Prozac Nation, by Lauren Slater

This was another book from the summer reading lists. I just nabbed it from the YA section of the library because it looked short and speedy and marginally interesting. But in essence, it reaffirmed my already-pretty-concrete notion that no amount of evocative prose can rescue a sinking premise (illustrated at its height, perhaps, by Koren Zailckas' Smashed).

Basically, this is a memoir/diary--rather dated, at this point--of a woman with a history of mental illness who found the medication Prozac to be such a miracle cure that she was shocked at its efficacy. I know lots of people who suffer from varying forms of depression, some medicated and some not, but I think the perspective on medication has changed in the ten years since this book was published; Slater makes her connection to this medication a HUGE thing (and it really is, to the author; who am I to discount another's feelings? of course they're valid for her), whereas for most of the people I know, choosing medication (or not) is just one tiny first step of the puzzle. This whole book, which spans a decade, would today not merit much notice--again, because Prozac (and its friends with lesser side effects) have been around for more than two decades at this point. Hopefully some of the stigma and a bit of the mystery has been removed, but these issues are complex and the book doesn't really grapple with them. It's more about flashbacks to moments in Slater's life, though it never fulfills the reader's curiousity by telling her whole life story (there are hints of abuse, a not-mentioned-but-present father, etc).

The snippets in which her mother appears are rather interesting, personal history flashbacks--her mother was a forbidding, distant woman who clearly (though the author places no direct blame) is at fault for Slater being such a messed up kid. There's also no mention of her parents now that she's an adult. But what really made this book ineffective for me was its lack of scope and its basic jitteriness. Plus there's a disassociation and detachment between the writer and her reader that, while it bespeaks of her inaccesibility of self, also makes any connection really impossible for the average reader (such as myself!).

And for me, the greatness of a book almost always boils down to the distinction--and I can't remember where I heard this but I need to research it!--between "window" books and "mirror" books. The former show us windows to the world--even if they are about personal experience, or we seek to find and read something we can connect with, it can open a window to some new perspective. But every once in awhile, for comfort, we need "mirror" books, which just reflect back to us those pieces of ourselves we already know pretty well but find some comfort in reading about. This book is rather narrow and "mirror"y--even though I wasn't looking to relate, I was hoping to find more. I wanted to know what the choice to take medication really means to people. And I wanted a little more than a woman looking into her looking glass, and letting us read about it.

In the Beginning...Was the Command Line, by Neal Stephenson

This is one of my "stretch" books in science/math--you know, not an English teacher-y book. Every once in awhile I like to dabble in an elegant universe, take a walk with Stephen Hawking, try my hand at a few differential equations--but not usually. Just every once in awhile. So this was on the summer senior reading list, and I just grabbed it at the library impulsively.

I read 45 pages. That was enough.

The writing is perfectly adequate; the author has a pleasing vocabulary. But after awhile, the essays all seemed to be about the same. They're mostly about Mac vs. PC. I followed most of the jargon--I know what GUIs are, I've programmed in basic (my kid brother and I used to spend hours typing in lines of code at the DOS prompt on our ancient IBM computer so that a red flashing light would blink across the screen for half a second, dazzling us with our own brilliance), and I kind of understand what OSs do; so I thought, "hey, I can read this book, and maybe even learn a little bit more about computer-geek culture." But it just reaffirmed what I already knew--there's a reason why I'm not a computer geek, and that's because a) it's not that fun; and b) the writers aren't as gritty.

Sorry, knowledgeable author-man. I'm sure this book is really interesting to some people (specifically, those people who got really excited when Windows NT came out, for example). And I liked reading about the old punch-card computer systems, and it also made me realize there are valid points for preferring Macs to PCs or vice-versa (still don't understand that Linux/Unix think sufficiently, though).

But honestly? I'd rather be reading Dickens.

Special Topics in Calamity Physics by Marisha Pessl

I've almost put this book down several times; it's one of those modern, ultra-referential tomes that features too many clauses in just about every sentence. Variety I can handle; but sentence-packing consistently makes me feel too conscious about what I'm reading. Plus it's too aware of itself and of its being written; I wonder if that makes it something called a "self-conscious text"? I think it might be. I like this book best not when I'm reading it, but rather when I think about the story afterward. So I look forward to finding out what happens, but sort of dread it a bit also, and dreading my current reading book sometimes (not always) makes me want to drop it. Before I do, here's some things I'll consider.

Why I Want to Keep Reading:
I'm intrigued by main character Blue and her not-sociopathic father, Gareth.
I like the parenthetical references to other books. Makes me want to add to already-too-long reading list.

Why I Don't Want to Keep Reading:
I flipped ahead about two hundred pages and read one paragraph and didn't understand a word. It's like a different book. Daunting.
Paraenthetical references to other books make me feel overwhelmed, like when Rory freaked out about all the books in the Harvard library (Gilmore Girls reference; sorry).
Too many butterflies.
The twelve books overdue from the library that are piled enticingly on my nightstand...