"Paper Towns" by John Green

I have no idea when I bought this book (although I do know it was before Tuesday, September 21, 2010). I do know why I bought this book: first, the author is John Green, and second, it was on sale for $2.97.

The spine of Paper Towns caught my eye on my bookshelf (not my Future Reads shelf, which is where I'm supposed to be finding my next selections, if only to make the choice less agonizing, but that's my own rule so I am welcome to break it) as I was putting my youngest to bed on Sunday night. I knew absolutely nothing about the story, but I felt sure it would be a good read and I was fairly certain I wouldn't get stuck on it for weeks.

I was right on both counts: I enjoyed the book and finished it last night. And because I would really, really like to pick up another book now (though I haven't even given a thought to which one will be next), and because the rule I made in my last post is too new to break even if it is my own, I am proud to be posting about this book within 24 hours of completing it!

John Green is so good at capturing the anguish of teenage love. And the voice of a teenager. Or . . . I don't know, it sure has been a long time since I was a teenager, so I could be wrong about that. There were times where the "witty repartee" seemed a bit too slick to be believable. But it can't be denied that he tells a good story!

I find it difficult to describe the book's plot without giving too much away, so I'll err on the side of saying too little: a slightly nerdy teenage boy is starry-eyed about the beautiful girl who lives next door to him. For the first half of this book I was thinking Paper Towns was merely a variation on Green's Looking for Alaska, right down to the dynamics between the main characters. But, happily, I was wrong, and this turned out to be its own unique story, full of its own secrets.

And what do you know? On the very first page I found out the story begins in Orlando. Can you believe it? (Did I mention I'm going there next week?) But I only had to turn one page to discover it's not about the Orlando I'm going to. (At least that's my hope.) This is definitely not a Disney story. But I liked it (probably more than I would have liked a Disney story) and was absorbed by Quentin's hunt for clues. Paper Towns won't join the ranks of my Most Favorite Books Ever, but it was fun without being fluffy.

Note to self on Blogging Theory

I am far, far behind on blogging. (Have I mentioned this before? Maybe about once a year? Which seems to be how often I'm posting these days?) When I look at this stack of books I've read but haven't written about, it makes me sad. I KNOW I thought things and ingested ideas as I read each of these books, but without a blog post to refresh my memory, that's all lost now.

Though there are many things I've enjoyed about book blogging in the past (especially pertaining to the community of book bloggers: sharing my thoughts on books I've read, and finding similar posts by others), the thing I love most about my book blog is that it is a record of my reading experiences. It is important to me as my own resource. Where did I first hear about a book? When did I read it? What about the book beckoned to me, calling me to pick it up? Was it skillfully written? What parallels did I draw: between this story and others, or between the characters and people I've met? Did any ideas or quotes stand out to me? Was it an enjoyable reading experience, and is the book worthy of a re-read?

I hate to give up on the idea of posting about all my currently un-blogged books, though I know a lot of those posts would be worthless--even to me. In the majority of cases, I won't be able to remember the answers to many of the questions that explain what stood out to me as I read. But as ineffective as those posts may be, I still want to make the attempt. So, at the moment, my plan is to slowly catch up. I am making it my goal to write about at least one book a week, no matter how insignificant the post.

 More importantly, I want to commit to writing about the books I read from here on. In an effort to avoid getting even further behind with blogging, I am imposing a new rule upon myself: I can't start reading a new book until I've posted about the last one. What I write may be minimal and unembellished, but at least I'll be maintaining a record.

Oh yeah . . . and my plan doesn't take effect until after Spring Break. Because I'm going to Disney World!

"Instructions for a Heatwave" by Maggie O'Farrell

My sweet husband gave this book to me for my birthday. We were spending a lovely afternoon browsing at The Book People in Austin (if you have a chance to visit them, you should!) and he came to me holding this and The Luminaries by Eleanor Catton and asked me to pick one. I told him that was like Sophie's Choice and he bought me both. He's the best!

As usual I've become distracted from my purpose, which is to tell you how much I enjoyed this book. I started it Friday night. I'd just finished with a different book and wanted to read a few pages of something new before drifting off to sleep. So I plucked this beautiful, luscious-looking hardcover from my Future Reads shelf . . . and read 70 pages. And though it can take me weeks to finish a book these days, here it is Sunday afternoon and I've already turned the last page.

My husband and I had both previously read (and loved) O'Farrell's After You'd Gone, and ever since, I've been intending to read something else of hers. (As well as thoroughly intending to pick up AYG again at some point.) Tops on my list was The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox, after reading about it here, but as I hadn't been proactive enough to procure a copy of that one yet, Heatwave squeezed its way in front.

I kind of love this book's dust jacket, and I must say I much prefer its look to this cover, but what's inside is even better. From a limited perspective the story might be viewed as your run-of-the-mill window on a slightly dysfunctional family--one of many books that may differ in details but is really just a re-telling of the same old story. The general premise, though interesting, is not in itself earth-shattering: three grown siblings, Irish by birth but raised in London, are brought back together when their father disappears. But this over-simplification does not do the book justice. It is borne above the crowd by the triumvirate of excellent writing, indelible characters with an invigorating synergy, and the draw of secrets. Because it's not just about the disappearance of the father. Within that larger mystery are wrapped countless smaller ones, each just as intriguing as the last.

If I had three thumbs, they would all be pointing up: one to say this book is a keeper, one to say I would re-read it, and one to say I can heartily recommend it to you--after two caveats: first, you may want to look up the pronunciation of the name Aoife before you start reading. Unless you're Irish, in which case you probably already know it. (The pronunciation is described in the book, but if you're as impatient as me, you may find it's not soon enough.) And second: be prepared for the disappointment of never knowing what Gabe wrote at the airport. Unless it's one of those things that's obvious to everyone but me, in which case you'll probably figure it out on your own. (And when you do, please tell me!)

Non-specific ramblings on The Best Books

I had a rare moment this afternoon to lie still and stare off into space for a bit and, surprisingly enough, I didn't fall asleep. Instead, I spent the moment contemplating the books I've read over the past two years--those I haven't blogged about, though I wish I had. (I can see a stack of 25 of them from where I sit, and I'm sure there are at least as many others stashed in various nooks and crannies throughout the house.) Usually this rekindles the Literary Amnesiac fire in me and I start mentally planning how I can catch up and get back into blogging regularly. But today's brief meditation had a unique effect. I began writing a new blog post in my mind, but instead of thinking of specific books that I've read, I considered the various attributes of books I've most enjoyed reading.

For me, there is a bottom line--a minimum requirement, if you will. Technically speaking, the writing must not have mistakes. I have recently been given reason to believe that I *don't* actually catch every grammatical and spelling error present in print, but I find it disruptive when glaring errors figuratively poke me in the eye.

Closely tied to this bottom line: the writing must flow, and must not suck. (For lack of a better term.) Not that I haven't managed to enjoy books with less-than-stellar writing, but I can't call to mind any true favorites that were poorly written. Wow, that sounds pompous . . . well, just keep in mind that I'm talking about my *opinion* of good or bad writing, and I do realize I don't have the last word on that. Also, my definition of "flow" is relatively relaxed and can encompass anything from Faulkner's unconventional stream-of-consciousness prose to Ishiguro's flawless writing. Above all, the writing must not distract me or keep me from losing myself in the story.

If the writing is decent and relatively mistake-free, my all-time favorite characteristic of a good book is the way I am propelled through it. I know I've written here before about my critical mass theory, but I don't mind mentioning it again: I LOVE reaching the point in a book where I am loath to lay it down, where if I have to stop reading I think of nothing but picking the book up again, and where I wish I could put life on hold, doing nothing but reading the book until I've reached the final page. This is kind of a vague trait and one that I'm sure is extremely subjective, but all of my favorite books reach critical mass at one point or another. (And the earlier, the better!)

It seems to me that everything else about a good book is minor compared to what I've already listed. Actually, that's probably the wrong perspective: everything else is the wasabi and pickled ginger to the sushi of good writing and critical mass. (A metaphor which only works if you like wasabi, pickled ginger and sushi. I do.) That doesn't mean the wasabi and pickled ginger aren't important, because they are. And here is what I see as the wasabi and pickled ginger of reading:

I enjoy interesting and unique characters (more so if they're believable), a twisting and engaging plot, and I would claim that the majority of books can only be improved by some suspense and a few secrets. Of course I don't mean that all books should be genre thrillers or murder mysteries; I just mean that I prefer books that raise questions for me to ponder as I read (whether smaller ones, merely about the plot of the book itself, or big ones about the Meaning of Life), especially if those questions aren't answered too quickly. I can even handle a few questions that are never answered . . . but not too many!

I like finding profound thoughts or wise quotes in my books, as long as those thoughts and quotes aren't just a bunch of crap. There may be nothing new under the sun, but it's always somehow fascinating to be shown an old idea in a new way.

And a throwback from my youth: I often found myself IN the book I was reading (not literally, of course). I was the main character. The events of the book were happening to me. Unfortunately, this doesn't seem to happen to me as often anymore, but I loved it when I was young.

This list is nowhere near exhaustive, and I would certainly expect other readers to prize aspects of literature that didn't even cross my mind. What qualities do you find are common denominators in your favorite books?

The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman

For the first time in who knows how long, I have actually finished my book club book before book club. (I used to be such an exemplary member! I always finished my book club books on time. Luckily, I also never gave the other members grief when they didn't finish--or didn't even start!--reading their book before our meeting, so everyone has karmically gone easy on me during these last few months . . . or, erm, possibly years? But that's not my point. My point is that this month I did it right. And anyway, I digress.)

Gaiman's new book is a fun and fast read, and quirky to say the least. I read the Kindle version, which I've always found difficult to equate to real books as far as determining length, but this book must be pretty short (as well as not boring) because I read it within 24 hours--actually less than that, if you subtract a full 8-hour shift at work and at least five hours of sleep (why oh why can I never go to bed early enough to get a good night's sleep? But I digress again).

This is the story of a friendless 7-year-old bookworm who meets an older neighbor girl. Lettie, at first, seems merely to be a teller of tall tales; she claims the pond on her property is an ocean. Though the narrator is skeptical of this (and rightly so), soon she opens his eyes to a reality that most people never see. Normal human events are interspersed with psychedelic weirdness.

Now, weirdness is good. I've told you that before. But it can be much more enjoyable when it has a purpose. Unfortunately, this story seemed loose and aimless (I wanted to describe it with the word "meandering" instead, but the plot had too much tension for that to fit--though in an episodic way rather than in a suspense-building way). As I neared the end I realized I was waiting to find a string that would pull everything taut, one mind-blowing puzzle piece that would click into place and shift everything into a new and dazzling perspective, but alas . . . there was no miracle thread, no revelatory missing piece. There was a pleasing symmetry in the way the fantastic was book-ended with reality, but it didn't make the mess in the middle seem any less pointless. I wanted the fanciful events the narrator experienced in his childhood to be linked to the realistic things he saw and didn't understand--things that frightened and confused him--but (call me stupid) I never found those links.

I get the feeling that, had this book not been written by Neil Gaiman, it would not have found a publisher. Or, best case scenario, a good editor could have taken the raw material (because the layered, textured fabric of good strong storytelling was there), snipped it to bits, and stitched it back together into something that would have raised my eyebrows, dropped my jaw, and altogether satisfied me in the way only a great story can. Instead, I found myself sitting there staring at Mr Incredible in disappointment.


My parting shot: Neil Gaiman used too many commas in this book. Surely he understands correct comma usage (and, barring that, surely his editor does). I was half irritated by this and half dissolving in self-doubt (maybe I'm the one who is wrong!). But so many of his sentences would flow much more nicely without all the pauses.

The Doom of the Haunted Opera by John Bellairs

I remember John Bellairs from my childhood. I'm sure I've even tried to tell people about him since then. This was made more difficult by the fact that I just couldn't remember his name.

Yesterday on a trip to the library I stumbled across a couple of Bellairs' books while sniffing out recommendations for Bookworm Child. I would say that finding these books caused a wealth of memories to come flooding back, but that wouldn't be true. Instead, I only had the same memories I've held on to for the past few decades: first, that Uncle Jonathan caused a lunar eclipse by magic; second, that Lewis summoned Selenna Izard from the dead and was then terrorized by her thick glasses with their pesky glowing glare which obscured her eyes; and third, that at age 8 (just guessing at the age, by the way, because I can't remember how old I was), I finally decided I'd been so creeped out by Mr Bellairs' books that I needed to make and enforce a rule for myself. No more reading books by John Bellairs!

Well, I've finally broken that rule, and happily I have not suffered for it. I just finished reading The Doom of the Haunted Opera. Though there were some creepy passages (most notably when Lewis and Rose Rita were being chased by the stone cemetery statue which would only move when they weren't looking), I'm pretty sure the story is not going to induce nightmares. Though it is well-written, it is much more Goosebumps than Stephen King. It's a slightly more sinister (and American) Harry Potter with a smaller cast of characters who are, sadly, lacking a Hogwarts. I can't help but wonder if the not-too-creepy aspect has anything to do with the fact that this book wasn't written by Bellairs in its entirety? It says right on the cover that it was "completed by Brad Strickland." I'm sure Strickland tried to adhere as closely as possible to Bellairs' style and ideas, but I have no basis for comparison as to whether he succeeded.

The Haunted Opera story follows Lewis and his friend Rose Rita as they explore an old opera house in their hometown of New Zebedee, Michigan. The two discover the score for an opera hidden in an old piano, only to belatedly realize the music is actually an evil incantation that their town is making plans to perform, bringing on the opera's title: The Day of Doom. The overall effect of the story is 2% creepy and 98% spunky and adventuresome. It was a fun and fast read, and an enjoyable way to relive part of my younger days.

There are a few more memories that I've now managed to unearth: First, the characters' names I've mentioned (Jonathan, Lewis, Rose Rita, Mrs Izard--I never would have remembered their names if I hadn't read about them again). Second, the fact that Edward Gorey illustrated many of Bellairs' earlier editions. (I love Gorey's drawings. You should check them out . . . especially his alphabet.) And third, that I surely must have read Bellairs' The House with a Clock in Its Walls--not only because the title sounds familiar, but also because it contains the lunar eclipse and the raising of Old Mrs Izard.

I can't wait to hear what Bookworm Child thinks of Bellairs. It will be interesting to see whether she has to make and enforce a rule for herself . . .

More Gorey for you . . .
the book's back cover

"Spoiled: Stories" by Caitlin Macy

Here's another one that has been on my List of Books to Blog About for months. I remember when I read it (last March); I remember where I bought it (the super-awesome Friends of the Library bookstore in Los Alamos); I remember how much I paid for it ($6, used) and why I felt like it was worth that price when most of the books there are $1 or less (it was already on my TBR list . . . plus it's a really nice hardcover book); but what I can't remember, and what I'd most like to remember, is how it ended up on my TBR list in the first place. Alas, that knowledge is gone forever, but aren't you lucky? I recorded a brief synopsis of each of the short stories in this collection as I read them. Posterity, rejoice.

"Christie": A study in jealousy. Who does it affect? Even if you rationalize or disguise it as a detached criticism of supposed pretensions, this perspective doesn't change the fact that it is truly envy at heart, nor does it change the fact that it eats away at you, not your target.

"Bait and Switch": This time the jealousy is mine. A rented beach house in Italy? One for me, please!

"The Secret Vote": Alice takes responsibility for a major decision on her own shoulders, avoiding input from everyone else. What she decides--in more than one matter--could be seen as slightly ambiguous. Would everyone read it the same way?

"Annabel's Mother": Like The Nanny Diaries condensed into a short story.

"Spoiled": Horse people at their best. Which is oddly similar to horse people at their worst.

"Eden's Gate": Something tells me Caitlin Macy had a spell as an initially-slightly-successful-but-ultimately-failed actress somewhere in her past. The pages of this book are far too populated with such characters for it to be otherwise. But that doesn't make it any less interesting to see that this actress's relationship is destined for failure well before either of the participants can see (or at least admit) it.

"The Red Coat": The awkward relationship between a Manhattanite and her unexpectedly iconoclastic cleaning lady.

"Bad Ghost": A woman at a funeral reflects on her adolescent stint as the worst babysitter ever.

"Taroudant": Rich Americans get the Authentic Experience in Morocco.

Anything else I might think of to say about this book (as I recorded nothing further when I read it) is a vague shadowy memory. I would venture to say that I found it intriguing even if I didn't necessarily identify strongly with any of her characters, and (having so many unread books on my shelves) I probably wouldn't choose to re-read it any time soon, but I can confirm that it was worth the $6 I paid for it.

Reading in Retrospect: "The Moonstone" by Wilkie Collins

Hear ye, hear ye! I am fighting my way out of this blogging slump that feels like it has lasted decades. Just thought I would officially announce that.

So, The Moonstone. I read it more than a year ago. Lucky for me and my literary amnesia, I jotted a few notes as I read. AND I was smart enough to keep those notes tucked in the front cover of the book where I would be sure to find them again, along with evidence of this copy's origins: it was sent to me by Trisha at eclectic/eccentric. Unfortunately I can't remember the circumstances (maybe she had a giveaway and I won it? Maybe she was being generous in getting rid of excess reading material?) but no matter the occasion, I'm always appreciative when I'm the recipient of a free book.

Especially when the free book doesn't suck! The Moonstone is a good solid read, even at the ripe old age of 144. There are many who would award it with the title of "First Detective Novel Written in English," and it ranked high on my Agatha Christie scale. It's got secretive servants, honorable heiresses, dying dowagers, discerning detectives, and genial gentlemen, all in search of a damned diamond--or so it seems. There are some who may be more concerned with hiding than with seeking, and all the fun is in discovering the truth of the matter.

So it was a good read. But wouldn't you love to hear my criticisms? (You knew I would have some, didn't you?) My main complaint is that the solution to the mystery seemed less clever than contrived, making it difficult for me to sufficiently suspend my disbelief. On a brighter note, at least the solution was a mystery to me. I couldn't guess what the answer might be until it was spelled out. Which would have been perfect, if the answer hadn't been a disappointment.

Shall I go on? Betteredge and Clack were really well-developed characters; the others, not so much. Even Clack was somewhat of a caricature--I don't think I would have found her believable, except that I know people just like her! People who would say (or at least think) things like this:

"The true Christian never yields . . . we go on with our work, irrespective of every human consideration which moves the world outside us. We are above reason; we are beyond ridicule; we see with nobody's eyes, we hear with nobody's ears, we feel with nobody's hearts, but our own . . . we are the only people who are always right."

Looks like my complaints list was brief, and not too harsh. And this is obviously not because I'm afraid Wilkie Collins will read my blog post and be offended by it. I may not be labeling this as a Must Read, and I may never re-read it, but I enjoyed the experience the first time around--probably even more than I enjoyed The Woman in White. As those two are generally considered Collins' two finest works, he and I may never meet again, but it was fun while it lasted.

"Stardust" by Neil Gaiman

Stardust was my third Gaiman book, and I must say he hasn't disappointed me yet. This story was very like a fairy tale, and I really enjoyed reading it. It tells of Tristran Thorn, a young man from the village of Wall who sets off into Faerie in search of a fallen star at the request of his grey-eyed love.

With two minor exceptions (Yvaine's reaction to her broken leg and the brief chronicling of Tristran's origins), this story would be completely appropriate for Bookworm Child, and I think she would love it. However, she did give it a try a while back--long before I ever picked it up--and didn't make it very far. Apparently she thought it was boring, though I can't see how that could be possible.

As with many recent books that are at least half-decent, this one has been made into a movie--one which I've seen but I hardly remember. Luckily I have my movie blog to tell me that I enjoyed it, even if it was predictable (and it evidently is not one of the more memorable movies I've seen).

Here's what I'm trying to figure out: why did I like this story so much when the equally fairy-tale-like The Book of Lost Things was somewhat of a disappointment to me? Looking back, I don't know that I felt any more absorbed by Stardust than by Lost Things. But I certainly found I read it with far fewer criticisms in mind. All I can think to chalk it up to is Gaiman's superior storytelling skills.

So this was a good one. Sorry, Paperbackswappers--I'm not letting it go. This one is staying in my collection. Unless, that is, I ever have the chance to replace it with the original publication, which sounds like it was basically a series of four really nice comic books.

"The Princess Diaries" by Meg Cabot

I judged this book by the Disney movie and thought it would be an appropriate read for Bookworm Child (who is eight). Well, while it wasn't completely inappropriate for her, there were a few things that surprised me; I would have thought twice about passing this book along to BC if I'd known about them. There's nothing too horribly graphic (Mia mentions other people kissing via "tongues down each other's throats", and sees her Algebra teacher in his boxer shorts one morning because he is sleeping with Mia's mother. Hmmm. Not to mention the fact that because of this book I had to define the word "testicle" for Bookworm Child. Sure, it was in the context of testicular cancer, but still.) I suppose if I'd noticed it was published by Harper Teen I might have had a clue. Anyway, it's nowhere near as bad as some of the books my mom let me read when I was BC's age, and (though some would dispute this point) I turned out OK.

So, beyond the context of minor age-inappropriateness for my daughter, I had fun with this book. It's the story of Totally Average (if a bit too tall and flat-chested) Mia Thermopolis, a freshman in high school in New York City who lives a Totally Normal life until she finds out that she's next in line to rule the country of Genovia. Cue chaos as the reluctant princess resists her new role. As if a fourteen-year-old's life isn't difficult enough, just imagine how much worse it would be if you had to take Princess Lessons from your martinet Grandmère.

I could be wrong, but I'd like to call this book a forerunner in the current spate of diaries-as-books (see Wimpy Kids and Dorks. Samuel Pepys doesn't count, since I'm talking fiction). Bookworm Child actually mentioned her disappointment that the font in these books doesn't look like handwriting, but I guess when you're breaking new ground you can't be faulted for failing to overturn every convention.

I don't plan to continue with this series. When Bookworm Child asked why, my reply was that there were just so many other books I want to read. But if I ever reach a point where I've read All The Books, I won't mind revisiting Princess Mia. Even though she doesn't like Anne of Green Gables! (I have grave doubts about anyone who doesn't like Anne.)

"The Secret History" by Donna Tartt

The Secret History is blessed with the absolute best combination: brilliant writing and a riveting story. Why can't all books be like this? Well, really, I don't need allthebooksintheworld to be this good: just all the books I read. So I guess the real question is, why can't all the books I choose to read be this great? I suppose the answer lies buried somewhere beneath my penchant for giving obscure books a chance as long as they're cheap.

But never mind--this book certainly didn't fall in the category of cheap, obscure books. I can't for the life of me remember when or where I bought it, but I'm pretty sure I actually paid full price for it, based on previous assurances that I would love it. Not only is it on this list, but my favorite person claims it as a favorite book.

And love it I did. I was enthralled by the unfolding story. It wasn't truly the narrator's story; it was merely a record of the events he observed. Californian Richard Papen found himself accepted--though perhaps only marginally--by an elite and isolated group of students studying Classics at Hampden College in Vermont. Each of his new classmates fascinated him in a strange way--some of the five to a greater extent than the others--but there was a certain synergy at work, as the enigmatic dynamics of the group were even more entrancing to him than the individuals themselves. Richard admired this group to the point of obsession, falling into step with his new peers, willing to go wherever they led--even when the ultimate consequence was murder. (I promise that's not a spoiler! The eventual death is revealed in the prologue.)

The first half of the book details the events leading up to the murder. You'd think all the suspense and excitement would be in this half, but I was even more intrigued by Part Two: watching everyone fall apart, seeing the delicate balance between each of the co-conspirators that might be destroyed at any minute, knowing they were ready to turn on each other at the slightest provocation, and (of course) wondering if they would get caught.

I've seen this book described as a modern classic (however oxymoronic that phrase may be), and I agree with that label. I believe this book will stand the test of time. In fact, that thought leads to my one complaint about the book: I found it ageless almost to the point of annoyance. There were a few clues by which to date it, but the way the main characters spoke--and even the way they dressed--seemed incongruously old-fashioned. But I can live with that. The book was compelling enough that I can forgive a minor irritation.

"The Phantom Tollbooth" by Norton Juster

How did I ever make it out of American Childhood of the 70s without reading The Phantom Tollbooth? Somehow I'd never even heard of it until my friend BR mentioned it just a few years ago. (It was a favorite book from her schooldays! I missed out.) And then my parents gave a copy to Bookworm Child for her 8th birthday (trying to make up for not giving it to me for my 8th birthday?), so I decided it was time to read it.

Milo leads a ho-hum life. He is never content, and always wants to be somewhere he isn't. Nothing interests him, and he doesn't see the point of learning anything new. But he certainly perks up when he comes home one afternoon to find a strange, enormous package in his room. He opens the package to find ONE GENUINE TURNPIKE TOLLBOOTH: EASILY ASSEMBLED AT HOME, AND FOR USE BY THOSE WHO HAVE NEVER TRAVELED IN LANDS BEYOND.

So Milo sets off in his small electric automobile to explore everything there is to see between the Mountains of Ignorance and the Sea of Knowledge. Along the way, accompanied by a watchdog and a Humbug, he learns all kinds of interesting things and is subjected to loads of great puns and--gasp!--he actually enjoys it. The message of this book can be boiled down to this: See? Learning Can Be Fun! (And Funny!)

Unfortunately, I found it wasn't the right time for me to read this book. You would think that, for someone with a love of language and fun homonyms, any time would be a good time; but apparently I was distracted by the vicissitudes of life and I didn't give Milo the attention he deserved. I feel if I'd taken the time to savor this book (and it's short and swift, so that wouldn't have meant too much time) I might have enjoyed it much more.

Here's something odd: as I read I was thinking this book certainly couldn't be made into a movie (how would it work when Faintly Macabre tells Milo, "I'm not a witch, I'm a which"? and there are so many similar situations), but apparently I was wrong. Surprisingly, there has already been a movie made from this book (though it was a cartoon), AND a remake is in the works for 2013!