Breakfast of Champions

            Breakfast of Champions*. I experienced one of these winning meals only two weeks ago--when I went temporarily insane and voluntarily ran 3 miles before bottomless brunch. Things were poppin off for the LGBT pride parade (woop woop), so I heartily downed several mimosas while we waited 2 hours for our food. I’m too little for that nonsense, so I ended up like this:

Adulthood!!

            This Vonnegut novel turned out much better than my embarrassing afternoon.  Published in 1973, it emerged after his acclaimed works Cat's Cradle and Slaughterhouse-Five. As such, he ingeniously capitalized on his previous fictional characters that readers already knew and loved. For instance, Kilgore Trout is a minor character in Slaughterhouse-Five who I found endearingly nutty and unsuspectingly wise. I was disappointed that he wasn’t more in the forefront; so, I was pleasantly surprised to encounter him as a B-of-C main character. Trout is a profuse writer, though not successful by conventional standards, who creates outlandish science fiction tales strategically imbued with currents of deep-thinking. These stories usually describe the customs and belief systems of alien races on far away planets. For example, “Gilgongo” is an anti-conservation story about a planet with a creation problem. Every single hour, new species come into being, which is overwhelming and unpredictable for the planet’s residents. Consequently, they try their best to systematically eradicate whole species. In the end, the planet is suffocated by a blanket “composed of passenger pigeons and eagles and Bermuda Erns and whooping cranes” (Vonnegut, 89). Like I said…wacky but thought provoking. Trout eventually collides with another main character—Dwayne Hoover, a wealthy Pontiac dealer who loses his marbles. Not in the sense that he’ll have a difficult time playing Mancala… he literally becomes deranged.

           

            While these two characters are certainly a large focus, Vonnegut emphasizes that even the seemingly insignificant peripheral ones hold key roles. He does this implicitly, by intricately weaving everyone in and out of each other’s lives and connecting them by ties, both loose and tight. He also conveys this message explicitly, when he explains, “I resolved to shun storytelling. I would write about life. Every person would be exactly as important as any other. All facts would also be given equal weightiness. Nothing would be left out. Let others bring order to chaos. I would bring chaos to order…If all writers would do that, then perhaps citizens not in the literary trades will understand that there is no order in the world around us, that we must adapt ourselves to the requirements of chaos instead” (Vonnegut, 215). Additionally, his several allusions to communism help bolster this notion of shared significance.

            The excerpt above uses the word “I”, openly offering the author’s perspective, which is one of my favorite aspects of this novel. Vonnegut himself is an actively involved character who comically interjects himself into his own book! Towards the end of the story, he announces to readers, “I had come to the Arts Festival incognito. I was there to watch a confrontation between two human beings I had created” (Vonnegut, 197). In past novels, he consistently mockingly refers to “the Creator of the Universe”. Here, in a *meta* sense, he is the Creator of the Universe, acting as a puppeteer to guide what characters do and say. Yet admittedly, the characters sometimes shock him and don’t act exactly according to plan. SoOoOoOo we have the ingredients for a deep discussion on determinism. Hook me up with some philosophical soup.

In veritable Vonnegut fashion, Breakfast of Champions is in many ways concerned with free will or lack thereof. Some of those ways include:

• The notion of human beings as specifically programmed machines. We might all just be complex compilations of chemicals/molecules trying to interact with other chemicals/molecules of varying assembly. Our history of slavery reflects the idea that humans are machines that can be employed for physical labor. Perhaps, though there is a sacred part in each of us that is not dictated by machinery—our individual awareness. But perhaps not! 
• The belief that humans are controlled by consumerism. In the name of “progress”, we are inevitably bombarded by advertisements, which we use to navigate life. He repeatedly reminds us that the name of the book “is a registered trademark of General Mills, Inc., for use on a breakfast cereal product” (Vonnegut, 1). As machines, we take in this data (the cereal box says the cereal tastes good) and spew out formulaic responses (this cereal tastes good).
• The impression that ideas are transmitted, augmented, and belittled not by the basis of their merit, but because of friendship/enmity. Truth becomes relative because friends agree with friends and enemies disagree with enemies, thus rendering certain ideas “common sense” in some circles and their opposing ideas “common sense” in others. 
• Echoes of recurring sentiments found in his other novels. In reference to Trout, Vonnegut says, “But his head no longer sheltered ideas of how things could be and should be on the planet, as opposed to how they really were. There was only one way for the Earth to be, he thought: the way it was” (Vonnegut, 106). How very Tralfamadorian of him.
• Vonnegut’s use of foreshadowing. As the Creator of the Breakfast of Champions universe, he knows how the book is going to end and he repeatedly tells us what will happen before it actually does.
• The erratic nature of his text, with page breaks and intermittent drawings. This novel is laden with felt-tip pen illustrations—a style that I find unique, relevant, and sometimes even impressively skillful. The aforementioned quote in which Vonnegut strives to “bring chaos to order” is expressed even in the atypical presentation of words on a page, fragmented by his artwork  (Vonnegut, 215). For your viewing pleasure: 
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•         The possibility that Vonnegut, like Kilgore Trout, is writing this novel for an alien race. He often refers to “planet Earth” or “the wrecked planet” in a detached manner that implies he is speaking to an audience unfamiliar with the world’s structure. Just like we find Trout’s stories of alien activity slightly ridiculous, viewing our planet from an outsider’s perspective sheds light on our more peculiar habits and how we view ourselves as “free”.

These metaphors and themes unload a series of questions on readers. Are we unknowingly squandering our free will? Does embracing the concept of free will lead to constructive activity or demise? Is there space for individual creativity in a world devoid of free will? Can alcohol as both a social and private lubricant change our machinery or chemical composition such that it enables or inhibits autonomy? What is the appropriate role of government and environmentalism in a universe dictated by determinism? As usual, Vonnegut leaves me with more questions than I have answers. While I’m tempted to demand that his grandiose ideas need more elaboration, he himself confesses that writing this book simply helped him “clear [his] head of all the junk in there” (Vonnegut, 5). He might have some well-articulated opinions on the subject but that doesn’t necessarily lead to concrete solutions. For instance, I love (and this is often a turning point where Vonnegut-haters vehemently disagree) when he forces readers to deal with the ugly facts of life by framing situations in pure, simplistic terms. He satirically strips away all of the frivolity so common in literature and reaches the core, nagging concern behind a phenomenon to expose its absurdities. At one point, he states, “Viet Nam was a country where America was trying to make people stop being communists by dropping things on them from airplanes” (Vonnegut, 88). This is a perfect example of how Vonnegut addresses intense subjects—usually involving oppression—without directly giving us “the answer” to the problem. Instead, he equips us with ways of thinking; he arms us with a manner of seeing the world that makes it tolerable to live in a place where oppression exists.

This is all to say—don’t read this book if you don’t want to think. If you get on your summertime carefree grind, by all means, turn to something less intellectually exhausting. But I feel quite strongly that everyone at some point should read Vonnegut in some form. Just like the last two, I give Breakfast of Champions 5 out of 5 camel humps and I find the three Vonnegut novels I’ve read equally compelling in their own way. He is refreshingly capable of probing larger-than-life issues head on while maintaining an entertaining plot. His writing is intricate and intentional—with carefully placed symbolism and themes that continue to pleasantly haunt you well after you’ve put the book down. He is full of the good kind of surprises—the ones that don’t piss you off—and I’m excited for what else he has in store for me. Next up: Player Piano.

*Vonnegut, Kurt. Breakfast of Champions. New York: Dial Press Trade Paperbacks, 1973. Print.

The Old Man and the Sea

            Last week, I popped my Hemingway cherry with The Old Man and the Sea*. I’ve had an earnest desire to read Ernest for quite some time and this was a short, easy starting point, as my copy is only 127 pages. Additionally, this particular novel received the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction and led to the bestowment of the Nobel Prize in Literature to Hemingway. Thankfully, he was a very gentle author for a first timer.

           

The Old Man and the Sea is about an old man and the sea. Specifically, it revolves around a weathered fisherman named Santiago as well as a big ass fish. Santiago is a simple man, shockingly disciplined and well versed in his trade. Seriously, his determination to successfully catch and reel in this big ass fish is astonishing. He’s also refreshingly resourceful and methodical; I would not have lasted a tenth of the time that he did (nor would I have really cared). But Santiago holds an admiration and respect for these majestic creatures that balances alongside his visceral need to eat and his emotional demand for pride. Quite literally, he says, “‘Fish…I love you and respect you very much. But I will kill you dead before this day ends’” (Hemingway, 54). Clearly Hemingway hadn’t seen Finding Nemo; this poor guy is probably just headed to P Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way, Sydney to find his son.

Interestingly, the book barely has to work to characterize Santiago. Instead, it modestly presents readers a main character whose endurance is tested and lets us sit back and see how he reacts. Some times, it is painful to see the man’s agony; at others, it is heartening to witness his resilience. The sea is his home and the fish are his brothers, which is a hippie-esque statement that speaks to me and makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. He also sees the sea as a woman, capable of both beauty and capriciousness. Perhaps that is a reflection of Hemingway’s own relationship with females, seeing as he plowed through 4 wives and never really mastered the whole marriage thing.

Thematically, the book portrays a seemingly insurmountable obstacle and an inherently good, kind man thwarted by fate. Hemingway was a minimalist who often employed the “Iceberg Theory”--a writing style that exposes *just the tip* of an event without explicitly giving away too much. Consequently, you won’t find any overt discussion of what the man’s struggle against the sea and its inhabitants means. Open-ended novels are good for the soul in that they incite rumination. But be warned—you won’t find any categorical “how to’s” or a formulaic means of interpretation here.

As a diehard fan of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, I wish this book had been The Old Man and the Turtles in the Sea. Instead, I got this. It didn’t disappoint me but it also didn’t wow me. In general, I’m more inclined towards engaging narration that reads like a conversation between the reader and the narrator. This was a pleasant and poignant story that unfortunately did not fully resonate with me despite its timeless voice. That being said, I appreciate his writing style and I plan on trying For Whom the Bell Tolls. Overall, I give it 3 out of 5 camel humps. So short and easy to read that there’s no excuse to pass it by, but don’t immediately hit up Amazon and capitalize on their one-click ordering system.

*Hemingway, Ernest. The Old Man and the Sea. New York: Macmillan Publishing Company, 1952. Print.

Even Cowgirls Get the Blues

Women contribute so many wonderful things to the world because of their femininity and men contribute so many wonderful things to the world because of their masculinity. As a result of historical and cultural prejudices, female contributions are often stifled, discouraged, or discounted. This novel, written by ~a man~, throws up a big middle finger to anyone who wants to do just that. In actuality, he does so by throwing up a big thumb. Let me elaborate…
      

Sissy Hankshaw, our spunky main character, possesses extraordinarily large thumbs. While others mock her mutation, she proudly wields them—specifically as a means to hitchhike. Gasp! A non-female-friendly sport. Sissy is certainly no sissy; she leaves her family at an early age to hit the road and learn about herself and her unusual dexterities. Later on, she finds herself married to a confusingly cautious man and entangled in a cowgirl ranch called the Rubber Rose. As a young, impressionable woman, she is constantly curious and willing to embrace new philosophies. Fundamentally, she understands that “freedom—for humans—is a largely internal condition” and that “life is hard [only] if you think it’s hard” (Robbins, 183, 72). As such, she makes the most of her dire situations and seeks to embody the spiritually rich beliefs she has been exposed to along the way.  Promiscuity in the context of freedom and self-exploration is a crucial (and intriguing) component to this novel. There is fluidity to gender and sexuality here that I have never before seen so seamlessly expressed in a book. Women are not confined to conscripted roles, desires, or lovers because of their gender; yet the novel isn’t so heady that it reads unrealistic or idealistic. The author Tom Robbins—as bohemian chic as he is—is intelligent enough to ground his ideas in relatable, convincing characters.

While we’re on the subject, Robbins is a certified badass. His works are described as “comedy-drama”, or poetic fiction with philosophic tinges. Right. Up. My. Alley. He went to Washington and Lee University at first, but left when he wasn’t really feelin it. After a brief stint in the Air Force, he landed in Richmond, Virginia, and enrolled in what would eventually become VCU. He dabbled in writing, radio, and poetry readings. This guy writes like no one I’ve ever read before. He chooses storylines so wildly obscure and so seemingly distant from his own experiences…and renders them readable without losing their mystique. I mean, this novel involves:

• An outlandish, homosexual feminine hygiene mogul
• A woman with thumbs the size of a foot. Uma Thurman plays Sissy in the theatrical rendition and she looks absurd (and fabulous)

• A flock of endangered, drugged whooping cranes
• A group of eccentric cowgirls bent on advocating for *free love*
•   An enigmatic Asian male who whispers ambiguous aphorisms to himself in the mountains
• A Mohawked male in denial of his Indian roots

Yet, these men and women have recognizable fears, hopes, and insecurities that any reader can appreciate. I’m a fan after my first read and I’ll be buying the rest of his books. The powerful Oz in charge of the @DailyRobbins Twitter account noticed my infatuation with Robbins’ strong female protagonists and suggested Jitterbug Perfume and Still Life With Woodpecker next. I give this one 5 out of 5 camel humps. I originally came across it on some reputable “100 books to read before you die” list; now that I’ve read it, I can rest in peace.

*Robbins, Tom. Even Cowgirls Get the Blues. New York: Bantam Dell, 1976. Print.

Brave New World

            We’re huddled around a candle-lit table at the Headless Horseman bar in Union Square. I’m disappointed because everyone around me has a head and I don’t see any horses. My friend Matt is being a pig though, because he’s the only one that orders food. This is our first book club meeting (me, Matt, and Will), and we each hold a copy of Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World* in our hands, eager to talk about what the moral code of a dystopic society looks like as long as the waitress keeps replenishing our beers (amiright).

           

            I read this novel for the first time four years ago, simultaneously witnessing the sun rise through the slit in my deer stand as I hunted with my dad. I finished right before I shot and killed a coyote. I’m from Texas, so I can say these kinds of things. At the time--blinded by the picturesqueness of the moment and the thrill of a first kill--I really enjoyed it. Now that I read more critically and have read enough of Huxley to understand his own philosophy, I think the book is very meh. I only truly started to enjoy it when the three of us were able to tease out and extrapolate some of his ideas; standing on its own, the novel is (sometimes) repetitive, dull, and a bit simple in retrospect.

            Before I rant about its shortcomings and rave about its successes, I’ll offer some context. Brave New World uses third-person perspective to introduce a society whose main goals are efficiency and stability. Anything (or anyone) that disrupts those objectives is eliminated. In consequence, their world is structured starkly different from today’s world. Humans are mass-produced--genetically and emotionally conditioned to behave and think in a specific way that best fits their role in the socioeconomic system. As such, there are castes distinctly identified by dress and appearance. But this isn’t India; people do not have the capacity or opportunity to experience undesirable emotions, so they are not jealous of other castes. If they begin to feel any tingling of discontentment, they take a ration of “soma”, a hallucinogenic drug that transports the user into a blissful state of mind without any hangover. Despite being published almost 20 years apart, “soma” sounds eerily reminiscent of Huxley’s mescaline descriptions in The Doors of Perception.

            Of course, in a dystopian fiction there are select disgruntled and confused citizens within the well-ordered society. Here are the types that Huxley chooses to focus on: 

• Bernard Marx (think Karl Marx—political insinuations abound in this novel): an Alpha-Plus whose abnormal height leads to rumors that something went amuck in his genetic conditioning. He is dissatisfied with the nature of society not because he is fundamentally, philosophically opposed to its structure, but because he doesn’t belong. He is a stagnant character-- more non-conformist by fate rather than choice.
• Helmholtz Watson (think behavioral psychologist Watson): a propaganda writer at the College of Emotional Engineering who begins to feel that there is more to life despite his ability to seamlessly fit in.
• Lenina Crowe (think Lenin): suuuuuuch a basic bitch. She is lucky to be surrounded by intelligent men in a sea of sameness, yet she can’t break out of the bubble. She is a victim that you don’t feel sorry for—a woman with the tools to contemplate life seriously who doesn’t end up picking up the wrench.
• John (think John the Baptist): a “savage” displaced from a reservation intentionally untouched by the new global way of being. He has an affinity for Shakespeare (which is where the phrase “brave new world” stems from—The Tempest) and is openly disgusted by the banning of literature in this so-called New World. Originally, he is fascinated by society; quickly, he understands that his values totally contradict society’s set of conditions. He does not want to forgo emotional intensities for the sake of blanket, unquestioned, disingenuous serenity.  

            When Huxley wrote this novel—in 1931 during a depression in Britain—he truly believed that a world like this was imminent. He felt this all the way up to 1963, when he asked his wife for some LSD at his deathbed (swag). While I see some resemblances in terms of large-scale consumption, information overload, and pleasure-seeking habits, I am not as fearful as he was. I think (hope) that humans value freedom of choice enough to reject such a system. I’m sure that at the time of publication, this novel introduced unheard of cultural ideas and radical notions of government control. Now, having been more readily exposed to dystopia as a genre, I also considered the plot itself, which is wasted and lackluster. He focused so much on providing a philosophically shocking setting that he failed to make anything actually interesting happen within that setting. It’s like having a pizza with badass Mellow Mushroom crust and then topping it with mayonnaise and olives. As a philosopher, Aldous (if I may) is brilliant. As a novelist… I’m unimpressed.

            Thankfully, because he did present such a thought-provoking framework from which to bounce off of, the novel served its purpose well as a “book-club book”.  We discussed the consequences of abolishing the spectrum of emotions, how Huxley transformed and utilized tenants of religion, what “true freedom” means, how Huxley felt about “extremes” in general, the sarcastic nature of the title, and where we should go to dinner to watch the Rangers hockey game. I was initially inclined to give the book a “2” because of my disappointment in the story. Instead, I give it 3 out of 5 camel humps. I think the fact that it is a classic “must-read” in the dystopian fiction world bumps it up a hump. Even if you don't enjoy it, its practical political, moral, and religious ties mean that thinking about why you don’t enjoy it can also be rewarding and intellectually provocative.

*Huxley, Aldous. Brave New World. New York: HarperCollins Publishers Inc., 1932. Print.

Slaughterhouse-Five

           Vonnegut is a very polarizing author; you either love him or you hate him. In my opinion, he is a goddamn literary genius and you are tripping balls if you don’t agree. (Side note: you know you are a thorough writer when you perform a little CTRL-F action to make sure you haven’t overused the phrase “tripping balls” in your blog. To my surprise, this is the first time. To your benefit, it won’t be the last). I first introduced this author with my post on Cat's Cradle and I’ve been a little cultishly obsessed every since. 

Reasons Vonnegut is the shit:

A)                       I’m a big fan of philosophy because, I dunno, it helps explain why we exist, do what we do, think the way we think, and know the things we know. There are plenty of enjoyable “philosophy books”, but sometimes they get too murky and they start to hurt your head. When that happens, a good alternative is *philosophical fiction*-- a discussion of philosophical ideas within a more entertaining, consumable, fictional setting. Vonnegut is particularly adept at this genre.

B)                      He incorporates bizarre science fiction without being all in your face about it.

C)                      He utilizes the “unreliable narrator” technique in which the person telling us the story isn’t entirely credible, either by their own admission or by the fact that they are too wound up in the plot to notice their own biases. This literary approach is masterfully employed in previous novels I’ve reviewed such as The Brothers Karamazov, Gone Girl, Lolita, and more. In my opinion, it is implemented most beautifully in Death with Interruptions. It is a very enjoyable device in that it lets readers feel they are experiencing the fictional journey alongside a human narrator.

D)                      He's a humanist and it shows. 

Enough about how awesome I think Vonnegut is and more about this book in particular. It follows Billy Pilgrim-- a WWII POW in Dresden, Germany when a massive bombing occurs in the city. This was a historical event that happened to Vonnegut himself. Because it’s a war book, there’s obviously speculation as to the meaninglessness of life and usage of fatalistic themes that so often accompany mass-slaughter. While it would be easy to introduce those themes straightforwardly, Vonnegut embodies them in an alien race of Tralfamadorians who, fittingly, live on Tralfamadore. Pilgrim is prone to narcolepsy, and when he falls asleep, he travels in time. At one point, he is captured and transported to Tralfamadore, where they each learn about each other’s way of life. The Tralfamadorian way of life is pretty sick.

Vonnegut is not for everyone, but you should definitely give him a try. Cat's Cradle is excellent, but I’ll give Slaughterhouse-Five* a slight edge—although that might just be the recency effect. Both books earn the coveted 5 out of 5 camel hump label and should be a staple of any bookshelf. 

*Vonnegut, Kurt. Slaughterhouse-Five. New York: Dell Publishing, 1969. Print.

Your Movie Sucks

            A review of an anthology of reviews, how meta! Your Movie Sucks* consists of Roger Ebert’s most scathing reviews of movies that earned two-stars or less. The collection comes seven years after I Hated, Hated, Hated This Movie and five years before A Horrible Experience of Unbearable Length, which cover different time frames but have the same agenda. There are a lot of movies that suck and Ebert wants you to know about them so you can run far, far away and save the $12. Good looks, Roger Ebert.

            Unlike me, who is only “qualified” to write book reviews insofar as I read a lot of literature because my roommates and I can’t afford cable, Ebert wields over forty years of film criticism experience in an official capacity. He began as a critic for the Chicago Sun-Times in 1967 and ended up as a household name. Indeed, he was the first of his kind to earn the Pulitzer Prize for Criticism and receive a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Maybe if I complain about not getting bagels at 9 AM staff meetings enough, I’ll get a prize for criticism too. #Hangry.

           

            I was first drawn to this book when I saw it listed on oysterbooks.com. Anyone who has heard me rant about electronic reading mediums knows that I am fundamentally against e-books in that it renders the reading experience inauthentic. I like to support local bookstores, hold an actual book in my hand while I read it, and place it in my bookshelf to either lend it to others or revisit it later. At the same time, there are plenty of books that I’m only mildly interested in—material that I think would be entertaining but not high enough in the queue to purchase. There are also moments in my day in which reading a physical book is impossible. Like when the subway is so crowded that I’m nuzzling a stranger’s chest, or when I’m at my desk allegedly doing work. Acknowledging these evil forces vying to prevent me from peeling open a paperback, I succumb to using Oyster only when the alternative is not an option. You can succumb too by using my link for a free trial for both of us. *Shameless*.

            I’m no movie buff, but I immediately respected Ebert’s opinions when I discovered we shared an extreme distaste for Adam Sandler, who is so desperately unfunny that it pains me to watch him on screen. But even without this communal bond, I found Ebert’s reviews impressive. He exudes a commanding presence in his writing, creatively attacking every movie without missing a beat. Each assault is new and imaginative, even if the underlying problems in some of the films are the same.

            He is also pretty funny, which supplements his expertise in a way that makes the book more enjoyable to someone with a less methodical approach to the movies. For instance, with regards to the 2001 film Company Man, Ebert applies “Gene Siskel’s classic question, ‘Is this movie better than a documentary of the same actors having lunch?’ In this case, it is not even better than a documentary of the same actors ordering room service while fighting the stomach flu” (Company Man, section C). Let’s goooooo. He’s not afraid to call a shitty movie out for its shittiness, as when he declares, “to call [A Lot Like Love] dead in the water is an insult to water” or when he notes, “Elements of [No Such Thing] seem not merely half-baked, but never to have seen the inside of an oven” (A Lot Like Love, section L; No Such Thing, section N).

            Not only are his derisions amusing, they’re also well informed. Ebert is obviously very knowledgeable in his field. He consistently reveals how certain character names or attributes are subtle connections to past films and he is thorough in explaining why remakes or prequels/sequels pale in comparison to the originals. Because of his film-familiarity, he is fair in his critiques, giving credit to writers/directors who have made good movies in the past yet still relentlessly berating them for a flop. Interestingly, he generally deflects blame from the actors and on to the screenplay itself and the director behind it; he accuses the “character” rather than the one who plays it. He has seen so many movies at this point that he is especially attune to recycled clichés—formula films that draw on a number of unoriginal devices to garner a laugh or secure a scream from the audience. As such, horror films take a big hit.

            Most importantly, I trust him. A good review gives you some context and perspective, but leaves a sliver of wiggle room to figure out for yourself if this (book, movie, or otherwise) is something you might be fond of. There is a method to his madness—he takes notes during films and peruses the reviews of his colleagues (House of D, section H). And he doesn’t look at the entertainment factor alone; he also considers gender and racial politics, as well as larger moral implications. Despite this high praise for his process, I’m thankful that he allowed me wiggle room to disagree with his low ratings on the following films: Crossroads (I mean, it’s Britney, bitch), The Hills Have Eyes, How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, Pearl Harbor (hiiiii Ben Affleck), Serendipity, and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (although I will admit the OG version is best).

            These minor qualms aside, I enjoyed his book. He’s witty, not afraid to be honest even if it means making enemies, and meticulous in his ratings. If you’re movie savvy, you will recognize most of the films and relish in their degradation; if you’re like me-- where you watch a decent amount of movies but don’t pore over the details—you’ll think it’s good for what it is, but not spectacular. It is alphabetically organized, and once I reached “W”, I felt the redundancy of the negativity. So, for me, Your Movie Sucks clocks in at a solid 3 out of 5 camel humps.

*Ebert, Robert. Your Movie Sucks. Kansas City: Andrews McMeel Publishing, LLC, 2009. https://www.oysterbooks.com/book/7QQehfsJYvCBEVV4p9WyiV.

Zealot: The Life and Times of Jesus of Nazareth

            Imagine yourself as a Jew in first century Palestine. You’re probably wearing some badass, strappy leather sandals, weaving a basket, and gossiping about the one thirteen year old girl who is still not married. Someone get this girl the Coffee Meets Bagel app; or rather, in that time period, the Barely-Alcoholic-Wine Meets Flat Bread app. *Young love*. Anyway, historically speaking, you’re also pretty pissed off about the Roman occupation beginning in 63 B.C.E. Sure, they let you retain your Temple rituals with supervision; but this is the Promised Land reserved solely for God’s chosen people, not some pagan Romans. You all got the sweet taste of sovereignty for about a hundred years, and then the Holy City was flooded with heathens who stripped you of your property and put you to work.

            Clearly, the situation was not on fleek, but mama didn’t raise no bitch. Embittered Jews broadcasted apocalyptic claims emphasizing Roman downfall and hundreds of insurrectionists known as “bandits” began to fight back with sharp words and even sharper swords. Several bandits went so far as to call themselves messiah, which was “tantamount to declaring war on Rome” (Aslan, 19). Biblically, the messiah was tasked to finish what King David had started, purging Israel of foreigners in order to reestablish divine dominion. So, it’s actually quite remarkable that Jesus of Nazareth is so remarkable. He was preaching zealotry—a fanatic adherence to Jewish law—and making messianic declarations that were very commonplace in an era of Jewish persecution. Similarly, he was practicing magic healings and exorcisms in a world overrun with “wonder worker” vocations.

            Like his rebellious predecessors, Jesus was enraged with both the Roman rulers and the high priest Caiaphas. Roman Prefect Pontius Pilate appointed Caiaphas, who tainted the coveted priestly position by serving foreign interests over the one, true God. When word got around that Jesus held kingly ambitions, he was squashed for sedition just like all of the other hundreds of rabble-rousers—by crucifixion. People got crucified on the regular, as Rome was determined to stop any sort of uprising in its tracks.

            Then comes the resurrection. We aptly celebrate it now by coloring Easter eggs and taking uncomfortable pictures with enormous rabbits. Whereas beforehand, Jesus was just another zealot opposing the current order, he now emerged unique and unprecedented. Aslan explains that Jesus’s death completely undermines the Jewish conception of “messiah” as one who liberates Israel (Aslan, 164). Jesus died a shameful death without restoring God’s kingdom… by definition, he did not fulfill messianic exigencies. Fortunately for Jesus—if he’s into that whole being famous thousands of years later thing—his teachings posthumously fell into the hands of a Hellenistic Jew named Stephen. Stephen spoke Greek, did not live in Jerusalem, never met Jesus, and had no official scholarly knowledge of the Torah. “As such, he was the perfect audience for this new, innovative, and thoroughly unorthodox interpretation of the messiah being peddled by a group of illiterate ecstatics” (Aslan, 167). Jesus’s disciples excitedly claimed that he had risen from the dead and there was a group of people eager to receive this new messiah-type—one who would save the Israelites on a more permanent, metaphysical plane. And voila! Now we have a new religion popping off from the fervent Judaism Jesus himself espoused. Jesus’s followers during his lifetime were uneducated peasants with limited resources; thus, “the task of defining Jesus’s message fell instead to a new crop of educated, urbanized, Greek-speaking Diaspora Jews who would become the primary vehicles of the expansion of the new faith. As these extraordinary men and women, many of them immersed in Greek philosophy and Hellenistic thought, began to reinterpret Jesus’s message so as to make it more palatable both to their fellow Greek-speaking Jews and to their gentile neighbors in the Diaspora, they gradually transformed Jesus from a revolutionary zealot to a Romanized demigod, from a man who tried and failed to free the Jews from Roman oppression to a celestial being wholly uninterested in any earthly matter” (Aslan, 171).

Overall, Aslan reveals how the true message of Jesus was transmuted over time, driven by historical impetuses. As the political climate shifted after Jesus’s death, his teachings were adapted to meet new needs in order to survive and wield influence. Jesus died in 30 C.E. Almost every gospel story was composed after the Jewish insurrection in 66 C.E. The Jews had reached a tipping point in tolerating tyranny when they successfully revolted. Two years later, in 68 C.E., the Romans regained control and they were not having it any longer. Radical nationalist sentiments like that of Jesus started to die out. If the Christians wanted to hold on to Jesus as their messiah, they had to temper his message and reinterpret his revolutionary zeal, or else Roman reprisal would have been swift and totalizing.

Accordingly, Aslan concludes that the New Testament we have now does not accurately historically reflect Jesus’s actual message. He says, “Paul’s portrayal of Jesus as Christ may sound familiar to contemporary Christians—it has since become the standard doctrine of the church—but it would have been downright bizarre to Jesus” (Aslan, 189). In a nutshell: what Paul propagated is a dissociation from the Jewish Cult that Jesus was apart of; what he propagated is not what Jesus himself propagated. 

            So, we have two bold claims made by Aslan. Claim 1: The historic Jesus is not the same guy as the Christian Jesus. Claim 2: Jesus himself would scorn the doctrine that filtered down from Paul’s interpretation. These are not wholly new claims. We’ve heard various versions of these notions before; however, it is arguably the first time that this assertion of New Testament deviation has weaseled its way into mainstream discourse. This book got a lot of attention, thanks to the help of a ridiculously misguided Fox News interview, and became a #1 New York Times bestseller. Though it is a book about a religious figure, it is known outside of religiously minded circles, which is impressive in its own right.

            Reza Aslan, whose name cannot be uttered without immediately thinking of the giant lion from The Chronicles of Narnia, spent two decades researching for Zealot: The Life and Times of Jesus of Nazareth*. 

Yes, I made that myself. Yes, I actually tried hard. No, I don’t understand my new Mac at all.  Yes, I should probably stop calling it my new Mac considering I’ve had it for 7 months. Regardless of lion-likeness, the fact that Aslan is well versed in the texts and fully qualified to speak on the historicity of Jesus is incontrovertible. But that does not mean that his interpretation is infallible. Just as scholars approach the Christian cannon skeptically, so should we approach Aslan’s book in a critical manner. For example, while he has over fifty pages in notes listed in the back to accompany his assertions, we must remember that there is not a whole lot of historical material from this time period that references Jesus in the first place. Of course, he tries his best with what he has, but there is always room for doubt. It is also difficult in some cases to glean whether or not he is relying on a widely held scholarly opinion. Lastly, though he was incredibly thorough in removing the theological overlay from each milestone in Jesus’s life (virgin birth, his desecration of the temple, his following of John the Baptist, his relationship with women, etc.), I was disappointed that so little was said about Judas Iscariot’s betrayal.

            On to a buzzing question—can both believers and nonbelievers appreciate this book? I feel that regardless of religious background, this book can appeal to you as long as you are A) vaguely interested in religion, whether or not you adhere to a particular one or B) interested in the tumultuous history of a land that is a hotbed of religious fervor and political turmoil. His book is not an all out attack on Christianity; it simply says that the common claims about Jesus in the church today are ahistorical. He’s not trying to proselytize atheism by destroying Christianity; rather, he strives to embolden a historical perspective. Of course, there are glaring historical inaccuracies and outright cultural absurdities in the Bible that are acknowledged by both scholars and believers. But Aslan is not here to address faith itself. He lays all the facts on the table as he sees him, articulating who he understands Jesus to have been, and lets us do what we want with that information. If you want to add faith to the mix, add it. If you don’t want to, don’t. As I was reading, I thought about how Aslan’s claims of incompatibility between Jesus as a person and Jesus as the Christian Jesus don’t entirely alienate believers. Some might say that God intended and divinely guided this transformation; again, he leaves some wiggle room for faith. In fact, Aslan’s wife is a Christian and Aslan concludes at the end of the book that “Jesus of Nazareth—Jesus the man—is every bit as compelling, charismatic, and praiseworthy as Jesus the Christ. He is, in short, someone worth believing in” (Aslan, 216).

At the very least, this book serves as a reminder that we receive all religious doctrine through a highly selective filter that is shaped by the political/emotional/social context of the time period it was created in, as well as the subsequent generations it was passed down through. The canonized versions we experience and interact with now are the painstaking products of retrospective transpositions, redactions, etc. In order to truly examine the historicity of Jesus of Nazareth, we cannot take the gospels at their face value now, through the lens of a 21^st century millennial. We have to go back to the root of his existence; we have to understand how his words/claims/actions would have been perceived by his fellow Jews and the Romans who occupied Jerusalem. We have to make educated guesses about why he presented himself in certain ways. Context is crucial. What might contemporarily read as a plea for peace could very well be a call to violent revolution in the age in which it was spoken.

Taking into account Aslan’s careful ability to both question and respect a religion that rules the lives of billions, as well as my personal interest in the subject matter, I give the book 4 out of 5 camel humps. The mark of good nonfiction is that it not only piques my interest and drives me to continue reading, but it also inspires me to dive even deeper and ask questions that require further study. Of course, my review has only given a general summary of Aslan’s thesis, and the specific texts that he meticulously picks apart are fascinating and worthy of a read.

*Aslan, Reza. Zealot: The Life and Times of Jesus of Nazareth. New York: Random House, 2013. Print.

*martysoffice. “Fox Anchor Attacks Reza Aslan: Muslim Writing Book About Jesus Like ‘Democrat Writing About Reagan’”. Online video clip. Youtube. Youtube, 28 July 2013. Web. 6 May 2015.