I confess I didn’t expect to like this book. New York Times bestsellers with blurbs by Katie Couric on the cover don’t tend to be my cup of tea. No offense, Katie.
But I did like it. Gottlieb has a clear and honest writing voice and her recounting of her personal misfortunes and interesting career arc – or career zigzag, I should say – is every bit as compelling as her stories about the patients she sees.
Definitely recommended, but be prepared to get a little teary from time to time.
Beautiful, colourful, inspiring photographs, but I found the text a bit flat and vague and so kept skimming through it to look at the next set of photos. It’s less a book of advice than Stanton’s portfolio, which is fine, but anyone looking for practical tips and advice will probably be disappointed.
Jane Brocket’s idea of domesticity is a lot like my own: making, baking, reading, gardening and looking for the beauty in everyday objects and happenings.
I first read this book not long after it was published in 2007 and was both thrilled and depressed to discover there was someone out there living the kind of life I wanted to lead while I was still so bogged down with child care. The idea of having time to pursue my own interests seemed a long way off – and it was – but the kids are grown now and it’s my time to fool around with yarn and experiment with recipes and take a ridiculous number of photos and read as many books as possible.
This is not a how-to book, although it does contain a few recipes. I’d call it inspirational or aspirational, perhaps, because Brocket has a great eye for colour and composition and, it seems, the budget for very high quality materials. Highly recommended for anyone interested in pursuing a creative life.
I don’t have a chronic disease – as far as I know, dun dun DUNNN – and hopefully I never will since I already follow most of the advice in UnDo It!
For anyone living the standard North American lifestyle (heavy on the animal products, light on the exercise), however, this might be able to convince them to change their ways.
The early chapters on the science were good, but after that, there was a little too much advertisement of their workshops and weird insistence that group therapy would be helpful for everyone. Frankly, I’d rather have the chronic disease.
I usually try to keep my big mouth shut about books I don’t enjoy, primarily because I can’t imagine how disheartening it must be to pour months and years of work into something, only to have it torn to shreds by a bunch of know-nothing blobs like me.
Instead, if asked my opinion on anything I don’t care for, I use my mother’s diplomatic line: ‘I’m just not the intended audience.’ I like this because it isn’t insulting the intelligence or taste of people who do like that book/movie/show/band/painting/fashion trend and it acknowledges that things can be good even if I don’t like them.
I read a lot, but life is short and reading time is precious, so I steer clear of works I’m 99.99% sure will not be to my liking, no matter how popular they may be. Like 50 Shades of Grey. Or Harry Potter. Or anything that has a cover bearing a shirtless man wearing a kilt. Sorry, but I am not the intended audience.
Every once in a while, however, a book slips through the net and I am astounded by my dislike for something I thought I’d enjoy. Like I Feel Bad About My Neck by Nora Ephron, which I finally got around to last week. It’s been in my reading queue for the entire thirteen years since its publication and based on all the great reviews and its presence on countless lists of ‘Top 10 Humour Titles’, I thought it would be a sure thing. Nope.
It turns out that despite also being a middle-aged white woman with a not-so-great neck, I am not her intended audience. The endless stream of procedures, grooming appointments and expensive creams and potions she describes as if they are all a necessity? Depressing. (And I don’t mean ‘oh, isn’t it depressing we women require all these interventions to keep looking passable,’ but that she seems to think that’s the case.) Griping about her enormous NYC apartment with rent that costs more per month than many people (including me) make in a year? Tone-deaf. Reminiscing how outrageously fat she grew when she went off to university and soared to (gasp) 125 pounds? Shut up.
Making the whole experience worse was that I listened to the audiobook version, read by the author herself. She…speaks…slowly. So slowly I kept looking for a way to play it at 1.25 speed. And she…approaches…a…punchline…by…slowing….down….even….more…..and……making……her……last……word……….[almost inaudible]. It made me crazy.
I know, I know, for someone who started this post bragging about keeping my snarky opinions to myself, this whole thing took an awfully negative turn. But believe me that even though Ephron died in 2012 and it’s impossible to hurt her feelings, I still feel a bit squeamish about openly criticising her work like this and I’ve been dithering for days about whether to say anything.
Is there value in sharing bad reviews and negative opinions? I’m not sure. Do I feel a teensy bit better about blurting my two cents? Actually, yes. Yes, I do.