I recently read Passing for Normal: A Memoir of Compulsion by Amy Wilensky. It was fairly interesting; as I’ve said, I like memoirs. My favorite parts were with Bryant, the friend.
I also read Going Sane by Adam Phillips. It was awful. Don’t read it. Psychoanalysts are crazy! Blurbs say it has “aphoristic vigor,” which seems to be a paraphrasis for “contains no actual evidence and ignores all scientific findings to make his wacky points in a very unconvincing manner”. Library Journal calls it “well-argued”; apparently they don’t read empirical studies over there at LJ. The basic premise of the book is indeed potentially interesting, but this is not the book that will get me to think about it. The author’s always saying things like “Isn’t it funny that when we say this word we always feel this way?” and then going on to argue for pages about why that is so. First of all, I think he’s a total nutjob because I don’t at all feel that way about that word and neither does anyone I know. I wonder who he’s been listening to? Then, in his multi-page arguments to support his false statement, he, again, ignores the, you know, evidence. Pesky thing. I can’t believe this guy has published multiple books and can only conclude that there is a sad lack of knowledge about psychological science in our post-secondary educational system, which causes his publishers to believe his snowjob.
On a brighter note, I read Something Borrowed, by Emily Griffin. It was ok. I did like most of Sex and the City, which this book consciously apes.
However, the book is mostly like that awful season of SATC where Mr. Big is cheating on his supermodel wife with Carrie, and the whole thing is just PAIN PAIN PAIN all around. Then again, it’s also very like a Shakespearean comedy where everyone is running around making out with the wrong people behind everyone else’s backs.
That’s kind of fun in a way, but it also makes me feel old. These people are supposed to be in their 30s– didn’t we outgrow that stuff in high school? The sequel looks terrible.
Finally, The House of Mirth, by Edith Wharton: Meditate on self-sabotage, young people. My edition has critical essays in it, but I didn’t read them, because I really don’t care about what the Marxist perspective or the deconstructionism perspective on this book is. That’s why I wasn’t an English major in college: I read for enjoyment, not to suck all the life out of something looking for some elusive theme.
I had a visitor this weekend, and I think I convinced her to join LibraryThing. Mwa hahhahaha!