"Hyperbole and a Half," by Allie Brosh

My friend M. V. and her daughter L. both really enjoyed (although with reservations) the very quirky “Hyperbole and a Half: Unfortunate Situations, Flawed Coping Mechanisms, Mayhem, and Other Things That Happened” (Simon & Schuster, 2013), by Allie Brosh, so I had to take a look at it. The book, based on Brosh's autobiographical/confessional blog of the same name, consists of cartoonlike drawings of the author, her dogs, a very few other characters, and some scenes in and near her house, with a bit of text on each page. The author is represented by a sort of odd blob with bugged eyes, a wide mouth, a yellow protrusion from the back of her head, a red garment, and stick-like arms out of a child’s drawing. Curiously, the other human characters and even the author’s two dogs are drawn in much more detail, although still cartoonlike. The book is divided into -- what? Chapters? Stories? Vignettes? Each one -- well, almost each one -- is funny, eccentric, terse, and often sad. The author either is, or pretends to be, extremely candid about her own problems and failings. One major strand in the book is stories about the dogs. Another -- one that I relate to -- is stories about the author’s fighting her tendency to procrastinate. The most painful “stories” are about her bout(s) of depression. This is clearly a very original book, one that is hard to classify. I think it requires a particular -- perhaps acquired -- taste, or a particular sense of humor, to truly appreciate it. In other words, if you pick it up, you will likely either love it or think “?????!!!!!” I went back and forth between those two reactions.

Men We Reaped: A Memoir," by Jesmyn Ward

When I heard author Jesmyn Ward being interviewed on the radio about her new book, “Men We Reaped: A Memoir” (Bloomsbury, 2013), I thought it must be an unbearably sad book to read. It tells the story of five young men in her life, including her brother, in the small town, poor area of Mississippi where she grew up, who died very early of accidents, drugs, or suicide. I almost didn’t read it because of the painful topic, but something about the power of the story and her engaging voice made me read it anyway. The book is in fact unbearably sad to read, as I predicted. But it is also a moving tribute to these young men and to their energy, their life force, their love of and caring for their families and friends, and the potential they had that was obstructed at every turn in a world where poor young black men have so little opportunity. This book is Ward’s way of remembering these young men, and making sure others know them and their stories. Further, it is her tribute to her home community, to her extended family, and to the siblings, cousins, and friends she grew up with. Although she went to college and graduate school at prestigious universities far away from her home, she always went home for vacations and breaks, and now as an accomplished published writer and professor, she again lives in her home town. This is a beautifully written and moving memoir, as well as an anguished and powerful indictment of racial inequality in the United States. [On another note: Today is the four-year anniversary of this blog.]

"Inside," by Alix Ohlin

“Inside” (Knopf, 2012), a novel by Alix Ohlin, tells the interlocking stories of the four main characters in alternating chapters. We soon see how the stories connect. Grace and her ex-husband Mitch are therapists; Annie is Grace’s patient; Tug is a man in serious emotional trouble whom Grace helps and then falls in love with. The story takes place in Montreal, New York, Los Angeles, and Rwanda, among other locales. The characters are interesting, and their stories somewhat compelling. This book is the kind that one -- or at least this reader -- mildly enjoys and keeps reading, but then doesn’t remember much about after it is finished. I know this is a lukewarm recommendation, but it is the best I can give for this perfectly-fine-but-nothing-special (in my opinion) novel.

"Tomorrow There Will Be Apricots," by Jessica Soffer

Jessica Soffer’s novel, “Tomorrow There Will be Apricots” (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2013), is the bittersweet story of how two lonely people in New York connect. One is a young teenager, Lorca, whose mother, a chef, is (unaccountably, it seems, although there are mentions of her own unhappy childhood) insensitive and neglectful; Lorca spends much of her time planning ways to get her mother’s attention and make her happy. The other is an older woman, Victoria, former co-owner and chef at a Middle Eastern restaurant, recently widowed, who can’t stop thinking about the baby she gave up for adoption some 40 years before. What draws the two together, besides their loneliness, is food; both are natural cooks, and both love to prepare it and serve it to others. The novel's descriptions of the intriguing, delicious, and comforting food, and its meaning to the main characters, are bonus sources of enjoyment for readers. Both of these characters are damaged, but they both have compelling and engaging personalities, they both still have hope, and they both are fortunate to have others in their lives who care about them. During the course of the novel’s main events, over a period of a couple of weeks, the story goes back in time to reveal the histories of the characters; then during the main events portrayed in the novel, new secrets are revealed. The novel is both touching and heartbreaking, but also optimistic about the power of human connections. This is a book I picked up in the library, without having read any reviews, or even having heard of the author; I am glad I did.

"My Mistake: A Memoir," by Daniel Menaker

It's hard not to like Daniel Menaker’s new book, “My Mistake: A Memoir” (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2013). Most of it is about his life in literature, first for many years at The New Yorker, then at various publishers, and all the while writing his own articles and books. He gives us an inside view of some of the famous names associated with The New Yorker (William Shawn! William Maxwell! Tina Brown! Veronica Geng! Janet Flanner!) and in the literary world, always enjoyable to read. No matter how much I have already read about The New Yorker, and about famous publishing companies, including behind-the-scenes tell-alls, I can’t get enough of it! Menaker also writes candidly, or seemingly candidly, about his own life, and as suggested in his title, about his own failures as well as successes. We get a strong sense of his personality and character. Now seventy and a recent cancer survivor, he looks back on his life so far and tries to summarize and to find themes. He finds he is able both to acknowledge and to forgive himself for some of his “mistakes” and has learned to cherish his life and all he has experienced. If this last part sounds sentimental or obvious, that is not the way it comes across. I appreciate his efforts to present his life honestly, while at the same time acknowledging that there is no such thing as remembering everything in one’s life accurately.

"Claire of the Sea Light," by Edwidge Danticat

I still remember how I was struck by the beauty and sadness of Haitian-American author Edwidge Danticat’s first book, “Breath, Eyes, Memory.” I have read some but not all of her books (mostly fiction) since. I heard the word “fable” used in reviews and blurbs of her new novel, “Claire of the Sea Light” (Knopf, 2013), and almost didn’t read it because of that, but I did read it and am glad I did. I can see why the word “fable” is used, but the events of the story seem very real. The story takes place in a small town by the sea in Haiti. Claire, whose mother died when she was born, and whose father loves her dearly but needs to move away to make a better living, is about to be given into the care of Gaelle, a more prosperous neighbor with her own part in Claire's family history. Suddenly, when everyone is distracted with the death of a fisherman friend of Claire's father, she disappears. After this initial story, the novel goes back in time and traces the history of several of the main characters, residents of the town (and occasionally of elsewhere). Several secrets are revealed along the way. The story has a certain dreaminess, but there is also brutal violence, poverty and hopelessness. Yet somehow the message that comes through has to do with the power of love, and of humankind’s basic goodness.

Revisiting the Question of Books I "Should" Read

On occasion (most recently, 11/23/13) I have written here about struggling with whether to read certain books that I feel I “should” read but don’t really want to. These are books that are within the types of books I usually read, are by major authors, and have gotten excellent reviews. And once in a while, someone who knows how much I read, and/or who reads this blog, seems surprised when I have not read a particular one of those books. A recent specific example is my decision not to read Donna Tartt’s “The Goldfinch” (see my post of 11/10/13). But in the past couple of weeks, I have been reading critics’ end-of-the-year “best books” lists, which lists I compulsively devour, but which also raise complicated feelings in me. I have come to see that there are three kinds of books on these "best of the year" lists (from my perspective). First are books I see on the lists and am happy because I have already read and admired and/or enjoyed them. Examples of this category from the current lists include Meg Wolitzer’s “The Interestings”; Claire Messud’s “The Woman Upstairs”; Kate Atkinson’s “Life after Life”; Adelle Waldman’s “The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P.”; Jhumpa Lahiri’s “The Lowland”; and Jo Baker’s “Longbourn.” Second are books that may well be “good,” but are so clearly not the kind of books I read (e.g., science fiction, very experimental or very violent novels) that I have no trouble at all deciding not to read them. But the third category is the difficult one. This includes books of the types and categories, and by the authors, that I usually do read. I believe that they are good, even perhaps great, but for some reason I am not drawn to them, and have decided earlier not to read them. In some cases, I decided right away not to read them; in other cases, I obtained copies of the books, but stopped reading after a brief perusal. So the books in the first two categories give me no problem, but those in the third category sometimes continue to tug at me, and seeing some of the titles repeatedly on these lists, often by critics I respect, exacerbates my sense of unease. Did I decide wrong? Am I missing an important book that I really SHOULD read? On the other hand, what about my decision, as I get older, to only read what I really want to read, and not waste time on the “shoulds”? So there is the conflict. My most recent decision (wimpy compromise?), made just a few days ago, was to look through some of those “best books of 2013” lists and make my own list of books that I initially rejected but now will reconsider. I may not read all of them, but I will at least give them another try.

Better Late Than Never: Experiencing the End of the Beat Era

A couple of recent articles about the poet Michael McClure made me feel sad that I was not in San Francisco at the height of the beat era. The famous reading at the Six Gallery in 1955 started it all. I didn’t move to San Francisco until some 20 years later, but I did in fact hear some of the great beat poets. In college, before I came to San Francisco, I was fortunate to hear Gary Snyder read his poetry. Then very soon after I arrived in SF, I went to a poetry reading by Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Diane Di Prima, William Everson (also known as Brother Antoninus) and others. Most dramatically, sometime in the 1980s, I heard Alan Ginsberg read at the University of San Francisco, where I teach. That was a more conservative time at USF, and the audience was, I think, half respectful of and half shocked by his poetry’s frank mention of, among other topics, his bodily parts and functions, all read in Ginsberg’s roaring voice that echoed up and down the corridors of the university building. I have also, of course, been to the City Lights bookstore many times. In 2010 I went to see the movie “Howl” about Ginsberg’s most famous poem and the legal case that followed; I posted about that experience here on 10/3/10. So I feel I did have some personal experience of the beat poets after all, even if my experiences were at the very tail end of (and beyond) the Beat era.

Young Writer Discovers Barbara Pym, Makes Blogger Very Happy!

I hope this post won’t be “too much Barbara Pym” for readers, as I have mentioned her wonderful novels several times, and especially wrote about her work on 7/7/13 and on 8/13/13. But I was so pleased when I saw, in the 1/5/14 issue of The New York Times Book Review “Inside the List” column, a short but glowing tribute to Barbara Pym by the young female Nigerian-born author Chimamanda Adichie (author of “Americanah”) that I felt I had to write about it. The columnist, Gregory Cowles, asked the authors of the NYTBR’s “10 Best Books of 2013” to name “the best book you read this year (whether it was published in 2013 or not).” Adichie responded enthusiastically as follows: “I discovered Barbara Pym’s ‘A Glass of Blessings’ this year and could not believe I had never read Pym. I loved it. It does that ancient, wonderful thing literature is supposed to do: instruct and delight. Pym is brilliant…very witty and very funny and very insightful, and…somehow manages to be both prim and subversive.” I loved Adichie's response, as she – especially in that last line about “both prim and subversive” -- gets at something unique in Pym’s work. I am also excited to learn of a young author (Adichie is in her thirties) discovering Pym; I am so glad that this younger generation continues to read and appreciate Pym, and I hope that they will continue to do so for many years to come.

"The Grammarian," by Annapurna Potluri

My heart beat a little faster when I found, browsing in the library new books section, a novel I had read no reviews of, but that called out to me because it focused on a linguist studying Telegu in South India about a hundred years ago. First, I am an (applied) linguist, and enjoyed the descriptions of the language. Second, Telegu is the language my family and I learned and spoke when we were in India, and the area where the main character, the French Alexandre, did his research was in Andhra Pradesh, where we lived much of our time in India. The names of the cities, districts, rivers were so familiar. And although I have, alas, long ago forgotten most of the Telegu I knew (I very occasionally dream a few words of it...), I did recognize some words mentioned in this book. So this novel, “The Grammarian” (Counterpoint, 2013), by Annapurna Potluri, despite the different time period and other differences, took me back to my childhood and adolescence. The story focuses on Alexandre’s stay with a wealthy Indian family, the Adivis, and especially on the relationships he develops with the grandmother of the family and with the adolescent daughter who is crippled by polio. That daughter, Anjali, is clever, well-read, and wants news of the wider world; she is also sad and feels left out of the world of love and passion. Their chaste relationship is misinterpreted, and separation is inevitable. But they always remember each other, as Alexandre goes back to France, his family, and his illustrious academic career, and Anjali goes on to become a political radical fighting for Indian independence. The story occasionally dips many years backward in time, and then many years forward, and touches on war, politics, culture, poetry, and much more. Despite the destruction and bloodshed of several wars, there is a thread of appreciation of life, love, and literature throughout. The story is told in an almost dreamy fashion. It is hard for me to know if readers who do not share my connection to the topics and settings of the novel would like it as much as I did. But I think that even aside from those connections, the novel would be of interest to many readers.

Finding a New Independent Bookstore Nearby!

It is always great to “discover” a new independent bookstore. In the Larkspur Landing area of Marin County, a couple of towns north of where I live, I noticed a new bookstore going up, and a few days ago, I saw it was open and went in. It is called DIESEL, and it is the newest branch of a mini-chain (as I have noted here before, to me a branch of a mini-chain still qualifies as an independent bookstore, and this store calls itself an independent bookstore) of, I believe, four branches, two in Northern California (the other one is in Oakland) and two in Southern California (Malibu and Brentwood). It presents itself on its website as having an “urban California aesthetic” and as “cutting-edge, high octane, community-radiating…” The metallic-colored exterior gives it an edgy look, and inside there are clean, open lines and spaces, but there is also, perhaps incongruously, a sort of cozy feel to the store. Because it is so new, I have the feeling it needs time to grow into itself. Meanwhile, I enjoyed their selection of books and other products (cards, etc.), and bought several items. The salespeople were friendly and helpful. It was rather quiet, but that could have been because it was New Year’s Eve Day. I really hope it will be successful. This shopping area (a kind of upscale shopping center next to the Ferry landing) was the site of one of my all-time favorite independent bookstores, A Clean Well Lighted Place for Books. I – and my family and friends – used to shop there, eat at its café, and occasionally hold our Reading Group meetings there. It was open for 20 years but, sadly, closed in 1998. I still remember it fondly. I doubt DIESEL will replace it, as it is much smaller and has a different “feel,” but I still welcome it. I am now adding it to my rotation of independent bookstores in San Francisco and Marin where I shop regularly.

"Benediction," by Kent Haruf

I was, some years ago, quietly bowled over by Kent Haruf’s 1999 novel “Plainsong.” I have now just listened to a CD of his newest novel, “Benediction” (Knopf, 2013; Books On Tape, 2013) and was quietly bowled over all over again. Both novels are set in a small town in Colorado, not in the mountains but in the flat lands. Both tell quiet stories of everyday life, of family, of community, of life and death and connection and integrity. Both stories are told simply, with little description, little explanation. Their very simplicity is what makes them so lovely, so graceful, and so real. The main focus of "Benediction" is the dying of hardware store owner Dad Lewis, and his loving wife Mary's and daughter Lorraine’s taking care of him at home in his last weeks. Neighbors, friends, employees, and a minister all support the family as they go through these last days. Dad is a good man, a man of integrity, but has not been able to understand his family and others as well as he now wishes he had; he now realizes he has been too rigid and judgmental to some people in his life. He has regrets about this, most especially about his estrangement from his son Frank, who is gay, and who escaped his family and small town years ago. There are a couple of other stories in the novel, all intertwined with the main story. But the plot is not really the main point here. The novel gives us a close-up experience of circumscribed but sturdy lives in a small town. We also realize that “circumscribed” is all relative: Dad at one point reflects that for him, getting off his family’s farm in Kansas as a young man and making a life for himself in a small town in Colorado was an opening up of his world. Small town people, and small town life, are not idealized here, and in some cases there is a sad intolerance of difference. But there is also a sense of people knowing how to keep going, one foot in front of the other, and to care about and take care of each other. We feel we know the characters, and admire them, despite their imperfections. And yes, there is a sense of “benediction” bestowed in and by this quiet, beautiful novel. I highly recommend it.