FTC Disclosure: Review copy provided by publisher

Colson Whitehead is either one helluva daredevil who could give a crap about the possible fall-out (or failure) of what’s he’s tried to achieve with Zone One, or a genius. I think he’s both.

He all but destroys the notion that if you write in a particular genre, it has to be told a certain way.

Yes, there will be those who won’t get it or choose not even to try. My experience in the bookstore has made it clear that there are those who never stray from the comfort of what they know and like. Nothing wrong with that. The one thing about reading is that it is the last great stronghold where true freedom of choice resides and we all should have the right to choose, even if it is to choose the same thing over and over.

However, I feel there is a significant number of us who like King as much as Kafka, but fear admitting it. Now we have a hero to help us come to terms with our literary duality. Whitehead takes a pedestrian genre and elevates it well above that which you generally find among the great tomes of the Western Canon.

When it comes to a book, why should it’s trappings, whether it be romance or horror, hold it back from being great literature? Is it merely perceptual or an actual reality? After reading this book, I am heavily leaning toward the former.

The dining hall was pastel and affirming, and no one complained when some rogue operative booted up the old sound system one day and the anodyne instrumentals scored every meal in a ceaseless loop of deracinated pop. The fort’s inhabitants fluttered down the concrete paths in electric carts and every night the windows crackled with the blue glow of screens, as the extensive video library reacquainted these minions of reconstruction with the old entertainments that had meant so much to them. It was hard to believe that there had once been faces like that, the beautiful ones with their promises and lures.

Yet he doesn’t fail to to remind the reader of the reality living behind the exquisite façade of literature:

Some of the marines died. Some of them didn’t hear the warnings until too late for all the gunfire. Some of them lost their bearings in the macabre spectacle, drifting off into reveries of overidealized chapters of their former lives, and were overcome. Some of them were bit, losing baseballs of meat from their arms and legs. Some of them disappeared under hordes, maybe a glove sticking out, waving, and it was unclear if the hand was under the direction of the fallen soldier or if it was being jostled by the feasting.

This is an easy book to recommend at the store where I work. The only caveat I add is to the fan of zombie fiction, advising them that this is not your typical version of the zombiepocalypse.

So far it’s been successful.

I feel as comfortable recommending to a horror fiction fan as I would to a fan of Faulkner or Updike. And I am counting it up there as one of my most favorite reads this year. If you’ve read it, I’d like to hear what you think. Don’t forget to add a link to your review.

There are some who don’t care for Virginia Woolf’s books. Especially her stream-of-conscious narratives such as The Waves.

However, besides writing novels, she was a prolific critic and essay writer. One of her most famous is A Room of One’s Own.

It is this essay, and many others, that make me wonder why they aren’t more highly regarded outside of academia.

Yet I know I am not the only one discovering and discussing the joys of essays. Thank goodness!

To give you a glimpse into the beauty of Woolf’s writing, let me share a passage:

That collar I have spoken of, women and fiction, the need of coming to some conclusion on a subject that raises all sorts of prejudices and passions, bowed my head to the ground. To the right and left bushes of some sort, golden and crimson, glowed with the color, even it seemed burnt with the heat, of fire. On the further bank the willows wept in perpetual lamentation, their hair about their shoulders. The river reflected whatever it chose of the sky and bridge an burning tree, and when the undergraduate had oared his boat through the reflections they closed again, completely, as if he had never been. There one might have sat the clock round lost in thought. Thought – to call it by a prouder name than it deserved – had let its line down into the stream. It swayed, minute after minute, hither and thither among the reflections and the weeds, letting the water lift it and sink it, until – you know the little tug – the sudden conglomeration of an idea at the end of one’s line: and then the cautions hauling of it in, and the careful laying of it out? Alas, laid on the grass how small, how insignificant this thought of mine looked; the sort of fish that a good fisherman puts back into the water so that it may grow fatter and be one day worth cooking and eating.

As one who reads, and occasionally tries to write, this passage spoke volumes. And there are many others in this amazing essay. At a little over one hundred pages, it isn’t too hard of a read, and well worth a purchase or checking out from your library.

A Certain Slant of Light by Laura Whitcomb (2005)
Young Adult Fiction, 288 pages
Graphia Books an Imprint of Houghton Mifflin Co.

Read for the Triple 8 Challenge

Plot:

In the class of the high school English teacher she has been haunting, Helen feels them: For the first time in 130 years, human eyes are looking at her. They belong to a boy, a boy who has not seemed remarkable until now. And Helen–terrified, but intrigued–is drawn to him. The fact that he is in a body and she is not presents this unlikely couple with their first challenge. But as the lovers struggle to find a way to be together, they begin to discover the secrets of their former lives and of the young people they come to possess.

Is this a love story or a ghost story? Both. And it works fairly well. What makes this book unique is its point of view, told from the perspective of Helen, a 130 year old ghost who haunts, and is haunted.

I couldn’t recall my past sin, that deed I had done before my death that had banished me from heaven.

Thinking she is alone in the world, she attaches herself to living “hosts” in order to avoid the unbearable pain of reliving her death.

The pain, once I was dead, was very memorable. I was deep inside the cold, smothering belly of a grave…Icy water was burning down my throat, splintering my ribs, and my ears were filled with a sound like a demon howling…I dragged myself, hand over hand, out of the earth…weeping muddy tears. All I knew was that I had been tortured in the blackness, and then I had escaped.

Then, one day her world changed: She was seen. She learned was no longer alone.

How was he doing this? Had he somehow chosen me? I had two strong and seemingly contradictory sensations. One was a fear of being seen by a mortal…The other was an almost indescribable sensation of attraction…I wanted to see him again, to see whether he really was that rare human who saw what others could not. Nothing was more disturbing to me, and yet nothing compelled me more.

This title has been rated for young adults (age range approximately 12 -18), however due to some strong language and sexual content; I highly recommend that it be read by those on the higher end of that range.

Other than, that I found no significant “cons” to this book. Yes, I have read reviews that thought the characters and plot weak, but I never thought I was reading anything other than an entertaining story with a unique twist: one that is targeted towards a younger audience. It is important as a reviewer to consider the intended target of an author’s work, and as such refrain from judging it with a skewed sense of standards.

I do admit that Whitcomb could have made this a much larger work. But would it have been as entertaining and had the same impact? Truthfully – who knows. However, I feel this is of no matter as I found this to be a good read and I loved how she took a well worn theme and made it unique and interesting.

There is complexity here, don’t get me wrong. This is apparent when one realizes the parallels between the lives (uh, well un-lives) of the ghosts James and Helen and those of their hosts, Billy and Jenny. In the end, one has to wonder if there really was randomness involved when these four come together, or a greater plan at work in order for each to find the personal peace they seek.

I had trouble starting this book, but not because of its story or writing. It was just a matter of timing. However, once I began, I did not stop until it was finished. I could not put it down, which normally would earn 5 stars, however as I said earlier, the story development is not what it could be – perhaps because it is the author’s first book. Thus I am going to give it 4 out of 5 stars.