Evening to you! The Wise Man's Fear by Patrick Rothfuss continues to be a really, really long book, but endlessly enjoyable none-the-less. I've managed to make it to page 612, so I'm officially over halfway through! So far I think Kvothe is actually better of in this book than book one, while avoiding spoilers I will say he's fallen into the favor of a rich person who doesn't want to kill or flog him, which is exceedingly good news considering his luck. I'm truly looking forward to him going on to do even more epic adventuring, and hopefully we'll see present day Kvothe become a bit more motivated once again.
Onto the question of movie adaptations. Recently movie adaptations have gotten quite a bit better than we've seen them to be in the past. I think we can all agree Peter Jackson improved Ralph Bakshi's telling of The Lord of The Rings (Why did he rob Aragorn of his pants? Bollocks! The poor strider deserves his pants!) But putting aside the God-awful efforts of the 90's to adapt fantasy novels, recently with some notable exceptions, these film efforts have improved monumentally.
For these good film adaptations, I actually believe it does encourage people to read the books. If one sees a movie they truly enjoy, then a lot of people, even more hesitant readers may be encouraged to see where it all began. However, if the film was terrible, we can all see how this would backfire. Ultimately, I think these movies can only aid the books as long as they were created with love for the books in mind. So film on Peter Jackson, and begone Ralph Bakshi! For all good books deserve good films, but not even the most miserable books deserve to be maimed by cheap Hollywood efforts!
Friday, September 27, 2013
Friday, September 20, 2013
The Scarlet Letter, I'd Rather Not
Greeting you lovlies you! This book is so long! So far I'm on page 350 of The Wise Man's Fear the second in The Kingkiller Chronicle by Patrick Rothfuss. So far our young hero Kvothe has been attacked relentlessly by all kinds of interesting people who want to kill him, one of them was a girl named Devi, which all things considered was interesting, because I would never try to kill Kvothe, but alas, I suppose not all Devis can be so fond of him. From early on we've known that Kvothe gets expelled from the University, but I'm only two-hundred pages shy of being halfway done, so I'm feeling that will happen fairly soon. Though I think it'll be rather sad when he leaves the university because I love some of the professors so much (I mean really, Master Elodin's class is called "Introduction on How Not to Be a Stupid Jackass") but I think it'll ultimately be rather refreshing to finally see Kvothe in a different setting.
Now on to the topic at hand, books one is assigned in class, what a wonderful mess that is. Though the answer is trite, I think it's honestly a mix of several different reasons that ultimately depend on the individual person and book and how the assignment is handled and how we treat the definition of what "literature" is, I could write a speech on this truly.
First of all let's talk about literature. Though certainly not all, and not really any of the good ones or any I've had, but some teachers and people in general get wrapped up in the idea that the only books worth reading are those that we dub literature, and that if any reader occasionally, or regularly enjoys a book that's simply light and entertaining (yes I'm talking about Twilight) suddenly this reader is tasteless, uneducated, and thinks that their boyfriends should sneak into their bedrooms at night and then send them into a suicidal frenzy, when really one may read a book, see it as a fun read, and move on. That's normal, and these books (let's call them snack books) have their place. You can't only eat them, they won't fully satisfy you're appetite, but many of them are healthy, or at least harmless in moderation. Now, what if one was only ever expected to read Tolstoy, Twain, and Tolkien, ( five star meal books) well, I think we would all be broke, over-stuffed, and eventually get rather sick of it all and really just wish we could have a simple sandwich. Though the metaphor may be rather long, it really comes down to what books are defined as being "worth reading".
Freshman year, the theme we were asked to look at through the different stories, books, plays, etc. we were reading was whether man was inherently good or inherently evil, and while most of the other freshman lit classes had their students reading Lord of the Flies, my lovely English teacher had us reading The Hunger Games, a book that explores the same themes while not teaching us that left to their own devices children would brutally kill each other. This all peaks at how books are presented to students.
When students are first being asked to read literature in class and do analysis of it, these books are expressed as the only good books, it becomes a matter of bitterness. When taking young elementary and middle school aged students who love to read, and suddenly only giving them things they don't want to read, it becomes a matter of "my opinion of valuable books is more valuable than yours" which can often lead to a lack of desire to read all together, let alone the same types of books they've been forced to read for years. Now, this isn't a criticism of literature, I swallow Austen, Dumas, Twain, and Shakespeare like sweet tea in the summer time, but only when they've been presented to be as lovable stories that I should read because people who I value have recommended them to me, but I'd maintain that nothing has taught me more about the goodness of the flawed man than The Death Gate Cycle or even animes like Rurouni Kenshin, Fullmetal Alchemist, and Death Note, stories that explore man's nature and the totalitarian philosophy without being forced to choke down Hawthorne like medicine for my cancer that ironically only made it worse.
So here are my thoughts, three options I think would cure today's literary-phobia: one, if it is a necessity for students to read The Glass Menagerie (which I enjoyed, thank you very much) their junior year, then make sure the class is reading it in specific increments with carefully evaluated class discussions delving deep into the issues the book is suppose to be uncovering. Two, present a potential reading list of fifty or so books that are considered great literature and give your students the option of picking the book that speaks true to them, if they'd rather read Jane Eyre than War and Peace, let them, if that's what they want they'll likely get more out of it anyway. Or three if the situation allows, explain to the class that for said unit the idea of allegory (or you know, whatever else) is being considered, and let them choose between Animal Farm, The Chronicles of Narnia, A New Leaf, or anything they're aware of that would fall into this category and leave it to the teacher's discretion to decide whether the book would be suitable or not. Reading should be a pleasure, and so should literature, but anything forced will only ever be a burden. Use your words, converse with the students, because even The Scarlet Letter can be talked about and unwrapped if done so with a commutative teacher.
Now on to the topic at hand, books one is assigned in class, what a wonderful mess that is. Though the answer is trite, I think it's honestly a mix of several different reasons that ultimately depend on the individual person and book and how the assignment is handled and how we treat the definition of what "literature" is, I could write a speech on this truly.
First of all let's talk about literature. Though certainly not all, and not really any of the good ones or any I've had, but some teachers and people in general get wrapped up in the idea that the only books worth reading are those that we dub literature, and that if any reader occasionally, or regularly enjoys a book that's simply light and entertaining (yes I'm talking about Twilight) suddenly this reader is tasteless, uneducated, and thinks that their boyfriends should sneak into their bedrooms at night and then send them into a suicidal frenzy, when really one may read a book, see it as a fun read, and move on. That's normal, and these books (let's call them snack books) have their place. You can't only eat them, they won't fully satisfy you're appetite, but many of them are healthy, or at least harmless in moderation. Now, what if one was only ever expected to read Tolstoy, Twain, and Tolkien, ( five star meal books) well, I think we would all be broke, over-stuffed, and eventually get rather sick of it all and really just wish we could have a simple sandwich. Though the metaphor may be rather long, it really comes down to what books are defined as being "worth reading".
Freshman year, the theme we were asked to look at through the different stories, books, plays, etc. we were reading was whether man was inherently good or inherently evil, and while most of the other freshman lit classes had their students reading Lord of the Flies, my lovely English teacher had us reading The Hunger Games, a book that explores the same themes while not teaching us that left to their own devices children would brutally kill each other. This all peaks at how books are presented to students.
When students are first being asked to read literature in class and do analysis of it, these books are expressed as the only good books, it becomes a matter of bitterness. When taking young elementary and middle school aged students who love to read, and suddenly only giving them things they don't want to read, it becomes a matter of "my opinion of valuable books is more valuable than yours" which can often lead to a lack of desire to read all together, let alone the same types of books they've been forced to read for years. Now, this isn't a criticism of literature, I swallow Austen, Dumas, Twain, and Shakespeare like sweet tea in the summer time, but only when they've been presented to be as lovable stories that I should read because people who I value have recommended them to me, but I'd maintain that nothing has taught me more about the goodness of the flawed man than The Death Gate Cycle or even animes like Rurouni Kenshin, Fullmetal Alchemist, and Death Note, stories that explore man's nature and the totalitarian philosophy without being forced to choke down Hawthorne like medicine for my cancer that ironically only made it worse.
So here are my thoughts, three options I think would cure today's literary-phobia: one, if it is a necessity for students to read The Glass Menagerie (which I enjoyed, thank you very much) their junior year, then make sure the class is reading it in specific increments with carefully evaluated class discussions delving deep into the issues the book is suppose to be uncovering. Two, present a potential reading list of fifty or so books that are considered great literature and give your students the option of picking the book that speaks true to them, if they'd rather read Jane Eyre than War and Peace, let them, if that's what they want they'll likely get more out of it anyway. Or three if the situation allows, explain to the class that for said unit the idea of allegory (or you know, whatever else) is being considered, and let them choose between Animal Farm, The Chronicles of Narnia, A New Leaf, or anything they're aware of that would fall into this category and leave it to the teacher's discretion to decide whether the book would be suitable or not. Reading should be a pleasure, and so should literature, but anything forced will only ever be a burden. Use your words, converse with the students, because even The Scarlet Letter can be talked about and unwrapped if done so with a commutative teacher.
Friday, September 13, 2013
A Story of Words
A Quick update on where I am in The Wise Man's Fear by Patrick Rothfuss, the second of The Kingkiller Chronicle. The sequel to The Name of The Wind is equally brilliant, losing none of the first book charm to the second book doom that so many sequels of even the best variety often fall victim too. I don't want to post spoilers, but the plot dost thicken, and I despise Ambrose viciously. I'm on page 244 out of 1107, so I have a long trek ahead of me, but I look forward to all of it greatly.
It's hard to say where my story of books began. Not with pictures, or even really being very good at reading, actually I needed special help in elementary school because I wasn't at grade level. But I think the story begins with my sister. Now, growing up, the main knowledge I had of my sister was that she had brown hair, glasses, wore really cool T-shirts, called me a bra when I was three (she said brat, I heard wrong) she loved to read, and wanted to be a writer. Now, being the idolizing little sister that I was at the age of seven, I too wanted to have brown hair, glasses, really cool T-shirts, call people bras, love reading and be a writer, unless only one person can be a writer in which case I would just turn into a blob, this remains frighteningly accurate.
There weren't a huge number of children's books I can really remember loving. Most of them seemed contrived, overly simple, and well, boring. I remember reading picture books and simply not caring about all of the random children learning moral tales from the peanut butter the spilled. Now, there were exceptions, I was a connoisseur of profound children's literature such as When You Give A Mouse A Cookie and The Very Hungry Caterpillar which I think we can all agree both hold more literary merit than The Scarlet Letter so I have no shame, I would still rather read either of those a million times that stare at one sentence Nathaniel Hawthorne stroked his mammoth of an ego while writing. But I loved The Death Gate Cycle by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman and Dominic Deegan: Oracle for Hire by Mooki with a sincere passion that stays with me today.
Both of these series my sister began reading to me in about the first or second grade, and they were my greatest loves. I would love nothing more than to simply spend hours listening to the story of Haplo, an anti-hero if I've ever seen one and his dog, or rather the dog, while I sat on the floor wrapped in blankets simply staring at the plywood patterns of the bookshelves in her room, or coloring in squares of graph paper with markers. Or reading a comic with sometimes poor art but a brilliant story about a grumpy seer who falls in love with a powerful yet suicidal sorceress named Luna with tusks that never let her feel beautiful. These are bizarre stories, but they taught me more than diction, I learned to be a person from them, I learned to empathize with types of people that would never be a character in The Box Car Children or The Magic Tree House. In a time where I was made of painful shyness and a weak will, stories and books at least began teaching me to love and admire and seek the personal strength I was lacking.
My story of books, no words, continues. With a love for stories so profound I sometimes feel I am little but that love. Grateful is too weak a word for what I feel towards my sister for not seeing a little curly-haired girl and thinking "child", but seeing her sister instead and thinking "person", and upon thinking this, gave me the greatest food any person needs. "Give a girl a book, and she'll read for a day. Teach her to love words, and she'll have a passion for a lifetime." Thanks is by no means enough, but I thank her none the less.
It's hard to say where my story of books began. Not with pictures, or even really being very good at reading, actually I needed special help in elementary school because I wasn't at grade level. But I think the story begins with my sister. Now, growing up, the main knowledge I had of my sister was that she had brown hair, glasses, wore really cool T-shirts, called me a bra when I was three (she said brat, I heard wrong) she loved to read, and wanted to be a writer. Now, being the idolizing little sister that I was at the age of seven, I too wanted to have brown hair, glasses, really cool T-shirts, call people bras, love reading and be a writer, unless only one person can be a writer in which case I would just turn into a blob, this remains frighteningly accurate.
There weren't a huge number of children's books I can really remember loving. Most of them seemed contrived, overly simple, and well, boring. I remember reading picture books and simply not caring about all of the random children learning moral tales from the peanut butter the spilled. Now, there were exceptions, I was a connoisseur of profound children's literature such as When You Give A Mouse A Cookie and The Very Hungry Caterpillar which I think we can all agree both hold more literary merit than The Scarlet Letter so I have no shame, I would still rather read either of those a million times that stare at one sentence Nathaniel Hawthorne stroked his mammoth of an ego while writing. But I loved The Death Gate Cycle by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman and Dominic Deegan: Oracle for Hire by Mooki with a sincere passion that stays with me today.
Both of these series my sister began reading to me in about the first or second grade, and they were my greatest loves. I would love nothing more than to simply spend hours listening to the story of Haplo, an anti-hero if I've ever seen one and his dog, or rather the dog, while I sat on the floor wrapped in blankets simply staring at the plywood patterns of the bookshelves in her room, or coloring in squares of graph paper with markers. Or reading a comic with sometimes poor art but a brilliant story about a grumpy seer who falls in love with a powerful yet suicidal sorceress named Luna with tusks that never let her feel beautiful. These are bizarre stories, but they taught me more than diction, I learned to be a person from them, I learned to empathize with types of people that would never be a character in The Box Car Children or The Magic Tree House. In a time where I was made of painful shyness and a weak will, stories and books at least began teaching me to love and admire and seek the personal strength I was lacking.
My story of books, no words, continues. With a love for stories so profound I sometimes feel I am little but that love. Grateful is too weak a word for what I feel towards my sister for not seeing a little curly-haired girl and thinking "child", but seeing her sister instead and thinking "person", and upon thinking this, gave me the greatest food any person needs. "Give a girl a book, and she'll read for a day. Teach her to love words, and she'll have a passion for a lifetime." Thanks is by no means enough, but I thank her none the less.
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss
Kvothe is a man of legend. Marveled at for the lives he's saved, and cursed for those he's killed, and sung about for those he's loved, a hero of days gone by has retreated from his brilliant past to take on the duties of an inn-keeper under the name "Kote" at a small establishment called "The Weystone." As Kvothe polishes his cups and counters a man called the Chronicler is making his way on dangerous roads to request the story of a man as misunderstood as he is remembered from the hero of the legends himself. The Name of the Wind is the first of three days Kvothe spends telling his life's story to a historian and a student who can only hope this great man's journey doesn't truly end in a quiet tavern. The seven words to make a woman love you, dragons, drinks, folly, futility, infatuation and bravery make up the epic ballad of a man larger than life, and a story richer than kings.
I simply can't begin to express how sincerely I enjoyed The Name of the Wind Day One of The Kingkiller Chronicle. I haven't read a book in such a while that truly seems so...bardic. The framing used in the story is reminiscent of The Arabian Nights and brings a rich reality to the telling of the story. I simply cannot wait to read the second of the series, and count down the days on my calendar to...oh, um, until maybe he announces when it will be out but there isn't any news right now and his website said to wait and he didn't like withholding information and there'll be news when there is....
Anyway, there's so much I could say about a book like this. It was brilliant, beautiful, funny, tragic, romantic, tender, exciting and all around glorious. But what I want to say, what I really want to bring up, is the lead of this book, Kvothe, he wins. There. He did it. He, with just the first installment mind you, has just beat every young, starry-eyed orphan hero in fantasy book history for being the single most, perpetually screwed over character in existence. Feel free to challenge me on this, I would love to read any number of other fantasy books about a young kid who got traumatized, whipped, starved, robbed, stabbed, ignored, heart-broken, burned, knocked-out, threatened, told to jump off buildings-ed, did, and generally, well, screwed over than him, please let me know, because if so, authors are growing far too cruel (CLAMP).
But putting aside all of that fun, the book was remarkable. Nothing makes me happier than seeing some true bardic poetry come to the telling of stories, I haven't read much like it in the way of beautiful writing since The Lord of the Rings, and there isn't much of a greater compliment I can give than that. "It was night again. The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts. ... It was the patient, cut-flower sound of a man who is waiting to die" (pg. 1-2).
Total pages: 722
Number of Flying Platypus Tea Cups: 10/10
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