A Pattern in My Reading

On Christmas morning, I opened a gift from my husband and found Rabid: A Cultural History of the World’s Most Diabolical Virus.  Later, I opened another package from my grandparents’ that contained The Emperor of All Maladies: A Biography of Cancer.  Earlier this year I read The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks.  As you can probably see, a pattern is emerging— I’ve apparently developed a taste for medical literature.

Now when left to my own devices—in other words when I’m not reading for a class—my reading selection tends to wander. After reading magical realism for a while I’ll shift to nineteenth century Russian literature, then I’ll devour graphic novels, and finally turn to fairy tales. The fact that I’m reading books dealing with disease should not be surprising. However, before this year science books have been oddly absent from my reading list.

Now this is not because I’m disinterested in science, I love watching documentaries on PBS and reading articles from magazines. The reason I’ve unjustly ignored science books is that I associate them with textbooks. It doesn’t matter how interesting the facts are, when the writing is dull I have a hard time getting through all those pages, and few science books are marketed as having lovely prose or a gripping story arc.

Thankfully, I came across The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks earlier this year. Yes, the book is about the science of cancer, how cells are grown for medical testing and patient rights, all of which doesn’t suggest a gripping tale, but it also about a woman who died of cancer, the family she left behind, and even the author’s own quest to find out who was the person that these HeLa cell were taken from, and that is riveting stuff. While I enjoy finding out about science and history, it was this family’s story and the obstacles that they faced because of poverty and race that really interested me and got me through the book.

I started reading Rabid on Christmas and finished it two days later. While I was interested in the titular subject, I was worried that this book would lose my interest, because there was no one to follow all the way through it. The opening of book reassured me, with the first line “Ours is a domesticated age,” followed by a list of news items about animals, seemingly possessed, attacking people, which ends with “The agent of all these acts of possession is, of course, a virus.” That is damn good writing, and throughout the book the prose is tight and even poetic. In some ways, the rabies virus becomes a character—a mysterious unstoppable force that brings the wilderness into our homes and turns humans into something animals like, which eventually becomes a preventable disease that is rare in wealthy countries and even a tool in science laboratories. While following this disease the authors are able to talk about not just science, but history, myth, language, pop culture and people.

Perhaps the reason I’ve developed such an interest in these books is because they provide a single line to follow through confusing histories. It seems that we talk about history in categories—here is a list of battles and names of generals and kings, here is a list of scientific developments, here is a list of folk beliefs and practices. It does not seem that there is much cross over. Yet these two books allow you to cross through categories and show how they relate. What possible connection could the Iliad, Saint Herbert, Vampires, lap dogs and Louis Pasteur share—a surprisingly terrifying one. The economics of medical laboratories seems to belong to a completely different world than that of a death of one woman and her surviving family, but they are not. It is dangerous to forget how these things connect and rely on each other.

Perhaps this just reveals my own tastes. As much as fact can interest me, what holds my attention are people, stories, and of course a well turned phrase. While I have yet to start The Emperor of All Maladies and can’t really judge it yet, all that I’ve heard about this book has been good. I look forward to seeing what surprising places it takes me and, hopefully, discovering books I would have overlooked otherwise.

At Least it’s Not “The Christmas Shoes”

I feel like I should make a “you better watch out” joke for some reason.

It is the Christmas season again, a time when I would like to get in the holiday mood but the shallow saccharin sentiments used to mask the aggressive consumerism just feed my cynicism. But that is not what I’m going to complain about today, no today I want to ask what the hell is up with the “The Little Match Girl”being a beloved Christmas story! Really? Mind you this is coming from someone who loves Rare Exports and Black Christmas. I’m fine with Elder God Santa and a slasher hiding himself in a sorority house as the girls pack for winter break. I understand my love of horror can be a bit odd especially during this time of the year, but I draw the line at this fairy tale.

The story is by Hans Christian Andersen, who for those you who are  familiar with fairy tales should be cause for alarm (at least when you’re trying to calm children for bed). In it a little girl who has no shoes is dying of hypothermia on New Years Eve. She is afraid to go home because her father will beat her for failing to sell the matches. She ends up lighting each match for warmth during which she hallucinates a warms stove, a Christmas tree, and her dead grandma—the only person that has ever been kind to her. In the end she succumbs to the cold and her frozen little body is found with a smile on its face. Lets send the little ones to bed with that image in their heads.

Christmas seems to need a little sadness and a lot of nostalgia, which I’m fine with. “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” and “White Christmas” are my favorite Christmas songs because they show longing for something that once was, note both songs were written during World War II.  At the time many knew that they would not be home for Christmas that they may never get home, but it is still a possibility. There was still hope. A Christmas Carol needs its ghosts and needs its suffering, but it also needs Scrooge’s redemption and the knowledge that Tiny Tim, that annoying little sprite, can be saved and live a long life. Take It’s a Wonderful Life (a film I hate, but I understand it’s appeal), George Bailey’s possible suicide attempt is necessary, but so is his discovery that life is worth living. Whereas the Little Match Girl dies alone, but that is alright because she’s in heaven. Children die miserable deaths from neglect, but don’t worry or feel guilty for your apathy, they get a nifty afterlife. Merry Christmas!

I suspect as with all things this comes down to taste, and if I was religiously inclined I may view the tale a bit differently. If you enjoy this story there is nothing wrong with that, but in the end I much prefer Terry Pratchett’s take on it in Hogfather.