Crying on Christmas Eve

Well much to no one's surprise, I have still not managed to finish Too Big To Fail. Seriously, this book is fucking huge. I'm beginning to feel demoralized about the whole thing, so to distract myself I spent the better part of this week reading the rest of the Hunger Games trilogy instead, which proved the right decision when I found myself seated mere rows away from a crying baby on the train ride home for Christmas. Somehow I don't think a book about finance would have managed to hold my attention the same way.

There's not a ton to say about the second and third books in the Hunger Games trilogy, since I don't wan to spoil anything, but they're equally awesome. In truth, I have spent these past few days on something of a mission with respect to this trilogy, singing its praises to anyone and everyone who will listen. So far I've convinced at least two friends, my sister, my aunt and potentially my mother (who I think just zones out when I make book recommendations). Plus all of you, my loyal readers. All two of you. 

There is one thing I will say about the Hunger Games books--reading them is emotionally exhausting. It's 1:30 a.m. on what is now technically Christmas morning and instead of curling up under the covers with a mug of hot chocolate, I find myself pacing my room wondering how we live in a society where people kill each other for money or war or really any reason at all. In fact at this point I think returning to Too Big to Fail will be a welcome reprieve -- I don't see myself shedding tears over commercial mortgage-backed securities.

THE FACTS: 
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TITLE: Catching Fire, Mockingjay
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AUTHOR: Suzanne Collins
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PAGES: 350-400 each
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I'm A Young Adult Too

Well as I suspected, Too Big to Fail was, appropriately, too big. Even after several days of dedicated reading, I’m still barely past page 200 and although I find myself riveted by the story--riveting financial news, who knew--today I made an executive decision and I've spent the better part of the last eight hours reading The Hunger Games, the first in Suzanne Collins’ much-acclaimed young-adult trilogy.

For those who don’t follow the incredibly important happenings in teen fiction, The Hunger Games is something like a modern-day 1984: The story is set in a post-apocalyptic North America, now known as Panem, where a Capitol city rules over 12 distinct districts. So as to remind the districts of their impotence, every year one boy and one girl from each is chosen at random (though, without going into too much detail, poverty plays a role in one’s chances of being picked) to participate in The Hunger Games, a fight to the death broadcast on live television throughout the country. Yeah, it’s pretty grim reading for the weekend before Christmas.

I’ll say off the bat that the book is incredible, even considering it’s geared at young adults. I haven’t devoured 350 pages in a sitting since the last Harry Potter, which I distinctly remember reading in full on a similarly lazy Sunday, sustaining myself on takeout Chinese since I couldn’t be bothered to leave the apartment. The comparison to 1984 is fair, and the writing itself is suspenseful and accessible without feeling dumbed-down. Unlike the Twilight saga, which I never quite liked reading on the train, no adult would or should feel silly for reading this book (and I assume the rest in the trilogy).

Booookie Crisp!

Use of the word "poop" in books since 1800.

So if you're anything like me—well, first of all, you've probably got a mild or even severe stomachache from a week of eating any and all holiday-related food. So to that I say, try some Tums.

But if you're anything like me when it comes to books, you've spent the better part of the last 12 hours nerding out. This would be because Google has rather quietly released the first of what I imagine will be many byproducts of it's multi-year book-scanning endeavor—a database that lets users search for a word or phrase to see its usage in some 5.2 million books dating back to the year 1800. There's even a nifty little website.

In the interest of full disclosure, I'll admit I haven't historically been a big fan of Google's book project. In fact, four years ago I wrote a diatribe in my college newspaper railing against some of the perceived implications (I was the opinions editor and therefore free to reserve half-page spreads for my own unsolicited ranting). Now, I stand by many of those criticisms today—some of which are the same arguments levied against e-readers—and I remain wary of linking books to one-another the way we do content online. But I have to admit that Google's latest endeavor is pretty freaking awesome, and outside the scope of what I myself would have imagined the project being used for.

So Big I Might Fail

After a Saturday night spent killing brain cells one game of beer pong at a time, I went into this week feeling relatively ambitious on the book front: After all, what are the post-college years for if not to read all those enormous and intellectual books you never had time for in school? Well, that and sitting in your big-girl apartment eating takeout food you bought with a hard-earned paycheck.

So given my thirst for intelligence, I decided to finally get around to one of the mammoth hardcovers that's been sitting on my shelf for the better part of a year: New York Times reporter Andrew Ross Sorkin's Too Big To Fail, a nonfiction tome outlining in unprecedented detail the days surrounding the financial crisis of 2008, with a healthy dose of back story and context.

The book made headlines when it was released (in October of last year) because it leaves no stone unturned (also because a few irate Times reporters accused Sorkin of using material from their stories without credit). Having read the first few chapters, I can see why it made waves: Sorkin has more than 500 sources, and details include everything from Lehman Brothers' CFO Erin Callan's suit color of choice to Timothy Geithner's predilection for the word "fuck." It turns the biggest financial crisis since the Great Depression into something of a page-turner.

Unfortunately, it's also massive. The hardcover version, which I stupidly bought and am now forced to carry around—much to the dismay of my shoulders, back and wrists—comes in at 624 pages (with endnotes) and 2.2 pounds. Even after two solid commutes of reading, I still haven't made it past page 75. This isn't because the book is dull, far from it, but rather because it's dense. Forgive me Warren Buffetts of the world, but when reading about complex financial instruments, I have to take my time.

So it's TBD whether I'll manage to finish this week, but I can't say I'm optimistic. Just in case, I have a few light reads on standby, the kinds of books I could finish in a few hours on Sunday afternoon and thereby finagle my way into victory for the week. Because if I learn anything from Too Big to Fail, it's that cheaters ....usually win.

Enough About Suicide Already

So I'm in a bit of a funk this morning, which I'll need to get past in short order as I'm soon headed to Penn State for a night of good old-fashioned state-school drinking. In any case, this morning I read about Mark Madoff, the elder son of disgraced financier (and current prison resident) Bernard Madoff. Mark committed suicide yesterday, undoubtedly due to the number of lawsuits pending against him and the rest of his family, and what I can only imagine have been years of criticisms and death threats against him for his alleged involvement in the Ponzi scheme. Which is particularly sad since it was both Mark and his brother who told authorities about the scheme as soon as they found out, thereby setting the stage for their own father's 150-year prison sentence.

I guess it was only appropriate that a real-life tragedy would occur on the morning that I finished this week's read, Nick Hornby's About a Boy. I know what you're thinking: If the Hugh Grant movie is any indication, About a Boy isn't a sad story--it's about a mildly bizarre 12-year-old who befriends an affable but clueless middle-aged guy who otherwise hates kids and meaningless social interaction (in other words, every Hugh Grant character ever). But if you'll remember, the catalyst for the development of that relationship is the weird boy's mother's attempt to kill herself, which is discovered by Marcus (the boy) and Hugh Grant on their first day together. Indeed, much of About a Boy is really about life, and whether it's worth living, and if so, why. This isn't unprecedented territory for Hornby who, despite his reputation for writing generally humorous novels, actually uses a comedic voice to touch on fairly poignant issues: High Fidelity was about lost love; How to Be Good was about failed marriages; Juliet, Naked was about unfulfilled aspirations. And A Long Way Down was, well that one was pretty much entirely about suicide. If I had to hazard a guess, I would say the point of life, or lack thereof, is something Hornby has given a considerable amount of thought.

It's Never Too Late for Freedom

It's unfortunate that right before I started this blog, I had just finished Freedom. Although the novel would have easily earned the prestigious four-paper-cut rank--what's a Pulitzer really worth anyway--more importantly, I felt I had so many things to say after reading it. One time, I paused in Grand Central to finish a chapter before walking the rest of the way to work; I literally pulled over to the shoulder of a corridor with my face in the book. A few seconds later, I notice another guy making the same move. I look up, he's reading Freedom as well. ...No, our eyes didn't meet over our books, and we didn't skip off together to a future of secret sex in libraries. But I did tap him on the shoulder, point at my book, point at his book, and give him a dopey smile. (It's really a wonder we didn't end up together.) In any case, my point is that's the power of this book. You'll give dopey smiles to strangers in subway stations!

So I'm thinking about all this--my ill-timed completion of Freedom, my inability to engage in adult flirtation--because I just watched Jonathan Franzen's interview on Oprah (which yes, means I had to record Oprah) and it reminded me how impressively nerdy a lot of authors are. It's not that he was unfriendly or pretentious (a charge that's been levied on him by Oprah fans in the past) but rather that he just doesn't seem used to public speaking. Considering the man writes in what he describes as a dark, cold, silent room, this isn't entirely surprising. I mean seriously, he says "p.o.'d" instead of pissed off. Dude doesn't seem to get out much.

To Ma'am, With Love

Questionable fashion choices all around.

Unlike journalist, veterinarian and inventor of self-cleaning bathrooms, teacher was never on my short list of potential careers. For one, I don't particularly like children, and I certainly don't enjoy talking to people who are, by definition, stupider than me. One might argue that my undeniable lack of compassion for others wouldn't have made for a very good teacher anyhow, but I like to think the choice was all mine.

So it's always been with some degree of awe that I regard the teaching profession. That some people in this world are willing to get up at the crack of dawn to impart knowledge of algebra, American history or biology to generally unreceptive adolescents is enough for me to swallow; that still others actually enjoy this endeavor is almost outside my comprehension.

"Ms. Hempel Chronicles" documents the generally mundane adventures of one such brave soul: a young and relatively inexperienced English teacher. A blurb from the Washington Post refers to the book as a novel, but "Hempel" is really a collection of stories, many of which appeared on their own in various literary magazines. The themes and characters are the same throughout--indeed, these are the ties that bind the stories together--but the book is absent the sort of beginning/middle/end structure that I would typically consider necessary for noveldom.