Tales from the Scriptorium

2010-04-23T16:25:00.000-07:00

I had planned to review "A Gate at the Stairs" by Lorrie Moore this week, but one thing piled upon another, and since I'll be out of town for a week, I've decided to cheat a bit and refer readers to a brief essay that was recently brought to my attention by my sister. The author is no less than Virginia Woolf, and her message was so profound that I want to share it.

Apparently, Ms. Woolf was familiar with a syrupy Victorian poem entitled "The Angel In The House," which praised the ideal woman of that day: gentle, pure, and self-sacrificing to the extreme. The poem went down sideways with her, and I beg you to read her thoughts as she describes her efforts to "kill the angel in the house" in order to pursue the life of a writer. The essay bears a dry title,"Professions for Women," but trust me -- it's worth your time. Enjoy.

http://www.sfu.ca/~scheel/english338/Professions.htm

Sacred Hearts, by Sarah Dunant

2010-03-30T10:39:00.000-07:00

By the time you finish reading the first few pages of Sarah Dunant's recent historical novel (her third), you will be swept into the intricate microcosm of a 16th century convent in northern Italy. Night has fallen at Santa Catarina, and the usual hush that blankets the damp stone cells of the dormitory has been broken by the echo of frenzied screams emanating from a 16-year old girl who has been forced into the convent against her will. Young Sarafina is outraged at her involuntary internment, and her ragged wailing has begun to wear on the holy sisters, who depend upon a precious span of sleep before being routed from their slumber at 1 a.m. for the office of Matins. Something must be done, and Suara (Sister) Zoana, the resident apothecary mistress, decides to break her vow of nocturnal isolation; she slips down the long stone hall to dispense a dram of poppy syrup to Sarafina. The poor girl is so miserable and desperate that Suara Zoana breaks nighttime protocol and verbally comforts Sarafina as the drug takes effect. An empathetic bond forms that night which will alter the course of both their lives and the future of Santa Catarina.

Zoana herself was not a willing postulant when she entered the gates of Santa Catarina 16 years before as a recently orphaned young girl, and her involuntary marriage to Christ was not an unusual one. Even wealthy fathers could not always pay the exorbitant dowry rates required for multiple daughters during the 16th century, and Santa Catarina provided a respectable, lifelong warehouse for such girls at a fraction of the dowry cost. These daughters, along with handicapped, ugly, or otherwise unmarriageable women, frequently took their place beside the devout in the convent community with no hope of an alternative future.

Dunant explores the complex social and psychological implications of living in a permanently closed community of women. Although girls possessing an intelligent and strong-headed personality tended to resist assimilation the most, they were the very ones who often benefited from a cloistered society that relied upon them to write, manufacture goods, compose music, balance financial accounts, mix and dispense medicine, and participate in governing a community in the absence of men. The virginal holy sisters lived longer than their secular counterparts, who were subjected to sexual diseases, drunken advances, and serial pregnancies at the whim of their husbands, but they were also doomed to watch their youthful energy and desire slowly evaporate into withered old age without the benefit of children or the happier aspects of conjugal life.

Dunant has filled the book with historical information. The reader learns about Italian city state politics, the delicate dance between the convent and its main benefactors, the forces fueling the Catholic Counter-Reformation, the raucous rituals of Winter Carnival, and much, much more. Dunant's ability to draw the reader into history with specific sensory descriptions makes all of this "learning" delightfully painless. Nuns, giddy with the high spirits of Winter Carnival, toss a shower of dried rose petals over the convent wall onto a gathering of bawdy serenading boys, inciting a near riot (nuns gone wild!); one nun who happens to be the daughter of Santa Catarina's richest benefactor powders her face, lines her nun's habit with colorful, rich silks and tests just how far she can let her newest hairstyle escape her wimple before being chastised; local citizens are titillated when Santa Catarina's annual orchestral concert features wind instruments (the holy sisters grip their lips around the mouthpieces and blow -- shocking!).

The sensory richness of Sacred Hearts combines with a great story line (there's romance and suspense I haven't gotten into) and memorable, complex characters to make an outstanding work of historical fiction. One of my favorite narrators, Rosalyn Landor, is featured in the audio edition of this novel. Her rich, articulate voice pairs perfectly with the tone and mood of the book.

"Little Bee" and the Sting of Awareness

2010-03-12T15:19:00.000-08:00

In the opening chapters of Chris Cleaves' gripping second novel, a well-to-do British couple are forced to decide whether or not to engage in the future of a young Nigerian immigrant they met in Africa two years previously under horrific circumstances. Alone, penniless, and lacking legal immigration papers through no fault of her own, Little Bee has traced Sarah and Andrew to their posh home in a London suburb using a plastic driver's license that Andrew dropped during their fatal encounter on a Nigerian beach.

Little Bee's reappearance shakes the couple to their core. They both assumed she was dead, and they've been feverishly attempting to banish "the incident" from their lives, pursuing hectic journalistic careers in hopes that what happened in Africa would stay in Africa. Andrew's post traumatic stress syndrome presents itself in the form of guilt, depression, and self-loathing. For him, Little Bee is a kind of retributive apparition he longs to scrub from his mental landscape. Sarah, however, made an intensely personal investment in Little Bee's welfare that day on the beach two years before, and her altruistic instincts pull her towards further acts of sacrifice for Little Bee even as she realizes that her career, mental health, and ability to mother her own young son may suffer in the bargain.

Sarah's desire to help Little Bee is understandable, for Little Bee is one of the most compelling fictional characters you'll have the fortune to meet this year. Chris Cleave narrates the bulk of the story in Little Bee's voice, and she is utterly charming. Wise beyond her years and yet appealingly naive in her fresh-eyed take on British culture, she exudes the kind of dignified goodness that tempts you to share time with her in hopes that her essential decency and resilience will somehow transfer to your own soul. You'll become as acutely invested in her well being as Sarah, and therein lies the rub. Just as Little Bee's reappearance forced Sarah and Andrew to realize that time and distance couldn't isolate them from the human tragedies that afflict Africa, reading the book Little Bee forces the reader to confront the brutal realities of Africa on a personal level. The death and suffering of thousands is so incomprehensible that the mind refuses to absorb it; the plight of a single sixteen year old Nigerian girl will break your heart.

Cleaves' novel is not unrelentingly dark. Little Bee has a droll sense of humor, and her playful observations about the contrast between African and British culture add light relief to the story. Cleave invites the reader to smile as Little Bee looks back upon her village's annual film festival, one glorious night each year in which the same film -- Top Gun -- was projected on a white sheet in the village square. Since the film was in English, the plot was a mystery to its viewers, but the villagers gazed in wonder at "The Man Who Had To Go Everywhere Very Fast," and spent hours afterward debating why getting everywhere quickly seemed to be so important to the young white boys in the picture. The mental image that Cleave creates in the reader's mind -- laughing villagers reveling in such a simple, repeated pleasure, beautiful in their happiness with so little -- sweeps the reader into caring about the future of these people, and that's simultaneously uplifting and devastating.

I highly recommend this book. I listened to the book on compact disc, and the narrator -- Anne Flosnik -- did an outstanding job. Her measured, elegant evocation of Little Bee's Nigerian-accented English, grammatically perfect and yet bearing the deep, rounded lilt of Africa, was stunning.

Academia, Clay Feet, and Potato Kugel

2010-02-26T11:42:00.000-08:00

The opening chapter of Rebecca Goldstein's 36 Arguments For the Existence of God: A Work of Fiction finds Professor Cass Seltzer giddily contemplating his uncanny luck. His recent publication, The Varieties of Religious Illusion, couldn't have been timed more perfectly. His book wouldn't have made the slightest blip on the bestselling list ten years ago, but a current firestorm between crusaders of the religious right and their nemeses, the "new atheists," has catapulted his book and his career to unforeseen heights. Recent muscle-flexing by fundamentalists has awakened intellectuals from their slumbering complacency ("it's a tiresome proposition, having to take up the work of the Enlightenment all over again," but someone's got to do it.), and Cass's book is a prime weapon in their academic arsenal against "mass weapons of illogic."

As Cass lingers with his thoughts and gazes at the Charles River (he's recently been offered a professorship at Harvard), he reviews the 180 degree turn his religious views have taken during the course of his academic journey. Years ago, during the final semester of his pre-med undergraduate work at Frankfurter U, he impulsively signed up for a life-altering class entitled "The Manic, the Mantic, and the Mimetic," taught by the legendary Jonas Elijah Klapper. Rumors of Klapper's ability to transfix students with incantatory lectures about spirituality, delivered with unequaled emotional profundo, were not exaggerated, and Cass threw over his medical plans and joined Klapper's select group of starry-eyed acolytes.

Roz, Cass's girlfriend at the time, bought none of it. What kind of a pompous pedant would abandon Columbia University for Frankfurter U based on the offer of a one-man department ("The Department of Faith, Literature, and Values") and the absurd title of "Extreme Distinguished Professor?" How could Cass expect to succeed if none of Klapper's graduate students ever managed to actually wrestle a PhD out of him? She nicknamed Klapper "The Klap," howled at his secretive name change from Klepfish to Klapper, and refused to kowtow to his vanity.

Back then, however, Cass was thoroughly mesmerized, and Klapper latched on to him with zeal ("I sense the aura of election upon you") after discovering that Cass was a distant relative of the renowned Rebbe (rabbi and spiritual leader) of the Valdeners, a sect of Hasids living in a self-proclaimed shtetl near New York City. Klapper, a rapt student of arcane Hasidic and Kabbalist hermeneutics, used Cass to wrangle an audience with the Rebbe. Roz drove the two to Valden (to Klapper's irritation), and the ensuing visit altered the lives of all three visitors, the Rebbe's young son (a mathematical genius), and the possible future of the Valdeners themselves.

Goldstien's book is basically a classic academic send-up with a religious twist that is simultaneously biting and circumspect. Her exposition of Cass's gradual disillusionment with Klapper will have you rolling on the floor (suffice it to say that some pivotal points rest upon an oversized ethnic fur hat and the hidden numerical mysteries of potato kugel), but her razor wit is always aimed at Klapper, never the Rebbe or the Valdeners. It is clear that Goldstein is mind-bogglingly intelligent (I kept reviewing her photograph on the book flap, wondering who IS this woman?). It is also fairly clear that she rejects religious dogma. Her addition of a 52-page appendix presenting Cass's devastatingly cogent refutation of all 36 traditional arguments for the existence of God probably makes this a safe assumption (although ultimately, the reader cannot know whether this is Cass or Goldstein speaking). And yet, she softens the edges by making it clear that Cass, although confident in his book's anti-religious assertions, is nonetheless the gullible victim of a few secular illusions of his own (there's an entire romantic subplot that I've not mentioned). Similarly, her subplot of a profound choice that the Rebbe's son must ultimately make illustrates that the best path to meaning in life may not always be grounded upon a rational and public rejection of falsehoods.

I heartily recommend this book, although the goyim among us may be a bit nervous about laughing too loudly as we turn the pages. Although I would have chuckled at the foibles of my own Protestant faith tradition guilt-free, I kept wondering whether it was politically correct to enjoy Goldstein in the measured lampooning of her own faith background. In retrospect, I don't think she'd mind.

Frank Lloyd Wright: Enough About Me, Let's Talk About You . . . What Do YOU Think About Me?

2010-02-21T12:42:00.000-08:00

T. Coraghessan Boyle's recent biographic novel, "The Women" (2009) examines the life of renowned architect Frank Lloyd Wright through the lens of Wright's tempestuous love affairs, which encompassed three wives and one mistress. The narrative is told in reverse chronological order, beginning with Wright's final wife, Olgivanna, and working backwards through Maude Miriam Noel (wife #2), Mamah Borthwick Cheney (mistress and presumptive love of his life), and ending with a section about his first wife, Catherine "Kitty" Tobin.

Boyle succeeds in conveying the unique personality of each woman with skill and conviction. Kitty, Wright's first wife, brought money, social connections, and six children to their union. She steadfastly resisted the urge to publicly vilify her husband after he left her. Dignified, morally impeccable, and intensely domestic, she defended Frank as a person and a father to the last, placing her children's welfare above all. Mamah, Frank's first mistress, was intelligent, romantically passionate, and tragically ahead of her time in terms of social attitudes about sex and gender equality. Her untimely death catapulted Frank into his third relationship, a rebound romance with Miriam, a flamboyant, drug-addicted femme fatale whose wild nature would cost Frank dearly when the marriage disintegrated (hell hath no fury . . . ). Frank's final wife, Olgivanna, was an aristocrat from Eastern Europe who nonetheless enjoyed physical labor, simple pleasures, and rural seclusion. She brought stability and a sense of peace, if not wild passion, to Frank's last years.

The most fascinating aspect of "The Women" may well revolve around the man, Frank Lloyd Wright, and how he managed to charm these women in the first place. The man who emerges from the book is deceptive, pompous, selfish, and incredibly self-absorbed. Boyle has stated that he admires Wright, but I can only assume he is alluding to Wright's professional accomplishments. Boyle paints the picture of a poppinjay who drives exotic cars he doesn't bother to pay for, promenades around in theatrical capes and hats, wears elevator shoes to disguise his true height, and nervously rearranges furniture for hours before dinner guests arrive at his door. He is enamored with Japanese culture and slavishly courts Japanese emissaries, greeting them at the local Wisconsin train station in a ridiculous pair of Asian pantaloons and an elongated jacket (when Miriam tries to join her husband in her own "costume," he informs her she looks absurd and makes her change clothes). He stubbornly resists paying his bills to local tradesmen and his own servants until he is absolutely forced to. He misappropriates construction advances to make personal purchases of Japanese wood block prints. He treats visiting architectural interns like day laborers, forcing them to mow the lawn and pluck chickens for dinner in return for the privilege of training with "The Master." The list goes on and on. During a court proceeding, he proclaims that he is "the greatest architect in the world," and when asked by the judge how he can make such a pronouncement, he replies that "he is under oath." What a guy.

Nonetheless, the women in Boyle's book flock to Wright like moths to the flame. They find his physical dynamism and psychological sense of command to be irresistible. They are swept away by his larger-than-life persona and creative vision. Although some of them detect Wright's clay feet earlier than others (at a fairly early stage in their relationship, Miriam stares at Wright's large cranium, which she initially worshiped as "leonine," and decides it's just a huge head), they're all initially captivated. Wright makes selfish demands upon each of them, and they all pay dearly for living life on his terms. He is conflicted about the public's reaction to his love life (wives 2 and 3 both lived with Frank prior to marriage). At times, he seeks to hide his indiscretion by passing off Miriam or Olgivana as his "housekeeper" (I'm sure they were thrilled at that); at other times he openly scoffs at convention, condemning it as a set of senseless rules for little people living little lives. He is conflicted about publicity. He loves the money and fame it brings him, but he's enraged when reporters show up at his doorstep with questions about his domestic arrangements. He is conflicted about love. He rushes into each relationship with a sense of urgent romantic inevitability, and leaves each relationship with a cool sense of detachment.

I ended up wondering whether Frank's charm with women would play in today's world. Would wives put up with him as long as he kept his misbehavior on the down low? Would young women be swept up by his international fame and eagerly throw themselves at his feet? Would the popular press alternatively praise and damn him? Catch up on your newspaper reading and decide for yourself.

Northern Gothic: "A Reliable Wife," by Robert Goolrick

2010-02-10T13:28:00.000-08:00

Ralph Truitt is a wealthy man. He's the titan of his small northern Wisconsin town, the king of all he surveys, and he's decided to take a new wife after 20 years of self-inflicted solitude. Truitt's ill-fated choice of his first wife Emilia, a breathtaking Italian beauty of noble but impoverished descent, was driven by flames of youthful passion, and he's determined not to make the same mistake twice. His newspaper advertisement states: "Country Businessman Seeks Reliable Wife. Compelled by Practical, Not Romantic Reasons. Reply by Letter." His selection of Catherine Land from a bevy of applicants is based as much on the plain, simple face peering out from her photograph as on the chaste and practical nature of her written response.

Catherine's initial deception is obvious to Truitt from the moment she steps off the train: her plain clothes and severe hair can't conceal the fact that she is strikingly, painfully beautiful. Truitt's rage mounts as he takes Catherine's bags. He's still emotionally crippled by Amelia's deception two decades ago. Despite his obsessive efforts to afford his first wife every continental comfort and extravagance, including the replication of a palatial Italian villa filled with priceless art and furniture, Amelia engaged in an extended affair with her Italian piano teacher for years under Ralph's very nose. Eventually, she eloped with her Italian lover, leaving Ralph with a handicapped and soon-to-die daughter, a dark-eyed son of questionable parentage, and an empty palace that continues to mock him with its ornate folly.

Why would Catherine have enclosed the photo of another woman? Did she even write the letters she sent him? If not, who did, and what has happened to her? Is Catherine the orphaned daughter of missionary parents, as she claims, or is she an adventuress with an eye to his fortune? If she's the latter, how can he expect her to support him in his quest to find his prodigal "son" and heir Antonio, who ran away at the age of 14? All of these questions and more rage through Truitt's brain over the next few weeks, even as he realizes that the urges of his body are once again engaged in a conspiracy to betray him.

Dark religious themes and gothic suspense saturate Goolrick's page-turning tale. Cities are portrayed as early 20th century Gomorrahs, where gilded opera boxes and lacquered gambling tables conceal an underlying rot of diseased flesh and moral decay, but the stark winter white countryside of northern Wisconsin also carries its own stain beneath the snow. Husbands turn on their wives in senseless violence; entire families go seemingly insane; women wander into the snow and never return. The author is clear about the source of this rural madness: long winters and religion gone crazy.

Each character in the story bears a blot of carnal guilt on his/her psyche that threatens to consume everything, and in each case, this blot had its beginning with sexual desire. As a young man, Truitt wrestled desperately against his natural sexual impulses due to the admonitions of his mother, a puritanical monster who once demonstrated the agony of hell to her young son by repeatedly thrusting a needle deep under his fingernail. All of the main characters have indulged in perceived sexual iniquities, and their response to this guilt is one of the more compelling aspects of Goolrick's novel. Some decide to punish themselves with self denial, spiritual flagellation, and stoic fatalism. Others punish themselves by perversely embracing and accelerating their iniquities to the point of physical endangerment. In both cases, a thinly repressed death wish is at work.

Can the root of all this guilt -- attraction between a man and a woman -- ever be the catalyst for healing and self-forgiveness? If the world is full of pitfalls and temptations, how can you sort out which attraction is a call to grace? In the face of human failure, does it make sense to surrender to nihilism, or is there reason to hope? Goolrick's book examines deep psychological issues of guilt and forgiveness while also producing a suspense-filled gothic narrative that engages the reader from start to finish.

"The Signal:" Ron Carlson Charms a Reluctant Reader

2010-02-06T13:36:00.000-08:00

Sometimes a key element in a novel -- the main character, the setting, etc. -- can be so inherently appealing to a particular reader that the book's success is guaranteed before the author earns it page by page. If an author's topic and the reader's interests coalesce, it's not that difficult for the story to capture the reader's approval and simply coast forward on a wave of good will.

This being the case, I must applaud the skill with which Ron Carlson drew me in to his most recent novel, The Signal, against my natural inclinations. Before proceeding further, I need to list two of my prejudices: 1. I am not a backwoods camper, and I never will be. I enjoy an afternoon hike in the mountains as much as the next person, but I'll never willingly subject myself to freezing overnight temperatures, dismal hygiene, and the icky prospect of pooping in the woods, no matter how many s'mores are offered in the bargain. 2. I generally do not enjoy books with protagonists who would dislike me if they met me. Life is full of enough challenges. Why should I invite imagined disdain from fictional characters?

Carlson's most recent novel is a "man's man of a book" (not my original phrase -- almost every reviewer makes this observation) that captures the raw power and sweeping beauty of one of the last expanses of Western wilderness -- the remote, mountainous backcountry of Wyoming -- and ties that power and beauty directly to the emotional landscape and interpersonal chemistry of the novel's two main characters, Mack and Vonnie. Vonnie, a high school girl from Chapel Hill, meets Mack during a dude ranch trip to Wyoming. Mack, the ranch owner's son, personifies the Western wilderness mystique that Vonnie craves like a drug, and their mutual love of the wilderness and each other leads to an on-again off-again relationship that eventually culminates in marriage.

Things happen. Mack's parents die, bills mount up, poverty begins to nip at the heels of the young couple, and even their yearly romantic forays into the far backcountry can't save them from the effects of Mack's wounded pride, the grind of failure, and the introduction of methamphetamine to the locals. A jail term ensues for Mack, Vonnie leaves town, and Mack's last hope is based on Vonnie's promise to go on one more backpacking trip with him into the Wyoming wilderness upon his release from jail. The bulk of Carlson's novel is the tale of their ill-fated 6-day camping trip, the beauty and the evil they encounter, and the ways in which broken relationships can and can't be mended.

Carlson's spare and beautiful prose, together with his tight control of the novel's mounting suspense, pulled me in to a book that I had no business liking. I would never be attracted to Mack or Vonnie in real life, and I'm sure the feeling would be mutual. One evening of beers and cheese fries at the local tavern with those two and they'd give me up as a lost cause ("What a stiff little snit. Was she actually wearing makeup base?"). Nevertheless, Carlson's clear, spare language drew me into the purity of their mutual attraction with conviction. He made me experience and understand the basis of their love for each other in spite of the fact that I couldn't be more different that either one of them. Similarly, his sensory descriptions of Mack and Vonnie's camping experience -- the toothsome delight of a day-old doughnut when you're ravished with hunger, the throat-warming jolt of boiled coffee on a frosty morning, the feel of a cool breeze on sweat-drenched denim when a backpack is taken off -- had the ability to tempt a non-naturechild like me to speculate that Mack and Vonnie might indeed be on to something.

If you like stories filled with remote wilderness, survivalist suspense, and characters that radiate self-reliance and a love of rugged simplicity, you'll enjoy this book. If you don't, there's a reasonable chance you'll still enjoy this book, and that says a lot about Ron Carlson's skill as a writer.

Note: Carlson's interjection of a subplot involving a lost transponder (thus, "The Signal") felt a bit forced, but I still consider the book to be one of his best.

"When You Are Engulfed in Flames," by David Sedaris

2010-02-01T12:27:00.000-08:00

In my opinion, there is only one way to read this book, and that's with your ears. Sedaris' most recent collection of stories is an absolute gem that glows even brighter when narrated on compact disc by its author. Sedaris is a master of verbal pause and nuance, and his unique voice -- thin, reedy, and whimsically childlike despite the fact that he is now in his fifties -- bestows a gentle quality that softens his sharper observations and brings a smile to the listener's face even in the absence of obvious humor. Do yourself a favor and go audible on this one.

Sedaris' childlike voice notwithstanding, this book is his most mature collection of stories yet. He takes on some sobering subjects -- illness, death, the joys and burdens of monogamy, the unpredictable nature of life -- and treats them with a deepening sense of humanity that has always underpinned his humor, while making the listener laugh all the while -- an amazing feat, when you contemplate the subject matter.

Young writers, on the whole, tend to be more brash and judgmental than older ones, and the arc of their craft usually bends one of two ways: they become more prickly and acerbic in their later years, or they mellow with age and decide to make peace with humankind and all of its (and their) foibles. Sedaris has chosen the latter path, as best exemplified by one of my favorite stories in this collection: "The Understudy." In "The Understudy," David's parents go on an adult vacation and leave him and his young siblings in the care of Mrs. Peacock, an overweight, unkempt woman from "across the tracks" who proceeds to tend her young charges by sleeping all hours of the day in a darkened bedroom, downing every bottle of Coca Cola in the house, and occasionally cooking up a skillet of sloppy joes when the kids resort to howling in desperation (9 p.m.: "If y'all was hungry, why didn't you say nothing? I'm not a mind reader, you know"). Worst of all, she insists that the children take turns scratching her back with a long plastic rod that ends in a miniature, fingernailed "hand" resembling an arthritic monkey paw. They gag in disgust as she lays on the bed, stomach down, her tattered, soiled slip pulled down to her waist, sighing in ecstasy as they scrape the vile paw across her oily, pock-marked back. When one of them can't resist commenting on the hairs between her shoulders, she retorts "Y'all's got the same damn thing, only they ain't poked out yet."

Just at the point when Sedaris's caricature of Mrs. Peacock borders on merciless, he pivots. Mrs. Peacock packs the kids into the car and makes a trip to her house (the beloved back scratcher has been broken and must be replaced with a backup model). The siblings realize that Mrs. Peacock's house, an obvious shack to them, is a subject of great pride for her. The backyard garden is beautifully tended, albeit filled with plastic gewgaws and garden gnomes, and she cautions them not to touch her beloved doll collection ("They's my doll babies") as they enter the back door. She shows them her collection of miniatures, and points out two little troll dolls, each sitting in a house slipper by her bathroom, their hair combed back as if blown by a stiff wind: "See, it's like they's riding in boats!" Sedaris' ability to connect the listener with Mrs. Peacock's sense of individuality and self in the face of obvious poverty is powerful; he simultaneously portrays her as an object of comedic derision and a human being deserving of sincere compassion. I laughed until I had tears in my eyes while I listened to "The Understudy," and yet I'll never look at the denizens of Walmart again without wondering whether they, too, have their own version of a doll baby collection at home, or a carefully tended plant collection on their disintegrating back porch. Sedaris ends the story with an adult observation that Mrs. Peacock was probably clinically depressed the entire time she tended him and his siblings, thus the naps, poor hygiene, etc.

Several of Sedaris's stories involve severely dysfunctional people --an aging apartment neighbor with all the charm of a cornered badger, a disabled war veteran accused of molesting his grandchildren, a boarding house full of social outcasts -- but you never get the feeling that Sedaris would prefer a world without them. He even manages to be amazingly gentle and humorous in relating the potentially traumatic story of a middle-aged truck driver who picked up him up when he was a young hitchhiker and then proceeded to proposition him sexually while the truck flew down the road at 65 miles per hour (Sedaris escaped with his virginity). He's content with the rich adventure of a life that forces you to interact with the good and the bad, the tolerant and the hateful, the beautiful and the plain, and then gives you the gift of grace to smile at it all in the end, just as he smiles at his own strengths and weaknesses. How can you not like a person who is honest and self-deprecating enough to invite you to laugh with him at the fact that he once made use of a prosthetic buttocks to flush out his own flat rear end, abandoning it only when the summer heat, combined with latex, caused intolerable sweating?

There's an old saying that laughing is good for the heart. Sedaris brings new meaning to this saying with his humanist/humorist approach to the world. Spend a few hours with "When You Are Engulfed in Flames" over the next few weekends. You'll like what it does for you.

"Her Fearful Symmetry," by Audrey Niffenegger

2009-12-30T14:53:00.000-08:00

I usually experience a vague feeling of foreboding when twins are introduced into the story line of a book I'm reading; something in the back of my head whispers, "This can't end well." I guess I've seen too many popular movies featuring the good twin/evil twin trope or -- worse yet -- two evil twins who use their interchangeability to commit murderous deceptions (Jeremy Irons' dual role in Dead Ringers still has me shaking in my boots).

That being said, Niffenegger's initial introduction of Julia and Valentina, the twins in her newest novel, set me at ease. The girls live contentedly with their parents in a normal Chicago suburb. They've graduated from high school, but they're taking their time leaving the nest; it's too easy to sleep in, browse a fashion magazine or two, and slap together a PB&J sandwich for lunch to become overly zealous about college or a career. Their social life is somewhat stunted due to their close relationship, but they don't much care; there's plenty of time to work out the interpersonal logistics of dating in the future, and they're never lonely because they have each other.

The cozy predictability of daily suburban life is abruptly turned on its head when a letter arrives from England, addressed to "Julia and Valentina Poole." The girls' mother, Edie, was also a twin, and her estranged twin sister, Elspeth Noblin, has died a tragically premature death from cancer. Surprisingly, Elspeth has bequeathed her apartment, located in a historical home bordering the stone fence of Highgate Cemetery in London, to her two nieces, conditioned upon a peculiar prerequisite: The twins must live in the house for a full year, during which time their parents cannot visit or enter the house.

An important wrinkle to the story must be added here: Elspeth is dead, but not quite. She has slowly begun to materialize, ectoplasm-like, in her former apartment. Some of the most engaging passages of the book involve her gradual familiarization with her evolving "body," her attempts at mobility (she can't leave her apartment), and her desperate efforts to communicate with her former lover, Robert, who lives one floor down and makes frequent "grieving visits" to her bedroom. She contracts into a misty ball and sleeps in a cozy drawer of her writing desk when she's exhausted herself with attempts to push doors closed and puff pieces of paper across table tops. Unable to communicate with Robert, she must content herself with watching him interact with her nieces as they enjoy their new life.

So far, this may sound like a light-hearted romp of a novel (think "Blythe Spirit"), but things turn dark from here on out. The twins seem basically normal, but Niffenegger informs the reader that despite their age, Julia and Valentina still enjoy dressing identically alike, and they sleep in the same bed (spoon-style, no less). It's also clear that Julia is the increasingly stronger twin of the two, both mentally and physically. Elspeth slowly becomes more adept at making her presence known, and she's not ready to relinquish Robert. Add a budding romance, kittens that die and skitter back to life, eccentric neighbors, and the ever-present spell of Highgate Cemetery and its not-so-sleeping occupants, and you have the makings of a great contemporary ghost tale.

You may think you've figured out the plot, but you haven't. Niffenegger fills the last third of the book with unexpected twists and turns that will keep you guessing. There is one strained plot device that is patently implausible -- you'll know it when when you encounter it -- but the book is a must-read for lovers of gothic mysteries and readers who would enjoy learning the fascinating history of Highgate Cemetery (you'll feel like you've taken a personal tour of its mossy paths and ivy-covered crypts by the time you finish the book).

Richard Russo's "That Old Cape Magic"

2009-12-30T14:40:00.000-08:00

Be forewarned: When you gaze into the eyes of your future mate and proclaim "I do," odds are that you're tying the knot with three people, not one. Richard Russo's recent novel explores the inconvenient fact that most marriages involve two players on the field and four players on the bench; each partner's parents are shadow participants in the enterprise, despite their physical distance or animate state.

Jack Griffin and his wife, Joy, have weathered a 30-year union with relative success. The marriage has had its ups and downs, but each of them has come to accept the other's perceived idiosyncrasies with equanimity and the occasional rolled eyeball. Griffin can't relate to Joy's effusively close relationship with her parents and siblings; he perceives it as unnatural and mildly obnoxious. Nonetheless, he endures her daily phone chats with her sisters and attends backslapping holiday reunions with only an occasional complaint ("I guess what I can't understand is why we can't have one holiday with just us."). Joy, on the other hand, can't understand Griffin's desire to avoid contact with his own parents altogether. She concedes that his childhood memories of constant marital bickering were less than ideal, but family is family, and their only child Laura deserves to know both sets of grandparents. Nonetheless, Joy sighs and goes along with Griffin's strategy of avoidance, even after his father dies and his mother seeks to mend old ties.

Griffin's obsessive attempt to avoid his mother's manipulative intrusions and his father's influence beyond the grave seems doomed to failure: he finds himself involved in heated mental arguments with them that take place in his head as he drives down the highway; he catches himself repeating his father's physical mannerisms and adopting his mother's cynical view of human nature; he realizes that his weathered Connecticut farmhouse and teaching post at a toney East Coast school is a realization of everything his parents wished for, but never attained ( snobby academics who graduated from the Ivy League, his parents felt permanently cheated when relegated to the "Mid-f***ing West" for their entire teaching careers). Griffin can't even bring himself to disperse his father's ashes, which have been residing in an urn in the wheel well of his car for over a year.

Griffin's parents are major characters in the novel and provide most of its laugh-out-loud humor. The best chapters in the book involve the contentious history of their marriage and the quirky love/hate nature of their relationship. The elder Griffins share an amazingly similar view of life: they've been screwed over and there's nothing to be done for it. Their yearly summer pilgrimages to Cape Cod, where they torture themselves by imagining how life might have been had their professional fortunes been otherwise, is punctuated by wistful searches through the local real estate guide, where every house they study is either far beyond their means or something so dilapidated that "they wouldn't have it, even as a gift." Unfortunately, the elder Griffins also share a fierce sense of competition. When Griffin's father begins to indulge in philandering, Griffin's mother responds in kind. When Mr. Griffin falls in love with an intellectually challenged graduate student young enough to be his granddaughter, Mrs. Griffin is torn between outrage and secret satisfaction at the girl's bovine dullness. Griffin's mother puts up with her husband's infidelities for a preternaturally long time because she's afraid that once divorced, he could move away from the dreaded Midwest and find a better teaching position than she enjoys, a fact that would drive her crazy. They cling to each other in a marital death spiral until they can't take it any more, but even after the divorce each ex-spouse follows the trajectory of the other's life with intense and spiteful interest.

Will Griffin ever be able to escape his obsession with his parents' shortcomings? Will Joy finally snap and refuse to put up with Griffin's growing tendency to look at everything in life as something beyond his means or "something that he wouldn't have, even as a gift?" Can any of us ever escape eventually becoming our parents? Do yourself a favor and read this amusing, intelligently written book to find out. (Note: the storyline, which is book-ended by two colorful weddings, begs to be made into a movie, which makes sense; Richard Russo is also a successful screenwriter.)

And the Ship Sailed On: Sea of Poppies, by Amitav Ghosh

2009-12-30T14:20:00.000-08:00

Sea of Poppies is a lush, tropical whirlwind of a novel that will sweep you away from the winter snow and onto the broad, weathered deck of the seafaring Ibis, a former slave ship plying the warm waters of the Indian Ocean circa the 1830's, refitted as a merchant clipper and now en route to China to take part in the Opium Wars. The life stories of your fellow passengers, and the myriad paths of fate that have drawn them into the hold of the Ibis, will keep you turning pages to the end and eagerly awaiting the second book in Ghosh's planned "Ibis Trilogy."

The back stories of the characters in Sea of Poppies are so numerous and varied that they would become trapped in a hopeless tangle if left to the hands of a lesser writer. Ghosh makes each story so uniquely compelling, however, that the reader moves easily between tales, eagerly resuming the thread of one story while hoping for the addition of yet another character to the novel's narrative tapestry. Each character in Sea of Poppies is a star, and it's a bang-up ensemble cast: Deeti, a young village girl with the pale grey eyes of a ghost, who is forced to marry an opium addict against her will; Kahlua, a common laborer with limited intellect whose menacing size belies a wise and tender heart; Paulette, a young orphaned French girl who discovers her guardian's desire to provide her with private catechism lessons isn't guided by Christian charity; Zachary, a light-skinned mulatto freeman from Boston whose ethnic heritage is unknowable but for his listing as "black" in the ship's manifest; Neel, a wealthy East Indian who loses his family's fortune in the opium bubble; the comical Baboo Nob Kassin, a bulgy-eyed devotee of Krishna, who eagerly believes that his body is miraculously morphing into the female incarnation of his deceased beloved -- these are just a few tantalizing samples of the myriad characters you'll meet in Ghosh's teeming saga.

Every element of narrative intrigue is encountered during the course of the book: forbidden young love, premature widowhood, the forced separation of a mother and daughter, vast turns of fortune, the mighty brought low, the low elevated to power, an unexpected courtship and marriage, justice denied and justice regained, clever disguises, narrow escapes, a bastard son's search for his rightful heritage, a dastardly ship's mate with murder on his mind, lashings, typhoons -- the list goes on and on.

In addition to the immense entertainment value of the book, it provides a painless education about the economics of the poppy trade, the class systems of India in the 19th century, the history of the Opium Wars, British colonial life in the Near and Far East, the medicinal and addictive features of opium, details of life aboard a 19th century sailing ship, and more salty shipboard lingo than you can shake a stick at (you'll either blush or try to memorize it, depending on your personal standards). I, for one, can't wait for the next installment in this multi-ethnic swashbuckler.

Far Bright Star: Robert Olmstead Writes Another Masterpiece of Americana

2009-12-12T14:03:00.000-08:00

Far Bright Star, a loosely linked sequel to Olmstead's Civil War/coming of age classic, Coal Black Horse, is every bit as engaging and beautifully written as its predecessor. At the conclusion of Coal Black Horse, the book's young protagonist, Robey Childs, marries and fathers two strapping sons: Napoleon and Xenophon. Far Bright Star reacquaints the reader with these two brothers, now aging adults, as they engage in a new military venture: they're members of a cavalry unit that has been sent into the wilds of Mexico to capture Pancho Villa. Xenophon is a consummate horseman, but Napolean is the leader of the two, and as such he is ordered to muster a ragtag scouting party into the desert to assess Villa's whereabouts.

Never the naive optimist, Napolean has an unusually keen sense of foreboding about the mission. His thinly staffed posse can boast of only one other seasoned cavalryman; the rest of the party consists of drunkards, untried boys, misfits, and a spoiled dandy from the East whose character flaws pose a serious danger to the entire group. Even Napolean's horse, a devilish black behemoth named Rattler, seems apprehensive. Pancho Villa is nowhere to be found, but the group stumbles upon evil nonetheless, and a series of tragic mistakes in judgment culminate in a survival story that will have you gripping the book with white-knuckled hands.

Far Bright Star, like Coal Black Horse, has a mythic, larger than life quality that is enhanced by Olmstead's glorious use of language. Every other page of the book contains a passage that glows like a polished jewel. Olmstead's powerful prose, his consummate skill in portraying the varieties of human character that emerge when men are subjected to extreme circumstances, his ability to transport a reader's five senses into the physical landscape of the story, his willingness to confront the "big questions" -- all of these are compelling reasons to make Olmstead's recent novels part of your personal library.

I listened to this book on compact disc, and I think that Ed Sala's reading performance enhances the impact of the novel. His dry, "man's man" delivery may initially strike the listener as a bit too Cowboy Poetry-esque, but his succinct, no-nonsense tone (think Tommy Lee Jones or Robert Duvall) conveys the flavor of the book perfectly. I fell in love with Sala's true west cadence by the end of the novel.

One cautionary note: some of the events in this book are gruesome. If your stomach churned one too many times at the psychopathic atrocities committed by Blue Duck in Larry McMurtry's Lonesome Dove, this novel may not be for you. One suggestion: read the book, don't listen to it. That way, you can "skim" when the going gets graphic.

The Humbling, by Philip Roth

2009-12-08T19:41:00.000-08:00

Advanced age, doomed sex, and impending death: just the kind of topics you enjoy exploring on a cozy winter night, right? Roth's frequent laments about the dark underbelly of the golden years may alienate some readers, but his literary skill keeps me coming back for more. The Dying Animal, Exit Ghost, Everyman -- I just can't stop, as evidenced by my recent one-night immersion his thirtieth book, The Humbling.

Roth's aging characters share one outstanding characteristic: they can't bear the thought of giving up on sex. Their stubborn refusal to go quietly into that celibate night is linked to deeper psychological moorings than mere carnal desire. In their minds, sex is the polar opposite of decay and death; as long as it can be maintained, the grim reaper is forced to pause at the door. The protagonist of The Humbling, Simon Axler, is no exception to the rule.

Unlike some of Roth's previous characters, Axler's late-life crisis doesn't commence with a physical ailment. Axler, a famous A-level theater actor -- wakes up one day and finds himself utterly unable to act. Each stage performance becomes a tortuous farce in which he floats out of his body and views himself puppeting the lines like an automaton. His shock at this new ineptitude is surpassed only by his shock at the impersonal, random way in which such a key element of his personality has been erased overnight. Nothing can be relied upon forever, apparently.

Axler begins a downward spiral. His agent is infuriated that he won't suck it up and attempt a comeback, his wife leaves him (she was never that wild about him in the first place), and he spends a brief stint in a mental hospital after thoughts of suicide threaten to overwhelm him. He eventually finds himself living a hermit's existence in one of those isolated East-coast "farmhouses" inhabited by artists and literati (like Roth). This is where the story gets interesting: from here on out, Roth's story line is so unbelievable as to border on the ludicrous, but Roth's piercing exposition of an aging man's psychosexual innards springs from the page with such raw authenticity it saves the day.

Axler opens the rustic door of his rural hideaway one snowy day and greets Pegeen Stapleford, daughter of two of Axler's best friends from the past, Carol and Asa Stapleford. Pegeen's visit is a total surprise; he hasn't seen her for over twenty years. Indeed, his most vivid memory of Pegeen is a mental picture of her nursing Carol's breast shortly after her birth. Pegeen, a self-professed lesbian since the age of twenty three, is still smarting from a long term love affair gone sour in Montana. She has moved to the East coast for a fresh start (she's procured a teaching job at the local college by seducing the female dean), and she's popped in on Axler, out of the blue, to say hello (?).

One thing leads to another, and before the end of the afternoon, Pegeen has hopped into the sack with Axler, despite the fact that 1) Pegeen knows virtually nothing about Axler beyond his reputation as a former star of the theater; 2) Axler, aged 65, is Pegeen's senior by 25 years, 3) Pegeen has been steadfast in her sexual preference for women during the past seventeen years, 4) Axler's relationship with Pegeen in the past was purely avuncular, and 5) Pegeen's parents would be (and, as it turns out, are) outraged at the relationship. Don't get me wrong -- I don't think any one of the circumstances I've listed above would be prohibitive if standing alone, but in the aggregate?? Give me a break.

A whirlwind romance follows in which Pegeen dumps her college dean (hell hath no fury . . . ) and settles into a cozy domestic arrangement with Axler, Their isolated country life is invigorated by enthusiastic sex and occasional trips into NYC, where Axler showers Pegeen with feminine clothes and provides her with a transformational haircut (Who knew sexual re-orientation could be so easy? Someone alert Evergreen!). Axler is living a classic male dream come true ("He felt the strength in her well-muscled arms . . . he cupped her hard behind in his hands and drew her toward him so that they kissed again. . . . she . . . was with a man for the first time since college"). At this point, the reader begins to wonder if Axler is taking his cues from Woody Allen and/or Pretty Woman. Storm clouds are approaching, however. The scorned college dean pays an uninvited visit to Axler and proceeds to give him an earful concerning Pegeen's less attractive qualities, while Pegeen gets a similar earful about Axler from her distraught parents. Axler proceeds to subconsciously shoot himself in the foot with an escapade that is as foolish as it is factually improbable (I'll let you discover this one on your own), and then . . . .

Roth's doubtful narrative is redeemed by the raw honesty and skill with which he reveals the inner workings of Axler's mind as he wades through his existential crisis. Axler views Pegeen as his chance at a "second birth;" she's the feminine muse he needs to reinvigorate his acting ability and his manhood. Despite her horrified parents, despite her previous sexual history, despite long odds at every turn, he's determined to have her and the reincarnation she offers. And yet, in the midst of Axler's wildest fantasies (he plans to have a child with Pegeen), some part of him knows that his obsessive drive towards renewal may ultimately accelerate his own self destruction. He can see the train wreck coming, but he doesn't know whether he welcomes it or abhors it. Roth's portrayal of Axler's psychological moth-to-the-flame dance is utterly convincing, even if the book's story line is not.

I've exposed quite a bit of plot line here, but the real value of the Roth's book lies in the spare prose, powerful metaphors (obvious and not so obvious), and psychological insights imbedded throughout the novel. His understated delivery belies an underlying reservoir of emotional combustibility. The Humbling is a compelling treat for readers who prefer truth over happy talk.

Louis Auchincloss: Still Dishing the Inner Lives of the Upper Crust at Age 92

2009-12-07T11:34:00.000-08:00

If you're the kind of reader who enjoys delving in the private affairs of the moneyed elite, you're probably already a fan of the works of Evelyn Waugh, Edith Wharton and Henry James. For me, the central charm of Waugh's "Brideshead Revisited" lay in my opportunity to join Charles Ryder as he burrowed into the mysteries and complexities of the rarefied lifestyle enjoyed (and suffered) by his fellow Oxford student, Sebastian Flyte. I shared Ryder's ambivalent fascination as he explored the Flyte family's grand halls, refined mannerisms, and indiscretions. The works of Edith Wharton (The House of Mirth, The Buccaneers), Henry James (The Bostonians, Portrait of a Lady), and, in a more contemporary vein, Dominick Dunne (People Like Us, Fatal Charms) provide similar fly-on-the-gilded-wall experiences for their readers.

If you like this sort of thing and haven't discovered Louis Auchincloss, you have a treasure trove awaiting you. Auchincloss, a Manhattan native of the Upper East Side set, is well situated to tell tales about the moneyed and Mayflowered. He was born in 1917 to a wealthy family ("We were not as rich as the Rockefellers or Mellons, but we were rich enough to know how rich they were"). A Groton and Yale alumnus who retired from the white-shoe law firm of Hawkins, Delafield and Wood in 1986, he currently occupies a three-bedroom top-floor apartment on Park Avenue. His literary output is astonishing -- over sixty books and counting, most of which were written during his 30-odd year career as a fully employed attorney.

His most recent novel, Last of the Old Guard, follows only one year after his previous book, "The Headmaster's Dilemma," a favorite of mine which I briefly reviewed in my 4/7/08 blog. Last of the Old Guard is a penetrating character study of two founding partners of a New York law firm formed during the turn of the century. The story is narrated by the surviving partner, Adrian Suydam, upon the death of his best friend and law firm co-founder, Ernest Saunders. Suydam's painstaking exposition of Saunders' strengths and foibles reveals as much about Suydam and it does about Saunders. In his attempt to accurately express the core of Saunder's personality and define Saunder's ultimate legacy to his family, profession, and community, Suydam (and Auchincloss?) projects his own values and beliefs with understated skill.

The Last of the Old Guard is a quiet little book. If you're looking for a flashy page-turner, look elsewhere. If you're seeking an honest exposition of the inner thoughts and motivations of a rare and dying breed, however, it's invaluable. It's all there: personal tragedy, children that disappoint, cool-headed marital bargains, law firm maneuvering, conflicting loyalties, a sense of duty, defense of honor, the triumph of pragmatism over passion (and sometimes not!), man-to-man chats over brandy and cigars, and an overarching conviction that one's life can actually make a difference to an entire country. Sound interesting? Settle down into a leather club chair, put your feet up on a tufted ottoman, and read this book (if you're an avid fan of this kind of novel, I'm betting you already have these items of furniture in your home).

If you're going to read only one Auchincloss book, many readers suggest The Rector of Justin, a "school book" in the lighter vein of The Headmaster's Dilemma. It is considered by some to be Auchincloss's greatest (and most entertaining) book.

Methland: The Death and Life of an American Small Town

2009-12-02T16:49:00.000-08:00

Nick Reding's Methland captured my attention for personal reasons. Like Reding, I grew up in a small rural town (population 2000) in the Midwest. Upon adulthood, I moved to a large urban area in the Intermountain West, prompting my parents to worry incessantly about the dangers that would surround me in the big city. In their minds, it was only a matter of time before some drug-crazed maniac would break into my bedroom in the wee hours of the morning demanding money and worse.

As predicted, my weekly calls home to Mom and Dad began to include stories of rampant drug use and manufacture; the twist was that the locus of the activity was on their end of the line. Tales of former classmates who were now in rehab or jail were surprising (or not, depending on the classmate), but the real shock involved tales of several farmhouses that had blown sky high in the course of faulty meth production. What was going on?

I began paying attention to meth articles in the media. Several reliable sources quoted statistics confirming the fact that drug use, and meth use in particular, was more prevalent per capita in small towns than in cities. It was becoming the not-so-secret scourge of Heartland, USA. I initially attributed the problem to the mind-numbing lack of opportunity and alternative entertainment in rural towns. (Every time my mom mentioned yet another teenage pregnancy, I would jokingly suggest that they take up a collection for a roller rink, and fast.)

Nick Reding puts all of the pieces together in an excellent investigative book that exposes the complex and seemingly unstoppable forces behind the epidemic, while also revealing its human cost through individual stories that will make you hurt. If you grew up in a small town, you know these people.

The heartland's struggle with meth addiction is largely rooted in a cataclysmic shift from small farm and ranch operations to corporate-run centers of mega-production. Animals are raised in centralized factory pens, fattened in giant feed lots, and slaughtered in megalithic processing plants. Grain production has been centralized on huge corporate farms where food is planted, harvested, and processed under the supervision of agribusiness giants like Cargill and Monsanto. This shift has devastated the morale and pocketbook of rural America. Former independent entrepreneurs have been reduced to the status of easily replaceable wage slaves. Local packing plants that used to pay their employees twenty dollars an hour plus health benefits have been absorbed by mega corporations that pay six dollars an hour and no benefits to a workforce that is powerless to demand anything better. Anyone who toured the Midwest farming country during its heyday, which peaked in the mid-1970's, would be shocked to witness the grinding poverty that permeates its small towns today.

The issue of poverty drives the meth market in multiple ways. The ingestion of meth can temporarily alleviate the depression and hopelessness of a single mother who just completed a double shift slitting chicken bellies at the local Tyson plant. The production of meth in rural basements, a relatively simple but risky endeavor, is a cottage industry that offers low startup costs and large returns to those meth cooks who manage to avoid arrest or incineration. Poverty and lack of decent employment tend to drive rural youths to the West coast and California, where their habit eventually hooks them up with big-time distributors who in turn employ them to funnel meth back to their home town in return for a cut of the cash and goods.

To make matters worse, large processing plants and pig farm factories actively solicit Mexican citizens to cross the border and work for subsistence wages ("First 6 months of housing provided free!"). Although the vast majority of these workers are husbands and fathers desperate to provide a higher standard of living for their families, a fraction of this workforce is inevitably involved in siphoning drugs from Mexico into Small Town, USA.

Corporate culpability doesn't end with agribusiness. Big Pharma has used its massive economic power and lobbying skills to fight meth regulation at every turn. Why waste a relatively modest sum of money adding an element to cold pills that will render them useless for meth making when only half of that sum can "convince" Congress to avoid requiring the additive at all? After all, they argue, they make a legal product for a legal purpose. Why should they have to spend one penny because some societal misfit may personally choose to commit a criminal act? Why indeed.

Ironically, one of the final reasons for meth's prevalence in the heartland is the work ethic of its people. Most drugs don't help work performance. Mention "severe drug addict" and most people envision a lethargic, unemployed couch surfer who lives off friends and relatives until they finally throw him/her out. In contrast, meth (at least initially) boosts concentration and energy, allowing the user to work two and three jobs, performing for weeks with minimal sleep until the inevitable crash. Small town rural people who pride themselves on hard work and self-sufficiency often succumb to meth as a temporary way to "hold it all together" while they work through a financial crisis (divorce, sick child, loss of benefits) that requires them to work long hours without relief. Temporary use is seldom temporary for long.

I've laid out the general framework of Nick Reding's book, but the real power of his work comes from personal interviews and the hard-to-hear stories of working people who have been destroyed directly or indirectly by the meth trade. I highly recommend this book to anyone who wants to understand meth addiction and, more importantly, the largely unreported societal malaise that is sapping the life from rural America.

The Secret Speech, by Tom Rob Smith

2009-12-02T13:25:00.000-08:00

A jam-packed schedule during the past two months forced me to choose between reading books and writing about books. Reading is easy. Writing is hard. Guess which option I chose?

In an effort to catch up on the writing end of the equation, I've decided to produce some reviews. Here goes the first one:

The Secret Speech, by Tom Rob Smith

This follow-up to Smith's first book, Child 44 (an award winning best seller), is well worth your time, particularly if you like high suspense in cold climates. It's 1956 in the Soviet Union, Stalin is dead, and Leo Demidov has escaped his former job as a state security officer to pursue a non-political career as a murder investigator for the state. Leo cannot escape the moral consequences of his former job, however. His adopted daughters, Zoya and Elena, cannot forget his complicity in the death of their parents years ago, and his wife, Raisa, still harbors deep emotional reservations about Leo due to the ruthless nature of his former occupation. Indeed, Leo's marriage is on such thin ice that he feels he must conceal a recent discovery: Zoya has been creeping into her adoptive parents' bedroom at night and holding a kitchen knife above Leo's throat while he sleeps, then returning to her bed, filled with ambivalence and rage.

To make matters worse for Leo, Khrushchev has distributed a "secret speech" throughout the Soviet Union denouncing Stalin as a tyrant and openly condemning the atrocities of Stalin's regime. Former secret service officers can no longer rely on unwavering support from the state, and some officers have begun to turn up dead at the hands of their past victims' friends and relatives. Khrushchev's attempt at a new spirit of openness has unleashed a wave of pent up resentment and blood vengeance.

A lot of the sinister charm of Child 44 was the mind-boggling mystery behind a series of child murders and the twisted psychological nature of the killer. The identity of the villain in Smith's second book is never a mystery, and her psychological state isn't overly complex: she's all about revenge with a capital R. The page-turning aspect of The Secret Speech is derived from action, not puzzle solving. An uprising on a convict ship, chases in subterranean sewer systems, gang justice in a Siberian gulag, and riots in the streets of Budapest keep the reader hurtling toward an ending filled with several unexpected twists and turns. Smith has succeeded in writing a straightforward suspense novel that also manages to incorporate a nuanced exploration of the nature of revenge, forgiveness, and personal redemption. I give it a thumbs up.

"Mrs. Bridge," by Evan S. Connell

2009-10-05T13:16:00.000-07:00

I enjoyed Elizabeth Strout's prize-winning "Olive Kitteridge" so thoroughly (see my blog entry for 6/21/09) that I decided to read a contrasting study of one woman's life in suburban America as it existed a generation before Olive was born.

"Mrs. Bridge," a classic work by Evan S. Connell, is similar to "Olive Kitteridge" in several ways. Strout's book consists of a series of related short stories; Connell's novel consists of a string of 2-3 page vignettes. Both books illuminate the inner lives of long-married women who live comfortably within the confines of American suburbia. Neither book builds to a dramatic climax; both stories are told with a quiet understatement that matches the tenor of their main characters' daily domestic lives.

That being said, the two women in these novels could not be more different; their temperaments occupy opposite ends of the personality spectrum. Olive suspects her husband is a ninny, and she's not afraid to tell him so. Mrs. Bridge, on the other hand, adores her husband; he is the very anchor of her existence. She trustingly sits beside him in the dining room of a Kansas City country club while a tornado approaches within blocks of the building because he announces that the tornado will skirt the club, and he wants to finish his steak. Olive isn't afraid to confront her only child with a litany of his faults; her son's love for her is marred by a constant fear of being bullied. Mrs. Bridge, on the other hand, is slightly afraid of her own three children. She is deeply unnerved at her oldest daughter's tendency to wear trashy outfits and sneak off with boys at night, but she also suspects that her daughter knows something about life that she doesn't. She elliptically confronts her son about his dalliance with an "experienced girl" from the other side of the tracks by informing him that a very nice girl from the country club has been inquiring about him lately. Even her most compliant child, Caroline, eventually "one-up's" Mrs. Bridge by informing her, "I'll never let my husband boss me around like Daddy bosses you."

Mrs. Bridge isn't a complete angel; she harbors unsavory attitudes about race and class that emerge subtly during the course of the book. She is upset when her new laundry woman plumps into the front passenger seat of the car instead of taking a seat in the back, and she becomes ill at ease when her daughter's childhood friendship with a black girl persists into puberty. Ever the lady, however, Mrs. Bridge avoids direct confrontation and resolves these conflicts with veiled hints and subterfuge.

It is tempting to conclude that the difference between Olive and Mrs. Bridge is a product of their respective times; "Olive Kitteridge" is a contemporary tale, and "Mrs. Bridge" takes place in the 20's and 30's. This is true to a degree, but it doesn't explain why most of us know a "Mrs. Bridge" today (you know this woman, she's the one who always gets stuck laundering the table linens after the church bake sale). Conversely, the suffrage movement was probably populated by an abundance of "Olives" who weren't going to take it any more. Both types of women bring value to their insular world. Mrs. Bridge purchases a subscription to "Doberman" magazine from her impoverished art teacher because she can't say no; Olive Kitteridge shakes a student into action by informing him "If you're scared of your hunger, you'll just be one more ninny like everyone else." Olive's frequent displays of anger create a barrier to the psychological intimacy she craves from her family. Ironically, Mrs. Bridge's inability to express anger performs the same isolating function. Each woman's loneliness bears a direct relationship to her ultimate "unknowableness."

If you enjoy a gentle character study that draws you in with subtlety and surprising depth, you'll like "Mrs. Bridge." Additional suggestion: read "Revolutionary Road" and "The Ice Storm" for a slice of domestic dystopia in the 50's and the 70's, respectively.

Two Horror Tales: "The Strain" by Guillermo del Toro and Chuck Hogan, and "The Little Stranger" by Sarah Waters

2009-09-27T16:49:00.001-07:00

I don't usually read horror fiction, but I recently finished two tales of terror that kept me turning pages into the wee hours of the night, despite my usual urge to flip off the light any time after my evening bath (I'll do well at a rest home some day).

Guillermo del Toro's "The Strain," the first volume of a planned vampire trilogy, is pretty much what you would expect from del Toro. If you saw "Pan's Labyrinth," written and directed by del Toro in 2006, you know that Guillermo knows how to create a monster; I was scrambling away from del Toro's grotesque "eyeball ghoul" in my dreams for weeks after seeing that movie. Del Toro's vampires aren't of the romantic Abercrombie and Fitch ilk that dominates today's popular culture. His creatures have blood red eyes with huge black pupils, atrophying body parts (yes, there in particular), and extendable tongue-like stingers that can fly out and tap your carotid artery at six paces. Add the fact that these fellows smell like a mixture of sour dirt and moldy cheese, and romance is not an option.

Del Toro takes some classic tropes from the vampire canon (earth-filled coffins, the utility of silver, sunlight, and mirrors, etc.) and adds a scientific angle that infuses time-ticking exigency to the situation. Apparently, these vampires are victims of a parasite-born virus that is capable of multiplying exponentially and overtaking the entire globe if left unchecked. It's up to a grandfatherly survivor of Hitler's death camps and a recently fired scientist from the Center of Disease Control to save the world. Del Toro's artful mix of Bram Stoker and Michael Crichton is spiced with graphic descriptions of grisly battles that beg for cinematic treatment. The cliffhanger ending will leave you a) expecting a movie within the year, and b) eagerly awaiting the next installment despite your normally lofty literary tastes.

Although Sarah Waters' "The Little Stranger" also falls into the horror genre, it couldn't be more different that "The Strain." Del Toro's novel is set in the skyscrapers and subterranean subway networks of contemporary New York City; "The Little Stranger" is set in the bucolic countryside of 1947 Warwickshire, England, and centers upon strange happenings at Hundreds Hall, a decaying manor that is consuming the pocketbook and possibly the sanity of its aristocratic occupants.

Oddly, I found "The Little Stranger" to be the more unsettling of the two books. Del Toro isn't coy about the nature of his monsters. The demons in his book are all too real; they may cling to the shadows and dark corners of the night, but when they spring out for the kill, they are all hiss, stink, and tangible body impact. Waters chooses to be more elliptical about the exact nature of the goings on at Hundreds Hall, and that is the chilling charm at the heart of her book's success.

"The Little Stranger" is narrated by Dr. Farraday, a country doctor whose initial visit to the Ayres family at Hundreds Hall is prompted by the sudden illness of their sole maid, Betty. Dr. Farraday had visited the Hall once before as a young boy, when his working class mother managed to talk a servant into showing young Farraday the Hall's interior rooms while a busy civic event took place on the home's grounds. The older Farraday is shocked at the Hall's state of decay; the peeling wallpaper and sagging ceilings bear only a slight resemblance to the grand palace he viewed with a child's astonished eyes. The Ayres family has suffered with time, too. Mr. Ayres is deceased, his wife is now a frail and aging beauty, and the Ayres' only son, Roderick, has been mentally and physically crippled by his service in WWII. Only daughter Caroline, a thick-ankled spinster who is fond of wearing shapeless woolen shifts and sturdy shoes, seems to emit a sense of animal vitality. The Ayres's only other child, Susan, died of diphtheria when she was very young.

The physical clues to the deadly mystery haunting Hundreds Hall are maddeningly ambiguous. A key thrown into the snow, smudged burn marks that slowly proliferate on the library's walls and ceiling, childlike scribbles that are discovered on woodwork and behind furniture, the sound of whistles and tinkling bells emanating from the Hall's ancient servant-summons system -- all of these can be dismissed by a bit of agile rationalization, and Dr. Farraday does his best to calm the growing fears of his upper crust clientele.

The true suspense in Waters' novel is mental, in the best gothic tradition of "The Turn of the Screw." The psychological tension within and between characters is at once subtle and overpowering. Dr. Farraday, an "up-from-his-bootstraps" local success story, is simultaneously charmed with the outdated eloquence of the Ayres family and revolted at his lapdog attempts to worm his way into their gentrified circle. (In one of the book's telling passages, Farraday looks at his image in a mirror before he visits the Hall and worries whether he looks like a balding grocer.) His initial tepid appraisal of Caroline gradually grows into a physical obsession; the tiny line of sweat that always appears on her upper lip after walking the family dog slowly transforms from turnoff to turn on. Caroline's animal vitality runs hot and cold with Farraday; she alternately urges him on and pushes him away with fear and disgust. Mrs. Ayres admits to Farraday that she has always been indifferent to Roderick and Carolyn; the only child she ever loved with maternal passion was Susan. Roderick feels that the house itself is a monster that can never be given enough repair and upkeep; the burden of his family's legacy is slowly consuming him.

Is it possible that repressed sexual desires and bottled-up mental torment can ultimately call forth "a little stranger" who wreaks havoc on its victims? If so, what is the nature of this "little stranger?" Is it based in the mind, or in reality, or somewhere in between? It is Sarah Waters' artful working of the "in between" that makes her book so memorable. Waters' refusal to spell out the answer forces each reader to reach his or her own conclusion based upon their own internal stranger. Del Toro's vampires may cause your heart to pound wildly as they pounce on their next victim, but when the dust settles, that's the end of it. Sarah Waters' novel will prompt a little tickle on the back of your neck that will refuse to go away. An evil that is never decisively identified is difficult to decisively ignore. Don't forget your night light

If You Listen To One Audio Book This Summer . . . A Review of Kathryn Stockett's "The Help"

2009-08-04T11:16:00.000-07:00

When is the last time that you listened to an audio book that was so splendid you couldn't wait to share it with everyone you care about? "The Help," by Kathryn Stockett, offers that kind of experience. Stockett's novel, set in the Deep South of Jackson, Mississippi during the racially charged years of the 60's, is currently a darling of book clubs everywhere. Stockett has written her story in three different first-person voices, and this narrative format, when paired with the consummate skill of three of the best reader/actors you'll ever hear, makes the unabridged CD version of her book a perfect candidate for summer listening.

The three main characters in the book are unforgettable. Eugenia "Skeeter" Phelan is a recent graduate of Ol' Miss who returns home to her parents' cotton "plantation" and discovers that a passion for journalism and her tendency to speak truth to power can be as socially lethal as her much-lamented six-foot frame. Aibileen is a soft-spoken black woman who has raised 16 white children; she loves her newest charge, Mae Mobley, but dreads the day when "Baby Girl" reaches the age (8 or 9) at which all of Aibileen's other white children have "turned" and broken her heart by following in their parents' bigoted footsteps. Minny is a feisty stout fireplug of a housemaid with heavenly cooking skills and a sassy mouth that usually gets her fired within a month; one of her few successful tenures occurs when a deaf employer can't hear her talk back.

Together, these three women embark on a brave project that threatens their respective futures and ultimately, their lives. Throw in a side story about a love-struck husband named Johnny Foote and his new bride, Miss Celia (a culturally challenged girl from Sugarditch who prunes the rose bushes in what Minnie describes as hoochie-pink pedal pushers); add a bossy queen bee socialite named Miss Hilly Holbrook to the mix (you'll want to scratch her eyes out), and you have the makings of a rousing drama that will prompt you to ration your listening sessions so you don't end the book a moment sooner than you have to.

Do yourself a favor and plunk down on a chaise lounge with this audio book and a tall glass of Southern sweet tea. Prepare to work up an appetite (Minnie's fresh peach pie, three-tiered caramel cake, and buttermilk fried chicken will have your taste buds screaming), laugh out loud, cry a little, and make three of the best friends you'll ever have the privilege of meeting. When you're done, you'll want to buy a copy of the recording and give it to your sister, who will give it to her daughter, who will give it to her best friend, who will give it to her mother. It's that good.

Ties that Bind: A Review of "The Believers" by Zoe Heller

2009-07-22T14:22:00.000-07:00

One of the unanticipated joys of viewing a harrowing movie filled with bizarre behavior and dysfunctional characters is the clean wave of normalcy that descends upon the moviegoer as he/she trudges up the murky walkway toward the sweet light of day. "I may have my moments," the viewer muses, "but that woman was CRAZY."

I experienced a similar feeling when I completed the last page of Zoe Heller's "The Believers." I approached the rest of the day with light-footed elation, deliciously free of the self-imposed angst borne by each member of Heller's beleaguered NYC family, the Litvinoffs.

The patriarch of Heller's fictional family is Joel Litvinoff, a self-described radical leftist attorney and civil rights worker who attained his national celebrity through tireless work on numerous high-profile legal defense cases. Heller reveals the least about Joel, who suffers a major stroke in the first pages of the book and remains in a coma thereafter, but that is probably to his advantage, since the more you know about this Manhattan family, the less you like them.

Joel's battles against the establishment may have originally been fueled by altruistic ardor, but Heller hints that Joel has become enamored with his own celebrity in recent years. He needs constant public attention to energize his leftwing passions and enhance his cult-like status, a status that in turn facilitates his favorite hobby: he's a womanizer. One would like to feel sorry for his wife, Audrey, but she has quite a few flaws of her own. It's highly probable that she married Joel to escape the dismal fate endured by her English parents, who live in a tatty Chertsey apartment that smells of boiled cabbage and cat pee. No longer the attractive and saucy feminista of her youth, Audrey has become abrasive, foul-mouthed, and bitter in middle age. Her sole friend, Jean, endures verbal attacks from Audrey that would incite bitch-slaps from anyone less saintly.

The Litvinoff children are no sweethearts, either. The oldest child, Karla, is an overweight social worker who is maddeningly weak-spined and complacent in the face of outrageous verbal abuse from Audrey and rude inattention from her husband. She may as well print "Kick Me" on her behind. Karla's sister, Rosa, is a stiff, self-righteous do-gooder who has turned to helping urban girls in Harlem after becoming disenchanted with Castro's Cuba, where she lived for a time. As Rosa's job at "Girlpower" slowly sours (in truth, she doesn't like the girls, not even one), she begins to flirt with Orthodox Judaism, a move that is sure to inflame Audrey, a militant atheist. The youngest Litvinoff, an adoptee named Lenny, is a drug-using lay-about who somehow manages to wheedle money and favors from Audrey in inverse relation to his bad behavior; the more outrageous his transgressions, the more Audrey gives him, a fact that rankles his sisters and consigns him to the status of permanent manchild.

"The Believers" can be read as a scathing social satire, but Heller's underlying themes are nothing to smirk at. Each character is trapped inside a forced persona that he or she can't seem to shed. Joel has become so dependent upon national notoriety that he is determined to chase it to the point of exhaustion (and stroke). Audrey has played the role of adoring wife and quirky iconoclast for so long that she is totally at a loss as to how to define herself when Joel's transgressions come to light. Karla is boxed into a social work job and a miserable marriage because Joel and Audrey convinced her at an early age that she was "the nurturer" in the family. Rosa has modeled her adult life after her father, only to discover that his ideology has left her adrift and longing for something more. Lenny has allowed himself to sink into a destructive co-dependency with his mother that threatens to kill him unless he cuts and runs altogether.

Each family member seeks an external anchor, a belief system that will reveal his or her raison d'etre once it is adopted and internalized. Heller subtly explores whether such a quest is an effective strategy or a harmful barrier to true self realization. Each Litvinoff resolves his or her existential crisis differently, and in refusing to reveal her bias one way or another, Heller forces her readers to address the issue for themselves. "The Believers" is a tragicomic and thought-provoking book that will leave you feeling relieved that you're not headed to the Litvinoff household for dinner any time soon.

"The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao:" A Literary Trifecta

2009-07-17T13:41:00.000-07:00

In "The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao," Junot Diaz artfully weaves three distinct narrative threads into a prize-winning novel that offers three books for the price of one.

The novel's main character, a massively overweight, nerdy Dominican American whose romantic passion for women is simultaneously humorous and heartbreaking, is one of the most original characters to appear in fiction in recent years. The reader first meets Oscar at the tender (and relatively thin) age of seven. Oscar's prepubescent love life is blossoming; he's romancing two girls at once, and his reputation as a schoolyard Romeo has spread throughout the Dominican barrio of his New Jersey town. His bliss is cut short, however, when the girls refuse to share his affection and force him to choose between them. The victor promptly dumps him for another suitor, and Oscar's love life begins a downward spiral that will persist into a dateless and despondent adulthood.

Depression prompts Oscar to overeat and lose himself in comic books, fantasy novels, and marathon rounds of Dungeons and Dragons. Despite the repeated efforts of his sister Lola and his best friend Yunior to educate Oscar about the proper way to seduce the opposite sex, he stubbornly persists with obsessive personal habits and un-hip hobbies that guarantee his lovelorn isolation. College finds Oscar holed up in his dorm room, chubbier than ever, writing what he hopes will be the next "Lord of the Rings" and fantasizing about his latest crush. Readers will find themselves fuming at Oscar's hapless inertia while also hoping that something wonderful will finally fall his way. What can life offer a bounteously romantic soul wrapped in an unappealing body? What should it offer? What do we owe to ourselves and others regarding such issues? These deep questions, together with Diaz's skillful and original development of Oscar's character, could carry the book without the aid of any additional material.

Nevertheless, "Oscar Wao" offers the reader a second story line that is equally engaging. Many readers may find Diaz's exposition of the complex relationship between Oscar's mother, Beli, and his sister, Lola, to be the most gripping element of the book. Beli's violent verbal and physical attacks on her own daughter are maddeningly inexplicable until Diaz gradually informs the reader about Beli's past life in Dominica, a tragic tale that could fill a book of its own. Beli and her daughter are oil and water in some respects (Beli's romantic entanglements have bordered on the fatally obsessive, while Lola's approach to "love" is about as cool and calculating as it gets), but it is their wild tenacity of spirit that locks them into combat; each despises the other for a stubborn ferocity that she refuses to recognize in herself. Diaz explores this mother/daughter relationship expertly, guiding the reader through Beli and Lola's tangled web of love, fear, resentment, and hope with a story that could stand alone on its own merits.

That being said, Diaz offers the reader yet a third narrative lens through which to enjoy the book. "Oscar Wao" offers an expansive, multi-generational history of the Dominican Republic in general and an account of the diabolical 30-year reign of President/dictator Rafael Trujillo Molina in particular. From the time Trujillo rose to power in 1930 until he was assassinated in 1961, he ruled the country with a ruthless cruelty that was feared throughout the Caribbean. Oscar and his family are fictional characters, but Trujillo was real, and Diaz doesn't pull any punches as he depicts the ruinous effects of Trujillo's rule upon the Dominican people. Trujillo's tentacles reach out to adversely affect every member of Oscar's family, touching everyone from Oscar's scholarly Grandfather Abelard to Oscar himself, who finds himself in a deadly confrontation with Trujillo's legacy long after the man himself is dead.

This book, a well-deserving winner of the 2008 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, is an excellent choice for your to-read list in 2009, whether you're interested in exploring Dominican history, mother/daughter relationships, or the imaginative, love-addled brain of a Star Wars fan named Oscar.

Coffee Talk . . . . .

2009-06-30T16:48:00.000-07:00

It's four o'clock in the afternoon, you're desperate for a break from work, and you've got coffee on your mind. Do you order up a whipped mocha or something short, black, and bitter? I experienced a bit of both options last week when I read Elinor Lipman's "The Family Man" (iced vanilla frappe) and Denis Johnson's "Nobody Move" (thick and black in a paper cup) in rapid succession.

The books read like night and day, but they both depend upon the same literary element -- dialogue -- for their success. I love a book that lets me eavesdrop on private conversations, particularly when they are unusually artful (Jane Austen, Henry James, Edith Wharton -- why don't people craft their social exchanges like that any more?), witty, or eye-opening (check out "The Reluctant Fundamentalist" by Mohsin Hamid).

Elinor Lipman's "The Family Man," set in contemporary Manhattan, consists almost entirely of dialogue. Wordy characters abound in this fast-paced domestic farce: Henry Archer, a successful, recently retired gay attorney; Denise, his histrionic ex-wife from the distant past; Todd, a middle aged sales clerk with his eye on Henry; Thalia, an aspiring actress who seeks to reunite with her stepfather Henry after twenty years of estrangement -- all of these characters are bubbling over with something to say, and the result is a light yet gratifying verbal soufflé reminiscent of Grant/Hepburn screwball comedies of the 30's and 40's (for those of you under 35, think Hugh Grant/Renee Zellweiger in "Bridget Jones' Diary).

Denise's Xanax-induced "eulogy" of her deceased husband (third one and counting) is almost as entertaining as her verbal overtures to her new soul mate, Albert Einstein, a greyhound rescued from the racing circuit and formerly named "Kill Bill." Todd's "coming out" interchange with his house-coated Brooklynese mother left me rolling on the floor. The story is drenched with New York references both real (Zabar's, the Number 7 Line, a haute restaurant named "Per Se") and imagined that reinforce the urbane nature of the wordplay. Lipman's novel may fall on the light side of the literary scale, but a literary carmel macchiato can go down deliciously on a long summer afternoon, especially when it is intelligently crafted.

Denis Johnson's "Nobody Move," set in the depressed burgs of Northern California, also relies upon clever dialogue for its success, but the mood of the book is a polar departure from Lipman's light hearted romp. All of Johnson's characters are losers of one sort or another: Jimmy Luntz, a middle-aged nobody with a serious gambling debt; Juarez, Jimmy's creditor, a small-time crook who has assumed a false name and accent to conceal the fact that he is actually from the Middle East; Gambol, Juarez's lumbering "enforcer" who is sent to collect Jimmy's debt; and no less than two femme fatales: Anita Desilvera, a petite brunette with a drinking problem who joins Jimmy's fugitive run with a few plans of her own, and Mary, a "hefty blonde" who applies her nursing skills (and more) to an injured and morose Gambol in hopes of gaining some personal dividends in the bargain.

The book is an abrupt departure from Johnson's previous prize-winning book, "Tree of Smoke," and one gets the feeling that he is having fun with it. If Lipman's novel reads like "Bringing Up Baby," Johnson's book evokes the mood of "Double Indemnity." It's an homage to Chandler, Spillane, and James M. Cain. The dialogue is terse, cynical, and darkly humorous: "You're drunk." "Not yet, but I like how you think." The light banter that ricochets between characters in a volley of poker-faced one-liners is eerily at odds with the extremely violent chain of events, but Johnson works this internal contradiction to the book's advantage, a la "Pulp Fiction." Much of Johnson's dialogue echoes that of Richard Price ("Lush Life," "Clockers"), the current king of gritty urban dialogue, who also happens to be a script writer ("The Wire."). No wonder "Nobody Move" almost begs to be made into a movie.

Some readers who loved "Tree of Smoke" might consider "Nobody Move" to be a turn in the wrong direction for Denis Johnson, but if you enjoy noir fiction packed with one-liners that prompt a guilty smile, this book is for you (to be read with a strong cup of warmed over coffee in hand, of course.)

Olive Kitteridge, by Elizabeth Strout

2009-06-21T13:15:00.000-07:00

When is the last time that you willingly spent an entire week with someone you didn't like, even though you were free to escape at any moment without the slightest penalty? Never? Neither had I, until I picked up Elizabeth Strout's Pulitzer prize winning book, "Olive Kitteridge," last month, and discovered that the longer I lingered with the book's abrasive main character, the less I wanted to leave her house.

Caustic, judgmental, and "honest" to a fault, Olive Kitteridge resembles the scary aunt that children run away from at family reunions -- the one who informs you that your legs are too fat to wear shorts and that you have Grandpa's nose. Even her body is a force of nature. Olive is unusually tall, and not in a willowy way. She slices through the small Maine town of Crosby like a sturdy ship of state, leaving battered feelings in her wake like so much hurricane flotsam.

Olive Kitteridge is a woman to be reckoned with, a fact that is not lost on her long suffering husband, Henry. He's a bespectacled, tentative man who loves his job as a pharmacist and awakens each morning with the belief that the world is a good place filled with good people. His workplace is a refuge where he can satisfy his hunger to make everyone happy. No one can make Olive happy, however, and the hairs on the back of Henry's neck tingle each evening as he drives home in anticipation of Olive's inevitable irritation with him or with Christopher, their only child.

Olive may be easy to dislike, but she's also fascinating. She delivers one-liners that are rude and yet strangely satisfying to read; they're the kind of remarks that we've all secretly wished we could say at some time. Olive: "How I hate a grown woman who says 'the little girls' room.' Is she drunk?" Further example: When Christopher leaves Olive alone with his recent (and many-times divorced) bride, Olive looks about and casually asks, "Where is your newest husband?" Her thoughts aren't something to be proud of, but we've all had them ("More gratifying, however, was the fact that . . . the story of Bill and Bunny's offspring was worse than their own.")

Olive isn't all bad, however, and the author is brilliant in her ability to elicit compassion from the reader as the complexity of Olive's personality is gradually developed. Olive's years with her son are filled with impatience and discord, but she is devastated and profoundly lonely when he chooses to move to California; "Pain, like a pinecone unfolding, seemed to blossom beneath her breastbone." She observes her future daughter-in-law gently stroke the hair of a young flower girl at Christopher's wedding, and acknowledges to herself that something is deeply wrong with her own inability to express physical affection. She is mortified when, after an evening dinner, she realizes that Christopher and Ann never informed her that she had food on her blouse, a "courtesy" extended to an aging old woman. Olive's former students (she was a junior high math teacher) remember her with respect and admiration. "Don't be scared of your hunger," she told one of them, "If you're scared of your hunger, you'll just be one more ninny like everyone else." These moments help the reader to empathize with, if not admire, Olive. In doing so, the reader expands his/her ability to realize that the complex mystery of others is never fully knowable.

This book is technically a series of short stories that are all connected in some way to Olive, but it reads more like a novel. In addition to being a character-driven tour de force, it is also a wise commentary on domestic relations, the ways of small towns, and the human condition in general. Take a trip to Crosby, Maine and spend the week with Olive. I think you'll be glad you did.

Paradise Lost

2009-06-09T16:41:00.000-07:00

After struggling through the first five pages of Toni Morrison's newest book, "A Mercy," I was faced with a decision: Should I continue to slog forward in the hope that it would all eventually make sense, or cut my losses and immediately toss the book into the return bin at my local library (there was, after all, a waiting list)? I have been burned by Ms. Morrison before. An octogenarian friend of mine presented me with a copy of "Beloved" several years ago. He plopped the recently purchased book into my lap and said, "I'm damned if I know what this woman is talking about. See if you can decode it, and call me later." I attributed his confusion to the effects of advancing age and attacked the book with confidence, only to find it as exhaustingly opaque as he had. I gave up after about one hundred pages.

"A Mercy" is a short book - about 170 compact pages, and I decided to stay the course. I'm glad I did. Ms. Morrison's language shifts from an elliptical stream-of-consciousness exercise in the first chapter to an intelligible and poetic narrative that sweeps the reader into the beauty and tragedy of 17th century America before it was America. Her ensuing prose combines a mystical, dreamlike quality with a razor sharp conveyance of nature's immediacy. Morrison leads her reader into a world that is at once mythic and yet acutely real, a literary version of Bierstadt's wilderness paintings.

The quest for belonging, the desire to forge a circle of interconnection between human and human, is a central theme of the book. Almost everyone is an orphan of some sort. Jacob Vaark has scraped his fortune together in the New World by employing the energy and wiles that enabled him to survive as a solitary street urchin in Europe. His wife, Rebekka, was shipped across the ocean to Jacob, sight unseen, by her father, who was only too glad to reduce his familial burden by one hungry 16-year old. Lina, Rebekka's Native American housemaid and farmworker, has lost her entire village to smallpox. Sorrow, an African orphan, has been taken in by Vaark after her rescue, half drowned, from a nearby river estuary. Florens, the main character of the story, has found her way into Vaark's household by default, having been accepted by Vaarck as "payment" for a Virginia slave trader's debt, but only after Floren's mother (the originally intended "payment") begged him to do so.

The motherless, disconnected state of Morrison's characters is made more poignant by the boundless wilderness that they inhabit. Breathtaking, seemingly endless, impersonal in its beauty and in its cruelty, the New World itself is a character in the book. Awe inspiring and yet merciless, nature has a leveling effect on social stratification when survival is at stake. Smallpox, malnutrition, an unfortunate fall that breaks a leg -- such misfortunes are no respecter of class or legal status. People live or die as a group, and the women on Vaark's failing farm form a friendship of sorts as they realize that coordinated effort from dawn until dusk is necessary in order to prevent nature from reclaiming their fragile foothold on the land.

Lina, Sorrow, and Florens, however, are fully aware that their cobbled-together coexistence is no substitute for social equality and the right to seek and maintain the bonds of family, a goal that each of them hungers for in her own way. The story has twists and turns that I won't reveal here, but it is safe to say that slavery's devastating effects on the human psyche run through the book and Vaarck's wilderness like a tainted river. The hopelessness and humiliation that accompany Floren's loss of control over her own body and destiny are tragedies that are compounded by her unconscious internalization of slavery itself. A free black ironworker rebuffs Florens' advances with a stinging rebuke: he wants her to go because she is a slave. When Florens responds, as if slapped, "What is your meaning? I am a slave because Sir trades for me," he replies: "No. You have become one. . . Your head is empty and your body is wild . . . Own yourself, woman, and leave us be."

Each side of the ornate iron gate that Jacob has commissioned the black journeyman to fashion for Jacob's newly completed mansion is topped by the image of a writhing serpent. When closed, the two serpent heads merge to form a flower blossom. Is nature the serpent that must be tamed in Vaarck's garden, or is man the serpent in the New World's Eden? Morrison invites you ponder this and other questions as you immerse yourself in this satisfying 2-night read.

Summer Reading: "Mistress of the Art of Death," by Ariana Franklin

2009-05-27T15:35:00.000-07:00

Some novels engage their readers with a single element -- plot, character development, etc. -- that carries the book from cover to cover. Other novels succeed on multiple levels that invite the reader to dig into the narrative like a rich layer cake. If you prefer the latter type of book, "Mistress of the Art of Death" should be added to your summer reading (or listening -- more about that later) list.

On its face, "Mistress of the Art of Death" is a straightforward historical mystery set in 12th century England. As the story begins, the reader finds King Henry II juggling several political hot potatoes. He must dampen hot tempers that continue to flare up in the aftermath of Archbishop Thomas a Becket's murder in Canterbury Cathedral, and cool his countrymen's growing resentment towards his decision to offer refuge to European Jews who have been banished from the Kingdom of France. To top it all off, someone is murdering the children of Cambridge. One by one, their young bodies are discovered, bearing evidence of unspeakable atrocities; atrocities which, according to the parochial mentality of the local populace, could only be committed by those "others," the unholy Jews.

Two Jews have already been brutally executed, and Henry faces a dilemma. His decision to offer refuge to European Jewry was not entirely motivated by humanitarian reasons. Church law in England forbids the loaning of money -- usury -- and Henry is well aware that the extension of credit drives the national economy and fills the crown's tax coffers. Ethnic tensions are so high that all lending activity by the Jews (whose religion permits such activity) has ground to a stop in Cambridge, and if the senseless violence spreads, a medieval recession looms. Luckily, Henry's cousin, the King of Sicily, has access to the best modern medical experts in the world, courtesy of the medical school in Salerno, which employs scientific advances achieved by the Islamic world. The King of Sicily commissions Adelia Aguilar, the school's top student of "causes of death" (a medieval CSI agent of sorts) to help Henry uncover the true perpetrator of the serial murders. Adelia, accompanied by the King's best "fixer," Simon of Naples, and a towering Muslim bodyguard named Mansur, sets off for England, and the adventure begins.

Now, for the layer cake: Ms. Franklin has created a literary tale that includes superb character development, an intricate plot with several eye-popping surprises, sensory descriptions that encompass the reader with the sights, sounds, and smells of 12th century England, fascinating historical details, and an understated commentary on ethnic conflict, science and superstition, Christianity and Islam, Jewish persecution, women's rights, and the rule of law. She even weaves a few romantic threads into her story with a touch of wry humor that is refreshing.

Her characters will remain with you after you read the book: Simon, whose love for his wife of many years burns with a fervor that only increases with age; Mansur, whose chronic fear of excess fat (the frequent fate of a eunuch) conflicts with his budding crush on a middle-aged cook whose food is a slice of heaven; Ulf, a scrappy urchin straight out of Dickens; the local prior, who suffers from a personal medical issue that only Adelia can remedy; rotund Sir Rowley Picot, the much-reviled local tax collector who proves to be more than he appears; and, of course, Adelia herself, whose humanity, clear-headed logic, and stubborn doggedness in the face of ignorance make her an ideal and complex heroine.

I listened to the unabridged recorded version of the book, and I highly recommend it. The reader, Rosalyn Landor, has a rich, well-modulated voice that brings the book's dialog alive for the listener. She varies her voice and accent for each character, and gives the recorded book the aura of a well-acted play that you don't want to end. Luckily, this novel is the first of a series that should be well worth following. An excellent discussion of the book, complete with timeline, author's notes, etc. can be found at www.mistressoftheartofdeath.com.

A Page Too Far

2009-02-01T20:37:00.000-08:00

There are four movies that I'd love to see next weekend -- The Reader, Revolutionary Road, The Wrestler, and The Curious Case of Benjamin Button -- but I can only spare the time to see one of them. Obviously, a bit of cinematic triage is in order. I favor The Wrestler over The Reader by a tad, but The Reader was released first, and my inner stickler enjoys viewing things in their proper order. Revolutionary Road sounds riveting, but I'm vaguely leery of a movie pairing Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio (sorry, Titanic fans). The obvious choice is probably Benjamin Button -- it received thirteen Academy Award nominations -- but I'm embarrassed to say that the length of the movie - almost three hours -- gives me pause. Benjamin Button may age backwards during the course of the movie, but I'm pretty sure my rear end will be aging forward in a fashion that will render it numb by the time the closing credits roll, and I'm not sure I'm ready to make that kind of commitment.

What does any of this have to do with books (other than the "curious" fact that Benjamin Button was ostensibly inspired by one of F. Scott Fitzgerald's short stories)? I've known many people who routinely avoid movies exceeding two hours in length, even when the movies at issue are, by all accounts, well worth the time. No amount of cajoling will force them into a movie theater for longer than the standard 120 minutes, period. Although I tend to reproach this absolutist attitude by time-skimping moviegoers, it's possible I'm their literary counterpart when it comes to reading "big books."

You know the kind of books I'm talking about. In my world, books with four hundred to five hundred pages should be approached with caution, books with more than six hundred pages fall squarely into a personal red zone, and if minuscule print is part of the mix, an alarm begins to go off in my head. I may not realize it at the time, but there's no way I'm reading that book. That's not to say, however, that I don't try. Take, for example, my earnest attempt to read The Name of the Wind, by Patrick Rothfuss, last year. The Name of the Wind, the first volume in a projected three-volume fantasy series entitled The Kingkiller Chronicles, received astounding reviews in the year of its release (2007). Orson Scott Card and Ursula LeGuin fawned over it, fantasy sites immediately pegged it as THE fantasy debut of the year, some reviewers dared to make favorable comparisons with Lord of the Rings, and others crowned Rothfuss as Robert Jordan's heir. If I was going to dive into a fantasy novel (not my usual fare), this was the book to read, despite the fact that it weighed in at 897 pages.

Initially, things went swimmingly. The first page of the book swept me in with a cadenced lyricism and poetic weight that took my breath away. As I continued reading the book for the next few days, I continued to marvel at the author's ability to create vivid images and complex characters in a world that was totally alien, and yet strangely similar, to my own. The plot was engaging, the writing was wonderful, and then, about two weeks into the book, I caught myself performing an act that presaged doom. I paused my reading, turned the book on end, and measured my progress on an "inches" basis. I estimated that I was about one quarter of the way through the book. Not content to make do with a rough estimate, I took note of the page I was on and performed a bit of arithmetic. Not good. As I continued reading the book, I gradually began concentrating more on my "progress" than on the story. I returned the book, unfinished, within the week.*

David Foster Wallace's untimely death in September of 2008 catapulted his mammoth novel, The Infinite Jest, (1996) back into the literary limelight. Despite its gargantuan proportions (the paperback edition is 1088 pages), I decided to give it a try. I returned it to the library after two days. The first sentence of a Publisher's Weekly review of the book says it all: "With its baroque subplots, zany political satire, morbid, cerebral humor and astonishing range of cultural references, Wallace's brilliant but somewhat bloated dirigible of a second novel . . . will appeal to steadfast readers of Pynchon and Gaddis." (I can't say I wasn't warned.) I found myself wondering whether the novel's title was not so much a title as a description of Wallace's joke on the hapless reader. Infinite jest, indeed.

Never one to place much value on past experience, I recently checked out all 912 pages of Robert Bolano's "2666", published posthumously in November of 2008. Once again, I was taken in by glowing reviews; how can you resist descriptors like "astonishing . . . a world-encompassing masterpiece . . . the finest novel of this century . . . "? Even those reviewers who felt morally compelled to warn prospective readers of the novel's deadly length were positive in their assessment. Publisher's Weekly dubbed it a "brilliant behemoth" and Barnes and Noble called it a 900-page cinderblock of a book, but in a good way. For me, it was mostly in a bad way. I gave the book to another reader after a week of earnest attempts to wade into the water and swim the distance. (In all fairness to Bolano, he initially intended for the book to be published in five separate parts over just as many years. In all fairness to me, I don't think I should feel guilty about returning a book that Mr. Bolano thought I would need five years to read.)

I tend to be skeptical about people who say they've read and enjoyed books of mind-numbing length, and apparently I'm not the only one. I remember reading an article (Books section of the Sunday New York Times??) about The Crimson Petal and the White, a 960-page historical novel by Michel Faber. The book enjoyed effusive reviews when it came out in 2003, and apparently it was talked up as "the intelligent person's historical novel" in every NYC cocktail party worth attending. The article's author contended that upon close investigation, it could be determined that none of the book's devotees had actually read the book. They were simply choristers in a literary echo chamber; some had begun reading the book, others had read the reviews and intended to read the book, and so forth. I don't doubt the writer's experience in the least. I am particularly suspicious of people who tout lengthy books that are known for being intellectually brilliant and/or a vanguard of innovative literary expression. I may believe that you enjoyed (and completed) Gone With the Wind, (hardback, 1048 pages), but I'm going to have to take your same statement about Ulysses (paperback, 816 pages) with a grain of salt. I don't see how a book like that can be anything else but excruciating. Add around 500 more pages to it, and I think you've come up with a diabolical alternative to Gitmo.

That being said, I welcome your suggestions about any "big books" you have read that were well worth the time. Ever the optimist, I'm currently on the waiting list to borrow Anathem (Neal Stephenson's latest fantasy novel, purported to be brilliant by professional reviewers and, more importantly, my own daughter) from my local library. Page count: 960. Here we go again.
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*Most science fiction/fantasy readers have an ability to deal with lengthy books, and if you are fantasy fan, I recommend that you check Rothfuss's novel out tomorrow. (My daughter, an avid fan of Neal Stephenson, has patiently explained to me why many science fiction/fantasy works are so long. When an author creates an entirely new and unique universe, he/she can no longer call upon the reader to "fill in the blanks." The author is obliged to fill in every detail of the unprecedented mental canvas he/she is creating, and that takes more descriptive space than usual).

Review: Lionel Shriver's "The Post-Birthday World"

2008-12-15T14:22:00.000-08:00

The first chapter of Lionel Shriver's "The Post-Birthday World" describes the kind of "perfect" domestic arrangement that most people dream of. Irina and her partner of ten years, Lawrence, are enjoying a pleasant ex-pat existence in London. Irina's modest success as a children's book illustrator dovetails nicely with Lawrence's rising career at a prestigious UK think tank; their circle of friends is small but rewarding; and their home life has settled into a seamless, comforting routine. One small detail, however, has begun to occupy Irina's thoughts with niggling persistence: although their sexual couplings are frequent and satisfactory, Irina and Lawrence no longer kiss. Indeed, Irina is lucky to catch a dry "air peck" from Lawrence as he heads out the door each morning.

Irina's book collaborator, Jude, is married to Ramsey Acton, a champion player of "snooker" -- a British version of billiards. Ramsey is a popular celebrity in the UK, and although most Americans are immune to the charms of snooker, Lawrence loves the game and prods Irina into striking up a couples friendship with Jude and Ramsey. Through a series of fateful twists and turns, Irina finds herself unintentionally alone with Ramsey on his birthday. The awkward situation leads to overdrinking, and Irina is shocked when her long dormant sexuality asserts itself with a force that simultaneously thrills and horrifies her. Every molecule of her body tells her to kiss Ramsey; every dictate of common sense tells her not to.

At this point, the narrative splits into two parallel stories. Chapter 2, marked with a black square, proceeds to tell what happens when Irina chooses to kiss Ramsey. It is followed by Chapter 2, marked with a white square, which proceeds to tell what happens when Irina chooses not to kiss Ramsey. The book proceeds with alternative chapters to the end.

If you think that Shriver's novel sounds like a banal chic lit romance that happens to employ an interesting plot device, think again. "Post Birthday World" explores the psychological and physical aspects of attraction with intelligence, insight, and unflinching candor. Lionel Shriver is known for pushing the bounds of raw honesty, and she steadfastly refuses to resort to trite convention or comforting bromides in this novel. She is anti-PC with a vengeance.

Once Irina makes her momentous decision (such a small act -- a kiss -- with such profound consequences), she is driven to filter her perceptions in a way that will support her fateful choice. When Lawrence returns home from a business trip the night after Irina kisses Ramsey, she perceives Lawrence's face to be killingly familiar -- utterly devoid of any remaining mystery or charm. His pet name for her suddenly strikes her as cheeky and presumptuous, and when he embraces her in bed, his heavy arm and warm chest suffocate her. When he prods her with his pelvis, it has the pesky quality of a poking finger. She has made her choice, and she shapes her experience to reinforce her judgment call. How could anyone stay with Lawrence, really?

Alternatively, when Lawrence returns home from a business trip the night after Irina refuses to kiss Ramsey (Version B), Irina beams with relief and love at the sight of her partner ("There was no doubting that Lawrence's was a beautiful face . . . the kind you could dive into like dark water and get lost"), longs to have him embrace her (she insists on a long, wet kiss), and basks in the pleasure of hearing his familiar pet name for her. She has made her choice, and is determined to perceive their relationship as an exceptionally successful one.

Shriver is well aware that part of our attraction to another is based on our perception of who we are when we are with that person. Irina feels comfortably self-contained, productive, and centered when she is with Lawrence, but she also feels a bit dull. She feels adored, enlivened, and known for her innermost self when she is with Ramsey, but she realizes that she has abandoned her career and begun to eat and drink to excess. In a life without Ramsey, Irina will never know the heights of intimacy that she is capable of. She will always wonder what could have been. If she abandons Lawrence, however, a part of her will always be haunted by the years of comfortable, sustainable camaraderie that she threw away. She will always mourn the part of her that she left behind.

Shriver also realizes that time has a way of playing a cruel joke on our affections -- the thing that initially attracts one person to another is often the very thing that repulses us over time, and what we initially perceive as an irritating trait in a partner often prevails as a positive merit in the end, especially if the partner is no longer present from day to day. Ramsey's uncanny skill at snooker charms Irina initially, but she grows to loathe the world of high-stakes snooker and Ramsey's self-absorbed obsession with winning an elusive national title. Lawrence's overly casual approach to clothes irritates Irina initially -- she interprets it as a shabby failing on his part. With time, she fondly views his clothing as a symbol of his faithful and centered personality. Nature, blind chance, and the unforeseen behavior of others can also play cruel jokes, as evidenced by some of the jolting twists and revelations in Shriver's page-turning plot.

When faced with a romantic fork in the road, most people go through intense and prolonged agony due to their belief that the right choice will bring happiness and the wrong choice will bring misery, period. Shriver isn't afraid to tell us that misery will happen no matter what choice is made. Conversely, even "bad" choices can offer moments of joy and transcendence. My estimation of Shriver's intelligence, wit, and insight (sometimes subtle, sometimes ruthless) into human nature increases each time I read one of her books. "The Post-Birthday World" should be required reading for anyone who has ever made the kind of painful, once-in-a-lifetime romantic decision that invites haunting conjectures of "what if?" for years (if not a lifetime) afterward.

Pumpkin Pie and Indignation

2008-11-29T11:35:00.000-08:00

I'm writing this entry during Thanksgiving weekend, and I'd like to take a shot at linking that holiday with, of all things, Philip Roth's newest book, "Indignation." Bear with me here.

I remember reading some pop/psych editorial piece (Psychology Today? Yahoo? NY Times?) a few years ago which addressed the phenomenon of the "College Freshman Catharsis" that occurs over Thanksgiving tables across the USA each year. You may not be familiar with the phrase, but I'll bet you've experienced the event in one capacity or another.

Freed from the orthodox constraints of home, and exposed to the liberating charms of self expression and independent thinking that are part of college life, a lot of freshman students return home each year for the Thanksgiving holiday with new beliefs and opinions that are bound to invite contention from Mom and Dad. The worst shock, of course, is reserved for those parents who successfully smothered any incipient "misbehavior" from their child during the high school years. Woe be unto them.

An uneasy détente is usually maintained during the Thanksgiving prayer (rolled eyeballs from the returning freshman notwithstanding), but sometime before the pumpkin pie is served, tempers flare when the returning guest of honor calmly informs the table that she supports gay marriage, has become a Buddhist, and is sleeping with her new boyfriend (a tattooed vegan).

Roth's book is a deeply serious one, and I don't mean to make light of its narrative. The book's protagonist, Marcus Messner, is experiencing the painful aspects of young college life. Driven to exasperation by his father's constant supervision and overly protective paranoia (Have you been drinking? Have you edited your paper yet? When will you be home?) Marcus has fled his local city college in Newark, New Jersey to attend a pastoral college in faraway Winesburg, Ohio. The year is 1951, and Marcus' continuing education is essential if he is to avoid being drafted and shipped off to Korea (his father's ultimate nightmare).

The acute sexual ambivalence that Marcus experiences at Winesburg would seem odd to today's college student. He is wildly attracted to the lovely and mysterious Olivia, but he suspects there must be something damaged about her when she willingly accepts his physical advances. Her unexpected gift of oral expertise creates a queasy mix of shock, euphoria, and disgust in Marcus that shakes him to the core and leaves him to conclude that she must be a psychological victim of her parents' divorce (a rare event in those days).

On all other fronts, however, Marcus' struggles resonate with those of today's undergraduate. He looks back fondly at his childhood years spent helping his father at the family butcher shop, where his blue collar father taught him the dignity of hard work and the value of committed effort, even in the face of despicable tasks. "That's what I learned from my father and what I loved learning from him: that you do what you have to do." College widens Marcus' view, however, and opens his eyes to the myopic parameters of his parents' world. His father chides him into improving a class paper without ever haven written one himself, while his long suffering mother desperately wishes "the best" for him without the slightest idea of what "the best" might be in a world outside of Newark. Marcus' frustration at his parents' inability to absorb new ideas or take a broader view of the world is surpassed only by his frustration at their inability to perceive their benighted state in the first place.

Marcus is forced to deal with class issues (he works as a waiter at the college inn taproom, with socially toxic consequences), disastrous roommate situations (he is too sexually naive to realize that Flusser, his abrasive and verbally abusive suitemate, is desperately attracted to him), and thwarted attempts to reinvent himself (Dean Caudwell pointedly asks Marcus why he put "butcher" down as his father's occupation instead of "kosher butcher.")

Above all else, however, Marcus' story conveys the white hot indignation that occurs when a young person's budding conviction about the way things should be in an ideal world conflicts with the arbitrary and ridiculous demands of reality. Marcus is outraged that his own father has so totally misjudged his character as to suspect that Marcus may become an alcoholic or engage in barroom fights. He is furious that his fellow students treat him with contempt and suspicion because he works at the college inn taproom and refuses to join a fraternity (not even the "lame" one). He is incensed by Dean Caudwell's ridiculous assumption that he must be psychologically unbalanced because he prefers to live alone in an attic dorm room. As a matter of fact, he is incensed by Caudwell's power to call him into the dean's office at all; as long as Marcus is a good student, why must he endure Caudwell's prying inquiries into his private life in the first place? Marcus is also driven to distraction by his mother's narrow, single-minded perception of Olivia; once she observes the healed cut marks on Olivia's wrists, she is blind to any other input -- Olivia may as well not have a head.

Marcus' indignation reaches a breaking point when he is forced to attend Sunday worship services at the college chapel as part of his graduation requirement. Not content to pay someone to attend the service and sign the attendance record for him (as many students do), he goes head to head with Dean Caudwell on the issue, armed with a inflamed sense of injustice and quotes from Bertrand Russell's "Why I Am Not A Christian." Marcus' sense of righteous fury in all of these situations is heightened by his firm belief (correct or incorrect) that everyone he opposes is clearly less enlightened than he is. Marcus' passion of conviction is both heroic and tragic; it simultaneously serves as the catalyst of his selfhood and his self destruction.

"Indignation" is a short book -- one or two nights of reading at the most -- and despite some of the details that I've mentioned above, I haven't really ruined the plot line, which contains some shocking twists. It's well worth the time.

Happy reading, and may all of your Thanksgivings be memorable.

Kate Atkinson's "When Will There Be Good News?"

2008-11-24T13:54:00.000-08:00

I've never been a fan of the kind of paperback murder mysteries that fill the shelves of airport gift shops like so many king-sized Snicker bars. Even the best page-turners in this genre seem to bear a formulaic, commoditized quality that is surpassed only by the prepackaged peanuts that their readers will soon be munching in flight. In both cases (the books and the peanuts), the product is consumed because it offers a momentary diversion, but the long term effects aren't particularly gratifying.

I knew Kate Atkinson's work rose above the average murder mystery when I stumbled upon her first book in that genre, entitled "Case Histories." I was browsing the shelves of my library, picked up the book on a whim (interesting cover), and was hooked after reading the first three pages. Ms. Atkinson's writing had a tart and quirky edge to it that I hadn't encountered before, and I finished the book in about two days. When friends asked me why I was recommending it, I could only say that they had to read it for themselves. Her second book in the series, "One Good Turn," didn't impress me quite as much as her first, and I was anxious to see what her third installment would have to offer.

"When Will There Be Good News" was worth the wait. The book begins with a horrific crime that is presented to the reader in typical Atkinson style. The reader is gently pulled into the narrative by a comfortable depiction of everyday domesticity: A harried mother gets off a country bus with her three children and the family dog. The summer day is hot, the children are flushed and sticky, and the baby stroller is stubbornly resisting every rut in the deserted lane as the family slowly trudges home from the market. Bees buzz, grocery bags are juggled, the children chatter and argue over who is in charge of the dog, and then . . . the unthinkable.

As usual, Atkinson intertwines the crime and its aftermath with several other narrative threads that collide and twist together in amazing ways. The lives of Jackson Brodie, Brodie's former love interest Louise, an orphaned 16-year old girl named Reggie, and the sole surviving victim of the crime described in the book's first chapter intersect in a series of unlikely coincidences that keep the reader guessing until the end.

Atkinson's mordant humor has a dark quality that invites comparison with Roald Dahl and Lemony Snicket (a series of unfortunate events for adults, if you will). Every character in "When Will There Be Good News" has loved someone who died in a brutal or sinister way, and almost all of the adults have made disastrous domestic choices that can only lead to tears (if not worse). And yet, a spirit of feisty resistance against despair infuses Atkinson's work: Reggie, a cheeky little scrapper who has seen the worst that blind chance can dole out, is determined to worm her way into a new "adoptive" family; Jackson, bruised and battered by multiple romantic disasters in the past, is nevertheless ready to take his chances again if opportunity knocks.

The resilient "carry on" attitude of Atkinson's characters helps to counterbalance the malevolent twists of fate that they encounter, and the result is unusually engaging.

Atkinson's books are especially appealing to American readers who prefer a heavy dose of UK atmosphere in their fiction. Reggie's diet (crisps, digestive biscuits, and chocolate wafers), Louise's unwitting connection to some dodgy real estate schemes (we're talking Glaswegian underworld types here), and many other details (inadequate space heaters, Pakistani convenience stores, etc.) make for a convincing tour of the rough northern uplands.

The last chapter of "When Will There Be Good News" leaves the reader eager to discover what course Jackson's life will take next. I'm already awaiting Atkinson's next installment.

Note: If you like the Jackson Brody series, you should also read Kate Atkinson's first book, "Behind the Scenes At the Museum," winner of the 1995 Whitbread Award. It's hilarious.

"Reading the OED: One Man, One Year, 21730 Pages," by Ammon Shea

2008-10-22T13:36:00.000-07:00

This compact little book is the perfect gift for an erudite reader. Original, witty, and wildly entertaining, it offers a highbrow alternative to its "book of lists" cousins that often occupy the family coffee table, kitchen table, or bathroom magazine rack. Mr. Shea, a self-avowed word junkie, spent one year reading the Oxford English Dictionary from cover to cover, and you'll love the treasures he's brought to light. Chapters "A," "B," and "C" alone are filled with enough amusing word trivia to keep you smiling for a week.

Ammon's entries run from the delightfully useful (acnestis -- that pesky area of your back that can't be reached to be scratched), to the evocatively poetic (apricity -- the warmth of the sun in winter). You've got to love a book that introduces you to the term bed-swerver (an unfaithful spouse), even if some of the words hit a bit too close to home (anonymuncule -- an anonymous, small-time writer -- ouch). The next time I'm at a public function and my nerves are rubbed raw by someone's incessant laughter, I'll just smile to myself and think, "this guy is a world-class cachinnator (a person who laughs too much or too loudly) -- he's due for a curtain lecture (a reproof given by a wife to her husband in bed) when he gets home."

Seriously, this book is addictive. I'm already poking around in the D's, and contrary to deteriorism -- the attitude that things will usually get worse -- I'm certain that Shea's book will just get better and better. Buy it. Samuel Johnson will be proud of you.

Novel Therapy

2008-09-25T13:04:00.000-07:00

I hold a substantial portion of my retirement fund in equities (the actuarial tables inform me that I'm too young to ride a pure cash/bond route into the sunset), and you could say that the events of the past week have focused my attention. As they say, if things seem too good to be true, they probably are. Just as I was settling into a warm bed of complacency ("This 'investment stuff' is great. All I have to do is go to sleep at night, and when I wake up in the morning, I have MORE MONEY!"), reality, in the form of capitalism gone wild, stripped the sheets and pitched me to the floor in the process.

Conventional wisdom has it that the current market meltdown, albeit grave, will eventually pass; the trick is to batten down the hatches and ride the storm through in hopes that it won't attain Katrina force. My secret for staying reasonably collected in these volatile times? When the going gets tough, the tough get reading. I have a long history of burrowing into a good book during bad times, to wit:

1. I am nine years old, it is midnight, and I have a roaring case of the measles (yes, I know, this dates me). Folk medicine of the day has it that straining one's eyes during a measles outbreak can permanently weaken your vision. In an effort to drive this point home to me, my parents have upped the ante by vaguely alluding to actual blindness. Nevertheless, I am reading a Nancy Drew mystery ("The Clue of the Dancing Puppet," as I recall) by the light of a flashlight (I've also taken the precaution of stuffing a pair of pants into the light-emitting crack beneath the bedroom door -- you can't be too careful). My forehead is hot, my flannel pajamas are clammy, but Nancy's clever detective work has lifted me from my stale sickbed into an alternative universe where measles are irrelevant. (For those who are wondering, I didn't go blind, although I am extremely nearsighted.)

2. Fast forward to ninth grade: my intellectual precocity has consigned me to the fate of a social outcast. An ugly rumor that I read Shakespeare voluntarily (ychh!), together with the fact that I'm a chronic hand-raiser in class (Pick me! Pick me! I know!) have virtually insured a dateless future. Gossip has it that most of my classmates are going to a "mixer" on Friday night, and it's fairly clear by Thursday night that I'm not invited. The rebuff is particularly painful due to the fact that "Twister" (a game invented by the devil himself if ever there was one, my Sunday School teacher tantalizingly informs me) is on the agenda for what promises to be one hormone-fest of an evening. What's a shunned girl to do? Frank Herbert to the rescue. I devour "Dune" for the next four days, transported across time and space from my small town onto an arid planet that is depending upon me to fulfill a messianic prophecy. Who needs to roll around on a plastic mat and tangle legs with Larry Hoffbeck when you can hook and ride a massive sandworm into the pages of interplanetary history?

3. Freshman year, Stephens College, Columbia, Missouri: Things aren't going well. I'm homesick, stressed out (to my surprise, it's not quite as easy to stand out in a private women's college as it was to shine in a graduating high school class of 40 indifferent students), and flirting with an eating disorder. My roommate smokes like a chimney ( a fact that she concealed until about twenty minutes after her parents bid a teary goodbye) and owns the only television set on our floor, guaranteeing a nightly gaggle of Johnny Carson fans yucking it up while I try to study. Miraculously, while browsing the campus bookstore one muggy autumn afternoon, I stumble upon a series that everyone seems to be raving about -- "Lord of the Rings." I decide to give it a try. Tolkien saves my undergraduate life.

4. California Bar Exam, Los Angeles Airport Hilton: This is a nightmare. I'm committed to eighteen hours of exams spread out over three days, I'm one day into the process, and I've awakened with a flaming sore throat. With the aid of a sunny window and a makeup mirror (why are the light bulbs in hotel rooms so damn dim?), I observe white, pus-filled plaques coating my throbbing tonsils. Luckily, there is an "InstaCare" near the airport, and I'm able to see a doctor who confirms my diagnosis and dispenses some antibiotics.

After listening to fellow test-takers bemoan the incredibly low pass rate predicted for this exam, and after realizing that my recovery isn't imminent, I toss in the towel. I decide that I will continue to sit for the exam, but I'm beyond caring. In line with this defeatist attitude, I refuse to study, and instead spend all of my free time reading a paperback book entitled "Nobel House" by James Clavell. I focus on the novel with the concentration of a dog anticipating bacon, complete the exam as a mere auxiliary activity, and fly home with a devil-may-care attitude. Interestingly, I pass the exam.

Conclusion

There are, of course, a few rules to follow when selecting a good book to get you through bad times. A page-turning plot is a huge plus, of course, and I find that the most effective "escapist" fare predictably involves unusual or imagined settings. Whatever you do, don't read a "slice of life" book that addresses the very issues you're trying to escape from. (Don't read "Anna Karenina" if you're trapped in a deteriorating domestic situation, etc.) Accordingly, "Diary of a Bad Year" by J.M. Coetzee may be high on my current reading list, but there's no way I'm going to read it during these times of economic and political absurdity. Suggestions, anyone??

Susan Choi Explores the Psychology of "Otherness"

2008-09-13T13:42:00.000-07:00

Susan Choi's newest novel, "A Person of Interest," is a complex thriller that rises above the usual standards for the genre. Professor Lee, an Asian-born mathematics professor at an undistinguished university, has lived an increasingly quiet and isolated life after the exodus of his second wife and the estrangement of his only child. His days are spent teaching calculus to indifferent undergraduates, worrying about how he is "coming off" to others (he wraps his empty beer and wine bottles in newspaper and carries them to the trash bin in cover of darkness so that his neighbors will see no evil/hear no evil), and nursing a festering resentment of Professor Hendley (middle-aged "hipster"), whose neighboring office is under constant barrage by starstruck undergraduates while Lee's office threshold gathers dust.

Lee's sedate existence is shattered when a mail bomb explodes in Hendley's office, killing Hendley and turning campus life on its head. Lee becomes increasingly agitated as he attempts to reconcile his self-contained private nature with the need to appear acceptably grief-ridden in the face of the tragedy (Lee skips out of Hendley's memorial service, and recoils at the sanctimonious orgy of tears, grief counseling, and cancelled exams that follow -- how well could the undergraduates have known Hendley, anyway?)

In the midst of the Hendley aftermath, Lee receives a "mail bomb" of a different sort altogether. It so happens that Lee poached his first wife, Aileen, from a fellow graduate student named Lewis Gaither decades ago -- a graduate student who subsequently disappeared and hasn't been heard from since. A letter addressed to Lee sets his head spinning with long-buried feelings of rivalry, regret, and guilt. His roiled state of mind doesn't help him when two FBI agents arrive at his doorstep to interview him about the bombing, and he slowly realizes that his sweaty efforts to "appear normal" have backfired -- he's obviously a suspect.

Choi weaves themes of estrangement and loneliness throughout her novel. Lee's daughter, Esther, has moved to the Rockies where she spends her days in isolation on the edge of a mountain cliff, patiently feeding abandoned eaglets with meat chunks delivered through a plastic tube. Aileen decamps from her marriage to Lewis when she realizes that their union is, at best, a sham of "togetherness." Her subsequent marriage to Lee is detached from the get-go; only their daughter Esther prevents her from fleeing earlier than she does. Lewis Gaither, an intensely religious man, recovers from Eileen's departure by marrying a fellow parishioner named Ruth, and their subsequent lives are spent wandering from one misbegotten mission outpost to another like fundamentalist nomads. Their itinerant travel has a negative effect on their young son, Mark, who is further isolated by the fact that he doesn't share their religious convictions.

Choi is at her best when she explores the inner workings of characters who are self-aware of their "otherness." Lee is ambivalent about his solitude -- he isn't upset about living alone, but he worries whether the neighbors might feel sorry for him; he is torn between feelings of resentment and relief when students don't visit his office; he is at once pleased and irritated when Gaither invites him to a church social. All of these feelings are intensified by Lee's status as an immigrant who will always remain, at least in his own mind, a "foreigner." "[Lee] had felt that his place in the world was unsteady and worthless, a perch best abandoned and, more than that, not even his." Choi's portrayal of"the immigrant's sense of hopeless illegitimacy and impending exposure" speaks to the occasional alienated (and sometimes paranoid) introvert in all of us.

I've not given away any "spoilers" here. The book's plot line is filled with twists, turns, and a bang-up ending. If you don't read it for its thriller appeal or psychological depth, read it for the prose, which is wonderful:

"The cherry trees had exploded like fireworks and left their pink litter all over the ground."

"She was aware of the need to frame an objection that was calm, logical, but she felt herself flailing around in her mental closet, knocking things off the shelf."

I highly recommend that you read this book.

Flotsam and Jetsam

2008-08-15T14:28:00.000-07:00

I usually like to write around a central theme, and there isn't one to be had today. However, as Obama has recently stated, we shouldn't "let the perfect be the enemy of the good," so I'm going to relax and ramble a bit. Here goes:

The Problem with Historical Fiction

I finished reading Nancy Horan's "Loving Frank" two days ago and I'd like to give the novel a qualified thumbs up. Why the qualification? Let me explain.

A novel that is loosely historical and extremely well written can be highly successful. The book's page-turning story captivates readers, who learn a little about the time period involved without concerning themselves with the literal accuracy of each event and conversation that is articulated from page to page. Horan's novel, however, is more than "loosely historical." Horan is a journalist by trade, and the book smacks of fact-based veritas. As for her writing, it's solid, but I wouldn't rate it as an exceptional piece of literary prose.

Ultimately, therefore, "Loving Frank" ends up in a perplexing "literary limbo." You pick up the book because you want to learn more about Frank Lloyd Wright and his mistress Mamah (pronounced May-muh) Cheney, but the book isn't really a biography -- it's marketed as fiction heavily interspersed with facts (but which is which?). Conversely, if the book is truly a work of literary fiction, you expect more writing skill from the author. (You don't expect an official biography to be filled with lush prose or page-turning sizzle, but you do expect such characteristics to be present in outstanding fiction.)

Nonetheless, I recommend Horan's book for the insight it provides into the societal restrictions, changing mores and competing lifestyles that were fighting for legitimacy at the beginning of the 20th century.

Joe Bageant's "Deer Hunting With Jesus:"

Joe Bageant focuses an uncompromising lens on "his people," the white working poor of Winchester, Virginia, and ends up producing a book that is both a scathing send-up and a loving tribute to his family, friends and neighbors in that neck of the woods.

Bageant doesn't pull any punches: "Here, nearly everyone over fifty has serious health problems, credit ratings rarely top 500, and alcohol, Jesus, and overeating are the three preferred avenues of escape." He calls it as he sees it, even at the risk of straining family ties. Joe's brother is a Baptist pastor who claims to cast out demons, but that doesn't stop Joe from writing that "The 2008 elections, regardless of the outcome, will not change the fact that millions of Americans are under the spell of an extraordinarily dangerous mass psychosis [religion]."

None of these people ever had a fighting chance to achieve the American Dream, and yet they are its most enthusiastic, bellicose, flag-waving proponents. Every November, they proudly march to the ballot box and vote for the very policies that will push them further into debt, poverty, and ignorance. Bageant warns that neocon operatives "understand that the four cornerstones of the American political psyche are (1) emotion substituted for thought, (2) fear, (3) ignorance, and (4) propaganda." Grossly substandard public schools, shameful health "care," parochial resistance to progressive ideas and independent thinking, unconscionable lending practices, and the "Jesus palliative" all contribute to tragically squandered lives that the rest of us ignore at our own risk.

Bageant's political views and conceptions of reality couldn't diverge more from those of his Winchester neighbors, but the depth of his compassion and empathy for the plight of these "invisible victims" as he relates their personal stories will make you want to cry. Anyone who has ever recoiled at the thought of NASCAR, tent revivals, or the NRA should read this book. How can you contemplate the experience of a man who performs forty years of physically debilitating menial work without complaint, cherishes a "dream" of someday owning a prefabricated modular home in a former industrial park, and goes home each night to a wife on oxygen support (asbestos lung), and then proceed to mock him for going out and popping a few raccoons in the butt over the weekend for a momentary distraction? I'm telling you, this book will change your perceptions, and you'll be the better for it.

Endangered Pleasures, by Barbara Holland

The sybaritic subtitle of this book hooked me in like a bigmouth bass: "In Defense of Naps, Bacon, Martinis, Profanity, and Other Indulgences." Other pleasures covered by Ms. Holland include bare feet, coffee, staying in, and undressing (for comfort, not sex -- think flannel bathrobe).

I have to quote a passage from her piece on "Happy Hour." If it doesn't make you want to bolt from your office chair and head for the nearest watering hole, I'm sorry for everyone involved:

"For the perfect happy hour, it should be summer, blistering hot, the street clogged with ill-tempered rush-hour traffic and the melting asphalt soft underfoot. Our workday should have been frantic but ultimately successful. After the glare outside, the bar should be almost pitch dark, icily air conditioned and smell of black leather banquettes, and we should be meeting someone there . . . Then, knees touching, neck muscles relaxing, brows drying in the cold dry air, we should drink. Certain things were put upon the earth for our enjoyment, and it's wasteful and wicked to contemn them."

Bravo, Ms. Holland.

A Note On the Origin of the Phrase "Flotsam and Jetsam."

It struck me as odd that these two nouns never stand on their own, so I decided to get to the bottom of the matter by visiting a UK website called "The Phrase Finder." (Warning: this site can become addictive if you are of a wordy disposition).

Flotsam and jetsam are indeed distinct things: flotsam are those items (natural and manmade) which float and bob on the surface of the water as a consequence of the action of the sea (floatsom, get it?); jetsam are those items which have been intentionally jettisoned into the water by a ship's crew (of course, they may float, too). Apparently these two words were traditionally used in conjunction with a third term, lagan, which denoted goods or wreckage at the bottom of the sea. Lagan was rudely booted out of bed by flotsam and jetsam in the early 1800's, never to gain egress again.

If You Read Only One Book This Summer . . .

2008-07-31T13:35:00.001-07:00

Most avid readers, if they are lucky, encounter two or three books a year that they simply cannot put down. You know the kind of book I'm talking about. It is usually discovered through sheer serendipity -- a friend's casual suggestion, a snippet in the NY Times, a title that sticks in your mind -- and after reading the first few pages, you throw over life's distractions (grocery shopping, oil changes, sleeping) and dive into the book like there's no tomorrow. You're mesmerized, and the only debate is whether to ration your literary feast or devour the book all at once with the sloppy gusto of a mule eating an apple.

I've just finished a week-long affair with "Child 44" by Tom Rob Smith, and I'm prepared to crown it as my summer reading standout for 2008. "Child 44" is a murder mystery set in the cold environs of Stalin's Soviet Union. The novel is a winner on three fronts: it has the page-turning quality of a compelling police procedural novel; its descriptive prose immerses the reader in a sensory sea of Soviet life, complete with grey weather, grey expectations, and grey housing blocks; and the interpersonal relationships in the novel are explored with literary depth and insight.

Leo Demidov is the golden boy of the USSR's State Security Force ("MGB"). He has a beautiful wife, a luxurious Moscow apartment, and a future that is as secure as can be hoped for in a society in which the slightest misstep -- the slightest rumor of nonconformity -- can destroy a comrade's life overnight. Demidov is under pressure to solve a delicate problem: a murdered child has turned up in his neighborhood, but murders are not supposed to occur in Stalin's USSR, a paradise where all citizens are supposed to live free from the fear of crime. Demidov must diffuse the situation, and quickly. The MGB is rife with backbiters, and Demidov's enemies are more than happy to see how he will wiggle his way out of this one.

The murders begin to mount up, and the bizarre, twisted way in which the young victims were killed points to the work of a madman. The confounding nature of the crimes, speculation as to the nature of the killer, and several well-placed clues and surprises enhance the page-turning quality of the novel, but that is only part of this book's charm.

The author's exploration of Demidov's evolving relationship with his wife, Raisa, as he gradually loses his "golden boy" status and questions everything he has based his career upon, is masterful. (Tidbits for thought: How much can any woman love a man who has the power to extinguish her future at will? How far can spouses be expected to go in order to save their own lives, each at the expense of the other? Why do they, or don't they?).

In addition, the book is a psychological and sensory primer on what it must have been like to live in the USSR under Stalin's rule. Smith writes in such a way as to make the reader experience the paranoia of being "found out" by one's neighbors and reported as an enemy of the state. He explains the Kafkaesque nature of the criminal justice system (all accusations of crime are fatal -- the accusation itself is decisive, since the Soviet system is perfect, and in a perfect system, there are no false accusations, etc.). Similarly, Smith's writing conveys the smell of a two-room apartment occupied by twelve people and twelve pairs of perpetually moist, slush-infused shoes with a verity that will send you to the window for a breath of air.

Smith's prose is also a powerful component of his book's success. I dare you to read the first sixteen pages of the book without reading more. If you read only one book for pleasure this summer, read this one.

More Deaths in Cold Climates:

If you enjoy this book's combination of page-turning suspense, psychological exploration, sense of place, and overall literary merit, I suggest three other novels: "Smilla's Sense of Snow," by Peter Hoeg; "The Yiddish Policeman's Union," by Michael Chabon, and "Gorky Park," by Martin Cruz Smith. I invite other readers to add to this list.

Barbara Cartland Can Save Your Life

2008-07-17T15:41:00.000-07:00

A few months ago, I decided to make use of the "dead" time I was spending in my car by listening to a recorded version of Ayaan Hirsi Ali's memoir, "Infidel."

Ayaan is an exceptional woman. Born into a traditional Islamic family in rural Somalia, her remarkable intelligence, strength, and stubborn independence enabled her to endure and ultimately overcome the sexist limitations and indignities inflicted upon her as a girl and young woman growing up in Africa and Saudi Arabia. She eventually escaped to the West (and I do mean escape -- she had to "jump ship" in Amsterdam en route to an arranged marriage), and currently lives in the United States. I highly recommend her book to anyone who wants a forthright, firsthand account of one woman's experience with Islamic fundamentalism.

Where does Barbara Cartland fit into this picture? Ayaan's book discloses that a virtual "black market" in Western romance novels existed among her teenage girlfriends. I like to imagine well-thumbed paperbacks with titles like "Highland Lover" and "My Naughty Marquis" being passed from burqa to burqa like so much contraband hashish. Even established classics like "Jane Eyre" and "Emma" were carefully concealed and read with furtive interest (and astonishment!) by girls in the chancy privacy of their bedrooms.

Most people I know don't hold paperback romance novels up as a paradigm of women's liberation. The heroines usually have matrimony and motherhood on the brain and aren't above scheming to achieve their goals. Most of them are described (in painstaking detail) as beautiful, although the beauty is frequently labeled as "unconventional" (a nod, I suppose, to broadmindedness). The men are frequently characterized as commanding, arrogant, and brutishly virile. Even good literature is a product of its time, and few women today would publicly own up to the matrimonial campaigning and feminine subterfuge contained in Jane Austen's works.

Ah, but we take so much for granted. These fictional women may appear hopelessly "retro" to us, but imagine their effect on young girls boxed into orthodox fundamentalism. Jane, Emma and Desiree must seem like creatures from another universe. They are opinionated and smart. They address men directly, and initiate conversations in public without a second thought. They venture into the public square without male supervision. It is obvious that they are not enshrouded from head to toe, and yet they survive the day without being stoned or bringing shame upon their family. They frequently disagree with their parents, elders, and suitors and yet they suffer no lasting punishment for it. They have firm opinions about those with whom they are willing to spend the rest of their lives. They smile at ridiculous homilies in their minister's Sunday sermon. They are not at all inclined to spend a life of unending submission, suffering, and self-sacrifice in the hope of a post-mortal existence in which they will be rewarded for their pains.

These kinds of books provided Ayaan with the first inkling that another way of life existed, and that it was being experienced by a great number of girls and women, currently, on this very planet. Knowledge is a powerful thing. Infinite possibilities began to present themselves to her. She began to doubt the justice of her current circumstance, and the infallibility of the tenets she had been raised with. In many ways, her journey to freedom could not have begun without those tattered paperbacks passed back and forth between giggling schoolgirls.

Ironically, Ayaan's flight to freedom has been compromised by constant death threats due to -- you guessed it -- the publication of her book. Those who pursue her aren't delusional in one respect: they know that ideas are dangerous things. Books are powerful. Barbara Cartland can save your life.

Nonfiction: Sometimes You Win, Sometimes You Lose

2008-07-17T11:55:00.000-07:00

In an effort to clean out my current backlog of books (see my post, 6/30/2008), I've finished reading two nonfiction books in the past week. My conclusion: one thumbs up, one thumbs down.

"The thing about life is that one day you'll be dead" by David Shields

This book was spectacularly depressing. I know, I know -- with a title like that, what did I expect? In my defense, I thought that the name of the book was the kind of tongue-in-cheek title that denotes a book of wry and witty essays about a traditionally sobering subject, a la Nora Ephron's "I Feel Bad About My Neck: And Other Thoughts On Being a Woman." Wrong.

I should have known better after reading some of the book's chapter headings ("Our Birth Is Nothing but Our Death Begun," "Decline and Fall," "Paradise, Soon Lost" . . . ), and Shield's use of a quote from Schopenhauer: "Just as we know our walking to be only a constantly prevented falling, so is the life of our body only a constantly prevented dying, an ever-deferred death."

Nonetheless, I slogged through this book to the bitter end (no pun intended), fruitlessly seeking some redemptive ray of hope. I did gather some interesting factoids along the way (did you know that when you're born, taste buds cover your entire mouth -- including your throat and the underside of your tongue -- or that from ages 11 to 16, boys' testosterone levels increase 20-fold?), but I can't recommend this book unless the prospective reader enjoys despondence. Even the book's "hero" -- the author's father, who has lived an amazingly healthy, vital life into his 90's -- eventually succumbs to vacant inertia as he awaits the inevitable knock on the door from The Reaper. Spare me.

"Predictably Irrational: The Hidden Forces That Shape Our Decisions," by Dan Ariely

Ariely's book, a New York Times bestseller, strikes a nice balance between respectable reportage of scientific research and "pop-psych readability." Each chapter is self-contained and deals with an irrational aspect of the human psyche that nonetheless dictates many of our daily decisions. What an eye-opener!

Ariely deals with such topics as the power of "free" (Quick! Which would you prefer at a shopping mall kiosk: a free $10 Amazon certificate or a $20 Amazon certificate in exchange for $8?), the "price" of social norms (lawyers are much more likely to participate in a program that offers free services to indigents than they are to participate in a program that offers the same services to indigents for a reduced fee), and the effects of sexual arousal on moral decision making (in one study, college men who filled out a questionnaire while in an aroused state were five times more likely to report that they would "consider" drugging a date in order to obtain sex than those men who filled out the same questionnaire in a composed state).

Besides being entertaining, the book has important social and personal implications (sex survey, above, duly noted). Imagine harnessing the power of "free" to improve public health and the environment by offering free registration and inspection for hybrid cars; free physical exams at set intervals; free weight loss clinics, etc. It's also good to acknowledge that most people are so adverse to losing an option that they will do almost anything to hang onto it, even to their obvious detriment (think personal relationships here . . . ), and that the emotion of "ownership" almost always causes the owner to inflate the value of the owned object (face it, your VW van holds a lot of fond memories, but you need to sell it at market value -- your neighbors are tired of looking at that heap).

Incidentally, the book also reports an experiment in which college students who completed a scrambled-sentence task containing words that suggested old age ("bingo," "ancient," "bifocals," etc.) exited the testing site more slowly than those students who performed a similar task with neutral words. This is yet another reason not to read "The thing about life is that one day you'll be dead." You may be unable to summon the energy necessary to rise from your Rascal (oops -- chair).

The 1950's: America's Golden Decade? For Some, Not So Much

2008-07-08T18:27:00.001-07:00

If you're looking for a short, atmospheric novel to read this summer, I recommend Andrew Greer's latest book, "The Story of a Marriage," which recounts the story of one family's domestic crisis in post-WWII California, 1953.

Greer's tale, which follows the lives of the Cook family (Pearl, Holland, and their young toddler, Sonny) as they settle into the newly developed Sunset district of San Francisco, contains several well-placed surprises that I won't give away here. In the course of the story, the author makes it abundantly clear that the 1950's appear "golden" only if they are viewed through the rosy lens of selective memory. If you enjoyed membership in a favored class -- white, politically orthodox, and heterosexual -- the decade had its high points. Otherwise, not so much.

Greer weaves the darker threads of the 50's -- polio outbreaks, communist witch hunts, the Korean War, and the ever present threat of nuclear annihilation -- into his story with language that is evocative, yet understated. He is at his best when he addresses societal restrictions that suppressed personal freedom and dignity. Pearl and Holland live in a world where elegant grandmothers in their Sunday hats, eager to celebrate a special occasion, must request directions to the "special area" of the tea room reserved for blacks. Gay men are rounded up in private club raids and imprisoned for criminal indecency. Interracial couples must assess when and where they can be seen in public without risking physical injury. Conscientious objectors and draft dodgers are run out of their hometowns and forced to relocate in order to reclaim any semblance of a normal life. Next door neighbors spy on each other and suppress their political opinions. Unhappy wives and husbands consider clandestine murder as a preferable alternative to the public shame of a divorce. A repressed blanket of desperation smothers Pearl and Holland's suburban neighborhood as thoroughly as the fog that rolls in from San Francisco Bay each morning.

As indicated by the book's title, Pearl and Holland's marriage crisis forms the crux of the novel. Pearl, Holland, and some integral third parties are all casting about for some measure of freedom, some unfettered definition of their own personhood, throughout the book. Although the novel is written in Pearl's voice, I think that Greer's depiction of Holland's internal struggle offers the more subtle and deep exploration of human nature. Holland is portrayed as a handsome man -- the stunning kind of "handsome" that necessarily affects every aspect of his existence. It is his gift, and his curse. Greer writes (in Pearl's voice): "By being what everyone wanted him to be -- being the husband, the flirt, the beautiful object, and the lover -- by pleasing us all in giving us his gracious smile, he had tortured each of us when it did not turn our way. Beauty is forgiven everything except its absence from our lives, and the effort to return all loves at once must have broken him."

Other characters in the novel seem to have some idea of who they want to be and how they want to escape the box that the mid-20th century has constructed around them. Holland, on the other hand, has lost all sense of himself after years of existing as no more than a mirror image of other people's desires. Everyone has attempted to employ his beauty and use it to actualize their own "dream narrative." He has been a chameleon for so long that he is hard pressed to know his own heart's desire, and the choice he eventually makes may surprise you.

This is a good book on many levels -- I recommend it.

Anne Enright's "The Gathering"

2008-07-01T19:02:00.000-07:00

I finished reading Anne Enright's "The Gathering," winner of the Man Booker Prize for 2007, last week. Since previous winners of this major literary prize, which is rewarded annually to a full-length novel written by a citizen of the Commonwealth or Republic of Ireland, have included "The Inheritance of Loss" by Kiran Desai, "The Sea" by John Banville (one of my favorite books of all time), and "The Line of Beauty" by Alan Hollinghurst, my expectations for Enright's novel were high.

I confess that my initial reaction was tepid. Enright's writing is engaging, lyrical, and thought-provoking, but the subject matter itself kept prompting me to indulge a peevish desire to shout "Oh, get over it, for God's sake!" The story contains all of the classic elements of the "dysfunctional Irish family memoir:" too many children, too little space, exhausted parents, alcoholism, suppressed sexual memories, suicide, family rivalries and secrets, untimely deaths, and a jigger of vaguely malevolent Catholicism for good measure.

Since the main character of the book appears to have escaped her childhood situation unscathed -- she is financially secure, healthy, married to a decent husband, and the mother of two delightful girls -- I couldn't help but wonder why she would choose to immerse herself in negative memories. ("Stop picking at that scab," as my mother always said, "or it will never get better.")

I decided to give Enright's novel a second chance after listening to an engaging interview with her about her book (find it HERE). The novel begins as Veronica Hegarty prepares to accompany the body of her beloved but hapless brother, Liam, to Ireland for burial. Liam's death was a suicide -- he walked into the sea near Brighton -- and the shock of the event has propelled 39-year-old Veronica into a kaleidoscopic quandary regarding her childhood past, her troubled family, the mysteries of love, and a burgeoning midlife crisis.

During the course of Enright's interview, she states that the natural consequence of a crisis is the universal urge to somehow "make sense of it all." This is accomplished by using our memory (an elusive and faulty tool at best), imagination and creativity to fashion a narrative that explains, if not justifies, a tragedy. All of Liam's nine surviving siblings are shocked by his passing, but Veronica bears a unique burden. She was Liam's closest friend and confidant, and she believes she witnessed an event in their shared past that could explain Liam's alcoholism and mental decline -- an event that she has suppressed and shared with no one for decades. The narrative that she fashions to "make sense of it all" is dark, beautifully rendered, and full of contradictions that she must acknowledge and grapple with before she can embrace her future.

Enright's brutally honest exposition of Veronica's conflicted emotions carried the book for me. Veronica loves her siblings, but at the same time, she will never forgive her parents for having so many children. She is devastated that Liam is dead, but she is also relieved. She mythologizes her beautiful grandmother, Ada, but she also longs to point a finger of blame at her. She loves her mother -- a woman who became successively "vaguer" with each of the twelve children and seven miscarriages she endured -- but at the same time she hates her for being so compliant, so willing to lose herself in her family. Veronica loves her husband and two daughters, but she wants to escape them, too. She knows them intimately, and yet fears they are complete strangers. These internal battles strike a chord with any reader who is capable of honest self examination, and Enright's prose peels the skin of this human predicament with exceeding skill.

Enright also explores the conflicts inherent in desire: it can be glorious, it can be destructively naive, it can be actively evil. There are as many varieties of desire as there are kinds of people, and Enright understands that we are often powerless to choose the people we are swept together with in the stream of life, be they our family, our friends, or our lovers. They happen. They just are.

In retrospect, this was a good book, especially upon a second reading.

Book Lover's Attention Deficit Disorder: So Many Books, So Little Time

2008-06-30T13:32:00.000-07:00

I haven't posted in over a month and I'm laying the blame squarely on a disorder that catches up with all avid readers sooner or later. I like to call it "Literary ADD," and it's driving me crazy.

My job submerges me in a sea of books, books about books, blogs about books, and any number of related blurbs about books, day in and day out. Suddenly, after years of thoughtful and well-paced book consumption, I've lost all sense of self control and selectivity in my personal reading habits. I'm like an acquisitive chimpanzee in a room full of bright and shiny objects. The resulting stockpile of borrowed books on, under and behind my bedside table has grown to insane proportions. As soon as I open one book, I begin weighing the relative merits of an alternative choice. I switch books. After three pages, I hesitate, and decide that the alternative book doesn't quite fit my mood for the evening. I switch books again. The new book is good, but it's going to require a lot of concentration. I stare restlessly at the hill of books. I love them all! I must read them all! I sigh and turn on the television. Obviously, something's gotta give.

What's to be done about the delicious, but maddening, cornucopia of books at my fingertips? I haven't encountered this paralyzing blend of infinite choice and limited time since my parents plopped me down inside the gates of Disneyland and told me to "go for it," with the proviso that we would be leaving promptly at 5 p.m. for dinner and a sensible bedtime.

Several options have occurred to me:

1. Read more frequently.

This is out of the question if I want to live in reasonably hygienic surroundings and engage in any semblance of normal social life.

2. Read faster.

I've decided that this is ultimately unsatisfying. It defeats the very purpose of recreational and/or "deep" reading. I had to master the art of speed reading in order to survive law school, and it has taken me years to shake off the nasty habit of racing through text like a scholastic sprinter, mercilessly scanning each paragraph in search of the "take away point." Speed reading is the equivalent of taking one of those twelve-day "Highlights of Europe" package tours. You know for a fact that you were in Luxembourg on Wednesday, but all you can remember is that you had heartburn after lunch.

3. Read fewer, but better, books.

There are numerous readers' advisory sources that will recommend the best new books of the month, Critics' Top Ten of the Year, The Best 25 Books of the New Century, The Classic 100, etc. At first blush, this seems like a reasonable strategy for winnowing your reading list into a manageable, select collection. Don't be fooled. I can tell you from recent experience that these sources will exacerbate the problem.

To begin with, if you discover that a book is listed as one of the "100 Best Books of the Century," how can you NOT read it? Don't you owe it to yourself to at least check it out? Come to think of it, shouldn't you read all 100 in the interest of thorough edification? And what about book number 101? Is it really that less worthy of your time than book 100? You can't win this game.

Secondly, many of the shorter lists contain a brief, glowing description of the book which justifies why the critics think it is a must-read. These snippets are frequently so tantalizing that they compel you to explore a book that you initially considered to be easily dispensable in the interest of efficiency. This (and the fact that I'm totally out of control) explains why I seriously considered adding "Chasing Kangaroos: A Continent, A Scientist, and a Search for the World's Most Extraordinary Creature" to an already bloated list of must-reads. (Don't get me wrong -- I think Tim Flannery is a fantastic science writer, but there are only so many hours in the day, and I can't spend them chasing kangaroos, even if his book made the "Best 10 Science Books of 2007" list, etc.)

Finally, readers' advisory sources are so varied and bounteous that they themselves have become unmanageable -- thus the advent of websites with names like "The Review of Reviews." It never ends.

4. Throw everything out, start from scratch, and hope for the best.

Within the course of this week, I'm going to return all of my borrowed books. All of them. Period. Out of sight, out of mind, just like spooning the last half of that chocolate cake down the disposal. Next, I'm going to form a "reading plan" and pursue it in depth. More about this in a future blog post. All I'm willing to divulge at this point is that the plan involves limiting my bedside book cache to a maximum of three fiction books and three nonfiction books at any given time. Sigh. Wish me luck.

Double Feature: Francine Prose's Blue Angel; 100 Manly Books

2008-05-17T12:52:00.000-07:00

Feature #1:

By all appearances, Theodore "Ted" Swenson is living the sweet life. He's a tenured professor at Euston, a bucolic New England college; he's published a well-received novel; and his beautiful wife is smart, warm, and humorous. Ted's even managed to craftily pare down his teaching schedule and office hours to a bare minimum of acceptability. What more could a man wish for?

Of course, small irritations have a way of slowly rubbing the good life raw. Swenson's creative writing students are painfully untalented. How, for instance, can Swenson have any reasonable chance of improving Danny Liebman's tortured short story in which a teenager, drunk and spurned by his girlfriend, indulges in sexual congress with a raw chicken by the light of the family fridge? In addition, Swenson's new novel, "The Black and the Black," seems to be permanently consigned to creative purgatory, and the campus administration's recent obsession with political correctness has been whipped into a frenzy by the Faculty-Student Women's Alliance, a group headed by Swenson's arch enemy, Lauren Healy, who is perpetually offended by Swenson's crime of owning a penis.

When Swenson finally stumbles upon a student with true talent, he can't believe his good fortune. Angela Argo is writing a novel, and it's good -- really good. Angela (an avid fan of Stendahl, of course) is effusive in her praise of Swenson's first novel, and a series of office visits ensue. Thank heaven she's so physically unappealing. Swenson's avoided any scintilla of scandal for twenty years, and this skinny, scab-kneed waif with dirty hair, nose rings, and multiple lip piercings is about as removed from a freshman Lolita as anyone could imagine.

Well, life is full of surprises. The fatuous rationalizations that Swenson manufactures with each escalation of his inappropriate behavior, the predictable reaction of Swenson's "friends" and foes, and the haplessness of the human condition are all exposed with humor and pathos by Ms. Prose. I highly recommend this book.

Feature #2:

Jessica Crispin's recent post in www.bookslut.com notes that The Art of Manliness has compiled a list of 100 books that will turn you into a man. I present it here for your consideration, but beware -- it will put hair on your chest:

http://artofmanliness.com/2008/05/14/100-must-read-books-the-essential-mans-library/

Thoughts on "The Age of American Unreason"

2008-05-14T11:27:00.000-07:00

I recently finished reading Susan Jacoby's "The Age of American Unreason." Her book is superb from start to finish, but one of her talking points struck me as particularly relevant in view of recent events.

In her chapter titled "Public Life: Defining Dumbness Downward," Jacoby laments the current rise of anti-intellectualism in America. She begins by describing a speech given by Robert F. Kennedy after he learned that Martin Luther King had been assassinated. In the speech, Kennedy quoted a line from Aeschylus's Agamemnon, in which the interrelationship of pain and wisdom is examined. Kennedy concluded with the hope that Americans would dedicate themselves "to what the Greeks wrote so many years ago: to tame the savageness of man and make gentle the life of this world." It is important to note that Kennedy's speech was given in Indianapolis, where he had originally intended to give a campaign speech to a predominantly black crowd.

One can only imagine what kind of a reception Hillary or Obama would have received in West Virginia this week if they had quoted any classic work of literature, much less Aeschylus. I can hear the hoots and hollers reverberating from Wheeling to the Big Sandy River Basin. The media would have erupted in an orgy of class-baiting; accusations of "elitism" would have flown through the air like sizzlin' pork rinds.

This is only to be expected in a campaign season in which candidates are scrambling all over themselves to hide any evidence of (gasp! the horror!) higher learning. We have now reached the point at which politicians are more willing to reveal prior drug use than the fact that they took Professor Hillyard's course in comparative literature during their freshman year of college. It is discouraging to watch the future leaders of our country compete with each other in the fine arts of beer swilling, bowling, and gun totin'. Can hog-calling and clogging be far behind? Jacoby points out that John F. Kennedy was notoriously opposed to donning cowboy hats, baseball caps, or any other headgear designed to show that he was just folks. Contrast that with John Kerry, an Ivy-Leaguer who felt compelled to borrow camouflage clothes and a blunderbuss to engage in a faux goose hunt. It's embarrassing.

I don't know about you, but I hope that whoever ends up running this country has more smarts than I do. I hope he or she has traveled to more places and spent more time learning about how other people in the world view us. I hope that he or she has had the advantage of conversing with and learning from the very best minds on matters of the economy, international relations, and social justice. The last eight years have taught us that the "brewski test" isn't just silly -- it's dangerous.

Bibliosomnia

2008-05-02T14:25:00.000-07:00

A few days ago I decided to throw caution to the wind and drink a fully-caffeinated vente after 6 p.m. The immediate effect was electrifying in the best sense of the word. The latent effect six hours later was less than pleasant. As I tossed, turned, and periodically checked my bedside clock in a masochistic attempt to confirm the full extent of my self-induced misery, I began to think (always a mistake in the middle of the night) about the many books I have shelved over the years, and gradually the titles of those books began to coalesce into lists and categories. Before I knew it, I was engaged in compulsive list-making, one of the most diabolical agents of insomnia ever devised.

1:20 a.m.: Some book titles can put you off from the get-go, depending on your personal taste and inclinations of the moment. Throughout my teenage years, I avoided books with sobering titles like "The Way of All Flesh," "Of Human Bondage," "The Sound and the Fury," "Of Time and the River," etc. To my young mind, these titles implied a painfully premature inquiry into "the big questions" and radiated a sort of holy heavy-handedness that would suck me down into a state of terminal gravitas. (True confession: I haven't read any of those books in their entirety to this day, although I have since read "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" with great pleasure).

1:40 a.m. Other books have tempted me with titles that were so undecipherable that I was compelled to pick the books up and poke around for clues. "The Quincunx" had me totally stymied, as did "Cryptonomicon." While on the topic, is "Tristram Shandy" the name of (a) a village in County Cork (b) a Gaelic wedding jig, (c) a character in "The Rake's Progress," (d) an Irish aperitif, or (e) none of the above. Good luck, unless you've read the book.

2:00 a.m. Some books tempt you to read them by sporting gorgeous titles that roll off the tongue like honey: "The Sheltering Sky," "The Wind in the Willows," "The Wide Sargasso Sea," "Finnegan's Wake," -- the list goes on and on. Other books have overly precious titles that make you dislike the (presumptively precious) author before you have even met him/her: "The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test," "Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close," "All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten," etc. -- You get the drift. (Note -- some of these books can be quite good.)

2:30 There seems to be a trend toward one-word titles, particularly for nonfiction books: "Boom!," "Blink," and "Stiff" come to mind. Mary Roach, the author of the last-mentioned book, appears to have appropriated this particular shtick. She has already written "Stiff" (a nonfiction book about human cadavers), "Spook" (a nonfiction book about the afterlife), and most recently,"Bonk," a book that explores "the curious coupling of science and sex" (presumably this book will be more lively than her previous two volumes, heh).

3:00 a.m. Some books bear a title that contains an eccentric name: "The Life and Adventures of Martin Chuzzlewit," "The Wapshot Chronicles," "The Puttermesser Papers, "Tristram Shandy" (our friend from 1:40 a.m. above), and so on. (It bears mentioning here that Tristram Shandy engages in a romantic entanglement with the Widow Wadman -- it just gets better and better.)

3:20 a.m. Finally, there are books with names that are so intriguing that you can't help but fantasize about having lunch with the author; "I Been in Sorrow's Kitchen and Licked Out All the Pots," "At Play in the Fields of the Lord," "Slouching Towards Bethlehem," and my favorite title of all time, "By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept," fit this category.

3:45 a.m I have to get some sleep. Sleep . . . sleep . . .sleep?? "The Big Sleep," "Some Call It Sleep," "Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?" (Don't, do not, think of this post just before you doze off tonight.)

Adieu to Poetry Month

2008-04-26T13:22:00.000-07:00

I want to post a poem before National Poetry Month is over, and I'm in the mood for something frivolous. I wrote this poem several years ago when I became exasperated with the burgeoning bust-enhancement industry in the United States (no pun intended):

GET REAL (NOT)

You can't miss what you've
never had, it's true
That's why I'm sometimes
sad and blue
That I ever laid eyes
on those foreign flicks
that raise false hopes in U.S. chicks
who live in the land of bigger, quicker
(newer, slicker)

The languid lens of Guiles and Sven
takes time to linger on Pia's skin,
her blue-veined throat,
the gentle way her fingers float
as she measure the world with a complex stare
(light on the makeup, clothes, and hair)

Well, fellow pilgrim, think again
before you labor selecting a pin
to clasp that scarf beneath your chin
that brings out the sea color of your eyes --
Get wise!

If you believe that subtle, sotto textures
will stir male viewers to sensate conjectures
or that a splash of Muguet
on the nape of your neck
will float on the breeze and be readily met
by a man of deep feeling,
you seem to forget
that this is the land of the ten-second pitch
The Whopper, the Big Gulp,
The Las Vegas dream
In the land of the chest-beaters, Barbie's the queen.

Sing Me a Short Story

2008-04-22T23:16:00.000-07:00

I was busy compiling a CD play list this week when I realized that a high percentage of my favorite songs incorporate narrative lyrics. Apparently, I've been immersed in books for so long that I'm drawn to songs that are, at their heart, gem-like short stories set to music. Consider the following "Short Story Collection," which I recently burned on CD:

1. Magdalene Laundries, lyrics by Joni Mitchell, as sung by Emmylou Harris

This tale is told by a young woman who has been involuntarily committed to the Magdalene Laundry, a convent workhouse in Dublin where "immoral girls" were locked up, forbidden to communicate with each other or the outside world, and forced to work ten hours a day until many of them were driven to death by illness or madness. Listen and weep.

2. Leslie Anne Levine, music and lyrics by The Decemberists

The Decemberists are consummate storytellers, and this narrative, as told by the ghost of a child who was abandoned to die at birth by a young single mother, is a gothic masterpiece.

3. Black Annis, lyrics by Antje Duvekot, as performed by Solas

This song derives its lyrics from a legend out of the British Isles: Annis, a flesh-eating sorceress, would lure unwary children into the mouth of her cave (Black Anna's Bower), from which they never returned. The song's story is told in lush, lyrical prose.

4. The Crane Wife, 1, 2, & 3, music and lyrics by The Decemberists

This 3-part set also derives its lyrics from a legend -- a Japanese folktale about a man who wakes one morning to find an injured crane on his doorstep. After nursing the crane back to health, he releases it and is surprised at the appearance of a beautiful woman on his doorstep several days later. Love, marriage, and a tragic betrayal follow.

5. The River, music and lyrics by Bruce Springsteen

This heartland tale of young love withered by the crush of premature responsibility, financial stress, and lack of opportunity in a dying industrial town is classic Springsteen. He's the blue collar bard of Middle America.

6. Romeo Had Juliette, music and lyrics by Lou Reed

Don't expect a sweet story here -- Romeo Rodriguez' and Juliette Bell's romance is as raw and gritty as the mean NYC streets they inhabit, and yet their awkward attempts at tenderness in the face of societal forces that will inevitably crush them can't help but move you.

7. Chelsea Hotel, music and lyrics by Leonard Cohen

The historic Chelsea Hotel in NYC has housed countless bohemian artists and inspired myriad stories, but Leonard Cohen's song, in which he remembers his times there with former lover Janis Joplin, is one of my favorites.

8. Making Pies, music and lyrics by Patty Griffin

Listen to the middle-aged character in this song tell you the story of her life as she makes pies at the TableTalk cafe. You'll never look at the 50-something waitress at Denny's the same again.

9. Pancho and Lefty, music and lyrics by Townes Van Zandt, as sung by Emmylou Harris

Don't let country music phobia keep you from listening to this classic desperado story from south of the border -- it's like a musical miniature of "Lonesome Dove."

10. Sailing to Philadelphia, music and lyrics by Mark Knopfler

This is the tale of Mason and Dixon, a surveyor and astronomer who came from England to America to determine the southern border of Pennsylvania. James Taylor, as Charles Mason, and Knopfler, as Jeremiah Dixon, bring this historical short story-in-a-song to life.

11. Papa Was a Rodeo, music and lyrics by The Magnetic Fields (Stevin Merritt)

I'm not sure which came first, Annie Proulx's "Brokeback Mountain" or this three-hankie song about a lifelong romance between two cowboys, but they are both superb short stories about the same topic. Stevin (yes, that's how it's spelled) Merritt's voice is perfect for the part.

For $10-$15 dollars and some time logged in with an online music provider, you can make your own musical short story collection. Try it -- it's fun.

Check Out This Poem!

2008-04-18T10:47:00.000-07:00

One of the singular powers of poetry is its ability to address the "big questions" of life with dizzying economy. Check out Edward Hirsch's poem, "Self Portrait." You won't be sorry.

Feed Me!

2008-04-18T08:09:00.000-07:00

I recently decided I've been frittering away one to two hours every morning glued to the tube, shuttling between CNN, MSNBC, and CNBC, and that a good portion of what I've absorbed during this daily ritual has been crappola.

The tipping point came about two weeks ago, when MSNBC presented a "breaking news story" about a fire in a multi-story nursing home somewhere in the northeast. Smoke poured out of the roof as a fireman slowly hoisted a nightie-clad nonagenarian down a ladder in what appeared to be slow motion, grandma's dangling white legs and unfortunate wedgie there for all the world to see.

No problem, I thought, and I flipped the channel to CNN. Same grandma. Same white legs. Same wedgie. I continued flipping channels and discovered that there was no escaping this news du jour -- regular updates on the situation continued, on national news, throughout the morning. I realize that this coverage was probably of momentous importance to the relatives of the nursing home residents, and it was of no small significance to the local city involved, but if a national news channel can find nothing better to broadcast ad nauseam throughout the day, it has a dearth of real news and a serious oversupply of airtime.

What does any of this have to do with books? I decided to reclaim my wasted mornings by developing an assortment of book-related RSS audio feeds that I could listen to each day in lieu of the tube, and I've stumbled upon some real gems that I'd like to share.

After spending considerable time reviewing the merits of various prose and poetry sites, I narrowed my selections to the following RSS feeds, which currently seem to offer me the most bang for my buck: (1) NPR: Books (2) the New York Times Book Review podcast (3) KCRW's Bookworm, (4) Slate's Audio Book Club , (5) Poetry Foundation Poem of the Day , and (6) Sonibyte's Poem of the Day . Each site provides instructions on how to subscribe to regular podcast feeds.

Here are direct links to some of the best episodes I gathered from these sites over the course of the last two weeks:

1. Excerpts of past interviews with Philip Roth, in honor of his 75th birthday, gleaned from the NPR Books Site.

2. A reading of the first passages of "The Gathering," (winner of the Man Booker Prize 2007) by Ann Enright, courtesy of the KRCW Bookworm site. (one warning -- this podcast always begins with a cheerful "theme song" that will grate on your nerves)

3. A Slate Book Club discussion of "The House of Mirth."

4. A Poetry Foundation Poem of the Day about the persistence of desire.

5. A curiously engaging poem about a snail from Sonibyte Poem of the Day (scroll down to "Considering the Snail)

(Some of these sites may have a limited cyberlife --my apologies if, for some bizarre reason, you are reading this post in the distant future)

Experiment with your own mix of RSS feeds -- you'll enjoy yourself and improve your mind, which is more that can be said about watching minute to minute coverage of a toddler's miraculous rescue from an abandoned well in Scranton.

Behind Closed (Faculty) Doors

2008-04-07T16:16:00.000-07:00

If you're a fan of dark comedy set in the rarified world of academia, you've probably already read these books. This delightfully sharp, tongue-in-cheek genre is one of my favorites, and if you haven't explored it yet, I encourage you to try one of the following titles:

Lucky Jim, by Kingsley Amis

This was Amis' first novel, published in 1954, and I consider it to be the granddaddy of the genre. Lucky Jim isn't so lucky -- he's on the verge of losing his junior teaching position at a second rate college in rural England, and in order to save his job, he's going to have to lick up to his odious boss, Neddy Welch, a pompous ass who insists that Jim deliver a prestigious lecture based on Neddy's pet manuscript-- a hackneyed discourse on "Merrie England." One humiliation is piled upon another as Jim is forced to join in parlor sing-ins of esoteric madrigals, stroke Neddy's ego, and ingratiate himself to Neddy's son Bertrand, a pretentious (and awful) novelist who just happens to be dating the woman of Jim's dreams. Irreverent, angry, and anti-Etonian, Jim is delightful as he deflates the rarified heights of one of England's not-so-ivory towers.

The Headmaster's Dilemma, by Louis Auchincloss

This recent novel (2007) tells the story of Michael Sayre, the handsome, avant-garde headmaster of Averhill, a prestigious New England prep school, as he is faced with a school administrator's worst nightmare: a lawsuit brought by a hysterical society matron in response to a consensual sexual incident involving her son and an upperclassman. To make matters worse, Michael is losing the support of both the board of trustees -- led by the conniving Donald Spencer -- and certain senior faculty members who are resistant to "modern sensibilities." With the help of his wife, Michael attempts to right these wrongs while keeping Averhill's best interests in mind.

This novel is classic Auchincloss. He casts a scathing eye on all of his characters -- no one is spared. The "victimized" boy is a calculating worm, his "oppressor" is a lout, the boy's mother is a self-righteous old bat who flouts her moral sensibilities, the boy's father is a "man of leisure" who married his wife for her money and finds the entire prep school incident to be mildly amusing, and even Michael, the "innocent man" who is caught in the middle, is a bit too perfect for his own good -- it's nice to see him squirm. Throw in Michael's wife, a woman who isn't averse to using her sexual wiles to promote Michael's rise (and therefore, her own) in the world, and add Michael's arch enemy, a one-time friend who can't forgive Michael for being so successful, and you've got quite a crew. This novel is wickedly funny from start to finish.

Truth and Consequences, by Alison Lurie

Alan and Jane Mackenzie are a "trophy couple." He's an established professor at Corinth College, she's the administrator there, and their genteel, old-money house and garden are the envy of the faculty. Then a back ailment strikes Alan, and their relationship begins to unravel. Jane resents the fact that her virile "professor on campus" has morphed into a whining invalid, and Alan resents her resentment. Enter the famous and self-absorbed poetess Delia Delaney (the name really says it all), an overripe, pre-Raphaelite beauty who drapes herself in ethnic jewelry and clouds of diaphanous gypsy wear, and chaos predictably ensues.

Delia, who has a narcissistic penchant for sudden "migraines," begins to exchange details of her malady with Alan, who reciprocates with the empathy of a fellow sufferer. It's only a matter of time before Alan's office couch serves a new function (sprained back be damned). In the meantime, Delia's live-in boyfriend, a younger man who Alan scornfully discounts as a lay-about lapdog, begins trading "caregiver" tales with Jane over a cup of coffee at the local latte shop . . . If you're already smiling, this book is for you.

(If you enjoy this book, you'll also like Lurie's Pulitzer Prize winning book, "Foreign Affairs.")

Straight Man, by Richard Russo

Russo is best known for his rust belt sagas depicting the life of blue collar workers (prime example: Empire Falls, winner of the 2002 Pulitzer Prize), but this novel, set in the Pennsylvania rust belt, focuses upon the tragicomic tribulations of William Henry Devereaux, Jr. ("Hank"), a fiftyish creative writing professor who reluctantly chairs a university English department that is facing legislative cuts to an already paltry budget.

The flyleaf of the novel captures the gist of Hank's tale: "Over the course of a single convoluted weekend, he threatens to execute a goose, has his nose slashed by a feminist poet, discovers that his secretary writes better fiction than he does, suspects his wife of having an affair with his dean, and finally confronts his philandering father, the one-time king of American Literary Theory, at an amusement park."

Faculty infighting, academic puffery, and a possible fling with a young coed (is she flirting with Hank by sending him peach pits ripe with erotic symbolism?) add to the fun. You can tell that Russo loves his main character, however -- the author's big-hearted treatment of Hank invites you to feel Hank's pain even as you laugh at his personal and professional peccadilloes.

On Beauty, by Zadie Smith

Admittedly, this book should not be categorized as an academic comedy -- Zadie Smith's novel is basically a masterful exposition of the divisiveness of the culture wars, and an examination of the blessings and trials of family relationships. Nonetheless, the book is steeped in an academic setting (Wellington, a fictional New England university) that provides plenty of fodder for lovers of the genre.

When Monty Kipps, a right-wing academic, is invited to become a visiting professor at the liberal Wellington campus, he is destined to come to philosophical blows with fellow professor Howard Belsey, a transplanted Englishman who despises Kipps' conservative views and resents his academic fame. Fireworks ensue. Although the novel is not primarily comedic, some of the passages are brilliantly witty. The author's send up of Wellington's male glee club left me rolling on the floor.

I'd love to hear from other readers who could add more titles to this list of books -- I've already stumbled upon an additional book in this genre that I can't wait to read: "Blue Angel," by Francine Prose.

Emily Dickinson

2008-03-20T09:08:00.000-07:00

National Poetry Month (April) is rapidly approaching, and Salt Lake City's Main Library will be hosting a lecture on the life and works of Emily Dickinson next week. In keeping with these events, I've decided to post a poem that I have written in Emily's honor. Here goes:

Emily D.

Emily D.
if I were me
I'd seek a place
you'd rather be

Some tea
a walk
then measured talk
of life and love eternity

Your quiet soul
your cloister ways
the clockish tick-out
of your days

Your buttoned hymns
will always be
a tidy room
where I am free

In Praise of Naomi Wolf's Little Beige Book

2008-03-10T08:53:00.000-07:00

I'm primarily a fiction fan, but I do read the occasional nonfiction book, and Naomi Wolf's "The End of America: Letter of Warning to a Young Patriot" was well worth my time this past weekend. Ms. Wolf's book, easily read in 1-2 evenings, employs a straightforward framework: She lists the 10 steps to fascism that are invariably employed by people in power who seek to make that power absolute, and she lists ways in which these 10 steps are discernible (sometimes subtly, sometimes overtly) in the current political climate of the United States.

(For those of you who want to cut to the chase and know what the 10 steps are, look no further: 1. Invoke a constant internal and external threat. 2. Establish secret prisons. 3. Develop a paramilitary force. 4. Surveil ordinary citizens. 5. Infiltrate citizens' groups. 6. Arbitrarily detain and release citizens. 7. Target key individuals. 8. Restrict the press. 9. Cast criticism as "espionage" and dissent as "treason." 10. Subvert the rule of law. )

Ms. Wolf's tone is urgent, but it also bears the dispassionate veritas of factual exposition. Either the 10 steps are historically constant or they are not, and either they (or their precursors) are detectable in the United States today or they are not. She provides ample notes and bibliographies in support of her assertions, and invites the reader to apply his/her own powers of reason and further investigation to her work.

Some sections of Ms. Wolf's book are so alarming that they will keep you up into the wee hours of the morning. Case in point: a quoted interchange between between Senator Arlen Specter and (now former) Attorney General Alberto Gonzales, in which Gonzales implies that although the right of habeas corpus, if applicable, cannot be suspended except in cases of invasion or rebellion, a citizen of the United States may or may not be entitled to that right in the first place. It all depends . . . . . (I think that the fuzzy concept of "enemy combatant" is involved here, although I'm not entirely sure . . . )

The most frightening aspect of Ms. Wolf's book is the fact that you don't have to be an inherently evil, murderous person or group in order to slowly morph an open society into a fascist regime. The initial impetus of your behavior doesn't even need to involve bad intent. You only need (a) to believe, with uncompromising passion and absolutist zeal, that you have envisioned what is best for your state/country/local school board, etc., and (b) be willing to consolidate and mobilize your power base in such a way as to subdue, silence and/or eliminate anyone who disagrees with you. Come to think of it, anyone who has ever fantasized about using a "trap door button" to eliminate a fellow committee member during a contentious and inane committee meeting has experienced a Mussolini moment.

Read this book. It will make you think.

Review: Denis Johnson's "Tree of Smoke"

2008-02-23T08:17:00.000-08:00

"Tree of Smoke," "Fog of War," "Heart of Darkness" -- apparently, clarity of vision is one of the inevitable casualties of any protracted conflict. Original objectives, rules of engagement, perceptions of right and wrong, the true nature of the enemy -- these concepts eventually begin to shift and tumble like the colored shards in a kaleidoscope.

I've always preferred viewing movies about the Viet Nam War over reading books about the same. Stone, Kubrick, and Coppola have all captured the tragedy, heroism, and absurdity of Viet Nam with a sensory immediacy that leaves the viewer exhausted but edified -- the 2-3 hour cinematic journey is painful, but the viewer emerges from the experience as a better person. When Denis Johnson's "Tree of Smoke" won the National Book Award for fiction, I decided I would overcome my hesitancy about Viet Nam novels and actually read the book.

Three weeks and 600 pages later, I've reached two conclusions: 1) Reading about a brutal, senseless war for days on end is considerably more draining than viewing 2 hours of "Full Metal Jacket." I read a good portion of the book while vacationing in Cabo San Lucas, and it colored my experience of the entire trip. 2) That being said, I am glad I read Johnson's prizewinner. The book's title, "Tree of Smoke," aptly reflects a theme that is explored throughout the novel: the ambiguity and duality of human nature, and our innate drive to seek absolutes in a gray world that rebuffs our attempts to answer life's deepest questions.

The book's primary story is that of Skip Sands, a CIA Special Ops agent, as he experiences the war and its aftermath from 1964-1984. The reader is also drawn into the tale of Skip's legendary uncle, the Colonel; Skip's wartime lover, a Christian relief worker named Kathy; an unforgettable Viet Cong agent named Trung who "turns" for the US; and two hapless brothers from Arizona who lack all sense of personal direction. Nothing is clear here. Is Skip ultimately a true believer who is betrayed by his country, or a gun-running criminal who has lost his moral compass? Is "The Colonel" a heroic leader worthy of mythic deification, or an alcoholic who has crossed the line from eccentricity to madness? Is Trung a man of conscience who switches his allegiance based upon principle, or an opportunist who cooperates with the highest bidder? Does Kathy believe her missionary message, or is she just going through the motions out of habit? Does the war ruin Bill and James, or are they losers who were destined to meet a bad end under any circumstances? Even the underlying symbolism of the "Tree of Smoke" changes; it is depicted variously as the unwavering pillar of fire that led the Children of Israel out of Egypt, the smoky cloud of an atomic bomb, the murky branches of a CIA organization whose objectives are unclear, and the profound chaos and confusion of combat itself.

I highly recommend this book.

Book Breakups

2008-02-13T14:11:00.000-08:00

You know the feeling -- you're 80 pages into that new book you've been dying to read, and despite your best efforts (you're optimistic, attentive, and open minded), a tiny voice in the back of your head is beginning to tell you that this relationship is going nowhere. At what point do you decide to cut your losses and run?

A good way to begin assessing the odds of an imminent literary breakup is to ask yourself: Why was I attracted to this book in the first place? The following reasons usually presage a bad end:

1. "I really, really wanted to be the kind of person who would fall in love with this book." Who wouldn't want to cleanse their soul with "Buddha Is As Buddha Does" after a lost weekend of extravagant shoe shopping or bar hopping? Problem: after about three days, your guilt level abates, your inner self begins to resurface, and you suspect that Buddha could benefit from a stiff drink and a makeover.

2. "We looked so good when we were together." We all know that a worn paperback by Kafka (Palahniuk, Auster, etc.) really resonates with those edgy eyeglasses that you purchased last month, but face it, most enjoyable reading takes place when no one is looking.

3. "We hooked up on impulse -- the King's English was charming, it was hors d'oeuvre night, and I'd never seen a more enticing book jacket." Everyone's done this at least once. Blame it on the box wine.

4. "My mom (sister, best friend, etc.) wouldn't stop pestering me until I read this book." If your mom's favorite book of all time was "The Bridges of Madison County," you should have seen this one coming. Plus, remember that time when you finally caved in and agreed to go to the junior prom with your piano teacher's nephew . . . . .

5. "I thought it would pique my boyfriend's interest if he saw me reading this book." This is the literary equivalent of subjecting yourself to that tight, scratchy lingerie from VS. Have a little self respect.

Seriously, it is hard to know when to call it quits with a book. On the one hand, as I get older, I realize that life is short and I don't need to commit to every book I happen to check out of the library. On the other hand, perseverance sometimes has its rewards -- after a rocky start, I decided to give "Tree of Smoke" by Denis Johnson the benefit of a doubt, and now that I've arrived at page 250 (the book is over 600 pages long!) I find myself totally engrossed with the characters and the story as a whole. I'm really glad I hung in there. I'd love to hear from others about just how far they are willing to go with a book before they decide it's just not going to happen.

Edmund White, Libraries, and "Positive Loneliness"

2008-02-10T14:26:00.000-08:00

Edmund White begins his new short story, "Record Time," with the observation that "loneliness can be a full state or an empty one." White then contrasts the self-conscious, stomach-churning loneliness of his adolescent school experiences with the fulfilling, self-sufficient isolation that he learned to revel in as a 13 -year old -- a loneliness that was redeemed by the company of music, novels, and art books borrowed from his local library. He writes: "I'd come home from school by way of the library, my biceps aching from my burden of records, scores, and books, and I'd barricade myself in my room." Library books transformed his empty room into a welcome sanctuary.

White describes the various treasures he lugged home from the library in loving detail -- a Brahm's violin concerto sleeved in a romantic 1950's record jacket, a Japanese art book containing a wood block print of young lovers running on high wooden shoes through the morning rain, book titles listed inside the musty dust jackets of the Modern Library -- and it is clear that he attributes much of what he is today to those adolescent hours of solitary discovery.

White absorbed the library materials voraciously, without judgment ("I didn't think to judge these experiences any more than a starving man turns up his nose at food"). He enjoyed reading the opinions of others, however, and as his Midwestern world broadened and deepened, he grew into himself.

If you love libraries and what they stand for, I highly recommend that you take the time to read White's short story. You can find it in one of his recent books, "Chaos." I think that you'll recognize a bit of yourself in the story -- I did.

One cautionary note -- the three short stories in "Chaos" are all superb -- they have broad appeal and address universal truths. The novella, after which the book is titled, tends toward the "raw" end of White's writing spectrum (not, as Jerry Seinfeld would say, that there's anything wrong with that), and may not be everyone's cup of tea.

Reflections on the Homeless

2008-02-08T09:09:00.000-08:00

As temperatures drop, our homeless visitors flock into the library to warm up, catch stolen moments of sleep, and, upon occasion, read. The unrelenting predictability of their daily onslaught can be alternately maddening and guilt-producing; they are like that black sheep uncle who keeps showing up plastered at your family Christmas party year after year, despite the cool reception he always receives. You are dismayed that he has once again shown up on your doorstep, but he is, after all, your uncle.

Thinking about the homeless prompted me to write a poem --

TRASH BAG QUEEN

Last week I paused after lunch
to watch the trash bag queen challenge god
from the mean tar corner of Fifth and Jackson.

Her lurching sermon drew a flinch-eyed crowd
close enough to smell her dance
of wet cigarettes and focused distraction,
juju eyes burning like weeds
beneath sticky hair
that strained toward heaven
with the bent plea of a lost child seeking jesus.

I left when it started to rain --
I thought she might draw lightning.