Again, I am taking a break from the weekly book write-up to sort of honor the best books that I have read this year.
There are already a lot of book blogs with similar posts, and I am tempted to pattern my best and worst list from some. I chose not to because I know I would never finish this post. So what I did is that I thought of a pseudo-award for each book included in my list.
Let me just state for the record that 2011 is the most voracious reading year in my life. Ever. Hurrah! That’s 52 books, if you want to know, which is more or less one book a week. I hope to do an encore next year. Or even beat this record.
Below is the list of books that I gave five stars, in alphabetical order. They are 12, so I might as well call them The 12 Books of 2011. Titles with an asterisk (*) are books that are in my Top 5. Without further ado here they are.
Atonement by Ian McEwan (Best Movie Tie-In) – I have a different experience with this book because when my friend and I were ranting about it, he inadvertently told me the structure of the novel. That is a major spoiler, and I almost killed him for it. But when I think about it, I think it made me love the novel more. Cecilia’s “Come back” haunts me every time I think of this novel. Spoilers aren’t so bad after all.
Black Swan Green by David Mitchell (Best Young Adult Novel. Okay, this is not really YA, but since the protagonist is twelve years old…) – Okay, call me a rabid fan. I admit it. I might have given this five stars just because I am a fan, but let me just say that it really, really deserves the rating that I gave it. This is what I would call a literary young adult novel. It is nostalgic and subtly heartbreaking. And if you want to have a brand new copy of this book, keep tracking this blog. I am brewing something.
The Bridge Of San Luis Rey by Thornton Wilder* (Best Graphic Novel. Well, my edition has beautiful illustrations.) – Short but heart-wrenching. Poignant and unforgettable. The characters have all something to say. Their loneliness is recognizable. And why did that bridge fall? Is it an architectural problem? Or is it the weight of the people’s hearts? I even bought an extra copy so that I could shove it to other people’s faces and make them read it.
Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell* (Best New Author. Not necessarily new, but new is used relatively here.) – By god’s nightgown! Yes, this is a staggering literary achievement. And yes, two David Mitchell novels in a Top 12 list might send eyebrows orbiting, but really, this novel pushed the limits of the novel form. I don’t think there is nothing that Mitchell cannot do with a novel. And should I still mention that I am more than excited to watch the upcoming film adaptation?
Gone With The Wind by Margaret Mitchell (Best Drama Series. Drama series translates to a looong novel.) – A literal doorstopper. Not as literary as it seems. It is a surprisingly easy read despite the breadth. Wonderfully annoying. Scarlett O’Hara will always be an unforgettable character. She will be remembered as the strong-headed woman. Never mind her scheming and devious ways. You have to give her credit for that.
The Gospel According To Jesus Christ by Jose Saramago* (Lifetime Achievement Award) – Thought-provoking, funny, bittersweet. Not for the faint of heart and for the faithless. I think this is a more intelligent version of the Robert Langdon series. But I haven’t read those, and it is not a fair comparison because Saramago is seated on a higher level. And how can I forget this line: One has to be God to enjoy so much bloodshed.
Hunger by Knut Hamsun* (Best Novel of the Year) – You saw this coming. This is my favorite read of the year. How could a late 19th century novel sound so modern? It’s because this is set to become a classic. One of the frontrunners of pantheism, this book is a wild ride that takes us to the recesses of a man’s mind who is trying to achieve transcendence through hunger. I committed myself to buying every copy that I see in Book Sale branches and give them away. I already gave a fellow blogger a copy.
Independent People by Halldor Laxness* (Best Child Actor, the poetic Little Noni) – They say it’s about coffee and sheep. Even the person who wrote the introduction said that. But aside from these two is the battle between a father swallowed by pride and a stepdaughter engulfed with contempt. And the persistence of people to defy the laws of fate and nature. And there’s Little Noni who imagines apples are red potatoes.
The Known World by Edward P. Jones (Best Soundtrack. Soundtrack translates to being a real lyric page-turner. Okay, I am just forcing that to make two things connect.) – A new take on black slavery. Blacks owning blacks. A race within a race. Regardless of that, this is a stunner. At the end of the book, it poses this question: are you sure you are lucid enough to know what the world is made of? And then there’s Luke, the boy who has to die just to break the chain of lies. And that little something about Luke is something that the author himself told me.
Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov (Best Screenplay. Screenplay translates to narratives, writing, passages, etc.) – A blog I am following is whining so much on how the subject of this book is not his cup of tea. Stop that already and grow up! We do not read Lolita because we have an interest in pedophile. We read it because Nabokov is a genius. He is capable of drawing sympathy from the reader and making the ageing narrator’s love for his stepdaughter probably one of the most convincing love stories ever written.
The Remains Of The Day by Kazuo Ishiguro (Best Actor, the dignified Mr. Stevens.) – After reading this, I became an official Ishiguro fan. I really felt like a dignified butler while I was reading this that it even got to the point that I was emulating Mr. Stevens. I would walk around our office with square shoulders and measured steps. And the subtlety of the narrative! It just hits you without even knowing when.
The Sense Of An Ending by Julian Barnes (Best Short Film. Short film translates to single-sitting reads.) – Finally, a book that is actually published this year. I read this in one sitting as demanded by the book jacket. I’ve dilly-dallied with my rating for this, but I decided it deserves those five stars because of the narrator’s semblance to real life, which makes me further believe that we don’t own our memories. Our memories own us. And what we mistake for our memories might be just the workings of our twisted minds.
If there is a best list, it’s only fitting that there is a counterpart. And if I have a dozen books that I rated five stars this year, I only have five books that I rated one or two stars, which means I was pretty satisfied with most of the books that I read. And instead of a pseudo-award, I will make an attempt at humor by providing a title that I assume would summarize the whole novel to save others from misery.
Only two out of these five books were axed with a one star. And oh, the books that I rated with two stars do not necessarily mean that they are bad. They are relatively the worst because of the rating.
The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton (Why You Should Not Flirt with Others When You Are Expected to Marry an Archer for a Very Long Time, 2 stars) – If this book were a color, this is the color mauve, a color trying to be either pink or purple that it ends up lost in the blandness between the two. I may have missed a lot, and how dare I diss this book, but I’d rather read a Russian or a 19th century English novel than this one.
The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje (Perform Euthanasia on a Severely Burned Man or Wait Forever for Him to Die, 2 stars) – I am surprised at myself for not liking this because this is the sort of book that I like. Or should like. Perhaps the narrative is too dreamy that it ended up not registering in my head. Like a dream. Yes it’s too dreamy, it’s about a man talking about his last days before he was burned. And a nurse who apparently likes dying burned men.
A Passage To India by E. M. Forster (The Accusations of a Sexually Deprived and Disillusioned English Woman, 2 stars) – Kiran Desai, in her The Inheritance of Loss, said something about the horror and pretense of non-Indians writing about India. Enough said. I’m sure at least one fellow blogger would back me up on this. And this fellow blogger, we both took the pain of reading this together. But still.
A Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Man by James Joyce (How to Write a Novel in the First Chapter and Fill the Next Four Chapters with a Lot of Muddled Talk, Talk, Talk, 1 star) – The narrative is clumsy. The thoughts are disjointed. There isn’t really anything going on. It feels like reading the first draft of a novel. Sure, the theme of the book is overarching, but I daresay it was not delivered as it would had it been written with more skillful writing.
Tropic Of Cancer by Henry Miller (How to Write a Novel in the Last Chapter and Fill the Previous 300 Pages with Words Synonymous with the Female Sex, 1 star) – Incoherent and bordering on trash, there’s not a lot to have this whole book redeemed. There are some good parts though, but the protagonist goes out of his way to return to that bombastic language that he uses. I tried counting how many times the word cunt was used. Of course, I lost track.
There you have it! More good books to come for the coming new year!