More Thoughts on Glaciers, by Alexis M. Smith

When you really think about it, I probably shouldn't have been so surprised.

[start/quote]"
  
   If I'm going to be really honest: my feelings for "Glaciers" are slightly more complicated than I generally like my feelings for books to be, particularly because I've pressed myself to spit out a what-out-of-what-stars rating and review... A style of assessment I've found to be seldom honest or all that representative of what a book is or could be to me or anyone else when it really comes down to it.

     I'm a fairly straightforward person, inclined to the critical and often cynical side of things probably more than is expressly healthy for a 22 year-old. So that leads me to conclude that my uncharacteristically muddled feelings are either expressive of the huge amount of stress I've been under recently as a soon-to-be graduate or, in fact, are a testament to Ms. Smith's ability to evoke the same kind of romanticized and achingly bittersweet nostalgia and longing in me that her narrator so often relates to everything from melting glaciers, not-quite-found-and-too-soon-lost loves, and the 'perfect dresses' of the world that (when reasonably considered) will most likely never be seen by one's true love... That is, at least not on the first date. 

     Again with the being honest, but... I didn't actually connect with Isabel very strongly for about 3/4 of the novel. This is usually a huge problem for me and the main factor which very much applied to my less than average enjoyment (if we're going by general internet buzz standards) of "Where'd You Go, Bernadette" later this month. And so, you might imagine how surprised I was when I discovered that this distance from Isabel seemed to impact me hardly at all as I powered through "Glaciers" with more 'heedless pleasure' than I ever did poor, yuppy, for-some-reason-not-very-funny-to-me (probably because I was trying to take it, like everything else in my life, a shade and a half too seriously) "Bernadette." 
     So, despite my initially not-so-strong emotional connection to the thinks-very-hard-about-every-little-detail Isabel, it was the language and Smith's particular turns of phrase and expert way of painting pictures across the page that really kept getting me invested in visualizing one recollected memory after another past association after another childhood retelling after... You get the gist. 
     I honestly *could not* get enough and am now convinced that I would eagerly eat up a collection of Ms. Smith's short stories with a spoon and lick my fingers afterwards with minimum embarrassment whether said finger-licking occurred in public or no.
The thing I loved best about "Glaciers" is that you really *do* get the picture. Perhaps not entirely of Isabel herself (although I'd argue that the last 1/4 of the novel goes a long way towards rectifying that in a very short amount of time), but of her memories and the associations she's built that surround the significant objects which so populate and characterize her daily life, giving it a color and dimension that in my mind resembles watercolor paintings still wet to the touch.
     Admittedly, this book paints a very much romanticized picture of Portland, the 'vintage' label, relationships, books, and... Okay, basically everything, but which remarkably at the same time is the very thing about "Glaciers" that makes a certain type of person (see 'prone to nostalgia' or 'one who already has a fondness for endlessly romanticizing the past') fall head over heels for it.
     These little stories of Isabel's are both artistically and strategically knit together so that they run seamlessly back like little rivers to "Glaciers" unifying theme of love and eventual loss, taking you on a Dalloway-like journey that ends (but doesn't really end) in bittersweet longing for something set just out of reach. And perhaps it's because I'm one of those closet romantics (albeit an extremely unsuccessful one) who is easily beguiled by anything with a charming history that made me fall just a little bit in love whilst peeping through these little rose-tinted windows into Isabel's world of memories.
     An unabashed love letter to sentimentality and romance surrounding all the temporary wonders we encounter every day of our lives, I give "Glaciers" an unapologetic 4/5 stars for the genuinely surprising amount it was able to make me feel over the course of a few short hours on a Tuesday afternoon.

"[end/quote]

     
In any case, this is what I ended up writing in the little Goodreads' review box this morning. Who'd have thought I'd had so many more nebulous thoughts floating around inside of me about it. I guess it really did get to me more than I thought!

And again, I probably shouldn't have been so surprised.

Until I get up the courage and the wherewithal to review Where'd You Go, Bernadette,
Torey

Note on a Bookfession: Children's Books & Why I Buy Them

I definitely think about this far more often than I should.

Okay, confession time:

     If I happen to stumble upon a particularly lovely copy of a book I adore, I feel almost obligated to take it home with me, cherish it, and then keep it in pristine condition so I can then pass it down to my children and my children’s children. I also like buying wonderfully illustrated, well-written, and imaginative children’s books for this same purpose. I just can’t help but imagine myself one of these far off days, sitting on some threadbare (and it will be threadbare, I care far too much for things that haven’t the slightest chance in ever making me any substantial amount of money, ever) couch somewhere in a cozy little house with a little boy or girl curled up in my lap as I read to them, and so I just can’t help but feel the need to stockpile now so that I can have a treasure trove of wonder to dip into when it comes time to really use it. I just want my children to grow up with books, to learn to treat them as they would very old friends as they go about finding their way through the world with the benefit of a richly fed imagination to keep them company.

     Ridiculous, I know… But with each passing year I seem to come more and more to terms with my persistently romantic, often overly sentimental nature. Nowadays I do my best to take it in stride, buy the darn book if it isn’t too hideously expensive, smile a little as I put it someplace safe and think in my heart, someday.

     Okay, I promise to stop rambling now.

Love you all,

Torey

Note on a Bookfession

     This is scarily accurate for me, and the pathetic truth of it all is that it isn’t even limited to books. No, I’m not joking. I have the absolute hardest time watching a romantic comedy or reading a scene in which a character makes a particularly painful flub that gets everyone staring at them with the ”What on earth did you just do?” look painted all across they’re faces. I would rather be inches away from developing a real-life case of arrhythmia having the bejeezus scared out of me by some scary plot twist than be tortured for five minutes by that ridiculously awkward ”Oh, no! She’s not… She didn’t! NO. WHY DID YOU JUST SAY THAT?!” feeling that’s brought on when the character I’ve grown to identify/sympathize with puts his or her metaphorical foot in it.

     I can’t help it. I squirm, I writhe, I tuck myself into the fetal position and do my best “I’m being inexorably sucked into the dark vacuum that is the floor” impression. And at the time, I sincerely hope it works, I really do. Far better to escape into mindless oblivion for all eternity than have to share in all that AGONIZING humiliation the authors decide to shamelessly saturate their pages with on occasion. 

     The good news is that when this happens, it’s usually the mark of a skilled writer/director/actor when their words/scenes reduce me to a misshapen puddle of goo. The bad news? I still feel like a freaking misshapen puddle of freaking goo, dammit.

     Yeah, when I was four I was accused of being too sensitive by my playground teacher. My parents said that wasn’t at all true and that I was just extremely empathetic. Either way, I’m screwed.