In the past three or four years, there seems to have been a plethora of books set in or around bookstores. I have read at least nine (Midnight at the Bright Ideas Bookstore, The Bookshop of Yesterdays, Paris by the Book, The Bookseller, The Bookstore on the Corner, The Readers of Broken Wheel Recommend, Small Blessings, The Bookman's Tale, and The Storied Life of AJ Fikry)--and two minutes spent on Amazon show there are more.
Sometimes when I notice what I think is a trend or fad (books written in first-person plural, with Shakespeare as a plot device, or exploring alternative futures based on small decisions), I think it's just a coincidence. But I have evidence that this bookshop thing really is a trend: at an author event, Cynthia Swenson, who wrote The Bookseller, when asked about the title of her book, replied that the publisher had told her she needed a title that signaled that the protagonist had a bookstore because books set in bookstores were "hot."
So how do these trends get started? Are people looking at trends in the culture and then writing books to match them? This seems unlikely, especially with bookstores, since all we've heard of late is that bookstores are dying. In fact, the opposite seems more likely--people decided to write books to try to increase the panache of bookstores. Still not probable. Perhaps it's just coincidence--a number of writers for no connected reason write books set in bookstores! Sadly, what seems more likely is that one person has success with a book set in a bookshop, and imitators jump on the bandwagon.
Any ideas?
BTW: Two of the books listed above stand out from the rest: The Storied Life of AJ Fikry, by Gabrielle Zevin, and the recently read Paris by the Book, by Liam Callanan. Paris by the Book is a bit of a mystery--Leah Eady's writer husband Robert has disappeared and she has moved her daughters to Paris in hopes of finding him there. Leah and Robert both love Paris (or the idea of Paris), Leah having been seduced by The Red Balloon and Robert by the Madeline stories. Leah ends up running an English-language bookstore, where she organizes the shelves by location, rather than subject or author. Meanwhile, she and her daughters surreptitiously look for Robert, rarely confronting the question of whether he might be dead. There's considerable sorrow in the story but also joy--and Paris! Definitely recommended.
And here's my description of The Storied Life of AJ Fikry from a few years ago: Widower AJ Fikry lives above his small bookstore in a tourist town on an island off the Massachusetts coast. He drinks too much, carries only books he likes (he's not a fan of David Foster Wallace), and doesn't really like most of his customers. But then someone leaves a baby in the store and soon he's raising the child, dating a book rep, organizing a book group for police officers, and hosting author events. The book talk/gossip is fun and, although there are sad moments in the book, overall it leaves the reader feeling positive about humanity. Highly recommended.
If you haven't gotten in on the bookshop fad, I suggest starting with these two.
Friday, December 21, 2018
Sunday, November 11, 2018
An Evening with Shanthi Sekaran
Last Saturday was the One Book One Broomfield author event featuring Shanthi Sekaran, author of Lucky Boy. Lucky Boy was a very timely pick for this year's One Book One Broomfield program, dealing as it does with immigration and the separation of children from unauthorized migrant parents taken into detention. The story has two protagonists. One is Soli, a Mexican teenager whose parents send her north with $5 and big dreams; the journey is treacherous in the extreme but she eventually arrives at her cousin's home in Berkeley. Her cousin, while not the most sympathetic of characters, takes Soli in and finds her a housekeeping job. Soli soon discovers she is pregnant, but keeps her job--her employers even let her bring her son Ignacio ("Nacho") to work with her. But then a day of disasters lands her in detention, starting a long battle for her freedom and custody of Nacho.
The second protagonist is Kavya, the daughter of immigrants from India, who lives in Berkeley with her techie husband Richi. Kavya has not lived up to her parents' expectations, going into the culinary field rather than a more prestigious career. As a result of the recession, she has gone from being the chef at a trendy pizzeria to working in a sorority house. Kavya and Richi are struggling to conceive; after a miscarriage, they decide to try adoption and are advised that they should start as foster parents. They end up at a foster home that needs to move one of the children in its care; coincidentally, Ignacio is one of those children. Although they were supposed to be considering a baby girl, Kavya falls in love with Ignacio (whom she dubs "Iggy"). For Richi, the transition to parent is less instant. Eventually, they decide to try to adopt Iggy, setting up legal and moral dilemmas for themselves and Soli.
Ms. Sekaran's discussion of the book and her experience in writing it was fascinating. She was inspired by a news story about a Central American mother who was trying to wrest her child from the U.S. foster care system. That inspiration launched her on a multi-year project in which she did extensive research to ensure that she was representing the story of unauthorized Mexican immigration accurately and with empathy. Since I don't have direct experience of immigration myself, I can't judge the accuracy--but it was certainly described as a grueling experience that required incredible inner resources to survive. In contrast, Kavya's story is more closely related to Ms. Sekaran's own lived experienced and perhaps that is what allowed her to inject some humor into that part of the story. This humor was welcome relief from a very intense story (one member of my book group couldn't finish the book because it made her so sad).
Surprisingly, the book was not quickly picked up by a publisher. In the midst of having a baby, Sekaran revised the book fairly extensively. She reversed the ending and added an entire subplot about Richi's work. Frankly, with all that was going on in the book, I could have done without Richi's work struggles--but if it helped get the book published, then I guess it was worth it.
In the Q&A part of the evening, Sekaran was asked about how she came up with the title. She reported that it was perhaps the fifth title she proposed (one of the less successful being Nacho!--with the exclamation mark) and she liked it both because of its layered meaning and its sound--she finds L, K, and B to be good sounds (I didn't quite get that).
I admired the OBOB committee for picking a book with some controversy in it--and Sekaran for directly addressing the alarming policy changes under the current administration in her talk--but I was sad to see that the library did not plan a discussion group around the book. While the discussions have not always been well attended, this is a book that cries out for conversation!
The second protagonist is Kavya, the daughter of immigrants from India, who lives in Berkeley with her techie husband Richi. Kavya has not lived up to her parents' expectations, going into the culinary field rather than a more prestigious career. As a result of the recession, she has gone from being the chef at a trendy pizzeria to working in a sorority house. Kavya and Richi are struggling to conceive; after a miscarriage, they decide to try adoption and are advised that they should start as foster parents. They end up at a foster home that needs to move one of the children in its care; coincidentally, Ignacio is one of those children. Although they were supposed to be considering a baby girl, Kavya falls in love with Ignacio (whom she dubs "Iggy"). For Richi, the transition to parent is less instant. Eventually, they decide to try to adopt Iggy, setting up legal and moral dilemmas for themselves and Soli.
Ms. Sekaran's discussion of the book and her experience in writing it was fascinating. She was inspired by a news story about a Central American mother who was trying to wrest her child from the U.S. foster care system. That inspiration launched her on a multi-year project in which she did extensive research to ensure that she was representing the story of unauthorized Mexican immigration accurately and with empathy. Since I don't have direct experience of immigration myself, I can't judge the accuracy--but it was certainly described as a grueling experience that required incredible inner resources to survive. In contrast, Kavya's story is more closely related to Ms. Sekaran's own lived experienced and perhaps that is what allowed her to inject some humor into that part of the story. This humor was welcome relief from a very intense story (one member of my book group couldn't finish the book because it made her so sad).
Surprisingly, the book was not quickly picked up by a publisher. In the midst of having a baby, Sekaran revised the book fairly extensively. She reversed the ending and added an entire subplot about Richi's work. Frankly, with all that was going on in the book, I could have done without Richi's work struggles--but if it helped get the book published, then I guess it was worth it.
In the Q&A part of the evening, Sekaran was asked about how she came up with the title. She reported that it was perhaps the fifth title she proposed (one of the less successful being Nacho!--with the exclamation mark) and she liked it both because of its layered meaning and its sound--she finds L, K, and B to be good sounds (I didn't quite get that).
I admired the OBOB committee for picking a book with some controversy in it--and Sekaran for directly addressing the alarming policy changes under the current administration in her talk--but I was sad to see that the library did not plan a discussion group around the book. While the discussions have not always been well attended, this is a book that cries out for conversation!
Monday, October 29, 2018
Unsheltered and Transcription
When you see that certain authors have new books coming out, you just get excited, right? For me, two of those authors are Barbara Kingsolver and Kate Atkinson, so when both recently dropped new books, I couldn't wait to snatch them up.
Before I had gotten very far into Unsheltered, Barbara Kingsolver's new book, I happened upon a couple of reviews, neither of which sounded much like the book I was enjoying. One called it the "first major novel to tackle the Trump era straight on"--really? It's certainly (partially) set in the present and refers indirectly to Trump (as "The Bullhorn) and discusses his surprising rise, but it's so much more than that. The second review I saw called it a story of mother-daughter relationships--wow! A mother-daughter relationship is certainly part of the story, but so are mother-son, daughter-in-law/father-in-law, husband/wife (two of those), brother-in-law/sister-in-law, grandmother-grandson relationships. Piqued by these two reviews, I looked at what people were saying on Goodreads and found equally (to me) weird comments--"It's too much about plants" and "It's too whiny" are two examples. A reminder that the same book can be a very different reading experience for different people.
So what was Unsheltered to me? A good book about people struggling and the relationships and principles that sustain them in hard times. As I mentioned, half of the book is set in the present, half in the 1870s; both stories feature people living in a town in New Jersey established as a Christian utopian community but hardly offering a utopian home to our characters. In the 1870s, newly married science teacher Thatcher Greenwood is struggling with both a school administrator who restricts what he can teach and a wife who wants a higher status life than Thatcher can give her. Thatcher's house, which his wife's mother has "inherited" from a relative who has moved West is falling down around them and they don't have the money to fix it. Thatcher does have friendships that help him stand his ground, with his young sister-in-law; his nextdoor neighbor, naturalist Mary Treat (an actual historical figure); and the editor of the alternative newspaper.
In the present, Willa (a laid-off journalist) and Iano (a college professor whose employer went out of business due to financial problems) are also struggling with an inherited home that is collapsing, quite literally. While Iano has found a temporary position with a college in Philadelphia, the family doesn't have the resources to fix the house; they must get Medicaid to provide medical care for Iano's diabetic (and conservative) father and their baby grandson, whom their son--mourning the suicide of his partner--has left with them while he pursues business opportunities. Their underemployed daughter Tig, who also lives with them, is often a thorn in Willa's side, pointing out the failures of the older generation. Willa, too, has relationships that sustain her, in this case her marriage and a new friendship with the curator of the local history museum.
My description makes the book sound rather grim, but I didn't find it so--the ways in which Thatcher, Willa, Mary, and Tig find meaning amid difficulty were actually inspiring.
One small quibble: I listened to the audio book, which is read by Kingsolver. At one point when Willa is having an unsatisfying exchange with an African American social worker, she reports the woman saying "aks" rather than "ask" and then makes fun of that pronunciation. Honestly, that should be beneath both Willa and Kingsolver.
I was less enamored with Kate Atkinson's new book Transcription. I loved her two earlier books set during World War II (and before and after)--Life after Life and A God in Ruins, both of which played with the meaning of narrative and what a novel is in thought-provoking ways. Transcription is essentially a spy novel featuring a young woman protagonist; since spy novels have never particularly appealed to me, I guess I shouldn't be surprised that I wasn't too excited about this book. The main character wasn't very believable to me--a weird combination of totally naive and very well read. And the twist that came at the end of the book seemed equally unrealistic.
So a thumb's up for Unsheltered and a thumb's down (unless you're a spy novel aficionado) for Transcription. But I'll still be looking forward to Atkinson's next book.
Whose books do you particularly look forward to?
Before I had gotten very far into Unsheltered, Barbara Kingsolver's new book, I happened upon a couple of reviews, neither of which sounded much like the book I was enjoying. One called it the "first major novel to tackle the Trump era straight on"--really? It's certainly (partially) set in the present and refers indirectly to Trump (as "The Bullhorn) and discusses his surprising rise, but it's so much more than that. The second review I saw called it a story of mother-daughter relationships--wow! A mother-daughter relationship is certainly part of the story, but so are mother-son, daughter-in-law/father-in-law, husband/wife (two of those), brother-in-law/sister-in-law, grandmother-grandson relationships. Piqued by these two reviews, I looked at what people were saying on Goodreads and found equally (to me) weird comments--"It's too much about plants" and "It's too whiny" are two examples. A reminder that the same book can be a very different reading experience for different people.
So what was Unsheltered to me? A good book about people struggling and the relationships and principles that sustain them in hard times. As I mentioned, half of the book is set in the present, half in the 1870s; both stories feature people living in a town in New Jersey established as a Christian utopian community but hardly offering a utopian home to our characters. In the 1870s, newly married science teacher Thatcher Greenwood is struggling with both a school administrator who restricts what he can teach and a wife who wants a higher status life than Thatcher can give her. Thatcher's house, which his wife's mother has "inherited" from a relative who has moved West is falling down around them and they don't have the money to fix it. Thatcher does have friendships that help him stand his ground, with his young sister-in-law; his nextdoor neighbor, naturalist Mary Treat (an actual historical figure); and the editor of the alternative newspaper.
In the present, Willa (a laid-off journalist) and Iano (a college professor whose employer went out of business due to financial problems) are also struggling with an inherited home that is collapsing, quite literally. While Iano has found a temporary position with a college in Philadelphia, the family doesn't have the resources to fix the house; they must get Medicaid to provide medical care for Iano's diabetic (and conservative) father and their baby grandson, whom their son--mourning the suicide of his partner--has left with them while he pursues business opportunities. Their underemployed daughter Tig, who also lives with them, is often a thorn in Willa's side, pointing out the failures of the older generation. Willa, too, has relationships that sustain her, in this case her marriage and a new friendship with the curator of the local history museum.
My description makes the book sound rather grim, but I didn't find it so--the ways in which Thatcher, Willa, Mary, and Tig find meaning amid difficulty were actually inspiring.
One small quibble: I listened to the audio book, which is read by Kingsolver. At one point when Willa is having an unsatisfying exchange with an African American social worker, she reports the woman saying "aks" rather than "ask" and then makes fun of that pronunciation. Honestly, that should be beneath both Willa and Kingsolver.
I was less enamored with Kate Atkinson's new book Transcription. I loved her two earlier books set during World War II (and before and after)--Life after Life and A God in Ruins, both of which played with the meaning of narrative and what a novel is in thought-provoking ways. Transcription is essentially a spy novel featuring a young woman protagonist; since spy novels have never particularly appealed to me, I guess I shouldn't be surprised that I wasn't too excited about this book. The main character wasn't very believable to me--a weird combination of totally naive and very well read. And the twist that came at the end of the book seemed equally unrealistic.
So a thumb's up for Unsheltered and a thumb's down (unless you're a spy novel aficionado) for Transcription. But I'll still be looking forward to Atkinson's next book.
Whose books do you particularly look forward to?
Wednesday, October 24, 2018
Reading Politics: What Happened, Shattered, and Fear
In the past few months, I have read What Happened by Hillary Rodham Clinton, Shattered: Inside Hillary Clinton's Doomed Campaign by Jonathan Allen and Amie Parnes, and Fear: Trump in the White House, by Bob Woodward.
As was the case with Fire and Fury, which I read earlier in the year, I wasn't really surprised by much in Fear. Any relatively sane person observing events since Trump's inauguration in 2017 would find the atrocities Woodward describes much as they expected. It's fairly easy to discern who Woodward's major sources were--Priebus, Porter, Bannon, Cohn, Dowd, and Lindsey Graham--and, of course, the story is thus filtered through their points of view. Porter comes across as more important and reasoned than I had previous thought him to be (with just a, you know, little violence against women problem); Kelly comes across as less focused and more hair-triggered than I had realized. And Lindsey Graham--good grief, he should really be voted out of office. Perhaps most noteworthy about the book is that it is the only book I've ever read that ends with the words "You're a fucking liar" (although John Dowd has denied ever saying or thinking that statement attributed to him).
Hillary Clinton's book was probably written too soon--before the shock of her defeat had fully worn off (if it ever will). She blames "what happened" primarily on the undue attention to the emails and the interference of James Comey, with some misogyny thrown in as well. One anecdote that gave me a sense that she still doesn't "get" her own failure to make the kind of connection with people that she wants is the story of meeting with Black Lives Matter activists. Even after time has past, she still doesn't seem to understand that they wanted her to listen to them, not share strategies with them about how to be effective.
Shattered presents a different perspective on "what happened." While the authors would agree that the email "scandal" and Comey's actions were significant in her loss, they see those events as playing into a larger story of people's distrust of the Clintons. They also find much to critique in her campaign, including an over-reliance on analytics (based on bad data) and the attempt to bring new areas into the Democratic tent (e.g., Arizona) rather than solidifying traditional Democratic strongholds, which she later lost. Ironically, the authors suggest that if the campaign had listened to "old pols" like Bill, she might well have won the election (and, of course, we do have to remember that she did win the popular vote).
One of the tidbits in Shattered that I found interesting was that the Clintons evidently place high premium on loyalty--which gives them something in common with Donald Trump. This has gotten me thinking about loyalty--how often do most adults think about whether someone is loyal to them? I don't think I've had that thought since my school days, which, trust me, were a long time ago. When I consider how someone has acted towards me (which I rarely do), I think about it in the same terms I use to evaluate any action: Does it adhere to important values or ethical standards? If not, was there a motivation behind the action that I can understand even if I don't agree? Thinking about loyalty to self seems very immature (or for educators of my era, very low on Kohlberg's stages of moral development or Gilligan's stages of ethical care).
So is this obsession with loyalty simply a quirk of these three (Bill, Hillary, and Donald) flawed people or a correlate of the ego required to run for high office or run a business empire or a defense mechanism when one operates in a cut-throat environment or something else entirely? I'm interested in what others think about this issue--and may be interested enough to do some digging to see if anyone has researched the question. But right now, I need a break from the dark side of human activities--perhaps a good murder mystery!
As was the case with Fire and Fury, which I read earlier in the year, I wasn't really surprised by much in Fear. Any relatively sane person observing events since Trump's inauguration in 2017 would find the atrocities Woodward describes much as they expected. It's fairly easy to discern who Woodward's major sources were--Priebus, Porter, Bannon, Cohn, Dowd, and Lindsey Graham--and, of course, the story is thus filtered through their points of view. Porter comes across as more important and reasoned than I had previous thought him to be (with just a, you know, little violence against women problem); Kelly comes across as less focused and more hair-triggered than I had realized. And Lindsey Graham--good grief, he should really be voted out of office. Perhaps most noteworthy about the book is that it is the only book I've ever read that ends with the words "You're a fucking liar" (although John Dowd has denied ever saying or thinking that statement attributed to him).
Hillary Clinton's book was probably written too soon--before the shock of her defeat had fully worn off (if it ever will). She blames "what happened" primarily on the undue attention to the emails and the interference of James Comey, with some misogyny thrown in as well. One anecdote that gave me a sense that she still doesn't "get" her own failure to make the kind of connection with people that she wants is the story of meeting with Black Lives Matter activists. Even after time has past, she still doesn't seem to understand that they wanted her to listen to them, not share strategies with them about how to be effective.
Shattered presents a different perspective on "what happened." While the authors would agree that the email "scandal" and Comey's actions were significant in her loss, they see those events as playing into a larger story of people's distrust of the Clintons. They also find much to critique in her campaign, including an over-reliance on analytics (based on bad data) and the attempt to bring new areas into the Democratic tent (e.g., Arizona) rather than solidifying traditional Democratic strongholds, which she later lost. Ironically, the authors suggest that if the campaign had listened to "old pols" like Bill, she might well have won the election (and, of course, we do have to remember that she did win the popular vote).
One of the tidbits in Shattered that I found interesting was that the Clintons evidently place high premium on loyalty--which gives them something in common with Donald Trump. This has gotten me thinking about loyalty--how often do most adults think about whether someone is loyal to them? I don't think I've had that thought since my school days, which, trust me, were a long time ago. When I consider how someone has acted towards me (which I rarely do), I think about it in the same terms I use to evaluate any action: Does it adhere to important values or ethical standards? If not, was there a motivation behind the action that I can understand even if I don't agree? Thinking about loyalty to self seems very immature (or for educators of my era, very low on Kohlberg's stages of moral development or Gilligan's stages of ethical care).
So is this obsession with loyalty simply a quirk of these three (Bill, Hillary, and Donald) flawed people or a correlate of the ego required to run for high office or run a business empire or a defense mechanism when one operates in a cut-throat environment or something else entirely? I'm interested in what others think about this issue--and may be interested enough to do some digging to see if anyone has researched the question. But right now, I need a break from the dark side of human activities--perhaps a good murder mystery!
Tuesday, October 9, 2018
Girls & Boys, by Dennis Kelly (performed by Carey Mulligan)
If you are one of the 2.5 people who read my blog regularly, you may have noticed I haven't posted for a couple of months. I actually sat down to write about my August reading and realized I just had nothing new to say. So I decided I would only post when I had something I actually wanted to talk about . . . so here is my first post in the new regime.
Audible recently added a new "perk" for subscribers--two free Audible Originals every month. The first few I've downloaded have been a mixed bag, but all interesting in their own way. However, Girls & Boys stood out. Dennis Kelly wrote Girls & Boys as a one-woman play; it has been produced in London and New York, performed in both cities by Carey Mulligan.
For this Audible Original, the play has been modestly adapted to be, more or less, a radio play, again performed by Mulligan--and she is wonderful! It's surprising that a voice can tell a story so compellingly with no visuals and no information provided via anything other than the monologue.
So what is Girls & Boys about? It's a story of a marriage, from the moment the husband and wife (the narrator) meet until the marriage ends, complete with career ups and downs and the birth of two children. The story is interspersed with "scenes" in which the narrator is interacting with the children; of course, we only hear her voice, but every mother will recognize the tone of the interactions ("Danny, stop it!" "We'll play architect for 5 minutes, and then war."). The narrator is a documentary film producer, and one of the films she works on features the work of a scholar whose focus is gender and violence, prompting reflections on culture, violence, and men that are relevant to events as they develop in the marriage. I don't think I can say more without it becoming a spoiler.
Although some reviewers of the Off-Broadway version of Girls & Boys lauded Mulligan while finding the actual play flawed, I found it sufficiently interesting to listen a second time. While the audio version would be less compelling in another performer's hands, I think Girls & Boys would be interesting and thought-provoking no matter in what form you encountered it.
Favorite passage:
We didn't create society for men, we created it to stop men.
Audible recently added a new "perk" for subscribers--two free Audible Originals every month. The first few I've downloaded have been a mixed bag, but all interesting in their own way. However, Girls & Boys stood out. Dennis Kelly wrote Girls & Boys as a one-woman play; it has been produced in London and New York, performed in both cities by Carey Mulligan.
For this Audible Original, the play has been modestly adapted to be, more or less, a radio play, again performed by Mulligan--and she is wonderful! It's surprising that a voice can tell a story so compellingly with no visuals and no information provided via anything other than the monologue.
So what is Girls & Boys about? It's a story of a marriage, from the moment the husband and wife (the narrator) meet until the marriage ends, complete with career ups and downs and the birth of two children. The story is interspersed with "scenes" in which the narrator is interacting with the children; of course, we only hear her voice, but every mother will recognize the tone of the interactions ("Danny, stop it!" "We'll play architect for 5 minutes, and then war."). The narrator is a documentary film producer, and one of the films she works on features the work of a scholar whose focus is gender and violence, prompting reflections on culture, violence, and men that are relevant to events as they develop in the marriage. I don't think I can say more without it becoming a spoiler.
Although some reviewers of the Off-Broadway version of Girls & Boys lauded Mulligan while finding the actual play flawed, I found it sufficiently interesting to listen a second time. While the audio version would be less compelling in another performer's hands, I think Girls & Boys would be interesting and thought-provoking no matter in what form you encountered it.
Favorite passage:
We didn't create society for men, we created it to stop men.
Tuesday, July 31, 2018
Hit the 100 Book Marks This Month
Yes, I hit 100 books read in 2018 this month. That might explain why I am so far behind in my work. But two of this month's tally--The Overstory and The Great Believers--were so good I don't even care that I now have clients who think me totally unreliable.
Best Books I Read This Month
Mr. Bridge, by Evan S. Connell. Mr. Bridge is the companion to Connell's Mrs. Bridge, this time getting the interior view from the husband. Like Mrs. Bridge, the book is told in short vignettes that don't seem to create an overarching narrative and yet convey a life. As constricted in pre-World War II Kansas City as his wife, Mr. Bridge at first seems pitiable (joy is for the "simple-minded") but progresses to despicable because of his narrow-mindedness and racism. I had much more empathy for Mrs. Bridge--perhaps because I naturally prefer the emotional lives of women or perhaps because she seemed to be a good person trapped in her circumstances while he is a less good person creating those circumstances. Despite my lack of sympathy for the protagonist, Mr. Bridge is still worth reading to see the male perspective on the same context and some of the same events described in the earlier book.
A Full Life: Reflections at 90, by Jimmy Carter. This memoir covers a lot of details about President Carter's life that I had not previously known. Most notable to me was how he journeyed from making decisions for his family without even telling Rosalyn to viewing her as a full partner. I also didn't realize he wrote poetry, which he intersperses with his memories--I don't think it's the greatest poetry, but it does convey the understanding that this is a man of many parts. I occasionally felt the author was a little self-righteous, but I also think he deserves to be.
The Circle, by Dave Eggers. The memoir that made everyone else love Dave Eggers made me dislike him, but he's gradually convinced me he's an admirably imaginative writer. The Circle is a cautionary tale about how a big social media company might essentially take over the world. Mae Holland needs a job, and when her friend helps her get on at Internet giant The Circle, she's thrilled, not only with the salary and benefits but the numerous social activities. The longer she stays, though, the more The Circle demands that her life be lived in public, with scary consequences.
The Overstory, by Richard Powers. Richard Powers is a genius. He weaves science into each of his novels but does it so beautifully that even the somewhat science-phobic can enjoy the narrative and appreciate what we are learning. While some may find The Overstory a bit heavy-handed in its environmentalism, I could not put it down. In the initial section, titled "Roots," Powers introduces several (mostly young) people who will reappear throughout the book, often meeting and interacting with each other. Each has some special relationship to trees--one was saved by a tree when falling out of a helicopter, one is the last remaining member of an Iowa farm family that recorded the life span of one of the last American chestnuts in the country, one is the daughter of a Chinese immigrant who put his hopes in a mulberry he planted in his back yard, one is a little girl with a speech impediment who loves trees more than people . . . although there are even more of these characters, they all become fully realized people. As we proceed through the layers of the forest/sections of the books, their lives intersect in an effort to save the California redwoods, and we care deeply about the forest and the people. For me, The Overstory rivals The Time of Our Singing as a Powers masterpiece. This author deserves the kudos so often heaped upon Jonathan Franzen!
The Great Believers, by Rebecca Makkai. The Great Believers is told in two linked narratives. In the mid-1980s Yale and his friends are dealing with the frightening new epidemic killing gay men and the effect of HIV/AIDS on relationships of all kinds. At the same time, Yale is trying to acquire a collection of artwork from an elderly aunt of his friends Nico and Fiona (the book opens at Nico's funeral, so he is mostly a specter throughout the book). In 2015, Fiona is in Europe trying to find her estranged daughter Claire; Fiona stays with Richard, a photographer friend from the old days in Chicago, who is getting ready for a major solo exhibition featuring many photos and videos of their crowd in the 1980s. Makkai fills the book with wonderful characters and subplots too numerous to mention, but all the plots cause the reader to think about love, family, relationships, art, and cause-and-effect. She also made me see what it must have been like to be a gay man when AIDS was a death sentence in a way I never had before. Highly recommended.
Uncommon Type, by Tom Hanks. Tom Hanks may not be Alice Munro or Raymond Carver, but I found the actor's short stories enjoyable. Some characters reappear in several stories; my favorite series was "Our Town Today with Hank Fiset," which featured the ebullient Hank Fiset fulminating about aspects of life in his small town and, in one case, why it is superior to New York. In one story, a man cracks under the pressure of bowling several perfect games in a row while in another an injured veteran talks to a former comrade every Christmas Eve. Hanks gives us some insights into his world--one story features a minor actor on a press junket in Europe--as well as some good doses of humor. In a tip of the hat to his love of old typewriters, each story contains a reference to a machine in his collection.
Also Read
Two Nights, by Kathy Reichs. This is the first Reichs book I've read that wasn't a Temperance Brennan book. It features Sunday Night (and her brother, thus two Nights), a reclusive, scarred heroine who gets drawn from her haven to search for a missing girl. Okay, but not super. I enjoyed most the time she spent searching in Chicago because so many of the restaurants and locations were familiar to me (I know, how provincial).
A Trick of the Light, by Louise Penney. Another Inspector Gamache mystery, this one seemed to revisit themes that I'd had enough of in earlier works in the series. Not exciting.
The Last Mrs. Parrish, by Liv Constantine. A young woman plots to insinuate herself into a wealthy family and steal the husband. There are twists, but ugh, just ugh.
Kudos, by Rachel Cusk. This is the third of Cusk's Outline trilogy, and I think I was just tired of her style of narrating through the stories of people the protagonist Faye, a novelist. There's some humor and some insight into the work of creating, but overall I'm glad the trilogy is finished.
A Gathering of Secrets, by Linda Castillo. Another mediocre Kate Burkholder mystery.
Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude, by Ross Gay. A collection of poetry with some lovely imagery, especially about nature but it occasoinally lapses into the graphic (a bird poops in the poet's mouth--seriously?).
Sing, Unburied, Sing, by Jesmyn Ward. Ward writes beautifully (although perhaps occasionally a little too fond of simile/metaphor), but I cannot love her work, which I am sure is totally about me and not her. JoJo, the hero of Sing, Unburied, Sing, is a biracial 13-year-old whose white father is in prison and whose African American mother is a mostly absent drug addict who enjoys hitting the children. He must take care of his toddler sister, under the loving eye of his grandfather; his grandmother is dying of cancer. When his mother decides to take the children and her best friend to pick up his father from jail, the road trip can only bring trouble. A couple of dead people who can't or won't move on make their presence known to some family members. I feel shallow saying this, but the book is so depressing I found it nearly unbearable.
Are You Sleeping? by Kathleen Barber. I just finished this psychological thriller a few days ago and have already forgotten what it was about. Nuf said.
Hound of the Baskervilles, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I will never be a Sherlock Holmes person. Sorry.
Arcadia, by Lauren Groff. I had to renew this book about a boy nicknamed Bit being raised in a commune in upstate New York twice--and I was still finishing it the night before the third due date. The commune is plagued with the problems I would expect--inadequate housing, inadequate food, and a "leader" who makes actually running the community difficult. Somehow I just was not compelled by life in the commune--or what happened to Bit and his family once things fell apart at the commune and they took off for a more mainstream life.
Favorite Passages
This section of a poem by Ross Gay in Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude is describing shame:
stitched together like a quilt
with all its just legible
patterning which could be a thing
heavy and warm
to be buried in
or instead might be helped up
to the light
where we see the threads
barely holding
so human and frail
so beautiful and sad and small
from this remove.
You have given me a thing I could never have imagined, before I knew you. It's like I had the word "book," and you put one in my hands. I had the word "game," and you taught me how to play. I had the word "life," and then you came along and said, "Oh! You mean this."
But people have no idea of what time is. They think it's a line, spinning out from three seconds behind them, then vanishing just as fast into the three seconds of fog just ahead. They can't see that time is one spreading ring wrapped around another, outward and outward until the thinnest skin of Now depends for its being on the enormous mass of everything that has already died.
Richard Powers, The Overstory
Best Books I Read This Month
Mr. Bridge, by Evan S. Connell. Mr. Bridge is the companion to Connell's Mrs. Bridge, this time getting the interior view from the husband. Like Mrs. Bridge, the book is told in short vignettes that don't seem to create an overarching narrative and yet convey a life. As constricted in pre-World War II Kansas City as his wife, Mr. Bridge at first seems pitiable (joy is for the "simple-minded") but progresses to despicable because of his narrow-mindedness and racism. I had much more empathy for Mrs. Bridge--perhaps because I naturally prefer the emotional lives of women or perhaps because she seemed to be a good person trapped in her circumstances while he is a less good person creating those circumstances. Despite my lack of sympathy for the protagonist, Mr. Bridge is still worth reading to see the male perspective on the same context and some of the same events described in the earlier book.
A Full Life: Reflections at 90, by Jimmy Carter. This memoir covers a lot of details about President Carter's life that I had not previously known. Most notable to me was how he journeyed from making decisions for his family without even telling Rosalyn to viewing her as a full partner. I also didn't realize he wrote poetry, which he intersperses with his memories--I don't think it's the greatest poetry, but it does convey the understanding that this is a man of many parts. I occasionally felt the author was a little self-righteous, but I also think he deserves to be.
The Circle, by Dave Eggers. The memoir that made everyone else love Dave Eggers made me dislike him, but he's gradually convinced me he's an admirably imaginative writer. The Circle is a cautionary tale about how a big social media company might essentially take over the world. Mae Holland needs a job, and when her friend helps her get on at Internet giant The Circle, she's thrilled, not only with the salary and benefits but the numerous social activities. The longer she stays, though, the more The Circle demands that her life be lived in public, with scary consequences.
The Overstory, by Richard Powers. Richard Powers is a genius. He weaves science into each of his novels but does it so beautifully that even the somewhat science-phobic can enjoy the narrative and appreciate what we are learning. While some may find The Overstory a bit heavy-handed in its environmentalism, I could not put it down. In the initial section, titled "Roots," Powers introduces several (mostly young) people who will reappear throughout the book, often meeting and interacting with each other. Each has some special relationship to trees--one was saved by a tree when falling out of a helicopter, one is the last remaining member of an Iowa farm family that recorded the life span of one of the last American chestnuts in the country, one is the daughter of a Chinese immigrant who put his hopes in a mulberry he planted in his back yard, one is a little girl with a speech impediment who loves trees more than people . . . although there are even more of these characters, they all become fully realized people. As we proceed through the layers of the forest/sections of the books, their lives intersect in an effort to save the California redwoods, and we care deeply about the forest and the people. For me, The Overstory rivals The Time of Our Singing as a Powers masterpiece. This author deserves the kudos so often heaped upon Jonathan Franzen!
The Great Believers, by Rebecca Makkai. The Great Believers is told in two linked narratives. In the mid-1980s Yale and his friends are dealing with the frightening new epidemic killing gay men and the effect of HIV/AIDS on relationships of all kinds. At the same time, Yale is trying to acquire a collection of artwork from an elderly aunt of his friends Nico and Fiona (the book opens at Nico's funeral, so he is mostly a specter throughout the book). In 2015, Fiona is in Europe trying to find her estranged daughter Claire; Fiona stays with Richard, a photographer friend from the old days in Chicago, who is getting ready for a major solo exhibition featuring many photos and videos of their crowd in the 1980s. Makkai fills the book with wonderful characters and subplots too numerous to mention, but all the plots cause the reader to think about love, family, relationships, art, and cause-and-effect. She also made me see what it must have been like to be a gay man when AIDS was a death sentence in a way I never had before. Highly recommended.
Uncommon Type, by Tom Hanks. Tom Hanks may not be Alice Munro or Raymond Carver, but I found the actor's short stories enjoyable. Some characters reappear in several stories; my favorite series was "Our Town Today with Hank Fiset," which featured the ebullient Hank Fiset fulminating about aspects of life in his small town and, in one case, why it is superior to New York. In one story, a man cracks under the pressure of bowling several perfect games in a row while in another an injured veteran talks to a former comrade every Christmas Eve. Hanks gives us some insights into his world--one story features a minor actor on a press junket in Europe--as well as some good doses of humor. In a tip of the hat to his love of old typewriters, each story contains a reference to a machine in his collection.
Also Read
Two Nights, by Kathy Reichs. This is the first Reichs book I've read that wasn't a Temperance Brennan book. It features Sunday Night (and her brother, thus two Nights), a reclusive, scarred heroine who gets drawn from her haven to search for a missing girl. Okay, but not super. I enjoyed most the time she spent searching in Chicago because so many of the restaurants and locations were familiar to me (I know, how provincial).
A Trick of the Light, by Louise Penney. Another Inspector Gamache mystery, this one seemed to revisit themes that I'd had enough of in earlier works in the series. Not exciting.
The Last Mrs. Parrish, by Liv Constantine. A young woman plots to insinuate herself into a wealthy family and steal the husband. There are twists, but ugh, just ugh.
Kudos, by Rachel Cusk. This is the third of Cusk's Outline trilogy, and I think I was just tired of her style of narrating through the stories of people the protagonist Faye, a novelist. There's some humor and some insight into the work of creating, but overall I'm glad the trilogy is finished.
A Gathering of Secrets, by Linda Castillo. Another mediocre Kate Burkholder mystery.
Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude, by Ross Gay. A collection of poetry with some lovely imagery, especially about nature but it occasoinally lapses into the graphic (a bird poops in the poet's mouth--seriously?).
Sing, Unburied, Sing, by Jesmyn Ward. Ward writes beautifully (although perhaps occasionally a little too fond of simile/metaphor), but I cannot love her work, which I am sure is totally about me and not her. JoJo, the hero of Sing, Unburied, Sing, is a biracial 13-year-old whose white father is in prison and whose African American mother is a mostly absent drug addict who enjoys hitting the children. He must take care of his toddler sister, under the loving eye of his grandfather; his grandmother is dying of cancer. When his mother decides to take the children and her best friend to pick up his father from jail, the road trip can only bring trouble. A couple of dead people who can't or won't move on make their presence known to some family members. I feel shallow saying this, but the book is so depressing I found it nearly unbearable.
Are You Sleeping? by Kathleen Barber. I just finished this psychological thriller a few days ago and have already forgotten what it was about. Nuf said.
Hound of the Baskervilles, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I will never be a Sherlock Holmes person. Sorry.
Arcadia, by Lauren Groff. I had to renew this book about a boy nicknamed Bit being raised in a commune in upstate New York twice--and I was still finishing it the night before the third due date. The commune is plagued with the problems I would expect--inadequate housing, inadequate food, and a "leader" who makes actually running the community difficult. Somehow I just was not compelled by life in the commune--or what happened to Bit and his family once things fell apart at the commune and they took off for a more mainstream life.
Favorite Passages
This section of a poem by Ross Gay in Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude is describing shame:
stitched together like a quilt
with all its just legible
patterning which could be a thing
heavy and warm
to be buried in
or instead might be helped up
to the light
where we see the threads
barely holding
so human and frail
so beautiful and sad and small
from this remove.
You have given me a thing I could never have imagined, before I knew you. It's like I had the word "book," and you put one in my hands. I had the word "game," and you taught me how to play. I had the word "life," and then you came along and said, "Oh! You mean this."
But people have no idea of what time is. They think it's a line, spinning out from three seconds behind them, then vanishing just as fast into the three seconds of fog just ahead. They can't see that time is one spreading ring wrapped around another, outward and outward until the thinnest skin of Now depends for its being on the enormous mass of everything that has already died.
Richard Powers, The Overstory
Sunday, July 1, 2018
How Do You Feel about Goodreads?
This month, I was thinking about posting on Goodreads instead of maintaining this blog, which doesn't exactly have high readership. However, I tried posting a review on that site and found it somewhat annoying to deal with their format, many questions/prompts, and visually distracting design. But I know it's really, really popular. So I'd be interested in hearing why people like it so much. Meanwhile, still at it here . . .
Best Books I Read This Month
Cherries in Winter, by Suzan Colon. The author had her dream job as a magazine editor. Then, in the economic downturn in 2008, she was laid off and suddenly had to spend less. One of her methods of doing so was to consult her grandmother’s recipes. As she experimented with a simpler and cheaper way of eating, her mother shared family stories with her. The result is a charming little book—neither the recipes or stories will change your life, but they provide a pleasant diversion (or they did for me--many reader-reviewers on Amazon were annoyed by the fact that her dream job was such a good job and she did immediately fall into penury).
No Time to Spare, by Ursula K. LeGuin. This collection of essays, while containing too many pieces about LeGuin’s cat (I'm sure cat-lovers would find them charming), features many thought-provoking pieces on such topics as women and anger, sacrifice, “spare time,” and not using the word believe when talking about science. Some topics—exorcism, why uniforms are ugly—qualify as odd, but overall the collection is worth your time.
Transit, by Rachel Cusk. Cusk's novels (Transit is the middle book in a trilogy) feature Faye, writer, mother of two, and recent divorcee. In Transit, she has moved to London (in Outline she was teaching a writing course in Athens) and is renovating a newly purchased flat, so her children are once again not an essential part of her story. However, there isn't really that much of a story (although the flat renovation piece is funny, marked by extremely horrible neighbors), as Cusk constructs the books from the stories of the people Faye encounters in her life. It's an innovative approach, which I admire without, to be honest, truly understanding her point. Thus, I include the book in the "Best Books" category more out of respect than actual enjoyment.
The Nest, by Cynthia D'Aprix Sweeney. The Plumb are a dysfunctional lot: the four siblings--Melody, Beatrice, Jack, and Leo--have been waiting for decades to receive a family inheritance (referred to as "The Nest") that will be paid out when the youngest child turns 40. Then, a year before they will become eligible for the money, Leo (the eldest) gets into an accident in which a young waitress loses her foot and the family agrees to borrow against the inheritance to pay her off, accepting (for no apparent reason) Leo's assurances that he will pay them back. Of course, he doesn't, but somehow I enjoyed reading about the messed up lives of the siblings as they worked their way to a resolution--and the ending is surprisingly positive. Although the book has been a bestseller, I noticed a lot of really negative reviews on Amazon. Nonetheless, I liked it.
Reclaiming Conversation: The Power of Talk in a Digital Age, by Sherry Turkle. Turkle is a professor at MIT, so she works in an environment that tends to see technology positively. She has spent a number of years researching the impact of technology on people, particularly the switch from conversation (face-to-face interaction) to connection (digital interaction). She examines how technology, especially smart phones, affect our creativity and ability to be empathetic, our friendships, family relations, education, work, politics, and how we treat the aging. It's a fascinating discussion with ideas we ought all to consider implementing. Highly recommended!
Also Read
The Death of Mrs. Westaway, by Ruth Ware. This author apparently has a gift for creating stupid protagonists who bug me no end. This, my second Ruth Ware, will be my last!
Good Me, Bad Me, by Ali Land. Creepy story of a teenager in foster care. Her terrible back story--her mother is in jail awaiting trial for killing several children in their home--at first generates sympathy, but then . . .
The Murder at the Vicarage and The Mysterious Affair at Styles (audio versions packaged together), by Agatha Christie. I hadn't read any Agatha Christie since high school, so thought I'd revisit her. I found the books a great insomnia cure and can't figure out why she's considered such a goddess in the mystery world.
All Fall Down and See How They Run, by Ally Carter. My granddaughter recommended these books in the Embassy Row series. They feature Grace, the teenaged granddaughter of the long-time U.S. ambassador to the fictional European country of Adria. In the first book, Grace has been in psychological trouble since her mother's mysterious death three years ago and hopes to figure out what really happened, with the help of her group of international friends (who are much more likable than Grace herself). For someone whose been under a psychiatrist's care, it's amazing she has so much freedom to get into trouble, but that's what keeps the pace of the books extremely fast. I was lukewarm on the books; my granddaughter raced through the first one but has stalled out in the second.
The Silent Sister, by Diane Chamberlain. Riley has always been told that her sister Lisa committed suicide as a teenager because of the pressure of being a musical prodigy. When she is cleaning out her parents' home following her father's death, she finds evidence that the truth is vastly different and sets out to find Lisa. An interesting premise, but the book becomes predictable soap opera before the quest is over.
Anne of Green Gables, by Lucy Maud Montgomery. Perhaps I am the only person who read a lot as a child who never read Anne of Green Gables--and I think it might have been better to read it than to listen, as I did, as Anne's loquaciousness because rather irritating. On the other hand, the softening of the hearts of her adoptive "parents," Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert, is a sweet story.
The Wife, by Alafair Burke. The Wife poses the question: How far would you go to protect your husband if he were accused of something heinous? The wife in the story has a complicated back story that affects how she responds to the accusations against her husband, and for about half the book, it's an interesting exploration. But then the author throws in a passing reference to another book and it's a total spoiler--I knew instantly (and trust me, I'm not that quick at figuring out what's going to happen) how the book was going to turn out. Bummer.
Restless, by William Boyd. A friend loaned me this book several years ago because she loved the story of a young scholar who learns that her mother was a spy during World War II--a great premise for a book. Although I finally finished it and found the story of British spycraft interesting, I didn't love the book.
One Summer: America, 1927, by Bill Bryson. I have several friends who love Bill Bryson; one of them recommended this book, which falls into the pile of his more serious works. Bryson looks at the big stories of summer 1927--Lindbergh's flight, Calvin Coolidge's absence from Washington, Henry Ford's shutting down of Model T production to launch a new vehicle, the terrible weather, Babe Ruth's record home run-hitting season--and creates a collage-like portrayal of a moment in American history. Sadly, however, Bryson is not a historian and he makes some mistakes (in my opinion) fails to draw the diverse stories into a meaningful account. I remain unconverted to the cult of Bryson.
Favorite Passages
I see in the lives of people I know how crippling a deep and deeply suppressed anger is. It comes from pain and it causes pain.
—Ursula K. LeGuin, No Time to Spare
What do we forget when we talk to machines? We forget what is special about being human. We forget what it means to have authentic conversation. Machines are programmed to have conversations "as if" they understood what the conversation is about. So when we talk to them, we, too, are reduced and confined to the "as if."
In recent years, psychologists have learned more about how creative ideas come from the reveries of solitude. When we let our minds wander, we set our brains free. Our brains are most productive when there is no demand that they be reactive. For some, this goes against cultural expectations. American culture tends to worship sociality. We have wanted to believe that we are our most creative during "brainstorming" and "groupthink" sessions. But this turns out not to be the case. New ideas are more likely to emerge from people thinking on their own. Solitude is where we learn to trust our imaginations.
. . . boredom can be recognized as your imagination calling you.
Sherry Turkle, Reclaiming Conversation
Best Books I Read This Month
Cherries in Winter, by Suzan Colon. The author had her dream job as a magazine editor. Then, in the economic downturn in 2008, she was laid off and suddenly had to spend less. One of her methods of doing so was to consult her grandmother’s recipes. As she experimented with a simpler and cheaper way of eating, her mother shared family stories with her. The result is a charming little book—neither the recipes or stories will change your life, but they provide a pleasant diversion (or they did for me--many reader-reviewers on Amazon were annoyed by the fact that her dream job was such a good job and she did immediately fall into penury).
No Time to Spare, by Ursula K. LeGuin. This collection of essays, while containing too many pieces about LeGuin’s cat (I'm sure cat-lovers would find them charming), features many thought-provoking pieces on such topics as women and anger, sacrifice, “spare time,” and not using the word believe when talking about science. Some topics—exorcism, why uniforms are ugly—qualify as odd, but overall the collection is worth your time.
Transit, by Rachel Cusk. Cusk's novels (Transit is the middle book in a trilogy) feature Faye, writer, mother of two, and recent divorcee. In Transit, she has moved to London (in Outline she was teaching a writing course in Athens) and is renovating a newly purchased flat, so her children are once again not an essential part of her story. However, there isn't really that much of a story (although the flat renovation piece is funny, marked by extremely horrible neighbors), as Cusk constructs the books from the stories of the people Faye encounters in her life. It's an innovative approach, which I admire without, to be honest, truly understanding her point. Thus, I include the book in the "Best Books" category more out of respect than actual enjoyment.
The Nest, by Cynthia D'Aprix Sweeney. The Plumb are a dysfunctional lot: the four siblings--Melody, Beatrice, Jack, and Leo--have been waiting for decades to receive a family inheritance (referred to as "The Nest") that will be paid out when the youngest child turns 40. Then, a year before they will become eligible for the money, Leo (the eldest) gets into an accident in which a young waitress loses her foot and the family agrees to borrow against the inheritance to pay her off, accepting (for no apparent reason) Leo's assurances that he will pay them back. Of course, he doesn't, but somehow I enjoyed reading about the messed up lives of the siblings as they worked their way to a resolution--and the ending is surprisingly positive. Although the book has been a bestseller, I noticed a lot of really negative reviews on Amazon. Nonetheless, I liked it.
Reclaiming Conversation: The Power of Talk in a Digital Age, by Sherry Turkle. Turkle is a professor at MIT, so she works in an environment that tends to see technology positively. She has spent a number of years researching the impact of technology on people, particularly the switch from conversation (face-to-face interaction) to connection (digital interaction). She examines how technology, especially smart phones, affect our creativity and ability to be empathetic, our friendships, family relations, education, work, politics, and how we treat the aging. It's a fascinating discussion with ideas we ought all to consider implementing. Highly recommended!
Also Read
The Death of Mrs. Westaway, by Ruth Ware. This author apparently has a gift for creating stupid protagonists who bug me no end. This, my second Ruth Ware, will be my last!
Good Me, Bad Me, by Ali Land. Creepy story of a teenager in foster care. Her terrible back story--her mother is in jail awaiting trial for killing several children in their home--at first generates sympathy, but then . . .
The Murder at the Vicarage and The Mysterious Affair at Styles (audio versions packaged together), by Agatha Christie. I hadn't read any Agatha Christie since high school, so thought I'd revisit her. I found the books a great insomnia cure and can't figure out why she's considered such a goddess in the mystery world.
All Fall Down and See How They Run, by Ally Carter. My granddaughter recommended these books in the Embassy Row series. They feature Grace, the teenaged granddaughter of the long-time U.S. ambassador to the fictional European country of Adria. In the first book, Grace has been in psychological trouble since her mother's mysterious death three years ago and hopes to figure out what really happened, with the help of her group of international friends (who are much more likable than Grace herself). For someone whose been under a psychiatrist's care, it's amazing she has so much freedom to get into trouble, but that's what keeps the pace of the books extremely fast. I was lukewarm on the books; my granddaughter raced through the first one but has stalled out in the second.
The Silent Sister, by Diane Chamberlain. Riley has always been told that her sister Lisa committed suicide as a teenager because of the pressure of being a musical prodigy. When she is cleaning out her parents' home following her father's death, she finds evidence that the truth is vastly different and sets out to find Lisa. An interesting premise, but the book becomes predictable soap opera before the quest is over.
Anne of Green Gables, by Lucy Maud Montgomery. Perhaps I am the only person who read a lot as a child who never read Anne of Green Gables--and I think it might have been better to read it than to listen, as I did, as Anne's loquaciousness because rather irritating. On the other hand, the softening of the hearts of her adoptive "parents," Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert, is a sweet story.
The Wife, by Alafair Burke. The Wife poses the question: How far would you go to protect your husband if he were accused of something heinous? The wife in the story has a complicated back story that affects how she responds to the accusations against her husband, and for about half the book, it's an interesting exploration. But then the author throws in a passing reference to another book and it's a total spoiler--I knew instantly (and trust me, I'm not that quick at figuring out what's going to happen) how the book was going to turn out. Bummer.
Restless, by William Boyd. A friend loaned me this book several years ago because she loved the story of a young scholar who learns that her mother was a spy during World War II--a great premise for a book. Although I finally finished it and found the story of British spycraft interesting, I didn't love the book.
One Summer: America, 1927, by Bill Bryson. I have several friends who love Bill Bryson; one of them recommended this book, which falls into the pile of his more serious works. Bryson looks at the big stories of summer 1927--Lindbergh's flight, Calvin Coolidge's absence from Washington, Henry Ford's shutting down of Model T production to launch a new vehicle, the terrible weather, Babe Ruth's record home run-hitting season--and creates a collage-like portrayal of a moment in American history. Sadly, however, Bryson is not a historian and he makes some mistakes (in my opinion) fails to draw the diverse stories into a meaningful account. I remain unconverted to the cult of Bryson.
Favorite Passages
I see in the lives of people I know how crippling a deep and deeply suppressed anger is. It comes from pain and it causes pain.
—Ursula K. LeGuin, No Time to Spare
What do we forget when we talk to machines? We forget what is special about being human. We forget what it means to have authentic conversation. Machines are programmed to have conversations "as if" they understood what the conversation is about. So when we talk to them, we, too, are reduced and confined to the "as if."
In recent years, psychologists have learned more about how creative ideas come from the reveries of solitude. When we let our minds wander, we set our brains free. Our brains are most productive when there is no demand that they be reactive. For some, this goes against cultural expectations. American culture tends to worship sociality. We have wanted to believe that we are our most creative during "brainstorming" and "groupthink" sessions. But this turns out not to be the case. New ideas are more likely to emerge from people thinking on their own. Solitude is where we learn to trust our imaginations.
. . . boredom can be recognized as your imagination calling you.
Sherry Turkle, Reclaiming Conversation
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