Behind Every Great Novelist...

I laughed out loud when I saw the illustration to a New York Times Book Review (5/13/12) Christopher Benfey review of a book titled “Lives of the Novelists,” by John Sutherland. The illustration is in the form of a nine-paneled cartoon, and is titled “Behind Every Great Novelist….” The nine panels are titled as follows: Childhood Trauma, Miserable Job, Moment of Self-Discovery, Episode of Debauchery, Pathologic Ambition, Loyal Pet, Neglected Spouse, Personal Demons, and -- wait for it! -- Years of Boring Hard Work. I love the dramatic stereotypes of the first eight panels and then the surprise juxtaposition and reality check provided by the last panel.

The Life of a Bookstore

My colleague and friend Dennis Bacigalupi (who wrote a wonderful guest post on Annie Dillard here on 2/23/12), knowing how much I love bookstores, told me about his working for a while, many years ago, in the famed New York bookstore, Books & Co. He said it was a great place to work, a place where the employees really knew and cared about books, where customers could find books they could find nowhere else, and which formed a community gathering place for writers and readers from the neighborhood (near the Whitney Museum) and from throughout the city and country. Dennis lent me his copy of “Bookstore: The Life and Times of Jeannette Watson and Books & Co.” (Harcourt Brace, 1999), by Lynne Tillman, which, as the title promises, tells the story of the bookstore, its owner, the many readings and other events held there, and the way the bookstore wove itself into the fabric of literary New York. Much of the book is told in the voice of the founder and owner of the store, Jeannette Watson, interspersed with passages from various writers, employees, customers, friends, and observers. The way the story is told makes it feel very immediate, as if the reader were there in the bookstore among all the other people who cared so deeply about books. People were passionate about this bookstore that had such a wonderful selection of books on so many topics. Its regular visitors included, just to name a few, writers Susan Sontag, Brendan Gill, Salman Rushdie, Paul Auster, Fran Lebovitz, Amy Hempel, Richard Howard, Susan Cheever, Calvin Trillin, Woody Allen, and Harold Brodkey. Unfortunately, the bookstore had to close in 1997 for economic reasons, the sad story of so many independent bookstores. But it had a great run of almost 20 years, made huge contributions to literature and the literary community, and will long be remembered. It was a real pleasure to read about it, and it makes me wish I had visited the bookstore at least once before it closed. Bonus features in this book are photos of various people related to the bookstore and two fascinating appendices: “Jeannette Watson’s Secret List of Fifty Books, Her Best-Sellers” (how I wish I could reproduce that list here for you, so we could all see which we have read, which we want to read, which are new to us and look intriguing, and which we wish she had included…) and “Twenty Years of Books & Co. Readings,” an incredible “Who’s Who” of the literary world.

Banned Books in Arizona

Today I write belatedly on the recent Arizona law banning certain books purported to promote solidarity based on ethnicity rather than individuality. Arizona bill 2281 of earlier this year banned Ethnic Studies programs in Arizona schools, and along with that, forbade teachers to teach related texts. Soon after, school districts -- notoriously the Tucson School District -- cleared classrooms (in front of sometimes crying students) of books taught in those classes. These books included Paulo Freire's "Pedagogy of the Oppressed," the anthology "Rethinking Columbus," Howard Zinn's "A People's History of the United States," and selected books by such well-known and critically praised authors as Sherman Alexie, James Baldwin, Sandra Cisneros, Junot Diaz, Isabel Allende, Jonathan Kozol, and Gloria Anzaldua, among many others. The law was primarily aimed at Mexican-American Ethnic Studies programs, and Latino/a authors and books, clearly because of the large number of Mexican Americans in Arizona. Also affected were programs and books related to African Americans, Asian Americans, and Native Americans, along with feminist and progressive publications (and ideas). This law and the related book censorship are clearly outrageous, anti-democratic, and frightening. Educators should have the freedom to teach with access to and reference to all books. And freedom of speech and expression in the form of books are basic to democracy and the exchange of ideas. (This seems so obvious; I never thought we would have to re-state it; this shows my naivete.) This Arizona law, especially in the context of other current threats to freedom and civil and human rights, and any similar laws (because once one state has succeeded in doing this, others may follow), must be resisted.

"Aerogrammes," by Tania James

I read and very much liked Tania James’ debut novel, “Atlas of Unknowns,” when it came out in 2009; it was very well reviewed and received. It is the story of two sisters from India, one of whom moved to the U.S. to study, and the other who came to find the first when she disappeared. The shifting yet enduring relationship between them, and the emotions involved, were compellingly portrayed, as were the obvious and subtle differences between life in India and life in the U.S. So when I saw that James had a new book out, a short story collection titled “Aerogrammes,” I knew I had to read it. Not only had I liked her earlier book, but also the word “aerogrammes” is evocative for me. These are the thin blue sheets of paper, ingeniously folded into one piece that serves as letter and an envelope as well , that are so familiar from my childhood in India. We almost always used them when writing back and forth to relatives and friends in Canada and the United States, and when we returned to America, I still got letters from friends in India in the same well-known form. My mother still gets them from her old friends in India. To this day, I have some aerogramme letters saved somewhere deep in a box or two in a closet or two, souvenirs of that time in my life. This is obviously not an adequate reason to read the book, but it drew me in. So how are the stories? Let’s put it this way: when I finished, I felt I had been on a rather bumpy journey through various completely different terrains. The settings of the stories are widely scattered, but more than that, the styles, the tones, the emotional temperatures, the characters are so very diverse that I didn’t feel much unity in the collection. It is an interesting question to consider: should there be a feeling of cohesiveness in a short story collection? Do we admire the extremely diverse array of experiences provided by an author, such as in this case, or do we feel a bit jostled and unsettled? I found some of the stories fascinating and sure-footed; others seemed too wispy, or too self-consciously quirky. I liked the stories “Aerogrammes” (and not just because of the title!), “Light and Luminous,” and “Escape Key” (although the latter was especially painful to read). I only mildly liked “Lion and Panther in London,” “What To Do with Henry,” or “Girl Marries Ghost,” probably at least partially because I didn’t particularly like reading about – respectively – wrestlers, a family that raised a chimpanzee, and a woman who married a ghost. I will say, though, that all of the stories are beautifully written, and I will definitely continue reading whatever Tania James publishes.

"The Dressmaker," by Beryl Bainbridge

“The Dressmaker” (Penguin, 1992, originally published by Duckworth 1973) is by Beryl Bainbridge (who died just two years ago at the age of 75), one of the quintessentially English writers who could never be mistaken for being from any other country. Her writing focuses on working class life, and there is usually a sense of psychological suspense, of strangeness, of unexpectedness in the midst of seeming ordinariness. “The Dressmaker” is no exception. It tells of a family in Liverpool during World War II. Although the family composition is unusual -- a young woman, Rita, who has been raised by her two aunts, with her widowed father nearby -- they seem to be very traditional, even straitlaced. Aunt Nellie is exceptionally conservative; Aunt Margo is a bit more open-minded, but generally doesn’t challenge Nellie. Father Jack loves his daughter but leaves the parental decisions to his two sisters, especially to Nellie. Rita, who has led a very sheltered life, meets and falls in love with an American soldier, Ira. He seems a bit passive and less than reliable, not to mention uncommunicative about his family or any personal details. The story moves slowly and the events seem unremarkable, although of interest because of the well-drawn characters and the depictions of wartime life. But -- as we might expect from Bainbridge -- there is a surprise ending building up and ready to shock us at the end of this brief novel. Once we read what happens, we look back and see all the portents that have been pointing the way to this ending. Despite -- or perhaps because of? -- the slight feeling of creepiness throughout the novel, this is an absorbing and satisfying read. [As a side note: the copy of this novel that I picked up at my local library used-book sale has a stamp inside showing that it was originally bought at the famed Shakespeare and Company Bookstore (established by Sylvia Beach) in Paris -- a delightful bonus discovery, linking the book to the tradition of that great bookstore (to which I made a pilgrimage when I was in Paris).]

"Empire State: A Love Story (Or Not)," by Jason Shiga

Graphic novels are increasingly often published and increasingly popular. “Empire State: A Love Story (Or Not)” (Abrams, 2011), by Jason Shiga, is an entertaining if somewhat ambiguous new example of the genre. The two main characters, Jimmy and Sara, are friends, but Jimmy wonders if their relationship could be something more. Although he is profoundly uncomfortable about change, he follows Sara from Oakland to New York to see if there is a chance for things to work out with her. He is very socially awkward, and actually generally awkward; she is similarly somewhat nerdy, but with marginally more social savvy. When Jimmy reaches New York, he finds that Sara is dating someone somewhat seriously. It is unclear how much she discerns Jimmy’s feelings, so except for a little flash of understanding, they remain as friends, for the time being anyway. How will it all turn out? We don’t know. The above is the whole of the “plot,” but there are many poignant and beautifully observed and captured moments along the way, some displaying joy, with more illustrating unease or ambivalence. We as readers have to admire Jimmy for breaking out of his rather constricted life, at least for a while, to go after someone he wants. But he is hit with reality over and over again, including on his long bus ride across the country. This is an endearing and sometimes funny book, yet with an edge. The drawings are engaging. One blurb says the book is semi-autobiographical; if so, Shiga has been brave in revealing himself in all his geekdom and vulnerability.

"The City of Your Final Destination," by Peter Cameron

When I finally, belatedly, “discovered” Peter Cameron (see my post of 5/1/12 on his newest novel, “Coral Glynn”) for myself, I decided to read more of his fiction. I have now read “The City of Your Final Destination” (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2002). I was partly drawn to it because it is about a young and insecure academic, Omar Razaghi, who needs to get permission from the literary executors of the late Jules Gund, a writer from Uruguay, to write an authorized biography of Gund. This permission is extremely important to Omar, as he needs this project for his fellowship stipend. The novel starts with two strands, two stories. On the one hand, we learn about Omar, and on the other hand, we learn about Gund’s executors: his wife and his mistress, who now live together a bit uneasily (yes, it is strange!) in Uruguay, and his brother, who lives nearby with his partner. The executors are divided about whether to sign the permission papers. In desperation, Omar spends all his available money to travel to their isolated location in Uruguay to try to persuade the executors in person, thus bringing the two stories together. The usual misunderstandings, approaches, rejections, kindnesses, agreements, refusals, entanglements, and other common human responses ensue, as we might expect when people are mixed together in unlikely groupings. Although several of the characters are a bit prickly, we grow to appreciate and even feel affection toward them all. Based on the two novels by Cameron I have read so far (and I will probably read more), he seems to like the classic literary situation of mixing people in fairly isolated settings and seeing what happens. I am personally very partial to novels with such situations. The all-important point, as always, is the people, with all their emotions, interactions, quirks, inconsistencies, and other hallmarks of humanity. While reading this novel, I had a similar feeling to the one I had reading “Coral Glynn”: at first I resisted and was even put off a bit by the oddities of the settings and characters, but somehow it all “worked,” and I think I am, although late to the party, becoming a Cameron fan.

"The New York Stories of Edith Wharton"

A reader or two may remember that I mentioned in early April that I was joyfully reading a collection of stories by Edith Wharton -- one of my favorite writers, about whom I have written here several times, including on 4/18/10, 2/22/12, and 4/18/12 -- on the plane in late March on my way home from two conferences on the East Coast, and that I said I would write about it when I finished. Somehow the book migrated to the bottom of my books-to-read-or-finish pile, but I finally got back to it and read the last few stories with great pleasure. This collection, “The New York Stories of Edith Wharton” (New York Review Books, 2007), selected by Roxana Robinson, is overflowing with wonderful stories, all describing the city where she lived for much of her life, and written over the course of her career. The first story in the collection, “Mrs. Manstey’s View,” happens to be the very first story that Wharton published. The final story, “Roman Fever,” is one of her most famous ones. The New York settings are so evocative, so precisely rendered. But best of all are the characters; they are always well drawn, always compelling. Every single one of them draws the reader in, and makes the reader wonder what will happen. Somehow Wharton manages to make us care without ever being sentimental or soft. The situations the characters find themselves in are both inevitable, because of the rigidity of society’s norms and expectations, and startlingly original. And the writing is amazing; Wharton makes it look easy, but it is so clear and yet so complex. There is, too, the old-fashioned pleasure of being caught up in the story, wanting to know what will happen next, and trusting the author absolutely to take us somewhere new, somewhere revelatory, even when in the midst of somewhere very familiar. In fact, there is something deliciously subversive about Wharton's writing. One theme that appears in several stories in this collection is that of writers writing under others’ names, or pretending to be other than whom they are; one wonders why this theme is important to Wharton. Perhaps she is exploring the question of what originality in writing means, and the blurring of borders. There is much about social class, about gender, about ethics, about sheer humanity. But it is never just “about” something. I am tempted to tell you about each and every one of these twenty stories, but do not have the space to do so. If you loved “The Age of Innocence” and “The House of Mirth,” you will love this collection as well. If you haven’t read much or any Wharton before, this volume would be an excellent place to start.

"Unless," by Carol Shields

Readers may remember that one of my most-admired contemporary writers is the late Carol Shields, the Canadian author who, sadly, died in 2003, at the age of 68. I recently listened to her last novel, “Unless” (2002), on CD. I had read the book twice already, but not recently. As I listened, I marveled once again at Shields’ gorgeous prose and wonderfully wise writing. In this novel, she writes about family (especially the mother-daughter relationship), about writing (especially the situation of women writers), and about the nature of “goodness,” among other themes. The narrator and main character Reta Winters’ oldest daughter Norah, a college student, has suddenly had some kind of crisis and started panhandling in downtown Toronto, mostly silently, with a cardboard sign saying “Goodness” around her neck. Most of the novel is about how the family reacts to this sad and mysterious happening, as well as about the narrator’s writing her second novel to distract herself as much as possible. One strong strand throughout the novel is the narrator’s anger at the way women writers over the years have been condescended to, underestimated, and left out of consideration or even notice in reviews, literature programs and classes, and elsewhere. She gives example after example, and writes (but does not send) cutting letters to magazine editors and others about this issue. This focus on the issue of women writers' being marginalized sounds didactic, but Shields is such a good writer that it does not come off that way. “Unless,” like Shields’ other books, especially “The Stone Diaries” and “Larry’s Party,” is exquisitely well written, full of wisdom, thought-provoking, intricately textured, and deeply satisfying. Shields is an incredible writer, and although she has a high reputation (for example, “The Stone Diaries” won the Pulitzer Prize), I fear that she herself is not adequately read and appreciated. I hope I am wrong. Now I want to add a personal note: Some years ago, I recommended Carol Shields’ novels to my friend C., whom I have mentioned here several times. C. read her work and went to hear Shields speak at a bookstore in her East Coast city, and was very impressed (and C. was not easily impressed). We both mourned Shields’ death of cancer in 2003. A few years later, in 2008, C. was diagnosed with cancer herself and, as I wrote about here (on 4/29/11), died in 2011, a terrible loss to her family and many friends and colleagues, and to the world. When earlier this week I heard an interview with Shields at the end of the CD of “Unless,” apparently in a bookstore type setting, the interview reminded me of C., of her description of having heard Carol Shields read and speak, and of how we both appreciated and loved Shields’ impressive and perceptive writing. This memory was symbolic of the many book-and-reading-related bonds C. and I shared for almost 40 years.

On Avoiding "Difficult" Books

Sometimes I feel guilty that I often (not always, but often) avoid “difficult” books these days. I mean difficult in two senses: first, books that are very experimental in their prose styles, and second, books that are about very painful topics. When I was younger, I would take on books in both categories, because I wanted to read everything and to know everything that literary people knew. I devoured it all. I would never re-read now some of the books I inhaled back then. Although I still read very widely, in various types of literature and by various authors of various backgrounds, I tend to focus on novels about human relationships in somewhat familiar settings. But I occasionally think about how I am likely missing out on important books that I really “should” read, and would benefit from, and maybe even like better than I think ahead of time that I would. Let me give just one concrete example from the many that I could give. In the current (5/14/12) New Yorker (p. 121), there is a brief review of “The Hunger Angel” by Herta Muller. Although I am attracted by the phrase “moving novel,” as soon as I read that the book is “set in a Russian Gulag at the end of the Second World War,” and that “[s]urviving on bread and cabbage soup, the internees are maddened by starvation” and “steal food from one another and clothes from still warm corpses,” I immediately mentally retreat from the prospect of reading the book. I see the word “bleak” and am too much of a reading coward to face this book. I fully admit that this is a failing on my part, and I am somewhat reluctant and even embarrassed to write about it here. I don’t know, though, if I feel guilty enough to actually change my reading habits. I do resolve to push myself at least a little more in this regard.

"Restaurant Man," by Joe Bastianich

Remember Anthony Bourdain’s book, “Kitchen Confidential”? Remember how raw and rowdy and profane it was? But at the same time entertaining and informational? Joe Bastianich’s book, “Restaurant Man” (Viking, 2012) reminds me of that book. In both of these books, I imagine that the brash style probably does reflect the authors' personalities, but I also suspect that that style is somewhat hyped-up for effect. In any case, I enjoyed both, but with a sort of ongoing footnote of reservation (no pun intended…well, maybe a little bit!). Bastianich, like Bourdain, tells the story of his own life in the restaurant business, how it evolved over time, how his lifestyle changed over time, and how it all both reflected and affected his relationships with others. Bastianich is, along with his partners, the famed Mario Batali and Lidia Bastianich (who happens to be his mother), the owner/operator of several well-respected and enormously successful restaurants in New York (Babbo, Del Posto, Lupa, Esca, Otto) and elsewhere. His life’s work is to show America what real Italian food and wine are (hint: not just spaghetti and meatballs in red-checked tablecloth restaurants). His story is very interesting, and he tells it well, albeit in the brash and f-word-filled prose mentioned above. Modesty seems to be a foreign word for him now, but he briefly lets us see a glimpse of his earlier insecurities, and he is also good at acknowledging the contributions of others, so as a reader I am inclined to forgive his somewhat excessive macho-ish self-regard. I admire the author’s successes, and I appreciate his service-oriented attitude; he truly wants his customers to feel well taken care of and happy. I have dined at Babbo and enjoyed it very much; we received the kind of service the author describes as his goal there. Next time I am in New York, perhaps I will try to get a reservation at Del Posto, one of the very few restaurants to earn four stars from the New York Times. “Restaurant Man” is a good read for those who love restaurants, especially New York restaurants, and I learned a lot about that world from this book.

The Atlantic on "The Art of Fielding"

There has been so much hullabaloo about Chad Harbach's 2011 novel, "The Art of Fielding," that I felt a certain pressure to read it, or at least to check it out. I read several enthusiastic reviews, but something kept me from reading it. Perhaps it was the baseball theme; I like baseball fine, but am not enough of a fan to want to read novels about it. OK, I was assured by some of the reviews that the baseball wasn't the point; it was just a means. It was pointed out (very presumptuously, in my opinion!) that "Moby Dick" wasn't really about whaling. I still hesitated. Then the May 2012 issue of The Atlantic arrived in my mailbox, with its B. R. Myers-authored takedown of the novel in a review titled "A Swing and a Miss," with the subtitle "Why the Latest Hyped-Up Work of Staggering Genius Fizzles" (note the Dave Eggers reference). Myers decries the way (he believes) many fiction readers "succumb to the loudest promotional campaign every year only because they recognize the recurring need for an 'it' novel, something everyone can agree to read at about the same time." Sure enough, after strong reviews and a "puff piece" (Myers' words) from Vanity Fair, the novel climbed the bestseller lists. Myers is acerbic about "one-novel-a-year" readers, and about those who state that "you may not dismiss a highly praised novel as unworthy of notice until you have finished it." Thank you, Mr. Myers. Although perhaps it sounds philistine, I agree with Myers that time is too short to read everything, and one CAN get a sense of whether a novel is good, and in particular about whether one might like it, without actually reading it. Since Myers is writing a review, he does read "The Art of Fielding," and has some mild praise for it, including "it's not terrible." The author is talented, some of the paragraphs are well-paced, and there is some "brilliant imagery." Myers' ultimate opinion: The novel is "as light and insubstantial as a 512-page [!] book can be. It's not so much what happens or doesn't as the elfin tone in which everything is narrated: baseball, aging, lust, death, even an actual corpse -- all get the same twinkly treatment." Thank you again, Mr. Myers; now I have some support for my decision not to read "The Art of Fielding."

"Hand Me Down," by Melanie Thorne

Melanie Thorne's novel "Hand Me Down" (Dutton, 2012) is heartrending. It tells the story of Liz, a young teenager who has lived a most unstable and disturbing life because of the unreliable and dangerous adults who have failed and are still failing her. Her father is alcoholic and out of control, her stepfather is a creepy sex offender, and her mother has chosen that stepfather over her daughters. Both her father and mother do seem to love her, and her mother used to do everything she could to protect her daughters, but now is in the thrall of her horrible husband. Liz's main concern in life is protecting her younger sister, Jaime. Liz is smart, resourceful, brave, and strong, but she is always on guard, always worrying, always figuring out what she has to do to survive and to protect Jaime; living like that is a terrible strain on her, something no young person should have to endure. The only notes of hope in this story are Liz's strength, her love for her sister, and the caring aunts who take her and Jaime in when their parents fail them. Both Liz and Jaime show an amazing resilience despite their terrible circumstances and the uncertainty and scariness of their lives. Normally I would find a novel like this one too sad to keep reading, but Liz's voice (as the narrator as well as main character) is so strong and real and compelling, and the author's control of her material so sure, that I kept reading and reading. In fact, last night I had intended to grade papers but, instead, sat on the couch with this book and, despite my admonitions to myself after each chapter that I must close the book and stop, kept on reading until I finished the novel.

"Mono Lake: Stories," by Martha Clark Cummings

I know Martha Clark Cummings through professional conferences; she also contributed a wonderful chapter to an academic book I co-edited a few years ago. Over the years, she has become a friend as well. Besides being a great teacher and scholar, she is a gifted creative writer, especially of short stories. I have seen a couple of her recent stories and liked them very much, but only last month did I order and read her earlier collection of short fiction, “Mono Lake: Stories” (Rowbarge Press, 1995). These engrossing stories depict characters, usually lesbian, in harsh situations. Most of them are set in remote, weatherbeaten, barely populated places such as Mono Lake. There is a beaten-down, even somewhat grim feeling to most of the stories. But there is also so much humanity in the midst of those difficult settings, and there are many hints of hope and possibility throughout. The situations and plots are compelling, as are the characters. There is much for us to learn from the stories, about – among other things – sexual identity and social class. There is a restrained lyricism in the style, a style that eschews prettiness for grit and heart. It is a pleasure for me to rediscover what I already knew: that Martha is a fine writer.

Jane Eyre Redux: "The Flight of Gemma Hardy"

I have read and liked some of Margot Livesey’s fiction before; I have now just finished her recent novel, “The Flight of Gemma Hardy” (Harper, 2012). When I read reviews that stated that this novel was a 1950s interpretation of Charlotte Bronte’s “Jane Eyre,” I wondered if it would feel gimmicky. But I trusted my instinct that a writer of Livesey’s stature would not allow that to happen, and I was right. The retelling is close enough that readers can see the bones of the Jane Eyre story (unloving aunt and cousin, harsh life as a charity case at a boarding school, life as a governess, love and engagement, an unwelcome revelation, a dreadful time wandering friendless and moneyless, rescue by kind friends, discovery of formerly unknown relatives and friends, and more…) but different enough that it stands up as a compelling independent novel. Readers would not need to know “Jane Eyre” to enjoy this book, but knowing it does add a dimension of depth and pleasure to the experience. The story takes place in Scotland (mostly) and Iceland, and one of its rewards is the descriptions of these settings. But the main draw of the novel is the strong, original, courageous, vulnerable girl and young woman, Gemma. We root for her, worry about her, applaud her, and eagerly read on to see what will happen next. This is a beautifully written and very satisfying novel, whether readers are Bronte fans or not.

My Towering Magazine Pile

Once again, my magazines waiting to be read have multiplied. After being away for about ten days last month for academic conferences, I returned to an alarming build-up of magazines, which I am now trying to work my way through. Below is a list of the magazines I currently subscribe to. There have been others I have subscribed to over the years, but this is the list I have winnowed my subscriptions down to. (This does not include the many academic journals to which I have subscriptions, or magazines that are sent to me because I belong to certain organizations.) I have written in this blog about several of these magazines, and about articles or essays or reviews in them. The magazines are: The Atlantic, Ms., The Nation, New York, New York Times Book Review, The New Yorker, The Progressive, San Francisco, The Threepenny Review, Vanity Fair, The Women’s Review of Books.

"Coral Glynn," by Peter Cameron

The author Peter Cameron has been on the outer edges of my radar, off and on, for a while, but I was never intrigued enough to actually read any of his novels. Until now. I heard Maureen Corrigan review Cameron’s new novel, “Coral Glynn” (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2012) a few weeks ago, read a couple of other reviews, kept being discouraged by seeing the word “Gothic,” but finally all the good reviews made me put the book on my list. Now I have read it, and am glad I did. It is an odd little book, but compelling. Cameron has said he was influenced by the writers Barbara Pym, Elizabeth Taylor, Rose Macauley, and William Maxwell, all writers I like very much. Although he is American, he set the novel in the English countryside of the 1950s…not the charming cottage-y countryside, but the gloomy, isolated countryside. The influence that springs to mind is the works of the Brontes, especially “Jane Eyre,” with less overt desperation, but quiet desperation nevertheless. Another influence or at least allusion is, surely, Daphne du Maurier’s “Rebecca.” However, the “Gothic” element is less than I feared, and I got caught up in the somewhat mysterious characters and their relationships. The main character, the Coral of the title, is sparsely described, so we readers have to work at figuring her out. Clement, the sad man who proposes to her after just a couple of weeks of knowing her, and who is scarred by World War II, is also a fascinating character. This brief novel moves along briskly, despite its mysteries. Coral, although alone in the world, is surprisingly resilient, and there is a surprise ending that is quite satisfying. The writing in this novel is delicate, indirect, and compelling. Although I started by resisting the novel, it won me over with its unusual yet believable characters and its lovely writing.