Thursday Thirteen #4: In Praise of FPPOV, part the fourth

And even MORE great news today. Two things I can’t talk about, and two things I can. Of the latter: I got the mechanicals for the paperback cover of Secret Society Girl, and they’re adorable. I think you guys are going to love it and I can’t wait to get permission to put it online. Very different concept than the hardcover. I’m also mostly finished with the edits for Under the Rose. I just need to do one more read through, and then some final work on some sticky points that still need to get smoothed away. Onto today’s topic:

1. Lolita, by Vladimir Nabokov: I love this book. I love it so much. It’s gorgeous reading, like the most decadent, many layered dessert you’ve ever tasted. And the story rocks too. And it wouldn’t work in any other point of view. No, Lolita is Lolita not because of the fascinating story, nor the ecstatic writing, but because of the miracle of narration — Nabokov makes you root for a child molester. Because he tells the story himself.

2. Frankenstein, by Mary Shelley: Several FPPOV, as a matter of fact. Nested boxes of “true” histories. The moment when the monster gets his own say is such a powerful reversal, and his speech is so moving and eloquent that you can’t help but condemn the society that shuns him.

3. Clarissa, by Samuel Richardson: Too long, and so too little read, but a masterful exploration into every corner of a young woman’s psyche. Clarissa is brilliant, and so indoctrinated into her society, and it’s amazing to watch as her letters turn from correspondance to diary, as her circumstances reveal bit by bit what she’s lying about, and what she truly believes. Her “mad papers!” I remember falling out of my bed when I first read them.

4. Odd Thomas, by Dean Koontz: Odd’s straightforward, just-folks depiction of his bizarre life is the only thing keeping the book from floating into another dimension. No matter how weird things get for Mr. Thomas, his grounded voice makes it sound… almost normal.

5. Bridget Jones’s Diary, by Helen Fielding: Because every one who reads this book falls for Bridget. It’s love. Love, people. She invites you to share every corner of her inner life. She’s so vulnerable, and so honest, and it’s because you the reader, are not necessarily meant to see the things she scribbles in her diary.

6. Flowers For Algernon, by Daniel Keyes: I spoke about this at length on Tuesday, but my heart breaks for Charlie. His voice is so true in this story. You believe it.

7. Solaris, by Stanislaw Lem: If you’ve only seen the George Clooney movie, then (as much fun as I’m sure that was) you don’t know this story. At its heart, it’s about a man incapable of making personal connections trying to communicate with an unknown and unknowable alien entity. And the connections he draws from this irony, as well as the alien’s ultimate manifestation are purest agony through his deceptively cold POV. (I wrote a kick ass paper in college comparing this book to “Tlon, Uqbar, Orbus Tertius,” by Borges.)

8. Go Ask Alice, by Anonymous: Scared my ass off drugs, that’s for damn sure. I’ve heard various reports about whether this was actually a memoir, or a novel posing as a memoir. Either way, it was awesome. I still remember how she described her first acid trip.

9. Dear Mr. Henshaw, by Beverly Cleary: What’s my thing for epistolary novels? All I know is that I read this book over and over as a child. I think I was enamoured of the idea of a kid who would actually write to his favorite author like that. I wonder how many pen pals Beverly Cleary got as a result of this book?

10. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, by Mark Twain: Huck has you at hello with this book. “You don’t know about me without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer; but that ain’t no matter. That book was made by Mr. Mark Twain, and he told the truth, mainly. There was things which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth.”

11. Confessions of a Shopaholic, by Sophie Kinsella: Here’s my confession: When I first read this book, I hated it. I threw it across the room so many times. It turned me off buying Starbucks for a month. I could not identify with Becky at all. But for some reason, I couldn’t look away. It was like watching a train wreck. And the more I allowed myself not to like her, the more I allowed myself to accept that I hated the main character of this book (a rarity for chick lit, which usually expects the reader to identify with the protag), the more I loved it. If I put Becky in the “bad protag” camp (though her crimes are nothing compared to Humbert’s or Dexter’s), then I could go along for a sick, fascinating, hilarious, undeniably enjoyable ride. Now I’ve read the whole series, and I love it. I just had to reset my inner reader.

12. “Tlon, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius,” by Jorges Borges: (You saw this one coming, didn’t you?) A short story, but one of my favorites. Fiction and non-fiction are complex constructs in this fascinating piece. The FPPOV character is Borges himself, relating the fictional actions and arguments of his real friends and colleagues, the fictional entries in real books, and ultimately… well, if you haven’t read the story, you need to do so. It’s pretty short, and available online (though not in the standard translation).

13. I’ve been rotating books in and out of this slot all week. It seems that as soon as I decide what titles this list should include, I think of another I’d rather have. What should my criteria be? How recently I’ve read it? How often? How well I’ve remembered the wonders of the POV? And then I realize that this is by no means a definitive list and all other FPPOV novels will be burned, so I’m going to go ahead and say HIT REPLY, by Rocki St. Claire. Another epistolary novel, but one for the 21st century, Hit Reply is told entirely in emails. One of my favorite books, a real comfort, chicken soup kind of read. It makes me laugh and cry.

So, what about you? Catcher in the Rye? Outlander? Moby Dick? What am I forgetting? What have I not yet read?