Just giving a feminist critique of the books I read. Pretty simple!
My views don't represent all feminists, as we're all different. There are liberal feminists, eco-feminists, radical feminists . . . and so on. I consider myself an anarcha-feminist, which means that I'll also include critiques of capitalism and neoliberalism in my analysis.
Additionally, I don't think feminism is just about gender -- it's about race, class, sexuality, etc.
I'm also not here to engage with anti-feminists, sorry!
Review from July 2010:
[So I'm obviously behind right now, but I wanted to write this because I've just finished this and I want to review it while it's relatively fresh in my head. I don't read many YA novels anymore, which I see as a good thing, but I'd heard lots of good things about this book from various hangouts on the internet/spots I frequent. I saw it at the library and figured why the hell not.
I started it sometime around 6 yesterday, and read on and off throughout the night, taking time off for some Napoleon Dynamite viewing, hell yeah. I finished around 2 am, happy with the book, and remembering what it was like to have just been starting it. That innocence that I didn't want back, that primordial me. The plot was much different than I expected (I'd been expecting some fantasy elements), yet it was deeper and better than I thought it'd be, and I laughed at some of the passages like I did when I watch the office. The characters were lovable and realistic and reminded me of people I almost knew; of ideas that I used to say hi to. This book made me realize that exactly--that people are just ideas. It reminds me of what my freshman english teacher had told us, about no one ever knowing someone else's heart, think that came from hawthorne.
This is a book to read if you're unsure of your path, if you're contemplating making a clean getaway (heheheh) or thinking about someoen you used to know. The prose (I detest that word) was very easy to get through, but not oversimplified. I didn't *feel* like I was reading a YA novel, and that's what I loved.
You know throughout the book that the journey of introspection is ultimately going to be the more important trip, but you're still hooked, staying in that minimall with Quentin, dreading rats and breathing in Margo.
I adored the literary references, or at least the ones that were made obvious to me (haven't had time to do any kind of deeper analysis here), like Walt Whitman, whom I read in my senior English class years ago. was this what you could call an "i-novel"? I'll look it up.
I'd recommend this to Kerouac fans (though I still haven't finished on the road...) and those who expect a little bit more of their bildungsroman. Green apparently has more works, so I'm going to check them out and read them in between my frenzied 1001 whateverthatwordisicantthinkofrightnow. I'm not going to put up quotes anymore unless I really want to, and maybe I will for this one. Not sure yet. I wasn't especially in love with Margo, but maybe because I see the other side of her, that a "guy" wouldn't see? The not spontaneous and beautiful parts, the quiet parts when you're alone and no one knows you and wouldn't dare call your soul by its name. She's like a sister that I've known all along, and just don't get how people are still drawn to her, but she's my sister so I somehow just *get it*.
The almost running into cows and crying and giving up was poignant.
--jaja, I wrote that around 3 am. I fixed some mistakes, but I'm sure I missed some, and I'm going to just use this because the phrases I used make me laugh. ]