Book Review: Freedom by Jonathon Franzen

by

In the age of Google Reader and RSS feeds and a quadrillion different sources of news, the concept of current events has gotten kind of skewed. I have to stop and remember that not everyone’s internet exploded because there was no Pulitzer Prize winner this year; on the other hand, if you asked me something about the presidential election, I’d be pretty lost. (Except for those pictures of Barack in his twenties because that was adorable.)

In my world, Freedom was really hyped. I have no idea if this was true for anyone else.

If you stumbled upon a few book blogs when Freedom was released, you may have been confused.

Is this the 8th Harry Potter book?

Who is this Franzen guy?

Why is the cover of this book everyone’s so stoked for so ugly?

President Obama was seen reading Freedom almost immediately after its release. Oprah put it on her book club list. More recently, Franzen’s been quoted all over the internet saying how much he hates the internet.

Let’s just say it’s been a big f-cking deal.

So when I scored the book for $2 at the Petworth Library book sale, I figured I had no excuse not to jump on the Freedom train. Departing now.

Freedom is a novel about Walter and Patty Berglund, a young couple raising a family in the gentrifying suburbs of St. Paul, Minnesota. The novel follows them and their children as the family evolves into dysfunction. Walter, an environmentalist, is obsessed with preserving particular bird species; Patty becomes aimless and depressed without young children to raise; and their son Joey rebels by getting involved in lucrative but shady business deals. And then, of course, more shit happens.

Before I say anything else, I will say this about my first experience reading Franzen: the man can write.

I mean, there are a couple of scenes in this book that I really can’t shake. I feel like in ten months I’m going to be going about my day, doing normal things like taking a shower or answering the phone at work, and all of a sudden the memory of one of these scenes will creep up on me and I won’t be able to get it out of my head again. He can write like that.

This book is hard. It’s not that the prose is difficult—once you sit down the pages actually fly by—but it’s heavy and unpleasant. Every single character is reprehensible for a big chunk of the book, and at one point I even found myself hating them so much that I hated myself.

It’s 2012, so I know we’re all on the same page with this whole “American dream” thing being a farce. But just in case you held onto any shreds of hope… Freedom will remind you.

But the amazing thing about Freedomis that you understand the characters in a completely different way by the end. Patty, who you gladly would have kicked in the shins for 400 pages, becomes your friend by page 500. Walter, who is pitiably pathetic for most of the novel, earns your respect. The same is true for the other central characters; no matter how deeply they make your skin crawl, you come to understand them by the end. That is the true accomplishment of this book.

I will, however, say this:

It eventually became pretty tiresome to continue reading a book that was obviously striving to be the Next Great American Novel.

I get that Franzen is a literary bigshot, but there were definite moments where it felt like he was trying to say something profound about America, and those were the parts that rubbed me the wrong way. It was too obvious.

Would I recommend this book? It depends. It’s engaging and leaves you with a whole lot of feelings, but some of those feelings are a dull, queasy ache.  It’s bleak.

If you decide to pass on this one, you’ll be missing a very good American novel, but not The Great one.

Recommended musical pairing: The Suburbs by The Arcade Fire
Recommended beverage pairing: Black coffee, good quality but a little burnt
Overall rating, completely arbitrary: 4.3/5
Buy the book

Song of My Selves

by

I don’t want to alarm anyone—

But I’m pretty convinced I was Walt Whitman in a former life.

Just observe the way
I style these stanzas
Shouldn’t this delicate poesy
Be proof enough?

…

No?

Fair point. I maintain my central thesis.

The Evidence.

Walt Whitman
Born: May 31, 1819
Birthplace: Huntington, New York
Also Lived: Washington, DC

Rachel Miller
Born: May 31, 1988
Birthplace: Huntington, New York
Currently Lives: Washington, DC
Favorite Poem: “Song of Myself”

Convinced now?

As the human reincarnation of Walt Whitman, I bear a heavy burden.

Truthfully, it’s a blessing it turned out this way and not the other way around. Had I been the original Whitman, it’s guaranteed the high schools, shopping malls, and rest stops on the New Jersey Turnpike dubbed “Walt Whitman” would now bear the much more syllabic moniker: “Henry David Thoreau Middle School” or the more morose “Emily Dickinson Shopping Center.”

If I had been Walt Whitman…

Things would have gone a little differently for the trajectory of American poetry.

If I had been Walt Whitman, “Song of Myself” might have started out something like this:

I CELEBRATE myself, with an abundance of champagne,
And what I assume you shall assume,  (because I share)
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.*

*Unless you are taking a feminist standpoint, in which case I will remind you: my body my choice motherfucker.

If I had been Walt Whitman, I probably would have been like, “Hey self. Let’s check in with reality a little more often.”

Reality, as everyone knows, is poison to poets, thus excusing my attempt at a poetic introduction to this piece.

Walt describes himself as:

Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son,
Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding,
No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women or apart from
them,
No more modest than immodest.

Here’s an apt description of Walt’s current vessel, following this format:

Rachel Miller, a nice Jewish girl from Long Island,
Overindulges at brunch far too often,
But don’t call her a hipster, because that’s offensive,
I’m a unique and sparkly butterfly

Perhaps our intents are similar, but Walt, I feel in traveling two and a half centuries you may have lost your earnestness.

Walt, I’m happy to be a vessel for your soul. For your poetry, though? You might have to wish for better luck next lifetime.

Sources: Wikipedia; Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman, accessed here

The District of Books: Kramerbooks

by

Kramerbooks is about as synonymous with the culture of DC as the spring cherry blossoms and restaurants cleverly named after political references. For little college freshman bibliophile me back in 2006, it was a revelation. Kramerbooks was one of the first spots I hit my first week in DC. Remember a couple of weeks ago when I discussed remembering to love your city? Reflecting on my first visit down to Kramerbooks helps; it must have been my first or second time on the metro, and I ordered a cappuccino at the Afterwords Cafe because, I was convinced, this is what one should do in the cafe of a city bookstore. As we left the store a jazz band was jamming in the middle of Dupont Circle. I felt so incredibly cool and lucky to have discovered such a spot in the city.

In the six years since, I’ve stopped in at Kramerbooks literally dozens of times, whether to actually buy a book, to gain some air conditioning reprieve from the hot summer, or to kill five minutes browsing the ever-changing tabletop selections.

It was appropriate, then, that when my parents came to visit in February, one of the places I took them (somehow, for the first time) was Kramerbooks. This time I ordered a cappuccino again, not because I felt I should but because somewhere between 18 and 23 I actually developed a taste for them, and in my pre-Iceland buzz I lingered most in the travel section, not in the popular fiction section.

Am I getting a little overly sentimental about a bookstore? Probably. But this is one of the spots that reminds me why I love DC.

Kramerbooks is often crowded, but not in the submerging way of Capitol Hill Books. It’s crowded with piles of books, but equally crowded with people, who are constantly moving through the stacks. Kramerbooks is a store for browsing: its setup almost requires that you graze at dozens of books, pick up and glance at the first pages or back covers of books you’ve never seen, already read, or don’t care about. You can stumble easily from fiction into philosophy into public affairs into sex and health without intention.

Also, the Obamas like it, which gives it the perennial stamp of approval.

Photo credit: Carolyn Kaster, AP

On The Hunger Games and the Vacuous Pit Where My Soul Should Be

by

I read the Hunger Games a little under a year ago–right when it was getting popular among people who like to read this type of thing, but before the movie hype took off. So when I threw the first book across the room in frustration, I had a limited pool of people with whom to discuss my conflict.

(This post contains spoilers for the first book.)

Continue reading →

How to Remember to Love Your City

by

I’ve been complaining about Washington, DC pretty much nonstop since I graduated from college and took up residency here as an “adult.” It’s been about two years, so I get that my whining has long since stopped being cute, and is incredibly annoying.

It’s clear I’m not the only one; every new person I meet seems to be formulating their escape plan to the Pacific Northwest–just like me. The appeal of cooler summers, mountains on the horizon, and a laid-back atmosphere is obvious to me after six years in DC, but am I really that much of a cliche? More importantly… can’t we all just get over ourselves and enjoy the abundance of food, drink, culture, free activities, and people that surrounds us here?

Nope? Okay then.

When I was 19, I remember seeing my peers wearing suits on their way to ever-important internships and being completely unfazed. In fact, I was one of those suit-wearing 19 years old for a brief period, so on some level I must have admired those tools. Today I see suit-wearing 19 year olds and I want to shake them. “It’s not about this!” I want to scream in their freshly shaved/made up faces. “You’re too young to be commuting!”

I can’t figure out if there’s something inherent in DC that makes us plot our escapes, or if this is another “twenty something” condition: dissatisfaction at everything. That sounds about right for my generation, but I have yet to hear Brooklyn-dwellers discuss New York with this sort of tone. As a person who grew up outside of NYC, I fully understand that uttering a slur against the city is punishable by public death, but come on. You don’t all love it, right? Some of you got pushed into scary neighborhoods or boring suburbs by rent costs, right? Some of you are tired of the constant movement, of the attitude that defines your city–right?

I’ve gotten pretty good at finding glimmers of affection for my city, now that I’ve completely expended all ways to complain about it (especially after writing this post). Here’s a couple of tips for Getting Over Location Hatred And Just Living Your God Damn Life:

1. Start thinking seriously about leaving.

Nothing has warmed my heart more to DC than starting to imagine my life somewhere else. You’ll find yourself thinking things like, “But where can I get Ethiopian food on the West Coast?” (even if you hardly ever eat Ethiopian food) or, “But all the museums here are free!” Seriously now, how often do you go to museums?

2. Brunch.

I know brunch has become the focal point of mocking hipsters right now, but I’m not embarrassed. The easiest, most foolproof way to love everything is to have four mimosas first thing the morning. It gives your whole day a happy glow… until nap time.

3. Go to every. single. new. bar.

I live in a neighborhood where there are an equal number of trendy dining establishments and places to get your checks cashed. So every time a new bar or restaurant opens up, I descend like a hawk onto those gin and tonics. I like to say I’m “supporting local business” but really this is about “finding the silver lining.”

4. Go away for the weekend.

If you live in DC, you’re lucky enough to be an hour away from dozens of vineyards, places to hike, and cute towns in the middle of bumblefuck. Don’t be afraid of the places where cows live: they will keep you sane. Day trips are my favorite way to “get away” and to also be filled with joy at returning to DC.

5. Find one thing you like and obsess over it.

Come on now. What do you think this whole bookstore thing is all about?

Back to Reality

by

Never mind that it’s been three weeks since take off from Reykjavik; I am slowly coming back to the real world. It’s been a hard adjustment, since Iceland is the most dramatically unreal place I’ve ever been.

Case in point:

Between jet lag, the post-traveling plague, and flying through Breaking Bad rather than writing or reading, I’ve fallen a little behind on my bookstore project. Never fear: Reykjavik was the perfect place to fulfill my bookish soul.

Bookstores next to bars…

Used bookstores…

Bookstores the size of office buildings…

Double rainbow waterfalls…

Someone remind me: why did I leave?

A Not-So-Short List of Things I’ve Been Meaning to Write About

by
  • The awesomeness of Moby Dick
  • A Kramerbooks vs. Politics and Prose showdown
  • How I thought Rick Santorum had dropped out of the race in like December. Not true, as it turns out.
  • Learning HTML, and inflicting this on my blog in the near future

These purposeful posts which threaten to give my blog an actual theme will have to wait. I’m spending the next week in a frenzied packing state, which will end here:

Image

You can understand how I’m a little distracted, right?

In My Future Perfect Life

by

In my future perfect life, I’ll live in a place where I can see the sea, or mountains, or both, from the window of my apartment.

In my future perfect life, I’ll be the kind of person who wakes up naturally at 6:00 AM. I’ll have time to go for a run before sitting down to follow my precise writing schedule for the day. My running shoes will be so brightly neon-colored that they will blind passersby.

I’ll write all day, and will be widely acclaimed (obviously). My writing will be funded by purely ethical, though currently unidentified, sources.

I’ll probably get a letter inviting me to join the new Hogwarts post-graduate studies program. I will gladly accept.

(I’d also take Brakebills, which, realistically speaking, is more likely to have a grad school.)

In my future perfect life, I’ll be the kind of person who undertakes and completes home improvement projects. Maybe I’d even have a vegetable garden–not to get too crazy here. (Thank you for the new psychoses, Pinterest.)

I’ll visit between three and five countries each year. This will be increasingly easy as jetpacks and teleportation start making their way into common practice.

Speaking of, these new inventions will enable me to be carless. Also, I’ll live within walking distance of most of the things I need, including all of my friends. We’ll take over a city block.

I’ll still be a crazy cat lady.

Scientists will discover a vaccine for the zombie virus–just so we can all stop worrying.

Future perfect life? I’m ready.