"Still Life with Bread Crumbs," by Anna Quindlen

Anna Quindlen’s novels are always intelligent, moving, and entertaining. Some might say they “go down easy” and that is probably a fair characterization, but belies what a gift it is to be able to write fiction of that quality. Quindlen never disappoints, and I for one have read, and will read, whatever she writes. Her latest (2014) novel is “Still Life with Bread Crumbs” and I happily listened to it on CD in my car over a couple of recent weeks. I love the heroine of this novel, artist Rebecca Winter. I love that she is 60ish, and torn between feeling, on the one hand, very vital and, on the other hand, feeling over the hill, both in her art (photography) and in her personal life. She is worried about money, especially since she supports, in varying degrees, her elderly mother and father as well as her young son. To save money, she rents out her New York City apartment and takes a one year lease on a cabin in the woods a couple of hours away from the city. The cabin turns out to be less than ideal, but gradually Rebecca makes a life for herself there. She finds important objects to photograph, meets quirky local residents, develops a relationship with a new man, survives getting snowed in for several days, and acquires a dog. Various events complicate matters, of course. I won’t tell you the ending, but let’s say that she has some satisfying (for her, and for us readers) new success in both her professional and personal life.

"Leap Year," by Peter Cameron

Reading Peter Cameron’s novel “Leap Year” (Harper & Row, 1990) reminded me of the question of whether to read earlier fiction by an author you have just read for the first time and enjoyed. If you are fortunate, you will read all her/his earlier fiction and enjoy and appreciate it all. But in some cases, you will find that – not unnaturally – the earlier fiction is weaker, less developed, than the recent novel you are so taken with. This latter is basically what just happened to me with “Leap Year.” I had been thrilled to “discover” Peter Cameron through his stunning 2012 novel “Coral Glynn” (which I posted about here on 5/1/12), and then looked for and read his 2006 novel, “The City of My Final Destination,” which I also liked very much, although a little less than “Coral Glynn,” and posted about on 5/19/12. Recently I ran across and picked up “Leap Year,” written 20-plus years earlier than “Coral Glynn,” and found it entertaining but rather glib, with far less depth and maturity than the later novel. “Leap Year," Cameron’s first novel, is the story of a group of friends in New York City in the 1980s. There is much about love, sex, family, life changes, careers, occasional violence, and the city of New York itself. I definitely kept reading with some interest, but it is not a novel I will long remember. So to go back to my question of whether to read earlier fiction by a writer you have just discovered: I have no definitive answer, but I suggest at least checking out the writer’s earlier work, through reviews or browsing. I know I am not able to resist doing so.

"Bark," by Lorrie Moore

Many readers, I among them, have been waiting for a new collection of short stories from the well respected writer Lorrie Moore, and now it has arrived; it was worth the wait. “Bark” (Knopf, 2014) contains eight stories, each a small marvel. Moore understands human nature well, and conveys the strangeness, sadness, and humor of life, somehow all intertwined; her tone is acerbic yet humane, and quite wonderful. She writes about love, marriage, divorce, children, family, jobs, and death. She uncovers her characters’ weaknesses and fear, making readers understand and feel for these sometimes odd but very relatable people. There are real events in the background: 9/11, the Iraq war, and more. But the stories are character-driven, which I appreciate. Stepping back from writing about this particular collection, I want to note that although I am a great fan of short stories, it is much harder (for me, at least) to “review”/comment on a collection of short stories than to review a novel. It is hard to convey the same sense of specificity. But I do want to convey that this is a strong and compelling collection.

In Memory of C.

Today I write in memory of my very dear friend and fellow booklover C., who died on this day three years ago. C. and I met in graduate school, and although after that we always lived in different cities, and even different countries during two different stretches of time, we always visited back and forth, called, wrote, and emailed. And we always, always talked about books. We exchanged book recommendations, opinions about recent books, and -- occasionally -- worries about the direction of contemporary fiction. Whenever we were in the same city for a visit, we went to bookstores. Our friendship had many strands, but this one -- our mutual love of books -- was one of the strongest ones. C. read more than anyone else I know or knew. She had impeccable taste, and read widely and deeply. For example, she had lived in and had a deep love for Japan, and read extensively about Japan and Japanese literature, especially haiku. We did not always agree about specific authors or books, although far more often we did. When one of us discovered a “new,” to us, author, we eagerly told the other about that writer, sometimes sending a copy of a favorite book to the other. Some of our mutual favorite writers were Carol Shields, Penelope Lively, Diana Athill, and William Trevor, among many, many others. C. was also -- and this meant a lot to me -- a staunch supporter of this book blog, and at my request, even contributed two guest blogposts (10/17/10 and 10/18/10). Here I write about her booklover side, but I want to add that she was a wonderful person in so many ways: successful in her professional career; immersed in art and music and theater; extremely well traveled; generous and kind; and most of all, caring and fiercely loyal to her family and friends. I wrote here about her on 2/16/10 and on 4/29/11. We had known each other for almost 40 years when she died. I miss her very much.

"Alena," by Rachel Pastan

On 3/8/14, I wrote about how I re-read (and very much enjoyed) the classic novel “Rebecca” because I was planning to read a new novel that is an homage to that classic. I have now read that novel, “Alena” (Riverhead, 2014), by Rachel Pastan, and I am so glad I read the two novels one right after the other. The immediate comparison allowed me to see and appreciate the way “Alena” manages to match many plot points and characters from “Rebecca,” but not too slavishly; the two are clearly very separate novels. To begin with, they take place 75 years apart; “Rebecca” was written in 1938 and “Alena” is a contemporary novel. There are many other differences, but the similarities are fascinating. In fact, “Alena” would stand up well on its own, even for readers who don’t know “Rebecca,” but those readers would miss the enjoyment of making the connections. There is the nameless young heroine who is swept up by the older man, but in this case she is hired as a curator to a small museum rather than acquired as a wife (and the museum owner is gay, so there is no question of romance). The narrator of “Rebecca” feels her dead predecessor (as Maxim de Winter’s wife) Rebecca’s presence everywhere; the narrator of “Alena” feels her dead predecessor (as curator of the museum) Alena's presence everywhere. Both of the dead women had overpowering and slightly dangerous (in retrospect) personalities. In both cases there is a sinister friend of the dead woman – Mrs. Danvers in “Rebecca” and Agnes in “Alena” – for the new young woman to contend with. Each novel has a central mystery: how did the woman of the book’s title die? And each novel is suffused with a sense of dread and uncertainty. There are many other points in common, all executed very cleverly by author Rachel Pastan. I enjoyed reading “Alena” both for its echoes of “Rebecca” and for its own sake. In fact, I must add that “Alena” is better written than “Rebecca” was.

"Half the Kingdom," by Lore Segal

I have such contradictory feelings about Lore Segal’s recent short novel, “Half the Kingdom” (Melville House, 2013) that I hardly know where to begin. On 7/22/13, I wrote here about my admiration for her 2007 novel “Shakespeare’s Kitchen.” One of the main characters in “Half the Kingdom” – Joe Bernstine – was also a main character in “Shakespeare’s Kitchen”; a few other characters have also appeared in her earlier novels. So, the contradictions in my feelings: This current novel is short, fragmentary, constantly interrupts itself, and often feels frustrating and unsatisfying to read. On the other hand, Segal compellingly describes the world of the emergency room at a large New York City hospital, a chaotic world that seems to represent life in the 21st century and especially life as it is for the aging. The premise is that all patients over 62 arriving at the emergency room start “going around the bend,” in an epidemic of what one doctor terms “copycat Alzheimer’s.” Joe Bernstine, the retired director of the Concordance Institute (the site of the earlier novel “Shakespeare’s Kitchen”) is conducting a sort of unofficial, semi-secret, slightly mad research project investigating this epidemic. He enlists some of his relatives and friends to do undercover research, but they themselves, or at least those over 62 themselves, get caught up in the drama when they pose as patients, leading to questions about the thin line between the investigators and the investigated. There is a certain Kafkaesque quality to the story, and the novel itself quotes Kafka. Yet there is also much justified questioning and wisdom about the state of medicine, of the country (including references to Abu Gharib), strained family relationships, and most of all, the state of life for aging people. (I must say, though, that the thought of counting those 62 years of age as “aging” doesn’t sit well with me! But this is perhaps in fact how the world looks at those of this age or older. And it is important, as I have written here before, to have more fiction illuminating the lives of older characters.) The novel has been described as “darkly comic” and I suppose that is a good description; there is definitely humor and there is definitely darkness. At times it seems the humor overtakes the darkness, perhaps because it would be too depressing for readers otherwise. In any case, I still admire this wonderful writer, Lore Segal, but I am also not quite sure what to make of this quirky, hard-to-classify, irritating, thought-provoking novel, “Half the Kingdom.”

On Taking the BBC Book Quiz

Several of my Facebook friends have posted BBC's quiz on how many books one has read from its 100-item list. Well, naturally I could not resist this challenge. And I did quite well, with a score of 78. But I found myself feeling a little miffed that, given what an obsessive reader I am, my English major background, and the many years I have been reading, my score was not still higher. The reason I give myself for this is that some of the books on the list, despite BBC's imprimatur, are not classics, and are not even highly esteemed by critics and reviewers; they are popular but not necessarily of high literary quality. Of the 22 books I hadn't read, I would say half of them were books that I have never wanted to read, or thought important to read. I realize this may sound judgmental and/or defensive, but I wish the list were more consistent. I have to remind myself that, like so much on the Internet, this list is fallible and subjective, probably made up on the spur of the moment, and does not claim to be the definitive list of the best books of all time. I also remind myself to quash the competitive part of me that wants to have the best score in this area, an area where I do think of myself as strong: being well-read. So, dear readers, please forgive the self-indulgence of this post -- my true confession for the day!

"Clever Girl," by Tessa Hadley

How I admire and savor the ultra-competent, beautifully etched writing of certain contemporary English and Irish women writers. Their writing is cool and controlled, yet somehow gets at the essence of both daily life and the larger themes in life. These writers include Anne Enright, Penelope Lively, and Emma Donoghue (now living in Canada), among others. And Tessa Hadley! Hadley’s books include the novels “Accidents in the Home,” “The Master Bedroom,” and “The London Train,” as well as the story collection “Married Love,” all of which I have read, enjoyed, and stood slightly in awe of. Hadley also often publishes stories in The New Yorker. I have just finished reading her new novel, “Clever Girl” (Harper, 2013), and it is as good as her earlier work, maybe better. It tells the story of one young woman growing up in England in the late 1950s and onward. The novel provides snapshots of Stella’s life at various critical points. She lives, she loves, she aspires, she struggles, she works, she tries alternative lifestyles, she has children, she loses loved ones to flight or death, she goes through crises and self-doubt, and she settles into her life. She, like so many young women, plans to live a life very different from and much more exciting than her mother’s, yet somehow ends up reproducing many aspects of that life. But she does so with her own twists and turns, and her participation in her own time in history. In a sense there is nothing unusual about her life, but that is the point, I think. Each of us is, like Stella, both ordinary and extraordinary. Hadley perfectly captures this woman’s thoughts, feelings, and experiences, as well as the changes in England during the second half of the 20th century. Her writing is impeccable. Part of the pleasure of reading Hadley is knowing you are in such good hands that you can trust her wherever she goes in her writing.

"The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles," by Katherine Pancol

Three of the back cover blurbs of the French novel “The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles” use the word “delicious.” One says the novel is “delicious, tender, funny, heartwarming”; another describes it as a “delicious treat”; the third calls it “a satisfying Cinderella story… Delicious!” No, this novel by Katherine Pancol (Penguin, 2013, originally published in French 2006) is not, as so many novels these days are, about food, menus, meals, cooking. The word “delicious” here indicates a sort of light, enjoyable read. To further quote the blurbs: The author is “France’s most irresistible writer”; “There is a gorgeous and invigorating zip and sparkle to the writing”; and it is “touching, entertaining, and vibrant.” I don’t usually quote blurbs in my posts, but I think these give you the flavor (no pun intended) of this novel. Despite those blurbs, there is a bit of a serious side to the novel (only a bit): One theme is family dynamics and their sometimes difficult aspects. The main plot line is that the central character, Josephine, a scholar whose marriage has recently broken up, agrees to her richer sister Iris’ proposal that Josephine write a novel about the 12th Century (her field of research); Josephine will receive the profits but Iris’s name will be on the novel and she will receive the credit. This in fact happens, but Josephine eventually regrets the arrangement. And of course it is harder to keep this secret than Iris initially thinks. Meanwhile there are several other plot strands, some highly unlikely, involving the sisters’ mother, stepfather, husbands, lovers, children, and friends. The writing (in this translated version, and I assume in the original French) is fine, and the novel is structured well and moves along briskly. There is always something new happening at every turn. Many of the characters are outlined in too-broad strokes, and many are not particularly likable, but that is OK. Overall “The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles” is a fluffy confection well executed, and thus a good read.

"Rebecca," by Daphne du Maurier

Oh, Rebecca! What a hold you have on our imaginations! I last read the huge bestseller suspense/romance/slightly gothic novel “Rebecca” (Doubleday, 1938), by the romantically named English author (and it is her real name) Daphne du Maurier, perhaps 40 years ago. There was also a classic, very popular movie, directed by Hitchcock, based on the novel. Recently, reviews of a new novel (“Alena,” by Rachel Pastan) loosely based on “Rebecca,” prompted me to re-read the original. (I plan to read the new novel too, and will likely post on it here as well.) This classic novel holds up quite well. Granted, the level of suspense and goth-ness seems tame by today’s standards (but that is fine with me!). And true, the novel is consistently overwritten. For example, there are far too many portentous hints of terrible events to come, foreboding sentences such as (I paraphrase these here from many examples) “I felt a chill, as if something terrible was about to happen,” or “I knew then that nothing would ever be the same after this.” It is also overwritten in terms of its frequent redundant sentences and phrases, such as (again, paraphrased) “I felt all alone, as if I were the only one in the world; no one else was there for me; no one would help me; maybe no one ever would.” But despite these faults, this novel is still compelling, even gripping, and I truly enjoyed re-reading it. The nameless narrator, the pretty but shy and a bit mousy second wife of Maxim de Winter, goes to his magnificent country home/estate, Manderley, after their marriage, and finds that the ghostly presence of his first wife, Rebecca, pervades the house and surroundings. There are many mysterious events and cryptic comments, and the narrator feels she cannot escape the shadow of her beautiful and apparently perfect predecessor. One false but perhaps necessary note is that the narrator is amazingly dense about putting together the various clues about Rebecca’s true character and about the events of her life and death. Mostly this new young wife is intimidated and even, at one point, close to a mental breakdown. The evil housekeeper, Mrs. Danvers, who was a fierce supporter of Rebecca, seems intent on destroying the second wife. But when her husband encounters difficulties, the new Mrs. de Winter seems to mature and gain in confidence; she becomes strong on his behalf. To say much more would be to spoil the suspense of the novel. I am glad that I re-read this classic novel of romance and suspense, one that has influenced generations of other writers and filmmakers.

"My Life in Middlemarch," by Rebecca Mead

Not to sound like a fangirl, because this is a serious feeling about a serious book, but…I love, love, love this book! In “My Life in Middlemarch” (Crown, 2014), Rebecca Mead writes about her lifelong connection to, guidance by, and love of the incomparable George Eliot novel. Many have called “Middlemarch” the greatest novel in English, and Virginia Woolf famously stated that it was “one of the few English books written for grown-up people.” Mead’s book is a blend of biography (of Eliot); analysis of “Middlemarch,” its settings and characters and themes; and description of the ways in which the novel has spoken to her and even intersected with events of her life over the years. Mead writes on the critical role that great novels can play in readers’ lives, as “Middlemarch” has played in hers. She states that reading is “an urgent, crucial dimension of life itself. There are books that comprehend us as much as we understand them…There are books that grow with the reader as the reader grows….This kind of book becomes part of our own experience….” (p. 16). This quotation illustrates Mead’s belief, which I share, that different readings of a great novel at different stages of one’s life provide different experiences, different understandings. Just for one small example: of course Mead identifies with Dorothea Brooke, but she also focuses on how, on later readings of "Middlemarch" in later life, she realizes the strength and importance of Mary’s and Fred’s romance and marriage. She even shows some sympathy for Mr. Casaubon. And speaking of marriage, Mead believes that this novel is one of the most brilliantly insightful ones on the topic of marriage and its inner workings. When researching this book (and it was intensive research), Mead, an American writer originally from England herself, travels to places Eliot lived and wrote, and reads documents in various archives in England and in the U.S. She is in awe as she looks at and touches Eliot’s original manuscripts, in Eliot’s own handwriting, as well as letters to, from, and about the great novelist. Mead is a thoughtful, engaging writer, and I found her book highly informative, original, and compelling. I too love and admire “Middlemarch,” I have read it several times over the years, and I have written about it here and elsewhere. But Mead showed me new aspects of Eliot’s, and the novel’s, greatness and humanity.

"That Part Was True," by Deborah McKinlay

Some of the ingredients of the novel “That Part Was True” (Grand Central Publishing, 2014), by Deborah McKinlay, are awfully familiar. It is epistolary: an American writer, Jackson Cooper, and a British fan, Eve Petworth, carry on a correspondence across the ocean. They each find solace in the correspondence and their growing knowledge of each other’s lives. They also share a love of food and cooking, and they exchange recipes, often those with sentimental associations such as “my grandmother’s recipe for…”. (Novels with food themes are popular these days.) A positive point is that the characters are “grown-ups,” in their forties. Between them they have various issues with family members, significant others, illness, anxiety, writer’s block, and more. There is some desultory discussion of their possibly meeting in Paris, with a hint of mystery about whether their epistolary friendship could turn into romance; I won’t reveal whether the meeting or the romance happen. The novel has a somewhat ambiguous surprise ending. This slim novel, as I have indicated, draws a little too heavily on some rather tired topics and approaches; nevertheless, it is written with a light touch, and is an enjoyable, not too taxing read.