Deborah Fallows' book Dreaming in Chinese offers a readable look at Mandarin and the ways language and culture interact. Even neophyte students of Mandarin such as myself will recognize and appreciate some of the words and phrases in Fallows' book -- Wo ai ni (I love you) and and Ni hao (Hello), for instance. Other Chinese statements such as Ni de Zhongwen hen hao (Your Chinese is very good!) are a tad more foreign to native English speakers. (Forgive my inability to include tonal marks.)
Throughout her book, Fallows adeptly explains some of the incredible differences between Mandarin and some other languages, particularly English. Mandarin, for example, has no verb tense. So, Americans should not be surprised when Chinese speakers have trouble with English tense. Likewise, the Chinese should not be appalled when native English speakers of Mandarin might vainly grasp for a male pronoun vs. a female pronoun and never find it -- not, that is, until he or she (ta) learns to read and write in Mandarin rather than only speak it. There are different Chinese characters for he and she but only in writing.
Fallows brings a doctoral degree in linguistics and three years in China to the book. She has lived in Shanghai and Beijing, cities that we learn have been big rivals over the years, in language and culture. Her book is interesting and informative. It's humorous at times, such as when she talks about the intense yet inexplicable dislike some Beijing and Shanghai residents have for each other. It's touching when she talks about the "tender" side that emerged among the Chinese after the deadly earthquake (dizhen) in May 2008.
I heartily recommend the book, most especially to readers with a special interest in China, Mandarin and linguistics.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
My Reading Life by Pat Conroy
Readers need not be a fan of Pat Conroy's bestselling novels to enjoy his newest work of nonfiction, My Reading Life.
Conroy has written other nonfiction, but he is best known for his novels, The Prince of Tides, Beach Music and South of Broad. In reading this latest book, divided into chapters that resemble essays yet are not independent of each other, Conroy gives us insight into the reader who became the famous novelist and the people who helped played key roles in his life: a loving mother; an abusive father; an English teacher who was first Conroy's mentor and later his friend. The book gives us a glimpse not only into Conroy's reading -- and writing -- habits but also into his life, a sometimes troubled one with severe depression.
Conroy -- who writes self-effacingly about his love of adjectives, lots of adjectives -- tells the reader how books have shaped his life and how his life has shaped his books. His mother passed her own reading obsession, especially of Gone With the Wind, down to him as a young boy.
Literature, whether by Leo Tolstoy or James Dickey, Tom Wolfe or Jane Austen, became Conroy's ticket to the world, to places, times and people unseen. They also became his solace and his inspiration. To this day, he keeps a copy of Dickey's book, Poems 1957-1967, on his desk and calls it "the finest book of poetry ever published in America." Conroy begins each day with a poem, whether by Dickey, Rumi, Dylan Thomas or another.
"The poets force me back toward the writing life, where the trek takes you into the interior where the right word hides like an ivory-billed woodpecker in the branches of the highest pines," Conroy writes.
Conroy owns thousands of books and apparently has read thousands.
Of War and Peace, he writes, "Tolstoy performs that rarest and most valuable of tasks, one that has all but disappeared from modern fiction. He wrestles with the philosophical issues of how people like you and me can manage to live praiseworthy and contributive lives."
Conroy shares a touch of literary gossip in his book, too. A solemn Alice Walker gave him her autograph but was rude, Arkansan Miller Williams dedicated a poetry reading to him during a writers' conference, and Conroy delivered the eulogy at Dickey's funeral.
Conroy also takes us into the world of those who love and collect books, chiefly himself. We peek into the now-defunct Old New York Book Shop on Juniper Street, where he bought between four- and five-thousand books, including 500 books of poetry. There, he encountered a haunted but sweet young man wearing "a terrific hat and expensive sunglasses." The man, accompanied by three large, muscular men, came in one day looking for books on freaks and bought several hundred dollars worth of merchandise. Conroy later learned the shy young man was Michael Jackson.
Reading Conroy's book is as much about his life and writing as it is about his reading. His book is one I would like to keep in my own humble library. It is an inspiring story. Upon reading it, I picked up a book of Maya Angelou's poetry that had sat untouched in the same place near my bedside for weeks. I also decided to tackle the great book I've never tackled -- War and Peace. I soon began reading Alan Jacobs' new book, The Pleasures of Reading in an Age of Distraction. And perhaps, most importantly, I resolved to take a lesson from Conroy and not let my own troubles and insecurities keep me from pursuing my own reading, and writing, life.
Conroy has written other nonfiction, but he is best known for his novels, The Prince of Tides, Beach Music and South of Broad. In reading this latest book, divided into chapters that resemble essays yet are not independent of each other, Conroy gives us insight into the reader who became the famous novelist and the people who helped played key roles in his life: a loving mother; an abusive father; an English teacher who was first Conroy's mentor and later his friend. The book gives us a glimpse not only into Conroy's reading -- and writing -- habits but also into his life, a sometimes troubled one with severe depression.
Conroy -- who writes self-effacingly about his love of adjectives, lots of adjectives -- tells the reader how books have shaped his life and how his life has shaped his books. His mother passed her own reading obsession, especially of Gone With the Wind, down to him as a young boy.
Literature, whether by Leo Tolstoy or James Dickey, Tom Wolfe or Jane Austen, became Conroy's ticket to the world, to places, times and people unseen. They also became his solace and his inspiration. To this day, he keeps a copy of Dickey's book, Poems 1957-1967, on his desk and calls it "the finest book of poetry ever published in America." Conroy begins each day with a poem, whether by Dickey, Rumi, Dylan Thomas or another.
"The poets force me back toward the writing life, where the trek takes you into the interior where the right word hides like an ivory-billed woodpecker in the branches of the highest pines," Conroy writes.
Conroy owns thousands of books and apparently has read thousands.
Of War and Peace, he writes, "Tolstoy performs that rarest and most valuable of tasks, one that has all but disappeared from modern fiction. He wrestles with the philosophical issues of how people like you and me can manage to live praiseworthy and contributive lives."
Conroy shares a touch of literary gossip in his book, too. A solemn Alice Walker gave him her autograph but was rude, Arkansan Miller Williams dedicated a poetry reading to him during a writers' conference, and Conroy delivered the eulogy at Dickey's funeral.
Conroy also takes us into the world of those who love and collect books, chiefly himself. We peek into the now-defunct Old New York Book Shop on Juniper Street, where he bought between four- and five-thousand books, including 500 books of poetry. There, he encountered a haunted but sweet young man wearing "a terrific hat and expensive sunglasses." The man, accompanied by three large, muscular men, came in one day looking for books on freaks and bought several hundred dollars worth of merchandise. Conroy later learned the shy young man was Michael Jackson.
Reading Conroy's book is as much about his life and writing as it is about his reading. His book is one I would like to keep in my own humble library. It is an inspiring story. Upon reading it, I picked up a book of Maya Angelou's poetry that had sat untouched in the same place near my bedside for weeks. I also decided to tackle the great book I've never tackled -- War and Peace. I soon began reading Alan Jacobs' new book, The Pleasures of Reading in an Age of Distraction. And perhaps, most importantly, I resolved to take a lesson from Conroy and not let my own troubles and insecurities keep me from pursuing my own reading, and writing, life.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot
Henrietta Lacks, a mother of five in Clover, Virginia, was the wife of a poor tobacco farmer and a black woman in the South at a time when blacks were treated in hospitals' "colored" wards and forced to use separate restrooms. She had something else also working against her -- incredibly aggressive cervical cancer cells.
Treated at Johns Hopkins hospital in Baltimore, Lacks died at age 31 in 1951. But first, her doctor took a biopsy and, more significantly, cultured the cells without Lacks' permission, without her knowledge and, without even his own realization of the way they would alter history.
Unlike other cells that medical researchers had been unable to study as successfully, Lacks' were incredibly aggressive and resilient, reproducing to the extent that ultimately they contaminated other research. Along the way, though, Lacks' cells, called HeLa by researchers, traveled to laboratories around the country, the world and outer space. They have played a role in an immense range of medical history -- from the development of the polio vaccine; treatments for Parkinson's disease, leukemia and AIDS; and advancements in in-vitro fertilization and gene mapping.
Yet Henrietta Lacks' own family, including a daughter named Deborah who was only a baby when Henrietta died, did not know until 1973 that her cells had even been saved, much less that they had been the subject of so much research. Nor did they know that people had sometimes made money off the cells, though Lacks' relatives -- too poor to afford health insurance -- were never paid a dime.
To author Rebecca Skloot's credit, she has established the Henrietta Lacks Foundation -- www.henriettalacksfoundation.org -- to help needy people who, the website says, "have made important contributions to scientific research without personally benefitting from those contributions ... particularly those used in research without their knowledge or consent."
At times, Skloot's writing gets a bit scientific and tedious for the lay reader. Mostly, though, it is an easy yet important and moving read. It is hard to read this book without getting angry at the racism that permeated scientific research far into the 20th century.
Skloot addresses the ethical issues involved in medical research without a person's knowledge -- a subject far less clear-cut than one might think. Skloot does not advocate either side of the issue, and even Deborah is grateful that her mother's cells have helped save lives. Skloot does, however, advocate for the memory of Lacks and for Lacks' family, especially Deborah who did not live to see the book published.
Treated at Johns Hopkins hospital in Baltimore, Lacks died at age 31 in 1951. But first, her doctor took a biopsy and, more significantly, cultured the cells without Lacks' permission, without her knowledge and, without even his own realization of the way they would alter history.
Unlike other cells that medical researchers had been unable to study as successfully, Lacks' were incredibly aggressive and resilient, reproducing to the extent that ultimately they contaminated other research. Along the way, though, Lacks' cells, called HeLa by researchers, traveled to laboratories around the country, the world and outer space. They have played a role in an immense range of medical history -- from the development of the polio vaccine; treatments for Parkinson's disease, leukemia and AIDS; and advancements in in-vitro fertilization and gene mapping.
Yet Henrietta Lacks' own family, including a daughter named Deborah who was only a baby when Henrietta died, did not know until 1973 that her cells had even been saved, much less that they had been the subject of so much research. Nor did they know that people had sometimes made money off the cells, though Lacks' relatives -- too poor to afford health insurance -- were never paid a dime.
To author Rebecca Skloot's credit, she has established the Henrietta Lacks Foundation -- www.henriettalacksfoundation.org -- to help needy people who, the website says, "have made important contributions to scientific research without personally benefitting from those contributions ... particularly those used in research without their knowledge or consent."
At times, Skloot's writing gets a bit scientific and tedious for the lay reader. Mostly, though, it is an easy yet important and moving read. It is hard to read this book without getting angry at the racism that permeated scientific research far into the 20th century.
Skloot addresses the ethical issues involved in medical research without a person's knowledge -- a subject far less clear-cut than one might think. Skloot does not advocate either side of the issue, and even Deborah is grateful that her mother's cells have helped save lives. Skloot does, however, advocate for the memory of Lacks and for Lacks' family, especially Deborah who did not live to see the book published.
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