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I've picked up Dante's Divine Comedy (Inferno, Purgatorio, and Paradise) to study for my WIP.

(Side note: thank you, Kindle, for making this selection available to me for free. We love you, Kindle, oh yes, we do.)

A couple of interesting observations from my study of the poem and the little I've read on it (mostly in order to understand the references):

1. The Roman Catholic concept of purgatory originated with this work, which is allegorical. Most likely, Dante intended Purgatorio to represent the Christian life. Some things never change when we take allegory too literally.
2. The arrangement of sins--which is worse, in other words--differs from how the evangelical church would today arrange sins. While Dante's work isn't divinely inspired (and therefore not the biblical standard for arrangement of sin), it provides an interesting anthropological study in how our cultures affect our view of sin. To clarify: this doesn't imply that lust, for example, is a sin in one culture and not in another, or that the culture itself defines lust. It shows how we as human beings attempting to grapple with sin, its effects, and transformation from sin into life, do so differently in different ages. Dante's culture, and the problems therein, affected which sins (while all worthy of punishment and separation from God) seem more harmful. It brought to light the sins we prefer to gloss over because of our situation.
3. Dante struggled with God's justice and mercy. He reiterates that those in hell reside there because they denied Christ. And, above all, separation from God is a horrible thing. But you also see in Dante this hesitation to see good people in the hands of an angry God. So men like Virgil, Homer, Julius Caesar, Plato, and other great philosophers and thinkers, while apart from God (and quite upset to be so, to Dante's credit) are not actively tortured as others are. These men reside in a meadow in hell, which wouldn't seem so bad except for the complete lack of presence from God. Dante asks, "Is this eternal? Or will there be reprieve?"
   
   This subject continues to bother us. What is hell? What is the gnashing of teeth? What about those who seemed so close to baptism?
4. Dante incorporated Greek and Roman mythology (popular during his day as mythology saw a resurgence in the Renaissance). He uses it almost sacramentally: everyday items infused with God's grace to draw the unknowing to God.
5. Finally, an amusement: Dante had no quelms about putting real people in hell, men he admired, and men he blamed for the downfall of Florentine society. This is the writer's ultimate retribution, is it not? Cross me, and I'll put you in my novel. We may change the names (Dante didn't bother to do even that!), but we carry out our ideas of justice and revenge in our own ways.

Recently I finished Unveiling by Suzanne Wolfe (an excellent read I highly recommend due to her poetic prose, complex characters, and willingness to enter into suffering and beauty). In it she comments that museums, with their metered environments, lose the contexts of churches and homes for art. This made me think about museum installations. Are they the artist's desire to create context where none exists?

I suppose "no context" is impossible. How about sterile? Removed? Unfamiliar with the breathings of our daily lives?

***

Over the past several years, memoirs have invaded Barnes and Nobles. I recently read an article about this plethora of memoirs. The author (Daniel Mendelsohn) compared this to the phenomenon of reality TV. He remarked, "If you can watch a real lonely woman yearning after young hunks on a reality dating show, why bother with Emma Bovary?"*

In a global, transient, cyber world, are memoirs our attempts to grasp a lost context? The question, "Where are you from?" becomes more and more difficult to answer without giving an essay.

Mendelsohn also notes that this may stem from a misunderstanding of the type of truth presented by fiction, "'a truth' about life," he says, "whereas memoirs and nonfiction accounts represent 'the truth' about specific things that have happened." While not wanting to dismiss all memoirs by any means, in a world where specifics shift faster than we change our shampoo bottles, perhaps we look for specifics rather than general truths in the books we read.

*quote from "But Enough About Me" in The New Yorker, Jan. 25, 2010, p. 73.

I could have said, "Why Niles* Is Great in Bed," but I do have scruples.

My husband, because he loves me and because he realized we could write it off (but mostly because he loves me), gave me a Kindle as my Christmas/birthday gift. I fell in love. And the other night, I discovered why a Kindle makes for great bedtime reading.

Since the Sony Reader, the Kindle, and other ebook readers, publishers and readers have discussed the plausibility of paper books disappearing (for example, Monica raised the discussion yesterday).

Yes, I love paper books. I love the smell. I love the sound of the binding giving way for the first time. I love walking into a bookstore, dizzy with opportunities for new friends. But more than that, I love stories and characters. I love whatever brings these stories and characters into my life.

Still, I don't think the paper book will die. At least, not for a long time.

Here are some reasons why I love my Kindle:

1. When reading in bed, instead of trying to hold a heavy book open with one hand while hiding the other arm under the covers to keep it warm, I can hold the light Kindle one-handed easily. Also, there's no awkward adjusting when I turn a page (this happens when I'm laying on my side).
2. You can get almost any classic book free on Kindle. Who doesn't think free books are a plus? If you're a classics lover, this is a dream come true.
3. Books are cheaper. (No, I haven't done the math to see how long it would take to pay back the cost of the Kindle.)
4. Currently, if a bookstore overbuys a title, they can return these books to the publisher. They do so by ripping off the cover. These books cannot be reused. Not only that, but if they don't sell, that's a lot of wasted paper and money. With ebook technology, perhaps publishers can save some money and take more risks.
5. Though it costs a small fee to upload Word docs on a Kindle, I can. I have yet to do it (since my Kindle is still new), but this feature allows me to make editing notes in the doc. This gives my eyes a much-needed break from the computer screen.
6. Speaking of that break, I can read blogs on my Kindle.
7. All of my Kindle books and notes are backed up in my online Amazon account. (Yes, Amazon is taking over the world along with Apple.) This means if something ever does happen to my Kindle (God forbid), I don't lose my work or my books. (You can't say this if a fire ripped through your house.)
8. The Kindle has a built-in dictionary. If I need to know the meaning of a word, I scroll the cursor in front of that word, and voila! The dictionary's definition appears in the footnotes. I could have used this feature while reading The Elegance of the Hedgehog.
9. Buying books (or downloading them for free) is easy-peasy. Literally one-touch. My husband would put this particular feature in the below list (things that I don't love). But I'm the one writing this, so it stays here.

And here are the things that I don't love about my Kindle:

1. I can't borrow a book through Kindle. In this economy, I borrow most books from the library or from friends. Perhaps Kindle could work on some technology (like the technology that allows me to "borrow" audio books from my library) so that after a two- or three-week period, the book automatically deletes from your Kindle, or something like that.
2. I'm more nervous reading my Kindle while eating or cooking. Sauces splashes on a book are one thing, but I worry about corrupting an electronic device.
3. I enjoy the bookstore experience. I love flipping through books to decide which one I'll buy next. Of course, I lose this whenever I shop at Amazon period. Their "Look Inside!" feature will never come close to a real bookstore experience.

Since I don't own the new Nook (Barnes and Noble's competitive ebook reader), I can't do a fair comparison. My husband researched some of the differences here. If I remember correctly, he decided on the Kindle because the Nook does not offer Word doc support while the Kindle does. As a writer and editor, this is a key feature for me. It does seem that the Nook as some sort of technology for lending books, though I cannot confirm this, and I don't know what this means exactly.

When I asked my husband if he researched the Sony reader, he replied, "Oh, Sony's are out." He's the gadget expert in the family.

*Niles is the name of my Kindle.

The Hour I First Believed: A Novel (P.S.) by Wally Lamb is the American novel of this decade. It grapples with the real events of Columbine, Katrina, 9/11, the war in the Middle East, and other personal tragedies such as alcoholism, drug addiction, divorce, affairs. In other words, it's an epic novel of grief. It explores the sins of the father and mother and their effects on generations to come.

But it isn't distant in its encompassing endeavor. All of these events come through the eyes of Caelum, a man who is victim, monster, and victor. He and his wife survived Columbine and attempt to put their lives back together in the aftermath. In the tragedies of our day, Caelum finds guidance in the myths of old.

Lamb explores questions such as: What do we do with grief? What is the difference between justice and vengeance and how does grace and redemption fit in? On what do we base/find hope? How do we heal when the contents of Pandora's open box wreak havoc in our world? Where does the monster begin and the victim end?

This is a hard book to read, but it's one I highly recommend.

From the perspective of two autodidacts and intellectuals, The Elegance of the Hedgehog exudes multi-syllabic sophistication. It embodies movement, beauty, and life itself.

A concierge and a twelve-year-old girl search for life's meaning and beauty and to escape the stereotypes of their class and fate. As they do, they strike up an unusual friendship that in itself proves that the similarities between humans supercedes the limits of class and age. And what better way to show this than have the two connect over literature, beauty, and philosophy--topics unexpected in a concierge and twelve year old.

Often, the powers that be encourage writers to avoid big words. And often, this is good advice because the big words don't contribute to--in fact, detract from--the overall voice. But here, all these magnificent, tasty words work--even in the voices of a concierge and a twelve year old--because Barbery makes it clear that these two women love words and beauty.

Toward the beginning of the book, Renee, our concierge, discusses phenomenology. Can we truly know things through our observations or are these things a construct of language, culture, and semantics? In other words, is the sky truly blue, or have we categorized it as blue? Renee affirms we can truly know things, the essence of things, more than our social constructs. Than Barbery uses Renee's story to show how Renee is more than the social construct of a concierge. She is more than her stereotype, in other words, though she hides behind the stereotype. She is knowable if you'll take the time to see her. And this is the key. The discussion of phenomenology asks the wrong questions. The question is: do we take the time to see and perceive? (Later, Renee also discusses Ockham's question: are there universals or only specifics? In other words, is there a universal table or only tables. Renee affirms universals by virtue that we have a category tables but that the universal is only through specifics--again, a topic of perception and categories.) Renee says, "I am struck with incredible force by this proof that sight is like a hand that tries to seize flowing water. Yes, our eyes may perceive, yet they do not observe; they may believe, yet they do not question; they may receive yet they do not search: they are emptied of desire, with neither hunger nor passion" (p. 304).

But Renee herself must also overcome the stereotypes she perpetuates of the elite French culture, stereotypes she formed after a childhood tragedy. To do so, she must accept the overtures of friendship from a Japanese gentleman (the new tenant in the building) and a twelve-year-old girl, Paloma. Only in these friendships can Renee embrace the freedom and responsibility not of the elite, to whom she believed freedom and responsibility belonged, but of humanity. In other words, only in community can we discover human freedom and responsibility, and as we do so, we also find beauty.

Barbery connects beauty with responsibility. Those free to know beauty also have a responsibility to create beauty. Beauty is also connected with movement and the meaning of life. Paloma concludes, "Maybe that's what life is about: there's a lot of despair, but also the odd moment of beauty, where time is no longer the same. It's as if those strains of music created a sort of interlude in time, something suspended, an elsewhere that had come to us, an always within never" (p. 325). This speaks to me about the beauty that sneaks in from the new earth. It's the beauty of rebirth and resurrection. It's the beauty of the kingdom of God, which dances in and around us--the always in today's never--and will someday be fully realized.

And now, dear friends, if you have not read the book, I bid you adieu as the rest of the post contains spoilers. But, please, read this book. And when you do, come tell me what you think. If you have read this book, please continue reading because I crave your opinion as to the end. I waver as to my feelings about it.

First impression: Barbery chose an easy way out. Yes, in this case, death was the easy ending. Conversion does not bring ease. Quite the contrary! Those around us resist the change in us and the change that threatens their way of life. Renee's death gives an escape to the difficulties and dreariness of everyday life following conversion.

Yet, second impression: Her sacrificial substitutionary death forces Paloma to experience real pain, and only in this experience can she make a real choice between embracing life (and its responsibilities and beauties) and her own escape.

Renee's death also carries a theme Paloma raised toward the beginning: "The important thing, said Paloma one day, is not the fact of dying, it is what you are doing in the moment of your death." Renee's death came about because she sought to save a fellow human being, something she perhaps would not have done if she hadn't herself up to the love and community of humans.

So, fellow readers, what do you think?

If Edgar Allen Poe and Charlotte Bronte were to write a story set in contemporary London, the result would be Her Fearful Symmetry. In a Victorian gothic style befitting of its cemetery setting, Audrey Niffenegger unfolds a story of relationships, love, and secrets.

Mirror twins Valentina and Julia inherit their Aunt Elspeth's estate after her death. The conditions: they must live in the London flat for a year before selling it, and they must disallow their parents, Edie (Elspeth's estranged twin) and Jack, from setting foot in it. Once there, the twins meet Robert, Martin, and Elspeth herself.

Robert, Elspeth's lover, spends his days working on his thesis, volunteering at the Highgate Cemetery (the subject of his thesis), and mourning Elspeth. Martin is their OCD neighbor who has papered his windows and refuses to leave his flat. Elspeth haunts her old flat, attempting to build some relationship with the twins and rebuild her relationship with Robert.

The book looks at the identity we receive from and lose in relationships, whether romantic, sibling, or parental. It also looks at how our desires for these relationships (and our insecurities in them) cause us to deceive those we love. With each character, I understand what motivates them, but I want to sit them down and talk some sense in them. The title is reminscent of (if not taken from, which I suspect), William Blake's famous poem The Tyger, which looks at the complexities of creation--the symmetry and combination of wildness and danger with calm, peace, and goodness. In Blake's poem, this symmetry exists both in creation (the peaceful Lamb v. the wild Tyger) and within the Tyger itself (majesty but a hint of danger and even evil). This is reflected in the characters of Her Fearful Symmetry, most obviously in Elspeth's loving and drawing nature contrasted with her manipulative side and in Valentina and Julia as a set of twins who mirror each other physically and in personality. But is this not true of all of us? We are made up of beauty and corruptness?

Niffenegger's delicate prose reflects a Victorian sensibility. The omnisicient voice makes the reader feel as if she haunts the characters. Her story is tightly woven, reflecting the same ability she displayed in Time Traveler's Wife without repeating story or theme. Her sub-plots support the theme of boundaries and identity in relationship, giving us contrast and fulfillment. Ms. Niffenegger has been able to deliver a book with a fresh story differing not just from the plethora of stories hitting our shelves but from her own success. I look forward to what else Ms. Niffenegger has to offer us in the future.

Willy, a hack writer who wants to be a serious writer, is sentenced to community service for running over a local high school's mascot. There, he meets Father Joe, who's searching for the daughter he lost while he was in jail, and Shaq, who's searching for his missing memories (and finds them in everyone else's pasts).

In his spare time,Willy works (and fails) at breaking his dead wife's espresso maker--a gift from some guy named Sean. He enlists the help of Ozena, one of Javatek's customer service representatives. Ozena spends her spare time playing board games with her mentally handicapped son.

I had high expectations after My Name Is Russell Fink, and Snyder's sophomore novel exceeds them. He's retained his quirky characters and style (I'm giving him honorary Yankee status with his Woody Allen-like neuroticism), but the story in Return Policy is more sophisticated and his characterization more mature. He doesn't shy away from hard questions and is able to pull off an unpredictable and satisfying end. Readers can't ignore the complications of the situation--what would I do in that situation? What's the right thing? There are no easy answers, and they demand more consideration than simple proof-texting.

His characters are so real, I forgot they were characters. The other night, I picked up the book before remembering that I had finished it. I indulged in an evening of silence (aka no reading) because I wasn't ready to let go. I have a feeling I'll be hearing Willy's voice in my head (joining the others) for a long time.

I highly recommend this book for fans of Coupland and Hornby.

I learned something new. It should be obvious. Realizing this feels like a Homer moment (meaning "Doh!", not epic poetry, though the Odyssey has some nice ah-ha moments).

Setting in books is more than the place where the story occurs. Setting is a mindset.

You'd think this would be more apparent, especially to someone who studied ethnomusicology in undergrad and cultural anthropology in grad school.

I came to the realization simply: I gravitate toward certain books and certain authors. And almost all of these certain books and certain authors are set in (and are from) north of D.C. (and on the east coast). Makes sense. I'm from New Jersey, and though I've lived in Texas for longer than I'd care to admit, my mind works like a Jersey girl's mind.

(My sub-realization that my mind is that of a Jersey girl's: when I visit Jersey every year, the people there, granted, mostly family, but not all, get me in a way that Texans never will. Andy Crouch said in Culture Making, "Most of us have experienced being in a context where our jokes were funny, our ideas provoked interest and excitement, and we felt light and quick on our feet, able to realize our vision with little sense of friction--and then being in another context where the same jokes and ideas fell completely flat and we found ourselves tongue-tied and embarrassed." I'm funnier in NJ than I am in Dallas.)

Recently, I've read several Southern fiction books. I admire these books. They're well-written, but I don't go gaga over them like other people do. I can't relate to how these people think.

Let me quote a review of South of Broad by Pat Conroy. I have not read this book, but this line from a review captures why I feel estranged from Southern fiction.

It's possible that the sobbing and sniveling occasionally felt inauthentic to me because I am a priggish New Englander who is uncomfortable with what may be a Southern penchant for drama. (From The Washington Post's Book World/washingtonpost.com. Reviewed by Chris Bohjalian.)

In the end, Southern fiction veers on the sentimental. Odd coming from a drama-queen like myself. But as my dad always told me, "Walk it off." I'm drawn to the more subtle and no-nonsense like Russo or Tyler or Olive Kitteridge. I come from a world where sarcasm is a love language. On the east coast, we prefer neuroticism to wallowing. Think Woody Allen v. Rebecca Wells, When Harry Met Sally v. Steel Magnolias.

This explains why I can't seem to set my stories in any place but New Jersey. I've tried, but the characters don't work anywhere else. Call me a regionalist, but I'm just saying. I am what I am. When you say "the ocean," I think Atlantic (and, more specifically, picture my own Ocean City, NJ). When you ask for a Coke, I will give you the actual brand. When you call me "ma'am," I will be insulted.

So tell me: do you prefer Southern charm, west coast hang-ten, midwest helping hand, or east coast sarcasm?

A Slow Burn by Mary DeMuth is the second book in the Defiance, Texas trilogy. The trilogy tells the story of Daisy Chance's murder through several POVs: her best friend, Jed (Daisy Chain, the first book), her mother, Emory, and the man who considers himself Emory's protector, Hixon (A Slow Burn, book two), and Jed's mother, Ousie (the final book of the trilogy). The third book reveals Daisy's killer, although in this book, DeMuth gives us a few more pieces of the puzzle. 

Emory Chance struggles with the guilt of losing her daughter. If she hadn't been strung out on drugs, she would've been able to protect Daisy. She lives with all the regrets of denied hugs and neglect. She promises to flush the drugs, but her guilt and shame spiral her downward. Drugs are her only chance for relief.

Hixon is a man of prophecy. God told him he'd marry Emory. Though Emory holds him at a distance, he sees past her hardness to her hurt.

With clean writing, DeMuth puts the reader into the center of Emory's remorse and pain but is able to write redemptively, offering hope to the worst of sinners (to quote Paul and presume Emory's feelings). In her Southern fiction style, DeMuth shows grace to people grappling with glorifying God in painful circumstances.

An accomplished writer, Mary’s parenting books include Authentic Parenting in a Postmodern Culture, Building the Christian Family You Never Had, and Ordinary Mom, Extraordinary God.  Her real-to-life novels inspire people to turn trials into triumphs: Watching the Tree Limbs (2007 Christy Award finalist, ACFW Book of the Year 2nd Place) and Wishing on Dandelions (2007 Retailer’s Choice Award finalist).

This post has been a part of a blog tour. You can read more reviews and interviews at the following blogs:

Admissions of a Suburban Philosopher
All are welcome here
A Musing Mom Speaks
A Sandy Path Book Reviews
A Writer’s Journey
Adventures of the Duncan Six
AP Free Writing 101
Arkansas Dreams
Aspire2 Blog
Awesome God…Ordinary Girl
Be Your Best Mom
Beams of Light Ministries
Bell Whistle Moon
Blog Tour Spot
Bluebonnet in the Snow
Book Nook Club
Caregiving and Beyond
Carla’s Writing Cafe
Carly Bird’s Home
Carma’s Window
Cheaper by the Half Dozen
Cindy’s Stamping and Reviews
Communicating the Vision
CommuniKate
Critty Joy
Declaring His Marvelous Work
Drive Home Productions
Edgewise
Elizabeth Bussey
Faith…Creativity…Life
Fiction for the Restless Reader
Fictionary
First Impressions
Five Bazillion and One
Fresh Brewed Writer
Gatorskunz and Mudcats
Heading Home
His Reading List
i don’t believe in grammar
J’s Spot
Joy in the Journey
Karen R. Evans
Kristin Early
L’Chaim
Latte with Me
Lit Fuse
Literary Fangirl Book Reviews
Luxury Reading
Merrie Destefano
Mocha with Linda
Moments with MarLo
Musings by Lynn
Musings of Edwina
My Alabaster Box
My Life Message
Net’s Book Notes
Niki Nowell
One Desert Rose
Paper Bridges
Passionate for the Glory of God
Pollywog Creek
Ranunculus Turtle
Real Hurts, Real Hope
Rebecca Barlow Jordan
Refresh My Soul
Restore
Scraps and Snippets
Sheila Deeth
Sherri Woodbridge
Sky-High View
Snapshot’s Photoblog
Surviving the Chaos
The 160-acre Woods
The Gospel Writer
The Harrison Kaleidoscope
The Heart of Writing
The Stubborn Servant
The View from Here
This That and The Other
To Be Beautiful
Unreasonable Grace
Walking Daily
WhadUsay
Where Romance Meets Therapy
Word Vessel
Write 2 Ignite
Write on the Knows
Writer’s Wanderings
Writing to the heart of the matter

I've been a reading fool lately (as opposed to when?), and because every book becomes part of who I am and every character a friend (which is why it breaks my heart to return the books to the library [I had a 40% off coupon for Borders the other day and spent an hour deciding which book to buy--choose wisely, grasshopper]), I love sharing with you guys these loves of my life.

(Can I get props for the uber-long sentence?)

So I have to share with you two books I recently finished, The Brief Wondrous LIfe of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz and That Old Cape Magic by Richard Russo.

The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao is misleading. The story is less about Oscar than you might think. It's a family epic tracing a family curse of sorts (the fuku, and yes) from Oscar's grandparents. It culminates in Oscar's attempt to break the curse. There's a bit of magic realism in it that reminds me of Gabriel Garcia Marquez. One thing I'm learning about myself--I love magic realism (though I don't see myself using it in my writing). It breaks the boundaries before the natural and the supernatural in bits and pieces the way Christ did when he walked on earth.

Two things I love about this book:

1. The voice--This book breaks the rules. Most of the narrative unfolds through telling rather than showing, but it works because of the strong voice. The author isn't telling the story, though you don't know this at first. You don't meet the narrator until halfway through the book. But the voice itself embeds you in the world of this family, which brings me to my second prop.

2. The world/setting--Oscar's mom immigrated to the States (to New Jersey, no less, although north Jersey, a different world than my beloved south Jersey--cue angelic music). Half the story is set in north Jersey, half in Dominican Republic, as their lives and identities are half Jersey, half Dominican. I love books with strong settings, but beyond that, the setting undergirded the theme of life as an immigrant or first generation American. The split setting supported the split identity.

I highly recommend this book (so do the Pulitzer people, by the way--if Diaz won a Pulitzer for his debut, how does he follow that?).

Now we come to Russo's That Old Cape Magic.

Framed by two weddings, That Old Cape Magic is the story of Jack Griffin's marriage and the family ties that shaped it. To the first wedding Griffin carries his father's ashes, seeking the appropriate place on the Cape to scatter them. By the second wedding a year later, Griffin has the ashes of his father (never discarding them the year before) and his mother. His inability to dump the ashes symbolizes his attempts and (albeit denied) inability to escape the influence of his parents.

I don't think this book is as strong as Nobody's Fool or some of his others--I think Russo excells when he has more pages to unfold his story and characters. Also, it's not as complicated because it focuses on one character. Part 1 is almost entirely introspection. While I don't have a problem with introspection, especially with Russo's writing that combines comedy and tragedy, Russo's dialogue and interactions show off his talent more so than anything else. Like a comedian, he finds the subtleties that define and shape humanity. This shines in Part 2.

Three things I love about this book:

1. The humanity--Russo knows people. He doesn't write this knowledge into abstracts and generalities, but embodies it in real people you're pretty sure you know (and, in fact, you do know by the end of the book). He notices the unnoticed. But the moment he notices it (and reveals this to you), you know exactly what he means.

2. The setting (see a theme here?)--I'm a sucker for books where setting becomes almost its own character, where the setting so influences the story that set somewhere else, it would be an entirely different narrative. In this book, the setting is so important, it's given in the title.

3. (Related to the first prop) His observations--Okay, this isn't just related to the first point; it's synonymous. But it deserves restating. He words these observations about movement and body language and people in such a way that they linger like a good wine. And these observations are much more than first appearances. For example, he talks about (I can't find the page number to quote it exactly) Griffin afraid of releasing the ashes into the wind so that he ends up wearing his father. I really should have marked these passages, but I couldn't come out of the story long enough to do so.

Do I have to mention that I recommend this book?

Next on the docket, Coupland's Eleanor Rigby (can you believe I haven't read this yet?).