Book Review--If on a winter's night a traveler

This was easily one of the strangest--if not the strangest--book I've ever read. 


Once a month, my office spends half the day out of the office at a local bookstore, browsing the shelves and discussing--what else?--books. Each editor brings an excerpt from a book they've read, and we break into small groups and talk about the pros and cons of the excerpt and ways it works or doesn't, as well as whether or not we should even attempt to suggest such a writing device to our authors. (Usually the answer is no.)


It was on one such occasion that a coworker introduced me to If on a winter's night a traveler by Italo Calvino. I was immediately intrigued by the title. I wondered what sort of author would make the title of his work an incomplete sentence.


Then, my coworker went on to give a brief synopsis, and it only served to further arouse my curiosity. Basically, she said, it's about someone reading a book. 


Now, I realize that to any normal person, a premise of this sort would sound horribly boring. But I wanted to know more. 


"What's it really about?" I asked, sure there had to be something else behind such a simple idea.
"It's about someone trying to read, only he keeps getting interrupted. It's about his quest to finish the book," she replied. 


Then she read the first paragraph of the opening chapter, and it was so unique, I knew I had to read this book immediately: 


You are about to begin reading Italo Calvino's new novel, If on a winter's night a traveler. Relax. Concentrate. Dispel every other thought. Let the world around you fade. Best to close the door; the TV is always on in the next room. Tell the others right away, "No, I don't want to watch TV!" Raise your voice--they won't hear you otherwise--"I'm reading! I don't want to be disturbed!" Maybe they haven't heard you, with all that racket; speak louder, yell: "I'm beginning to read Italo Calvino's new novel!" Or, if you prefer, don't say anything; just hope they'll leave you alone. 


I was, as any astute reader would be, surprised--no, shocked--by the use of second person.  It's not something I see often in a book; and if I do see it, it isn't done well.

The first chapter goes on to narrate the ways one should sit while reading, the things one should think about before reading, and the things one should expect during reading. It was extremely odd and yet also humorously entertaining and the perfect hook to draw me into the second chapter. That's where another surprise was waiting.

I found out that the entire novel is not, like I originally believed, in second person the whole time. It switches back and forth, with every chapter alternating between discussing the Reader in second person and the story itself, which is told in third person. 


The whole thing was strange but easy to get used to, and I was glad for it in the end. As interesting as I found the second-person narration, I realized the immediate action that second person requires (ie., doing things in the now) can get tiresome after a while, and the chapters in third person were a comforting relief, enough to give me a breath and get me ready for the next chapter. 


If I haven't confused you already, well done. I'll reward you by moving on from second/third person to talk about the plot itself. On the most basic level, it really is just about someone reading. There's the Reader (who is never given a name but solely referred to as Reader), who begins reading a book called If on a winter's night a traveler. The beginning of this story is chapter 2 of the book and is titled as such. The problem is that at it's most suspenseful moment, the book suddenly ends, and the Reader discovers that the book he's reading has been accidentally spliced together with a different book. 


In the following chapter, the Reader heads back to the bookstore to purchase a new copy of the book that got interrupted, only to discover that the store is out of that particular book. And not only that, but there's another reader (named later in the story but at the beginning is just referred to as Other Reader), who is at the bookstore looking for the same book, because her copy is also defective.


Such begins Calvino's novel, and the two Readers continue on, trying to finish the story they'd started but finding only the beginnings of new stories they are unable to finish. 


I moved through the first half of the book fairly easily. Once I got the hang of the pattern and what the general plot was about, it was interesting and fun and many times made me think. There was, however, a point in the middle--as happens with some books--where I got stuck and had to put it down for a few days. I just wasn't excited to keep going, and the narrative had started to bore me. Still, the plot was intriguing enough to keep me moving, because I really wanted to know how it was all going to end. So I pressed on. (It's a fairly short book, and after reading Bonhoeffer, nothing appears long to me anymore anyway.)


The last third was where the plot lost me, and I finished the book at a bit of a loss. I'm still not sure what exactly Calvino intended, though I suspect I was trying to look deeper into the narrative than he meant. You'll see what I mean if you read it.


I realize this review does not shine the best light on If on a winter's night a traveler, and you might be wondering why anyone should bother to read it if it was so confusing and odd and boring. Well, confusing and odd, yes, it was; and though I did say I got bored in the middle, I would not call the book itself boring.

Overall, I'm certainly glad I read it, and I did not feel that it was a waste of time. (Like I did after finishing Love in the Time of Cholera. Terrible book. Save yourself.) This novel was clever and thought provoking and well written and unlike anything else I've ever picked up. I don't think I'll read it again, but--at the risk of sounding contradictory--I would recommend it. 

After finishing it, I looked back and realized the book itself speaks on various themes, all related in some way to writing and reading. The relationship between author and reader is one. The relationship between fiction and real life. How one reads and what the material means to the reader is discussed in the final chapters by four readers in a library and proved to be an interesting discourse. 

The ending itself reveals a hidden element, which I won't spoil for you (though some disagree with me that a reader of any review should be prepared for spoilers), proving that Italo Calvino's book If on a winter's night a traveler is even more than it appears and is one of those books that keeps you thinking even after the conclusion of the final chapter. 

So read it, please. And quickly, so we can discuss what I was confused about before I forget.

Crown of Thorns

This past weekend my family went camping, and this lovely bush was surrounding our campsite. You can understand why I was nervous walking around after dark. Didn't want to be stabbed by one of these long, sharp thorns.


At one point someone brought up Jesus's crown of thorns and how horrible it would feel to have a lot of those digging into your forehead.


I learned that camping in Texas can be both frightening and theological.

Linking up with Heidi this week for black and white Wednesday.
And Rachel for Wordless Wednesday (with words).


{Also, for another camping story, go here. It's good. I promise.}

The Murder of Tweety

Twelve years ago, I made a paper mache pinata.

It was a project for Spanish class, and it was one of those ridiculous assignments where neither parent nor child is entirely sure what the point is. But meaningless busywork never did stop me from being the straight-A student I was, and I immediately got some newspaper and glue and went to work.

Too late into the process I realized that I'd either blown up the balloon too much or had just used too large of a balloon in the first place, because I ended up with an oval that was twice the size of a normal human head. 

I debated about what to make out of it, because I knew I was limited due to the intense size and odd shape of my final product. In the end, I used white, blue, and a lot of yellow tissue paper to make a Tweety Bird head. To this day, my parents and I can vividly recall the uncounted hours we spent gluing yellow paper all over the gigantic balloon. I'm a perfectionist and insisted that we get the right look, so the paper had to be as close together as possible. And that head was large, so it seemed like to took forever.

It was also slightly disappointing, because after all that, the Tweety head was just sort of ugly and large and, I'll be honest, a bit frightening; but I turned it in on time, and my teacher hung it up in our classroom with the rest of my classmates' artistic, attractive pinatas. 

Eventually the time came to bring the bird home, and the question immediately arose about what to do with dear Tweety. Throwing him in the trash would obviously not do justice to the time it took us to bring him to life in the first place. But we couldn't put him anywhere he might be seen by anyone, especially after dark. 

So Tweety was attached to a rafter at the back of the garage, and there he hung for the next nine years. His bright yellow fur collected dust and, over time, turned his color to a pale yellow, almost white, proving that even cartoon birds eventually turn gray with age.

Occasionally I'd catch a glimpse of him back there, swaying peacefully back and forth between a bike and an old fishing pole with a sad look in his huge blue eyes, and someone would mention getting rid of him. But then my parents and I would remember the hours we spent that we could never get back, and we'd tell each other that the perfect time would come to pay homage to our hard work and give our wingless friend a death he deserved. 

That time came in the summer of 2008, when a semi-truck pulled up in front of the "for sale" sign that had been sitting in front of our house for almost a year. My family was moving to Texas, and we decided to fatten Tweety up with candy and then beat him to death with a baseball bat to celebrate our last night in our Illinois house. 

Unfortunately, we ran out of time to kill Tweety. It took us much longer than anticipated to get everything in order, so we packed Tweety in our suburban with the rest of our most prized possessions (everything we didn't trust with the driver of the semi), and headed sixteen hours south.

Upon our arrival at our new home, Tweety was unceremoniously tied to a rafter in the garage and left to the dust and old age. That was three and a half years ago. 

On Friday, Jordan and I arrived at my parents' house with our sleeping bags ready and our bags packed for the 2nd Annual Texas November Reese Family Camping Trip (I made up that name; we don't actually have shirts made up with a logo for that or anything). 

We had barely walked in the door when my dad approached with a suspicious grin on his face. 

"Guess what?" he asked.

"Ummm, I don't know... what?"

"Guess what activity we have planned for this weekend?" He paused. "We're going to kill Tweety!"

My sister burst out laughing. "And we're going to fill it with my Halloween candy!" she shouted.

"That's awesome!" I said. Then I turned to Jordan and explained what was going on so he wouldn't think he'd secretely married into a family of ax murderers.

When my brothers heard, they were excited as well, and the die was cast.

 Tweety's days were numbered.

We arrived at the campsite on Saturday morning and found the perfect place to hang Tweety--on a pole by the picnic table.  In his final hours, he protected us from campsite creepers (though we took him down at night, because no one wanted to get scared by the whites of his huge eyes). 

{Here he is watching Jordan carve some wood.}

The next day, we prepared for the assassination. 

First, Jordan carved a flap into his skull for sticking the candy. Poor Tweety didn't even put up a fight.

Then, we fattened him up with Reese's and Heath Bars and Snickers.

After that, my mom forced Jordan and I to take a picture together because we accidentally wore the same shirt. 

{Then I changed because I hate matching, which isn't relevant to this story except to explain why I'm wearing a different shirt in the following pictures.}

Then, the main event.

We gathered our materials: bat and bandana, which Jordan luckily had in his truck. 

And my brother found the perfect (thought slightly perilous) spot from which to hang Tweety.

 I was elected to take the first hit, and though Tweety had hardly made a squeak when Jordan knifed him, it was clear he wasn't going to go down as easy this time. (Or perhaps it's just a fact that twelve-year-old paper mache folds more than cracks when hit.)

 It took four of us to bring him down.

{Pictures courtesy of my sister}

During the beating, there were two injuries other than the holes we were putting in Tweety. Somehow, both Jordan and Austin ended up on the ground--Jordan because he got so dizzy he fell in the dirt and literally rolled down the hill until he could stabilize himself; and Austin because Daniel accidentally hit him in the eye with the bat.

When it was all over, there was nothing left but pieces of bird and yellow feathers scattered amongst my sister's Halloween candy.

{Side note: it's not as much fun to break open a pinata when you have to pick up the candy and hand it all over to your little sister...which probably explains why we stood looking at it instead of rushing to pick it up.}

We collected the various pieces of Tweety's head that we found lying around the campsite and threw them in the trash. There was no sadness, though, because we all felt that this murder, premeditated though it was, was justified and a long time coming.

As our last hurrah for our fallen fowl friend, we read snippets from the paper I used for the mache part. We also talked about Tweety being like a time capsule. Except who knew we'd keep him for 12 years? No one. As such, there wasn't anything cool inside except yellowed newspaper dated from 1999 and the broken balloon I'd blown up all those years ago.

And here's some food for thought: you haven't been on a successful camping trip until you've busted open a 12-year-old Tweety Bird head pinata.

So concludes the story of the murder of Tweety. 

May he rest in peace.