The randomised, philosophical, self-important autobiography of one Dr. Lucius (Luke) Rhinehart form the novel, The Dice Man. Luke Rhinehart made himself the protagonist of this story, designed, I’m assuming, to shock readers around the world. Except that it didn’t shock me.

Perhaps if I wasn’t already a cynic I would be converted, but I’ve read my fair share of these types of books, books that challenge humanity, and overall it was a mildly entertaining read.

Dr. Rhinehart, disillusioned psychiatrist is unhappy with his life, check that. He’s bored with his life. Of apathy is oft borne demons. Hence the Dice Man is born, assigning courses of action to rolls of the dice, never to question or disobey, no matter what the outcome. In this sense Rhinehart destroys “the self”, with enough Albert Camus references splashed around to sound like he has some philosophical standing. It’s delightfully honest, laugh-out-loud funny to begin with. But Rhinehart gets lost in his head a lot. The story becomes stagnant, and I did not smile again until page 283 (a news report detailing some mischief making involving a Broadway production of Hair and a bus full of mental patients). As Rhinehart regresses, he becomes less human, but not in a sinister way. His diabolical plans illustrate a deranged man, swamped in cartoonish villainry.

Not content with simply living his life by the Dice, Rhinehart sets out to spread his new religion, opening Diceschools. The ridiculousness of this is expressed in a letter from one dicestudent:

It was great. It was a real religious feeling, a spiritual thing. Suddenly I was free of all my hangups about raping little girls and buggering boys. I gave up the struggle and put the whole mess into the hands of the dice…It’s like being in the middle of a movie I’ve never seen before. (p259)

Beyond the obvious disturbing nature of this rapist/patient’s case, there are a couple of things in this book that don’t sit quite right. As mentioned before, the tendency to stall the story with self-indulgent soliloquy that one may find in an annoyingly zealous person of faith. Also, while dicepeople proclaim Chance as their master of life, there is a tendency to assign more than one number to an outcome, pushing odds towards a favourable outcome. This to me contradicts the very essence of dicelife.

If any of these terms are confusing, read the book. It was frustrating, entertaining, mindboggling and boring. If anything, it is true to the ever-changing, multiple personalities of Rhinehart. The climax arrives late, but it arrives, and if I’m not convincing you, please read it just so you can tell me what you think, because the jury’s out for me.

So I’m low on funds at the moment, but this has not stopped me from splurging on books at a quaint little second hand bookshop I found near my house.

So I will soon be publishing a list of the best second-hand bookshops in Brisbane (although, considering there’s not much here, I might have to include regular book shops).

Usually when I leave the house I check how many pages are left in my book and take a second one if it looks like I’m going to finish it. Today I underestimated the intense captivation of The Road by Cormac McCarthy, the dude who wrote No Country for Old Men. I probably shouldn’t refer to him as ‘dude considering he won the 2007 Pulitzer prize for The Road. So yes possibly a review of that to come soon.

So back to the original idea for this post: Currently reading:
- The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov
- Strange Rain by Venero Armanno
- The Dice Man by Luke Rhinehart
- Thank You Jeeves by P.G. Wodehouse (I know! Exciting right?)
- Gridlock by Ben Elton (keep getting distracted by other books unfortunately)

So this means I’ll either be back in a couple of days with my brand-spanking new verdict on one of the above, or you wont hear from me while I bury myself in words and books and hardcovers and that musty book smell……

When a book is so bad it compels you to finish it (akin to a car crash), it definitely warrants a mention on this blog. Murakami’s novel, set in Japan, surrounds the disturbing thoughts and related events of one Kawashima Masayuki and his thinly veiled desire to stab his newborn baby with an icepick. Through a series of bizarre, but wholly unsurprising events, he faces of with a petite S&M prostitute who has her own demons.

The story however, invokes no real emotion. Murakami’s detatched, almost comical Tarantino-style approach to violence is unconvincing and unemotional. For a book that touches on those most terrible themes and childhood suffering, I cringe as the term “emo” comes to mind. That being said, a queasy stomach may force you to fumble blindly through the last few pages hoping that you can successfully skim over the gory, graphic details.

Each twist in the story is foreshadowed with a spectacular lack of subtlety and, invoking no sympathy or understanding for Masayuki or his bondage girl, the experience of reading is lessened, especially if, like me, you laugh out loud over the ending.

It’s not all bad news for Piercing though. There is a crispness to the translated Japanese prose that contains some pristine imagery. It’s a shame it was wasted on a character-driven story and I’m ever so slightly curious as to what Murakami’s In the Miso Soup is like. The problem with bad first impressions is that they last.

A quick and easy read that doesn’t challenge morals, if you’re looking for a bit of schizophrenia, incest, murder, rape and icepicks, check out Piercing. Otherwise, there’s always the more famous Haruki Murakami. Enjoy if you can stomach it.

I just thought I’d check in with a book update. Was reading about five books, up until I finished I Am Legend by Richard Matheson and Jurassic Park by Michael Crichton. Now I’m down to three.

“Elena what are you thinking? Both those books have been made into massive movies! How terribly mainstream of you.”

Yes, but you must understand, I take recommendations very seriously, and when people with good taste recommend books, I will usually read them. (If this was you, pat yourself on the back!)

And so, while I contemplate what I will review next — I am open to suggestions — I will in the mean time tell you all to read both Jurassic Park and I Am Legend.

Unless big long science-y words scare you of course….(or vampires, or dinosaurs, or genetic- eh you get the idea)

Almost finished with Ryu Murukami’s Piercing so you’ve got something to look forward to.

Spent a week in Sydney, and most memorably walked down King Street exploring all the great second-hand bookshops, where I’ve picked up some little gems. Much more successfull than the Dymocks store (note to self: cute bookstore assistant does NOT equal good taste in literature).

I might have to do a spin-off science fiction blog, what with my Crichton obsession and what not. Dare to dream.

New review will be up soon! Stay tuned. Peace

I don’t usually read self-help books. But this was highly recommended to me by a close friend. Because the topic of feminism is still so subjective I have to talk about it in relation to my own experiences as a female, so apologies to all those who don’t fall in this category.

It was written by Dr Laura C. Schlessinger in 1994 and we are going to ignore Oprah’s kudos and focus on why this is such a great book for all young women to read.

Yes it’s painfully honest, almost insulting to our intelligence even, and, being guilty of double-standards and anti-feminism, I felt like a small child being yelled at for drawing on the wall. (I’ll show her I can have casual sex and maintain my integrity! Well, maybe not.)

The book describes different stupid things as being: Stupid Attachment, Stupid Courtship, Stupid Devotion, Stupid Passion, Stupid Cohabitation, Stupid Expectations, Stupid Conception, Stupid Subjugation, Stupid Helplessness, and Stupid Forgiving. Basically, Dr. Laura tells us that women by nature may be predisposed to acting a particular way (staying with an abusive partner who is hurting your children, falling pregnant in order to trap a man into commmitmnet, etc) but we need to be more assertive and independent. I found more life advice in this book rather than relationship advice, as much of what is said can be applied to the workforce.

While Dr. Laura holds some beliefs which we may see as old-fashioned I found myself agreeing with a lot of it thanks to her clever articulation and use of transcripts from her radio program. However one of the first things mentioned in the book I found helpful in taking a positive step away from an awful break up some time ago.

According to the Doc, while men in a relationship maintain an identity independent of this relationship, women entangle their own identity into the relationship and therefore when it ends, find it harder to “find themselves” again and during the relationship are probably going to do the stupid things mentioned in later chapters.

Some of the problems callers talked about were so unbelievable, we catch ourselves thinking “I would never let myself get into such a position” but think back a bit, maybe you have been before? It’s quite nervewracking.

I knew I was sexist against women but this book has opened my eyes. Some sections could do with an update as a lot has changed in the last 14-15 years but it is worthwhile.

No matter where you are on the feminism scale, I would really like to hear any thoughts other readers have had, especially if you are male.

 The ultimate road-trip novel from the 50’s never goes out of fashion. Something draws you to the black and white photo of iconic beat writer Jack Kerouac and his buddy Neal Cassidy, inspiration for the amoral, drug-enhanced philosopher friend Dean Moriarty, one of On the Road’s main characters. If you thought your last road trip to Byron Bay via Nimbin was hardcore, you got nothing on these guys.

As we read about Salvatore Paradise’s adventures across the vast lands of the USA we grimace at their selfish and irresponsible actions, while at the same time wishing we could be there right alongside them. There’s nothing glamorous about having a few dollars in your pocket for food and petrol without knowing how you’ll make it to the next town, or having to write to your aunty every couple of months to fix you out of a tight financial situation, but Sal and his bop dancing cool cat friends make it seem so. The Beat generation is fascinating, controversial, wild. Whether you are planning your own similar adventure or would rather live vicariously through classic 20th Century literature, On the Road by Jack Kerouac is mesmerising.

This literature, and the movement itself did cop a lot of criticism over the years, but it is a breath of fresh air compared to a lot of modern fiction.

In my creative writing course we had to write a short story in exactly 100 words. Here it is:

With a quick flex of the muscles, the iron releases in her grip. Soft curls crumple down her face. She is already distracted by the promise of him. Dangerous, even in blue jeans. Squeezing into a red dress, angry and sexy all at once, she closes her eyes and daydreams of motorbikes, swing music and…him. Touch of mascara and in ten seconds, she’s ready. She opens the door seductively. The single bed, once a top bunk, beckons. Tell me about your day sweetheart. On her wall, the tall black and white image of her beloved, Mr. James Dean, yawning.

This disastrous tale of Edward’s dinner with his mistress Binny was so delightfully awkward it overthrew my usual discomfort with adultery in cultural consumptions.

In no uncertain terms, Bainbridge throws each new and hilarious twist in the reader’s face, more like a cherry pie rather than a slap in the face, resulting in much laughter. If you love all things British, and even if not, Injury Time is witty and charming, and will pull you in to its little world where the older folks have tumultous sex lives. It’s hard to talk about this book without giving too much away — I suspect my love of it comes partly from the fact that the blurb on my copy of the book said nothing of the plot. Edward’s wife thinks he is have a late meeting with a business associate, while Binny has been slaving in the kitchen all afternoon, worrying what the neighbours will think. As the narrative progresses, the couple become more and more dysfunctional, which is mirrored by their dinner guests.

All I can say is if you haven’t read this woman’s work yet, start with Injury Time. It’s confronting and entertaining, a calculated flurry of wit. My one criticism would be only a cultural observation, there are some terms used that might need a second glance, but as you are drawn into her slightly offbeat universe you will grow accustomed to it.

I like to think I see the world in a strange way, like the title character of that book.

You can be the art teacher and think I’m completely nuts if you like, but hopefully it will be entertaining at least.

Enjoy!