more enjoyable and relaxing read than his fiction because whereas his characters are always in the midst of personal crises and trying to come to grips with life, Hornby, the main character, so to speak, of Polysyallabic, is just a man wandering aimlessly through a wonderland of books, rambling on, rather pointlessly, but quite engagingly, about the delights and frustrations of reading. Well, it suits me anyway and I can't see why anyone who loves books wouldn't be just as entertained.

Sunday, January 28, 2007 in Book Reviews

Eats, Lives, Breathes Books

From StarMag.

SO MANY BOOKS, SO LITTLE TIME: A YEAR OF PASSIONATE READING

By Sara Nelson

Publisher: Berkley Books

(ISBN: 0425198197)

MY thoughts exactly, I wrote in my book blog on receiving a review copy of Sara Nelson’s So Many Books, So Little Time. I could easily identify with the cover art, and of course the sentiments. It’s a predicament book-lovers enjoy complaining about, but actually revel in. How could we not? It simply means that all is well in our world. Imagine if instead of having too many books and too little time, we had all the time in the world and too few books!

Thus, this book is, as I see it, a bit of a gloat: “Poor me: All these books. And I’m getting paid to read them!” Of course, Nelson denies it. She embarked on this project – to read one book per week for a year, and then write about the experience – so she could try to “figure out why I read what I read when I read it; how one book leads to another, and, of course, what it all means about me, my life, and the nature of reading itself.”

This may interest you, or not. If you’re looking for 52 book reviews, this isn’t what Nelson delivers. She has a lot to say about the books she reads, but relates it all to her own life and experiences so that her work reads like a journal of someone who eats, lives and breathes books. So, if you love books, read practically round the clock and see yourself and your life in the books you read, you should enjoy So Many Books.

You’ll find it irresistible when Nelson says something that describes exactly how you feel about reading and books. For example, have you ever tried, in vain, to make someone (usually not a book lover) understand why you like a particular title? “Explaining the moment of connection between a reader and a book to someone who’s never experienced it is like trying to explain sex to a virgin,” says Nelson with witty empathy.

Yes, I could relate to some of her observations and enjoyed her ballsy humour, but not the self-satisfied air that permeates most of the book. Nelson is master of the droll and insightful one-liner, but it’s so easy to be penetrating and amusing when it’s your own navel you’re describing.

Personally, I found her flippancy (“I even liked Sabbath’s Theatre. So sue me.”) irritating. Also, while honesty is mostly a good thing, her frank descriptions of her, at times, rocky relationship with her husband made me squirm on his behalf. The problem was not so much her candour as her glib manner when talking about him. Is nothing sacred? Apparently not in Nelson’s book.

Worse of all is her tendency to judge people by the books they read. Nelson spends a whole chapter justifying this, in my opinion, intolerable case of snobbery: she reveals that when a friend recommends a bad book, she “ends up reconsidering the friendship”! Thus, in Nelson’s world, book lovers are equal, but some are more equal than others. Therefore, if you are devoted to bodice rippers or restrict your reading to murder mysteries or bestsellers, you would be, in her eyes, a comrade, but a second- ... maybe even third-class one.

And then there’s the description of a visit to the late Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s home in Vermont. There, she sees a book “whose title is spelled out in angry red Asian characters”. Her host, Sabrina (the widow of Solzhenitsyn’s stepson) tells her that it is August 1914: Red Wheel ... in Malaysian!

Other Malaysian readers may well puzzle over the incident and share my annoyance. God only knows what language the book was actually in. Chinese? Arabic? Why didn’t Nelson check the accuracy of Sabrina’s statement? I daresay I care so much only because I’m Malaysian. It’s a small detail but it niggles like the bite of a tiny, persistent ant.

What I did like about So Many Books is that it has introduced me to a handful of titles that I’m now dying to read. Nelson can make a book sound like the most wonderful thing on earth, which leaves me thinking that she should have written 52 reviews after all.