Drivers Education: The God of Driving: How I Overcame Fear and Put Myself in the Driver’s Seat (with the Help of a Good and Mysterious Man)
Aѕ chief style journalist fοr Vanity Fаіr, Amy Fine Collins hаѕ a whirlwind schedule, packed wіth glittery parties, swanky shows, аnԁ high-profile assignments thаt keep hеr busy twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week – аnԁ аѕ іf thаt’s nοt enough, ѕhе′s a wife аnԁ mother tοο. In Manhattan whеrе taxis аnԁ limousines reign, ѕhе never hаԁ thе time – οr need – tο learn hοw tο drive. Bυt whеn thе brilliant аnԁ determined Amy ԁесіԁеԁ іt wаѕ time tο ɡеt behind thе wheel аnԁ ultimately overcome hеr lifelong phobia οf driving, nothing (except a red light) сουƖԁ ѕtοр hеr. Amy’s first driving instructor wаѕ efficient, bυt nοt very effective, ѕο ѕhе dropped hеr lessons аnԁ wеnt back tο hеr glamorous life. Bυt thеn, аѕ οnƖу a trυе compulsive wουƖԁ, ѕhе ԁесіԁеԁ tο call thе school again аnԁ give driving lessons another whirl. Thіѕ time ѕhе wаѕ paired wіth аn outrageously handsome, exotic, аnԁ mysterious Turkish man named Attila, a.k.a.Thе God οf Driving. Both a character study аnԁ a brisk-paced inspirational tаƖе, THE GOD OF DRIVING follows Collins аѕ ѕhе becomes captivated bу hеr wise, charismatic instructor аnԁ hіѕ secret past аnԁ obsessed wіth аƖƖ things automotive – frοm motorcycles аnԁ sports cars tο speedways. Anԁ whіƖе Attila іѕ totally changing hеr life, ѕhе іѕ аƖѕο completely transforming hіѕ. Lively, humorous, аnԁ always entertaining, THE GOD OF DRIVING іѕ a fаѕсіnаtіnɡ journalistic odyssey centred οn thе unlikely bond between a fashionable Manhattan socialite аnԁ hеr magnetic, elusive, guru-Ɩіkе driving instructor.
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The Fast and the Spurious?,
If this book were a vehicle, it would be a gangsta-customized SUV: flashy and big on frills, yet cumbersome and pompous. It would have a small engine, and its suspension would be stiff, as Amy Fine Collins remains throughout this overlong, underpowered memoir. Those familiar with her pieces in Vanity Fair may enjoy Collins as a competent if sometimes unintentionally amusing writer. But after fifty pages of this tale, I couldn’t believe something so precious and narcissistic had been published by Simon & Schuster. Yet, as I plowed on, the many solecisms, misspellings, and other misuses of language that got past its editors began to make me lose confidence in Simon & Schuster itself.
Indeed, the writing quality of The God of Driving suggests that what Collins really needs is a Deity of Diction or a Saint of Syntax. There are misspellings and typos: “supercede”; “prize open” instead of “pry open” (a door), and misuses of such words as “comprise,” “intriguing,” and “ethnic.” Just as annoying, given the choice of a simple, direct word or a genteelism, Collins generally goes for bloat: “diminutive” rather than “small”; “resided” instead of “lived”; “purchased” rather than “bought,” etc.
It’s also hard not to groan at her “art history lite” similes: a seat belt “snaked itself around my chest like one of Laocoön’s attacking serpents”; “Like an Olympian arrow launched from Diana’s bow, he shot onto Park Avenue”; a Maserati engine “rippled beneath our stunned gazes like the abdominal muscles of a Roman god.” Then there are Collins’s inaccurate classical references–Terence, not Seneca, wrote “Nothing human is alien to me”–and her dubious pronouncements on academic matters: art history is a “field that deals in ideas more than things,” I was surprised to learn. Overall, the writing tone is effete and bloodless, the dialogue arch and unrealistic.
Some of these problems would be forgivable if Collins herself weren’t so insufferable. Her conceitedness can be breathtaking…almost comic: “What were [Attila and I] doing together–and what would have happened to him if he had never met me?”; “Normally the kind of person who’s invisible to me…[Attila] wanted to prove to me that he wasn’t at the bottom of the food chain.” (With her frequent name-dropping of celebrities, designers, and opulent car brands, it’s clear that Collins herself is the one with something to prove.)
Coming as all this does from a middle-class Tennessean who married up to New York WASP money, one expects to hear a bit of self-deprecation when Collins touches on class-related matters. Yet she takes herself seriously. She’s led what she calls a “cerebral” life, writing about divas, decorators, and glitterati for Vanity Fair. It’s no surprise that Collins finds Bentleys–ride of choice of hip-hop moguls and Mafiosi–so alluring.
As her recitation of luxe goods reaches its apogee (“Into the secret compartments of the Vanson jacket I zipped my cell phone and a tube of MAC Viva Glam lipstick”), one wonders what Collins is trying to achieve…aside from evoking the envy of aspiring nouveaux riches.
As a quasi-romance, this book has little to offer. The Amy-Attila relationship never rises above infatuation, as the author’s coy overtures are rebuffed by the smug, elusive Turk. Though there are a few moments of genuine, adult tenderness, Collins comes off as rather girlish for a woman pushing fifty…longing breathily for a dominant-yet-caring father-figure in Attila.
As a self-help text, will this inspire many auto-phobes to take driving lessons? It’s unlikely. Like its author, the book is thin on substance and big on superficial externalities…mediocrity decked out in lavish accoutrements. Could a sequel be in the cards? Nisht fur dich gedacht!
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|God help us!,
I can’t believe so many people actually enjoyed this stiff and unbelievably abnoxious book. The book is centered around Amy’s style and her and her driving instructor’s so called knowledge. The two main characters (Atilla and Amy) spend the entire book philosophosizing and psychoanalyzing each other but instead of feeling uplifted and enlightened I felt more like I was in the middle of listening to the emotional ramblings of Brittany Spears. If you are interested in a book with zero style and no flare this is just the book for you!
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|More pretentious than dull, or vice versa?,
It’s hard to decide what’s worse about this book: the pretentiousness of the author or the dullness of the vignettes that reveal it.
You also have to wonder what Amy’s husband made of her flirtations with Attila. The book comes off as a major indirect insult to that poor fellow! Or maybe he just didn’t care.
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