Run-Down on the Past Couple Books I've Read:

I need to get my ass back in gear. You took it outta me, JD. I think I've recovered my affection for literary review, but not completely (hence the title). I don't have the fortitude (or one of the books, for that matter) to quote, thus rendering my critique a "reader response." Plus, these past two were non-fiction - Ewwww. It squishes when I touch it.

First up: Blink by Malcom Gladwell. Mr. Gladwell argues the merits of split-second decision-making. I should have done more than flinch at Malcolm's best-seller status - this never fails to be a red flag. But I felt an after-flinch about three paragraphs in and an estimated five I thinks. Really, it's a novel on science; you don't think, you research. Somebody wasn't listening in freshman psychology. Tsk tsk. But Malcolm does research, and praise be to Jesus for that. Everything but his commentary is bearable, and on occasion, interesting. Unfortunately, the way to connect studies is through authorial guidance. Although Gladwell is an eager captain, we readers lack direction. As an aside, I apologize - the lack of quotation makes my argument more of a disgruntled opinion. To hell with it. It's my blog; I've already proliferated my opinion throughout. Blink reads like a college research paper, which surprises me. I thought a journalist of New Yorker caliber would have this point-proving thing down. But Gladwell lacks assertion, ever the necessity when asserting. He lacks organization, necessary when presenting ideas. And it's clear that the book is too ambitious for its size. His argument requires more comprehensive support, and I end Blink thinking: "That's a nice idea."

Second up: Songs My Mother Taught Me by Marlon Brando. I'm not going to review this book, because, well, it's an autobiography. My interest in Brando extends from his work in film (inspiring). How is one so familiar with the motivations of other people? My question is never really answered, though Brando asks this himself frequently. But I am certain after all 468 pages that Marlon devoted his life to mastering human impulse. The book is indulgent and pretentious, as autobiographies are. But Brando's charade is a mocking spit in the face, not a product of affectation. My theory is that he's so ashamed of his willingness to do most anything for money (Example A: Publishing his autobiography) that he sells out to the nth degree. "Fine, if you want an autobiography, I'll give you an autobiography" (not a direct quote). Brando was a master manipulator. If he didn't agree with a director, Marlon delivered such a horrible performance that the director would finally relent. Every word is so affected that the autobiography defeats its own purpose. We can no longer consider it an autobiography, because hardly any of it is believable. Brando proves to be stubborn and manipulative, but only because he has to be. These are his defense. Although I take most of Songs with a grain of salt (forgive the cliche), I feel more acquainted with Brando at its close.