Mockingjay and Travels with Charley: Could Two Books Be More Different?

So what have I been doing this past week? Uh . . . not much writing, obviously. I'll give you two words: jam and jam. You'll hear more about that later--and you'll probably hear more about our extremely wonderful week later as news develops but suffice it to say that there was much rejoicing with all that jam and jam and unspecified, yet highly satisfying "good stuff" happening.

But besides all that I've been reading.

You see, I had my kids sign up for the summer reading program at the library and to be a good example I signed up for the adult summer program--giving them encouragement and all that. Well it turned out that I won a set of movie tickets during one of the weekly drawings and then I won the grand prize at the end of the program. The big mother prize! The big prize, that is, not the mother who won.

I was pretty excited to get that call and hear I'd won but then I had to laugh when I heard what I'd received: a gift basket from Kaladi Brothers, a local gourmet coffee shop. Heh. And me not drinking coffee. How ironic is that? But then, almost as a postscript I was told I'd also won a gift certificate to the local used bookstore for $100. WOOHOO! Now that's better than a basket full of coffee any day.

And actually, as fate would have it, the gift basket turned out to be nice too because I took it to our nice neighbors across the street who then offered me her week of veggies at the local vegetable co-op while they were on vacation (though they probably would have offered it even without the coffee). Kohlrabi for coffee, now that's a fine trade I'd say.

But the point is, I went down and grabbed a ton of books.

So today we're going to do an old-fashioned compare/contrast like you did in freshman English on two of my most recent reads: Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins and Travels with Charley by John Steinbeck.

I read Mockingjay (the final installment of the Hunger Games trilogy) because of my daughter. She'd read the books and loved them and insisted that I read them too and as I've been a huge stinker about how much I absolutely HATE (yes, in caps--HATE) the Twilight series I thought that it would be a suitable olive branch to read this particular recommendation.

I've kept quiet here about my complete and total loathing of Twilight and will not get riled up now as we're not talking about that vapid (I love the word "vapid"--but not as much as I hate Twilight) set of books and Meyer should not be mentioned in the same post as Steinbeck but let the record show that I'm no friend to self-absorbed, horny vampires.

But I digress . . . see how it gets me going? Anyway, as I was saying . . . Grace wanted me to read Hunger Games and it wasn't too bad. I mean it was like watching any of a number of action flicks and kept my attention going for the whole of the plot and since I wanted to know what happened next (always a good thing in a story) I picked up the second book, Catching Fire, and read it too along with my daughter.

It was disappointing. Too many stories have interesting premises that eke out into oblivion as the teller can't figure out how to progress and it felt as if this one was weak and unoriginal. But still--what was going to happen? So out comes Mockingjay and Grace was rabid to find out how everything ended.

I finished it, but having previously read Travels with Charley the differences between the two books was staggering.

Reality Check
Travels with Charley is a travel memoir where Steinbeck takes his poodle and his truck to circle the length and breadth of our great country "in search of America." The book felt good in my hand--a quality paperback that had a thick, stiff cover and beautiful illustrations (by Don Freeman) and an artistic yet solid typeface (yes, I notice those kinds of things). I love the way a good paperback feels in your hands--the curve of the cover, the heft of the paper, the size of the layout--and this one felt as if it were built to last as much as a vintage Ford truck or a pair of Levis.

Mockingjay, on the other hand, is a post-apocalyptic novel. America is destroyed and not only is the theme far from looking for the good or for the truth in one's surroundings, the book is cynical in a cliche Hollywood, trust-no-one fashion that has been done to death. The words are spaced widely on the page as if screaming that it's padded to make you feel as if you're buying a bigger book than you really are and that's true on multiple levels.

Me, Myself and I
Steinbeck, while writing solely about himself and his travels (or maybe about his dog here and there) is far from self-absorbed and egotistical. He thinks and philosophizes and considers, but always in the context of the world around him. There is no navel gazing here, he is traveling and seeing the world with eyes that seek for beauty and depth and bring it to us in a very generous way.

Collins' main character, Katniss Everdeen (ever since Harry Potter characters must have Anglo-Saxon multi-syllabic names designed to evoke stereotypical character traits) spends most of the 200+ pages moaning about "me, me, me." Now I know she's only 17 so perhaps it's to be expected but still. Boy does it get tedious. Nothing works for her, nothing makes her happy, she supposedly loves her mother and sister to the laying down of everything else but yet her actions are completely contradictory to this bedrock character trait.

She's a bit of an anti-hero (if she can claim to be that complex, which one could certainly argue against) who uses people and has the same traits as action heroes everywhere: a complete inability to accept authority or obey rules. She is completely predictable, formulaic and flat--the embodiment of Laura Croft with a touch of Aeon Flux or Electra thrown in for variety. Or not. Sigh. It truly is, all about her and her angst and that gets tiresome.

Who Needs Literature Anyway?
Steinbeck (and I should warn you, I've been on a holy Steinbeck kick these last few months and I'm completely biased here) has a mastery of the English language that few can rival. It's really unfair to compare Collins to him but then who ever said I was fair? I read the book with a new, long pencil sporting a fine, sharp point, underlining passages I liked or found especially beautiful. There is not a page in the book that doesn't have at least one marking on it.

As an example, the opening sentence reads, "When I was very young and the urge to be someplace else was on me, I was assured by mature people that maturity would cure this itch. . . .A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us."

He writes about language, about politics, about trash, about food and about racism--and every word is crafted with ease and comfort so that you feel as if you're sitting with Steinbeck in the back of his camper over a cup, talking about his experiences. I wish I had my own talent enough to explain how beautiful it is.

Mockingjay, however, is written as most popular books are today--as a screenplay. It's plot-driven, explosive with violence and pathos, extreme in emotion and environment--all built around that most elusive of modern holy grails: our dwindling attention span. There is no depth of character, there is no reality or underlining humanity (no matter how desperately Collins tries to make us think, "There, but for the grace of God, go we") and no great conflict. Sure, the world is coming to an end but nowadays "conflict" merely means more bullets. And bullets there are aplenty. In fact, many scenes read like the script for the next Quentin Terrantino film with limbs being severed and flesh being melted in ever new and exotic ways but without any significant conflict--the kind that makes you care what happens to people and things.

Quite simply, this is a book written to entertain with action and violence (which it kind of does) without benefit of any other literary tool or unity. Fine. That's what the best-seller list has become and I'll accept that. Why rail against the inescapable? Go with the flow, that's what Steinbeck would have said. Though he would have said it much more eloquently.