My New Book: "Growing up with God and Empire"

I am happy to announce that my new book from Multilingual Matters, "Growing Up with God and Empire: A Postcolonial Analysis of 'Missionary Kid' Memoirs," was published this month. The book provides historical, political, and religious contexts for missionary work, and then analyzes 42 memoirs of now-adult North American missionary kids who lived in various countries over various time periods, mostly mid-20th century. I look at colonial-related themes such as portrayals of the "exotic," language learning, treatment of local people, schooling, race, social class, and gender. Abundant salient/illustrative/revealing excerpts from the memoirs are included. I end with a “Personal Epilogue” describing some of the issues and struggles I had while writing this book, some of which were to do with re-examining my own missionary kid background (many years ago), balancing my academic and personal roles in writing the book, and trying to be fair in portraying missionary work regarding both the good that missionaries and missions did and the sometimes negative colonial aspects of their work. Writing this book involved much (fascinating!) research and hard work, and at the same time was very engaging and meaningful to me, even emotional at times, as it brought together my own missionary kid background, my scholarly interests, and my love of memoir. I am also pleased that I have provided a glimpse into the under-examined lives of missionary kids and their place in the missionary enterprise and the colonial project. I want to express here my profound thanks to my colleagues and friends who were so supportive as I wrote this book, to the terrific editors at Multilingual Matters, and most of all to my missionary parents and missionary kid brothers. I also deeply thank those scholars who wrote the generous reviews/endorsements listed in the Multilingual Matters catalog (see link below). More detailed information is available at http://www.multilingual-matters.com/display.asp?K=9781788922326

"My Year of Rest and Relaxation," by Otessa Moshfegh

Otessa Moshfegh’s recent novel, “My Year of Rest and Relaxation” (Penguin, 2018), has been getting critical praise and much attention, with words like “profound” being tossed about. For a while, I resisted reading it because the descriptions in the reviews sounded oppressive. But I finally decided to go ahead and see what all the fuss was about. I perhaps should have trusted my original instincts. I found the book – and the main character (who is also the narrator) – annoying and depressing. This young woman, who comes from a privileged but emotionally-starved family, decides to leave her lackluster art gallery job, along with most of her life and friends, and “hibernate” in her apartment in Manhattan, as a rather uncertainly-conceived effort to heal herself from her sadness, depression, alienation and anomie. Most conveniently, she has an inheritance that allows her to do so. She sets out to sleep as much as possible, and to help in this goal, she finds an eccentric and highly unprofessional psychiatrist who freely dispenses all sorts of pills to her in large quantities with multiple refills: anti-depressants, anti-anxiety pills, sleeping pills, and much more. Both of her parents -- by whom she was emotionally neglected -- have died, and she seems to have very few human connections. One connection is occasional get-togethers with her longtime on-again-off-again “boyfriend” (of sorts), although they see each other rarely and have an unhealthy relationship, to say the least; Trevor is a successful Wall Street type, about ten years older than she is, and truly uncaring and obnoxious. The other main connection is with her college friend, Reva, who is both intrusive and needy, but on some level caring, and whom our main character treats rather badly. Aside from these two people, she mainly only sees her psychiatrist, her doorman, the owners of the local bodega, and the pharmacists at the Rite-Aid where she fills her numerous prescriptions. I do feel sorry for this young woman, but it is also hard not to be put off by her sense of casual entitlement and the by the way she treats everyone in her life. Although the novel is fairly short, one which I would usually devour in a few hours, I found myself reading a little bit and then setting it aside for a few hours or days before returning to it. I did finish it, and I sort of “get” the book, but I was mostly annoyed by it.

"A Cloud in the Shape of a Girl," by Jean Thompson

“A Cloud in the Shape of a Girl” (Simon and Schuster, 2018) is exactly the kind of novel I am so often drawn to: a multigenerational family saga, focusing mainly on the lives of the women characters, written with attention to the details of relationships among the characters and of everyday life. In addition, its author is Jean Thompson, whose novels and short stories I have enjoyed and admired in the past. Actually, I admired her earlier fiction, but somewhat “went off” her work when I read her last two novels before this one (“The Humanity Project” and “She Poured out her Heart”); “A Cloud…” brought me back to the characteristics of Thompson’s fiction that made me like it so much. A major theme in the novel is that of what a woman’s life is meant to be. Evelyn, of the oldest generation, wanted to work and to “be someone” in the world, but became caught up in being a wife and mother, and was not able to achieve her dreams. Her daughter Laura, on the other hand, wanted most of all to be a wife and mother, even though her marriage turned out to be unhappy, and her children were disappointing in different ways. Her daughter Grace seemed to need to get away from her and the family; her son Michael became addicted to drugs and a series of rehab efforts were mostly ineffective. Despite all these issues, there was definitely love in this family, if not always well expressed. The story goes back and forth among various time periods, and we the readers gradually see connections that were not immediately evident. A sort of subtheme is the question of where “home” is, and what it means. The novel is set in a small Midwestern college town, which is both nurturing and, to some characters, stifling. Two family homes are also important “characters” in this novel. There is much to like in this novel, much to think about. Although it doesn’t feel terrifically original, what it does, it does well. And who am I to question Thompson’s expert and engaging use of this “formula,” when, as I said at the beginning of this post, this is one of the types of novels I most like and savor.

Reading to my Grandson

One of my very favorite memories of my daughter’s childhood is of reading to her. I loved to buy her books (in independent bookstores, of course!) and take books from the library for her. We would go to library storytimes, or simply to browse in bookstores. But best of all were the cozy times of reading to her. And now my daughter has a son who is almost a year old, and I have started reading to him occasionally. He doesn’t quite “get” the idea of reading yet, of course, and his immediate interest is to put the book in his mouth and chew on the corners (thank goodness for board books!). I have a couple of techniques for the situation: one is to read to him while he is in his crib, so he can’t grab the book, and another is to give him one book to chew while I read from another. I show him the pictures, and read exaggeratedly, almost singing sometimes, and he seems to like that. I can’t wait for him to understand more language and to understand the idea of books and reading, but in the meantime I am having fun helping with the process of acquainting him with books and reading. My daughter and her husband of course read to him, but my daughter encourages my reading to him as well. (She knows how much I love it.) I have saved a few of her childhood books (I long ago gave most of them away to family, friends, and her former preschool, but kept a few favorites) and it is fun, and nostalgic, to bring those out to read to her little boy now. And, as you can imagine, I am now browsing and buying in the children’s sections of my favorite bookstores again, after all these years. What a joy it is to read to this new adored child in my life, and to contemplate more reading to and with him in the next few years!

"His Favorites," by Kate Walbert

This book made me sick. Almost literally. I picked up “His Favorites” (Scribner, 2018) because it is by the wonderful Kate Walbert, author of, among other novels, the beautifully written and compelling “A Short History of Women” (see my post of 6/13/12) and the equally terrific “The Gardens of Kyoto” (see my post of 7/13/13). “His Favorites” too is well written, but the subject matter just made acid rise in my throat. In order to explain, I need to write what is a spoiler, so if anyone is about to read the book, perhaps you don’t want to read further. There is a sad accident at the beginning of the book, and the reader thinks that is the main focus. But after the accident, the teenaged girl who caused it goes away to an elite boarding school, and then the real story becomes evident, and the meaning of the title becomes evident as well. It is the classic story of a charming male in his thirties who first grooms and then seduces a teenaged girl (not the first young student he has seduced and abused). In this case, he is a teacher – the kind of teacher who is good-looking, intriguing, attentive, poetic, and with whom many of the girls are a little in love, which he encourages. As the main story became clear to me, I almost stopped reading. This kind of story is so much in the news these days (but has existed forever) and is, as I said in my first sentence, sickening. I applaud the author for writing a convincing version of this all-too-common story, and I know we need to know more about the epidemic of sexual abuse, read about it, talk about it, do something about it. In this MeToo moment, there is a little bit of hope for change. But there are also so many related matters in the news and about our national political leaders (see the recent Kavanaugh-for-Supreme-Court-justice hearings in the United States, for a major example) that one feels discouraged all over again. Because I trusted the author, I continued reading. I respect the author and the book, but I hated reading it.

"We All Love the Beautiful Girls," by Joanne Proulx

I mentioned (11/11/18) partly choosing to read the novel “A Hundred Small Lessons” because it was set in Brisbane, Australia, a city that I visited a few years ago. Similarly, I picked up Joanne Proulx’s novel “We All Love the Beautiful Girls” (Grand Central, 2017) partly because the story takes place in Ottawa, Canada, which I visited a few months ago for (despite my Canadian heritage) the first time. I soon became caught up in this story of pain, anger, revenge, disconnection, as well as love, connection, reconnection, and a modicum of redemption. At the beginning of the story (very early, so the following are not spoilers), the Slate family suffers two terrible losses. One is financial: Michael discovers that his business partner and close friend Peter, whom he has always trusted absolutely, has stolen his share of the business, and therefore his and Mia’s life savings. Then, even worse, their teenaged son Finn passes out in the snow after too much (uncharacteristic) indulgence in alcohol and drugs at his friend Eli’s house; he lives, but suffers physical health consequences. The Slate family is closely entwined with two families – Peter’s and Eli’s – and feels doubly betrayed by these families, with an exception for one member of Peter’s family: his daughter Frankie. Each of the family members – Michael, Mia, and Finn – responds to these twin catastrophes in different ways, some of them far from healthy. There is anger, there is vandalism, there is acting out – all understandable, but verging on dangerous, and none of it promotes healing. What does help, ultimately, is the surviving connections among some family members, notably between Finn and Frankie (Peter’s daughter) and between Mia and Helen (Peter’s wife). Despite all the painful events and feelings, the story keeps the reader engaged and, despite everything, a little bit hopeful. The hope is not a sentimental, kumbaya type, but rather a tentative, hard-earned version. Still, that is something.

Libraries!

There seems to have been a spate of books and articles about libraries lately. As readers of this blog know, I am a great admirer and lover of libraries (as you very probably are as well), so I am always happy to see tributes to libraries, information about libraries, pictures of libraries, and basically anything related to libraries. A book which is getting a lot of attention right now is Susan Orlean’s “The Library Book.” I haven’t read it yet, but I have read several reviews, and it is on my list to read. Also, the New York Times Book Review recently (10/21/18) had a two-page spread titled “In Praise of Libraries: More Than a Room Full of Books,” in which the editors asked several authors to write about a childhood library or other favorite library. The authors include Barbara Kingsolver, Curtis Sittenfeld, Amy Tan, and several others. Every one of them speaks with love and reverence of favorite libraries. The titles to their individual short pieces include “My Temple,” “If There’s a Heaven, It’s a Library,” and “Free Meant Freedom.” In several instances, one feels the authors believe that libraries saved their lives, and helped them become writers. I of course found this collection of short encomia to libraries very reasonable, and a great joy to read. A few days ago a friend posted on Facebook a photo of the gorgeous and historic British Museum Reading Room, and later I saw, also on Facebook, a photo of the great reading room of the University of Washington Library. Within a couple of days, there were all these – and more -- instances of references to, writing about, and photos of libraries, and it reminded me, once again, what precious and important and essential places libraries are, and how meaningful various libraries have -- individually and collectively -- been to me personally. Special thanks to my university library and to my beautiful local library!

"A Hundred Small Lessons," by Ashley Hay

To be honest, when reading a review of Ashley Hay's novel “A Hundred Small Lessons” (Atria, 2017), the thing that initially caught my attention was that it takes place in Brisbane, Australia. I went to Brisbane for a conference in 2014, and found it quite enchanting, with its beautiful river running through it, and its ferries and boats traversing and traveling the river. I still remember a lovely ride with my friend C. down the river on a ferry on a sparkling summer day. I don’t think I have read another novel set in Brisbane. But I was also intrigued by the novel’s story of two women who lived in the same house at different times. Lucy Kiss and her husband and baby move into a house that was recently vacated by Elsie, who is widowed, has become old and forgetful, and has moved into a nearby nursing home. Although they never meet, each is aware of the other, even seeing glimpses of the other, and each feels connected to the other. Certain secrets in the house connect the two. In fact, the house itself becomes a character, with its mysterious sounds, an attic with boxes of photographs, and more. I don’t mean these are supernatural or anything that cannot be explained, but the house has a feeling, an atmosphere, infused with the lives of its occupants past and present. The larger theme of the novel is that we all have, or can imagine having, other versions of our life that we could have lived. For women, often these possible versions have to do with choosing between, or trying to balance, work and adventure, on the one hand, and child-raising and domesticity, on the other. Elsie, for example, was content to be a stay-at-home wife and mother, whereas her daughter Elaine felt trapped when she followed in her mother’s path. Lucy feels torn as well. Lucy also imagines that there are other Lucys, other versions of herself, out there in the world or even nearby. There are impressions of spirits, of ghosts. There are intersections among lives, including when a former boyfriend of Lucy’s shows up and her husband becomes uneasy about the visit, because it reminds him that Lucy could have chosen another life. I like the layers of this novel, the connections, the reminders of what could have been, and of what might still be.

"The Victorian and the Romantic," by Nell Stevens

“The Victorian and the Romantic” (Doubleday, 2018), by Nell Stevens, is my kind of book! Its subtitle is “A Memoir, a Love Story, and a Friendship across Time,” and it is all of that. The author is a writer writing about a famous writer (Elizabeth Gaskell) who writes a famous biography of another, even more famous, writer: Charlotte Bronte. Gaskell and Bronte are two of my favorite writers, so of course I was drawn to this book. But I was both interested and hesitant, as I have been disappointed by some (but definitely not all) other books of this genre – books about the connections between a current writer and a writer from the past. This one comes through grandly, with much information about Gaskell, focused on her brief time in Rome, where she met her great soulmate, the American writer Charles Eliot Norton, who was seventeen years younger than she was. Gaskell was respectably if not particularly happily married, with four daughters, and there was never an explicitly sexual or romantic relationship between her and Norton, but she did consider him her great love. About half of the book is about Gaskell, and the other half about Stevens; we are given alternating chapters about the two. Part of Stevens’ story is about her PhD research on Gaskell; the other part is about her tumultuous, on again/off again relationship with her own soulmate, Max, a fellow writer. She seems to be very candid about the relationship and about her strong feelings of love and also of grief when the two are apart, geographically or otherwise. However, in her acknowledgments section, she includes this line: “To the man who is like and not like Max in this story…”, leaving this reader wondering how much was true and how much not. I have read enough memoirs to know that there is an element of subjectivity and selectivity in most memoirs, and that often certain disguises occur to save the feelings of those being described, so this acknowledgment is not shocking, but I still found it somewhat disconcerting. Finally, though, the point of the book is not the exact literal truth of any event, either in Gaskell’s life (which is somewhat fictionalized by Stevens) or Stevens’ own life, but in the emotional truths, and in the connections between the two writers (three, if you count Bronte).

"There There," by Tommy Orange

I was initially drawn to the novel “There There” (Knopf, 2018), by Tommy Orange, because it takes place in Oakland (across the bay from San Francisco) and it is about urban Native Americans, whereas most fiction about Native Americans seems to take place on or near reservations. The title of course contains an allusion to Gertrude Stein's famous saying about there being "no there there" in Oakland, but I understand that the author had other references to songs and other sources as well when he chose the title. The novel consists of interlocking stories about various characters, and the stories are often sad and grim, although extraordinary love and support are also evident. The word “searing” is sometimes used -- perhaps overused -- about books, but in the case of this book, it is justified. All the history of the past, of the invasion of Europeans who took over the Native American lands and murdered so many people, and continued to squelch their culture and languages, separate them from their children, and deeply discriminate against them, is very much still felt in the present. The resulting poverty, violence, alcoholism, and disease are still prevalent and heartbreaking, and the author does not spare his readers in exposing these factors of Native American life. Yet pride survives, and the culture survives, although just barely in many cases. The twelve main characters – young and old, male and female, from Oakland or from elsewhere, work their way toward the culminating event of the Big Oakland Powwow. It is to be an exciting time, a validating time, a spiritual time, a cultural summit, a community-building and pride-building time. I won’t give away the ending, but it is much more complex than expected, and devastating. This author and novel have gotten a lot of attention, deservedly so, for so wrenchingly immersing the reader in a world in America's midst but not at all well known by those not in the community. This is a truly original and compelling novel.

Terry Gross on "This is Us"

This post is only tangentially related to books and reading, but you will see the connection. A few days ago, I was watching the excellent television show “This is Us.” One lead character, Kevin, is an actor, and after many ups and downs in his career, he stars in a hugely successful film. He is discussing his sudden fame with his family, and casually mentions that his publicist has scheduled an interview for him with some guy named Terry Gross. Another character gasps and fills Kevin in on who Terry Gross is: the famed interviewer on the famed NPR radio show, “Fresh Air.” And Terry is a woman, not a man. The next scene shows that interview, with the real Terry Gross. The heart of this blogger, a big fan of Fresh Air (see my posts of 3/2/10 and 2/18/16), pitter-pattered a bit to SEE on the screen the actual Terry Gross, after years of hearing her on the radio, and seeing only a photo or two during those years. Gross often interviews authors, among the other types of guests she has on the show; I like pretty much all her interviews, but of course author interviews are my favorites. So here she was on “This is Us,” with her so-familiar voice but her much less familiar physical appearance, looking more or less as I expected, but somehow still a surprise. Her interview of Kevin on the show was as insightful as always, as she drew him out in a thoughtful, uncannily right-on, but never too intrusive way. What a treat that episode of “This is Us” was, and all the more so for the unexpectedness of one of my heroines,Terry Gross, popping up in the middle of it!

"Calypso," by David Sedaris

Author and humorist David Sedaris’ hugely successful work is characterized by his wry tone, his seeming extreme candidness, the unexpected nature of some of the twists and turns in his writing, and – what I noticed more than ever when I read “Calypso” (Little, Brown, 2018) – his devotion to his family. His parents and his five siblings, as well as his partner Hugh, are all major characters in this new book, as well as in his other work. He writes touchingly (but always with a note of humor) about how much it means to him to have his family as the water he swims in, and of how they are always there for him, despite disagreements and even sometimes temporary estrangements. Sedaris and Hugh live in the countryside in England, but also have a beach house in North Carolina, where he is from, mainly so they can gather family members there whenever possible. All is not easy in Sedaris family land. The six siblings’ mother died young. Their father is now in his 90s and well loved despite his eccentricities and conservative politics (which are at odds with those of his children). The saddest family matter is the mental illness, lifelong problems, and recent suicide of their sister Tiffany. In a recent Fresh Air interview with Sedaris, a sentence that broke this reader’s heart was that Sedaris’ mother never really liked Tiffany. Sedaris himself cut off communication with her for many years, partly because he felt helpless, despite many efforts, to do anything about her sad and difficult situation. Other themes in this book of essay-like chapters include anything from the whimsical to the serious. Sedaris’ book tours, obsession with his Fitbit and the increasing number of miles in his daily walks (picking up trash along the way), love of animals, shopping, health, travel, fights with and quick reconciliations with Hugh, and the family love of stories are among the topics he covers, always with his signature blend of humor and truth. I have said before here that although I like Sedaris’ writing, a little of it goes a long way. Whether because he has gotten better as a writer, or because I have warmed up to his style and topics, I now appreciate, relate to, and enjoy his work more than before.

"Truth and Beauty," by Ann Patchett

Ann Patchett is a highly esteemed and beloved writer, author of such novels as “Bel Canto,” “Run,” and “State of Wonder,” all of which are wonderful. I also recommend her collection of essays, which doubles as a sort of memoir, “This is the Story of a Happy Marriage.” Patchett is also known for the valiant action of opening a bookstore in Nashville a few years ago, in response to -- and despite -- the decline of independent bookstores. I recently picked up an earlier Patchett book that I hadn’t read before, “Truth & Beauty” (HarperCollins, 2004). This book tells the story of the author’s close friendship with a fellow author, Lucy Grealy. Grealy is best known for her memoir, “Autobiography of a Face,” which tells of a life dominated by the ravages of a childhood cancer of the jaw, the many treatments and surgeries she had endured, and her fragile health, as well as her enormous appetite for living life to its fullest. Patchett and Grealy met in college, and later both studied at the famed Iowa Writers’ Workshop. Both authors were successful. But this book focuses on the intensity of the friendship between the two, through thick and thin, no matter what else was going on in their lives. They truly loved each other, and were completely loyal to each other. Patchett never congratulates herself on her loyalty to Grealy, despite her huge and tumultuous personality and her neediness; it is just a given. And because they were so close, she doesn’t just focus on what most other people focused on: Lucy’s deformed face. She writes about both women’s writing, their insecurities, their love affairs, their travels, their nights of drinking and dancing with friends and lovers, and more. Finally, though, both Patchett and we, the readers, have to face the reality of how difficult life was for Lucy Grealy, and of how her difficulties led to some self-destructive behavior. And then Patchett – and we – have to face Grealy’s death. This book is sometimes difficult to read, especially about the worst parts and periods of Lucy’s life, but is also beautifully written and inspiring. Ann Patchett has given us a shining but candid tribute to Grealy, and to the power of friendship.

"Clock Dance," by Anne Tyler

Anne Tyler is one of my favorite writers; I have read almost every novel she has written. I know that, although she is very popular, there are some readers who don’t quite “get” her appeal. Which is fine, of course. But to me she is gifted at portraying the details of daily life, and the accretion of those details over time, and then gradually drawing readers into the larger meanings of those everyday events. If you will forgive my quoting myself, this is what I posted here about one of her more recent novels: “Her novels always seem deceptively plain and straightforward, with little in the way of embellishments, experimentation, or flash. But they are rich with real life, down-to-earth life, the life that we readers can relate to. Her recent novels have tended to feature mature (middle-aged or older) characters), and as a 'mature' person myself, I appreciate this perspective.” The main character in Tyler’s most recent novel, “Clock Dance” (Knopf, 2018), is also an “older” (late middle-aged) female. We read about -- in snapshots, really -- certain influential times in Willa Drake’s life: her mother’s instability, her college years, her first marriage, her being a mother, and her second marriage. Sadly, although she keeps up her spirits and on the surface has a very traditional life, there are large gaps in that life. Both of her husbands are traditional, bossy, and insensitive. Her two sons are not particularly close to her, and as young adults don’t keep in close touch or tell her much about their lives; in fact, when she sees them, they are offhandedly dismissive of her ideas and choices. Suddenly, and this is where the current and main story begins, Willa gets a call about one son’s former girlfriend who, along with her young daughter, need taking care of after the girlfriend’s leg is wounded in a shooting. Willa somehow, uncharacteristically, decides to fly across the country from her retirement home in Arizona to Baltimore, and ends up becoming very fond of the young woman, her daughter, and the neighbors in this tightly knit working class neighborhood. Willa finds purpose in helping out, and finds herself enmeshed in the doings of the neighborhood, which is a true community, albeit with its own odd characters and behaviors. She allows herself to question her current life. I like the way Tyler portrays a woman who has always done the expected thing, and who has always been the caregiver, the one who gives time and energy to others, but now realizes that this way of being is not always good for herself. The scenes in which her husbands casually and with entitlement tell her what to do, scold her, expect her to listen and address their needs, but don’t do the same for her, are masterpieces. Neither of the husbands are bad or even unusually thoughtless men, and she loves them both, but she is never really seen or heard for herself. Her sons in turn treat her with careless affection and minimal attention, when it is convenient; they have unconsciously learned these male roles from their father and from society. (Of course I don’t want to generalize about all men, all husbands, or all sons! But the ones represented here certainly exist, more commonly than we would like to acknowledge.) Tyler never hits us over the head with her interpretations of what life is like for her characters, and for – in recent novels – “older” women, but we gradually absorb her subtle portrayals of what those women’s lives are like, and of the indignities that almost pass unnoticed, until they do become evident, at which time there is a sort of re-evaluation and reckoning.

"No One Tells You This," by Glynnis MacNicol

A common, intensely relevant topic for many women, especially educated women with successful careers that they enjoy and in which they feel fulfilled, is the one of whether and when to get married and/or have children. Glynnis MacNicol’s memoir, “No One Tells You This” (Simon and Schuster, 2018) explores this issue in a very personal way. She does not pronounce on a “right” or “wrong” decision, or try to persuade anyone of anything. She simply shares, in a thoughtful, candid way, her struggle to figure out what it is she really wants, as she turns forty years old. She has had a slightly unorthodox path to her career as a successful writer, she is close to her family of origin, and she is surrounded by a very close and extremely supportive group of friends. She loves living in New York City. But she knows that time is of the essence, at least regarding having children, and she sees that almost all of her friends have married and had children. This memoir doesn’t just dwell on the issue of children, but shows us the author’s very full life, as she travels, works, and spends time with friends and family. She spends quite a bit of time and energy and worry on her family, dealing with her mother’s early onset dementia, her father’s passiveness and history of bad financial decisions, and her sister’s giving birth to a third child just as she splits up with her husband. MacNicol dates and has relationships, but is not happy with the men she meets, especially as prospects for long-term partners. She also teaches herself to take little breaks, even if they are just a night away, or a short river cruise, in order to restore herself from working so hard and from devoting her time and self to her family. Near the end of the book, at a wildly different locale than her usual city life, she visits a dude ranch in Wyoming, which leads to introspection and some decisions. There is a certain amount of (well-earned) handwringing in this book, but little time is spent on feeling sorry for herself. In fact, she often focuses on the happy aspects of her life. I admire the (seeming, at least) candor of the memoir, as well as the very good writing. I am sure almost any woman (and perhaps some men) reading this memoir can connect to it in some ways, no matter which life decisions they themselves have made, or are contemplating making, or will make.

"Robin," by Dave Itzkoff

Like so many people who live in the San Francisco Bay Area, my family had, over the past thirty-plus years, various brushes and contacts and overlaps of friends and classmates and neighbors with the great comic and actor Robin Williams and his family. I absolutely don’t mean to claim any closeness, not at all, but only the kinds of occasional fleeting contacts one has when living in the same neighborhoods, seeing each other on the street, one’s children going to the same schools and socializing in the same circles, seeing each other at local restaurants, etc. I was always a great admirer and fan of Williams, and knew quite a bit of his story already, but I was still very interested in his biography, “Robin” (Gale, 2018) by Dave Itzkoff. It seems to be very thorough, based on many interviews and much research. The prose is perhaps a bit workmanlike, but Williams’ personality, character, career, and story are well presented. The story is such a mixture of joy and sorrow, highs and lows. Robin Williams was such a gifted performer, and loved his family so much. It is true that he had his demons, became addicted to alcohol and drugs, and sometimes didn’t spend the time with his family members that he wanted to. He made some mistakes in his career as well. But everyone who knew him acknowledged his extraordinary talents, and that he was at heart a good man. One thing I wish Itzkoff had written more about was Williams’ many, many contributions to charities, to American soldiers, and to countless friends in need, sick children, and others, very often anonymously or with minimal publicity. The author does mention some of these, but not enough, in my opinion. In any case, I recommend the book “Robin” to anyone interested in Robin Williams and his complicated, unparalleled life and career, cut short too soon by a dreadful disease.

"Cork Dork," by Bianca Bosker

Continuing in the vein of my 8/19/18 post about the chef Eric Ripert’s memoir, I turn to a book -- a sort of memoir -- about learning the world of wine. “Cork Dork” (Penguin, 2017) (clever title!) is well-summarized by its subtitle: “A Wine-Fueled Adventure Among the Obsessive Sommeliers, Big Bottle Hunters, and Rogue Scientists Who Taught Me to Live for Taste.” Author Bianca Bosker is a journalist who decided she wanted to immerse herself in all things related to wine, and she did so in a big way (and with a large measure of obsessiveness herself!). She took classes, joined tasting groups, followed sommeliers around in their fine restaurants, spoke to scientists, studied for wine certification tests, and tasted, tasted, tasted all types of wine. Her base was in New York City, where she lives, but she traveled across the United States (especially to California, home of so many great wines) and to Europe as well. Some sections of the book are rather technical, but Bosker mostly manages to convey information in an interesting way that drew in even this only-mildly-interested-in-wine reader. (I love good food from various cultures, and fine and varied restaurants, and I occasionally drink a glass of wine, but I am not very knowledgeable about it, and don’t have any urge to go to any particular effort to learn more.) It is quite a feat that Bosker makes the book interesting for both the wine enthusiast (e.g., my son-in-law, who read and enjoyed the book) and the reader who is less so (e.g., me). The strength of this book, for the non-wine-fanatic reader, is the stories Bosker tells about her adventures and about the people she meets along the way. She has an eye for the telling detail that brings a story to life. I especially enjoyed the engaging, revealing, and often funny stories that took place in restaurants where the author observed and worked. Like most people, I enjoy the sense of seeing what happens “behind the scenes.” And I definitely learned a lot about wine in the course of reading the book.

"32 Yolks," by Eric Ripert

Eric Ripert, the co-owner of and chef at the famed New York City seafood restaurant Le Bernadin, has written a fascinating and compelling memoir of his life before he arrived in the United States. He is French, and he describes his childhood with candor: both the ways in which he learned about good food and cooking from his mother and other family members and friends, and the ways in which his childhood was difficult because of his parents’ divorce and remarriages. “32 Yolks: From My Mother’s Table to Working the Line” (I love the title!) (co-authored with Veronica Chambers; Random House, 2016) is suffused with Ripert’s love of food and his intense enjoyment of learning about it, preparing it, watching others prepare it, and of course eating it. His mother cooked very special dinners every evening, complete with crisp tablecloths, candles, and flowers. His grandmothers taught and showed him about the importance of fresh ingredients and of taking the time to prepare food well. Despite his difficulties and sadness about feeling somewhat abandoned by each of his parents after they separated and began new relationships, Ripert was fortunate to have several good models and mentors along the way, including some who recognized his interests and gifts early on. Ripert went to culinary school, and then experienced the exciting yet grindingly hard experiences of being a sort of apprentice and then gradually rising up in the hierarchy of the restaurant world. Coincidentally, I had read about the famous chef Joel Robuchon’s very recent death just before I picked up this memoir of Ripert’s, which devotes a big chunk of the pages to his time working at Robuchon’s great restaurant, Jamin. Ripert says this was one of the most difficult experiences he ever had, because Robuchon was such a perfectionist and didn’t hesitate to yell at anyone who did a less than perfect job in carrying out the chef’s vision; however, Ripert also says he was in awe of Robuchon’s creativity, and learned an incredible amount from him. (I once dined at the Atelier Robuchon in London with my daughter and had a superb meal there - lucky me!) He also turned out to be a mentor, and at the end of the book, has helped Ripert find a job at a prestigious restaurant in the United States. That is where the book ends, but we know that he has since gone on to become one of the best known chefs in the U.S. I was fortunate enough to have a meal at Le Bernadin with my friend E. some years back, and it was a wonderful experience, almost sublime! Of course having had that experience made me value and enjoy this memoir all the more. The book is fairly short and very readable, and we learn much about Ripert’s experiences with family, food, romance, and relationships during those formative years that the book covers. It is a worthy member of the group of restaurant memoirs that have come out in the past ten to fifteen years (as well as earlier ones). Some that I have posted about here are those of Anthony Bourdain (RIP), Marcus Samuelsson, and Gabrielle Hamilton. I also posted a list of favorite books (mostly memoirs) about the restaurant world (mostly by chefs, but also by servers and other members of that world) on 2/4/10.

"Astrid & Veronika," by Linda Olsson

As I mentioned in my 7/15/18 post about what I read on a recent trip to Canada, I liked the novel “A Sister in My House,” although it was sad and even a bit grim. After that, I read another novel by the same author, Linda Olsson, titled “Astrid & Veronika” (Penguin, 2005). I also liked this book, partly because of and partly in spite of its similarity in tone and even plot to the “Sister” book. In both cases, the main characters, two women, have had difficult lives full of childhood trauma and further losses in adulthood. In both cases, the two gradually learn to trust each other, and allow each other to see each's vulnerabilities. The novels are both rather slow going and fraught, but also are both positive in the sense that the characters learn (slowly, partially) to heal. Veronika is a young woman writer from Sweden who moved to New Zealand to be with the man she loves. As this novel starts, she has (because of something tragic that happened in New Zealand) returned to Sweden and is renting a house in the forest outside a small village, using it as a refuge and also a place to work on her novel. There she meets her nearest neighbor, a much older woman called Astrid who is more or less a recluse; gradually they become very close friends, and teach each other lessons about life. The writing is beautiful, as it describes the two women savoring the simple pleasures of walks in the woods, good food and wine eaten and drunk slowly and companionably, and halting but encouraging conversations. Not least of the pleasures for the reader is the portrayal of the joys and rewards of female friendship. A lovely book.

"The Ensemble," by Aja Gabel

“The Ensemble”(Riverhead, 2018), by Aja Gabel portrays the contemporary world of music, as seen in the form of a classical music quartet. The novel’s author, a former cellist, seems to know the world well, and shows the beautiful, even ethereal, aspects of being immersed in music, as well as the more difficult aspects. She describes the music itself remarkably effectively, as well as the long hours of practice, the worries, the insecurities, and the physical and mental toll the life of musicians can take. (I had never before thought -- although I probably should have -- about all the arm, shoulder, elbow, back, etc. injuries that can affect musicians’ bodies.) Intertwined with all of the above are the personal lives and loves of the four musicians and their families, lovers, and associates. The Van Ness Quartet consists of Jana, Brit, Henry, and Daniel. They need each other and love each other, and have various relationships among themselves, including romantic and sexual ones, sometimes concealed and sometimes not, but they also have arguments, fallings-out, and tough times. The novel follows the group for many years. As a San Franciscan, I enjoyed the early scenes set in San Francisco, where the quartet studied music and met each other. Later, after some intermediate moves, including to New York, some of them live north of San Francisco in the Sonoma Valley (just a bit north of where I live). The combination of the musical aspects and the personal aspects works well, although occasionally the plot and the writing verge on being a bit overwrought. But that is a small quibble; the novel is compelling. In addition to enjoying it, I learned quite a bit about music, instruments, quartets, concerts, and in general the world of classical musicians.

"The Great Believers," by Rebecca Makkai

Reading “The Great Believers” (Viking, 2018), by Rebecca Makkai (whose novel “The Hundred-Year House” I wrote about here on 8/31/14) takes us back to the time when the initial scourge of AIDS suddenly devastated whole communities, mostly of gay men, in the early 1980s and beyond. The novel is mainly set in New York; as a San Franciscan, I remember very clearly that the disease rampaged through this city as well. Half of this novel focuses on a group of friends in New York, gay men, mostly in creative careers related to the arts, who one by one are dying of AIDS. (This was before any of the current life-prolonging treatments were discovered.) The novel portrays this catastrophic time, and the emotional and social as well as physical damage and suffering that took place, well and even graphically. The other half of the novel (the two halves are presented in alternating sections) takes place thirty years later, when Fiona, whose brother and many friends were among the victims of the disease, and who was a main character in the first half of the novel, now goes to Paris to look for her daughter, who has become part of a cult. The two stories weave back and forth, and there are some happy memories and happy times despite and even amidst the nightmare of the AIDS disaster. There are a few subordinate but related plot lines, one related to the main character, Yale, as he tries to acquire a hitherto unknown art collection from a dying woman who had known and posed for many famous artists in Paris in the early twentieth century. Although the main topic of this novel is obviously incredibly painful and sad, the novel is much more multilayered and complex than one might think when reading the above description. This is a compelling and important novel, and I highly recommend it to you.

"The Destiny Thief," by Richard Russo

Although I mostly read fiction, I also enjoy – as regular readers of this blog know – memoirs and other nonfiction. Once in a while, I read and am thoroughly drawn into books of essays, often by writers that I already know and appreciate as fiction writers. I recently read “The Destiny Thief” (Knopf, 2018), a collection of essays “On Writing, Writers and Life,” by one of my very favorite novelists, Richard Russo (some favorite novels: “Straight Man,” “Empire Falls,” “Bridge of Sighs,” “That Old Cape Magic”). The main reasons I enjoyed these essays were: 1. interesting topics; 2. insightful comments on writing and other topics; and 3. the author’s persona and voice. About the latter: Russo seems like a genuinely good and nice person (and I have heard from a writer friend who knows Russo that this assessment is correct). I know this (being nice) isn’t supposed to matter in writers, and perhaps it doesn’t – too much – in fiction. But in essays, writers are writing about themselves and topics they know, in a more straightforward way than in fiction, and their personas are more easily revealed. Some of the essays in “The Destiny Thief” contain advice about writing and the writing life (Russo was a professor of writing for many years); some are about specific authors (notably Dickens and Twain); others are about people and situations in Russo’s own life. One piece details his musings about the phenomenon of self-publishing, and his concerns about what this movement, along with its accompanying movements related to marketing self-published books on Amazon, will do to the world of literature and to the preservation of distinctions between literary writing and commercial writing. An outstanding and compelling essay is “Imagining Jenny,” about Russo’s longtime close friend and colleague, formerly named James Boylan, as she goes through a transition to womanhood as Jenny Boylan. In particular, the essay focuses on the days of and after Jenny’s surgery, in a city to which both Russo and Boylan’s wife Grace have accompanied her, visit her in the hospital for long hours every day, and unexpectedly become caught up with the difficult life of another transgender patient at that hospital. Russo is devoted to his friend, and fiercely loyal and supportive, yet lets the reader see that he has had some ambivalance, some questions, along the way, since the day two years before when James told his friend about seeing herself as a woman and embarking on hormone and other therapies. Russo is candid and generous in sharing his mixed feelings with readers, showing very human reactions and concerns, although the loyalty and support are always predominant by far. This essay collection is rich and engaging, and although the essays address somewhat diverse topics, Russo’s voice and sensibility tie them together. I thoroughly enjoyed spending a few hours in the company of Russo's voice in this collection.

What I Read on my Canada Trip

On a very recent trip in Canada, partly for an academic conference and partly extended after the conference as a vacation, I carried out my usual practice before trips of accumulating several paperback books to take with me. Yes, yes, I could put them on an e-reader, but I prefer the books themselves. As I have alluded to before here, it is a fine art for me to choose just the right books for this kind of travel. I don’t want anything too “heavy” or demanding (not suitable -- at least in my experience -- for reading on airplanes and sitting by an ocean, lake, harbor, or bay), but there has to be, still, at least decently good writing. I won’t discuss each in detail here, but I list them below with minimal annotation, just to give you an idea of my typical “trip reading.” 1. “The Awkward Age,” a novel by Francesca Segal, describes a romance between a widow and her new love, in London, made difficult by each of their children’s actively undermining the new relationship. Complications ensue. Well written and entertaining. 2. “The People We Hate at the Wedding,” by Grant Ginder, is the type of novel often described as a “romp,” full of funny scenes, complications, snide portrayals of the characters, and more. The writing is only OK, but the novel is fun to read. 3. The novel “A Sister in My House,” by the Swedish-born New Zealand resident Linda Olsson, is the most “serious” of the books I read on this trip, a poignant, sad, yet life-affirming story of two middle-aged sisters who spend a few days together after a long semi-estrangement, and finally face some of the difficult facts of their childhood. Beautifully written. (The author translated her own book from Swedish to English.) 4. “Young Jane Young,” by Gabrielle Zevin, describes a Monica Lewinsky-type situation, perhaps especially pertinent during this MeToo era; the novel is very sympathetic to the main female character, and offers a low-key feminist portrayal of the situation. 5. Having “only” brought five novels, and finding one of these not very interesting and therefore abandoning it, I visited a bookstore for reinforcements, and bought two more paperback novels. The first was a British “cozy” mystery, a genre that I occasionally return to over the years; this one is by an author I didn’t know before, Rebecca Tope. The book is part of a series set in the Cotswolds, so an enticement already. (Just the name “The Cotswolds” makes me feel warm and fuzzy…). Titled “Peril in the Cotswolds,” it was comfortable, familiar, and enjoyable to read, and although I wouldn’t put it high on any list of favorite mysteries, it hit the spot on this occasion. 6. Finally, the other book I picked up at the Canadian bookstore near my hotel was “Barrelling Forward,” a collection of short stories by the young Canadian author Eva Crocker. The stories are edgy, raw, and original, and I was glad to discover a “new” (to me) author whom I would probably never have known about if it were not for browsing in this Canadian bookstore. It reminded me of the great pleasure of exploring bookstores while traveling in other countries than my own! So – that’s my list of reading material (supplemented along the way by newspapers and magazines as well) during my very recent, very enjoyable trip.

"The Only Story," by Julian Barnes

It is always good news when Julian Barnes publishes a new book, whether it be a novel, a collection of short stories, a book of essays, or a memoir. I have read and posted here about several of his books. His most famous recent book is the novel “The Sense of an Ending,” the Man Booker 2011 Prize winner, which I liked very much and wrote about here. His newest is “The Only Story” (Knopf, 2018). It is a love story, but a somewhat unusual and certainly sad one. In the 1960s, a 19-year-old English university student, Paul, meets an older (aged 48) married woman, Susan, at the tennis club where Paul’s parents go. They play doubles tennis, and not long after, begin an affair. Somewhat improbably, Paul is not bothered at all by the substantial age difference, although Susan has some qualms and concerns. Her husband and his parents are, naturally, deeply unhappy about the affair. But it becomes far more than an affair; against all odds, the two move in together and have a very happy life for perhaps a decade. What finally drives them apart is not the age difference, but another serious problem, which I won't describe here, in order to let the reader discover it for her/himself. We see the arc of their story up close, and then toward the end of the book, we find ourselves listening to Paul as a much older man, looking back at the affair. Although it went wrong, he has never forgotten his “only story,” his first and greatest love. This is a very “grown-up” story. It is also a bit claustrophobic, as readers get very little sense of the context of the outside world during the affair, beyond that of the small, upper middle class community where the two lovers meet, and the apartment in London that seems unconnected to the life around it. Interestingly, Barnes chooses for his narrator (the story is told through the eyes of Paul) to vary his pronouns referring to Paul among “I,” “he,” and “you.” “The Only Story” has an unlikely weight to it, and we readers believe that Paul’s story is real and heartfelt, although he steers clear of sentimental or exaggerated language, even about his great love.

"Mrs.," by Caitlin Macy

Why am I so often enthralled by fiction about wealthy families in Manhattan? Their habits, their haunts, their relationships, their belongings, the schools their children attend, the restaurants they patronize, and more…all catnip for me. As I have written before here, I feel some embarrassment about this, but on the other hand I justify it – perhaps rather feebly, but with a kernel of truth – by noting its relationship to my research and writing on social class, and especially on affluent students and families from around the world. I will also point out here that some writers focus on this topic – the wealthy in Manhattan (and surroundings and related locales) -- with much more seriousness than others (which is not to say that even the serious ones don’t include some snarky humor in their portrayals of this one percenter class). The tone of a very recent novel by Caitlin Macy, “Mrs.” (Little, Brown, 2018), is serious, funny, sometimes grim, even “savage” as one reviewer noted. Macy, the author of an earlier novel, “The Fundamentals of Play,” and of a short story collection, “Spoiled” (which I wrote about here on 4/26/18), obviously knows this territory well (she comes from a formerly wealthy family, studied at a prestigious boarding school, attended Yale, and lives in New York, and all her fiction directly or indirectly deals with social class). Her inside knowledge manifests itself in hundreds of details about schools, home decoration, manners, dress, and other habits of the affluent. The main characters in “Mrs.” are three couples whose children attend a posh, very selective Upper East Side pre-school, St. Timothy’s. Philippa Lye is beautiful but with a murky past; her husband Jed is a banker from old money, but would rather spend his time on the longtime family farm in Connecticut. Minnie Curtis comes from a poor background but “landed” a rich (also formerly poor) financial industry man, a nasty climber with a trail of rapes behind him, John D. Curtis. The third couple is not wealthy: Gwen Hogan, although formerly a gifted chemist, stays home with their daughter, while her husband Dan is a prosecutor in the U.S. Attorney’s office. Other characters include various family members, as well as other parents at St. Timothy’s. The story is told from several points of view, including those of the six main characters, and one small daughter’s perspective. The year is 2009, just after the financial crash. Soon the stories of the various characters become enmeshed in the financial and other improprieties of some of them, and some characters are caught up in difficult moral dilemmas. In addition to the moral dilemmas, there are issues about the alcohol problems of some characters, and about the insecurities that so many of the characters experience as they struggle to gain and maintain increasing status in the social world. Although social class is the main focus, gender issues are definitely explored as well. Women in this environment are often regarded as accessories only, witnesses to the main action by the men. Despite this novel’s being focused on the women’s perspectives, part of what all of the women know on some level is that their power, if any, is largely dependent on that of the men in their lives. “Mrs.” is a serious, thoughtful book about serious topics, but it is also completely engaging, and at times very entertaining. Although it is about 350 pages long, I devoured it over big chunks of two summer days, often when I “should” have been accomplishing other things. But, after all, what is more important than reading? And if not on summer days, when? And if I can classify it as “research” for my work on social class, all the better!

"Last Stories," by William Trevor

What more can I, or anyone, say about the late great author William Trevor’s writing, and especially his short stories? He, along with fellow geniuses Alice Munro and V.S. Pritchett, rule the world of short stories. In my 12/24/10 post on a collection of Trevor’s stories, I described them as “perfect”; I always put him on my various lists of “best” and “favorite” writers. I was sad when Trevor died in 2016, at age 88, but glad that I could always revisit his stories. Now we have a new book, “Last Stories” (Viking, 2018), and as soon as I saw announcements and reviews of the book, I knew I had to read it. The stories are as wonderful as ever. I had already read a few of them that were published in the New Yorker, but was glad to re-read them, as well as to read the ones I had not seen before. Because at this moment I seem to be stuck in the simplistic mode of “His stories are so, so, so good…you should all read them!”, which is a truly inadequate response, I am going to borrow the words of S. Kirk Walsh’s San Francisco Chronicle review (May 27, 2018): “…the author charts the unremarkable lives of men and women who rarely leave their small towns, usually in Ireland and England. As he deftly excavates his characters’ inner worlds, Trevor once again produces a sort of subtle alchemy on the page.” Further, Walsh writes, “Like Alice Munro, Trevor magically compresses these private narratives, advancing through lifetimes in the mere space of 10 or so pages.” Walsh also reminds us that Trevor once, in an interview with the Paris Review, defined the short story as “the art of the glimpse,” and this description resonates with me. As I have written before, the best parts about Trevor’s stories are his portraits of very real characters and his seemingly low-key style, a style that steals into the reader’s mind and heart. In “At the Caffe Daria,” we read about two women who were childhood friends, and what happened when one’s husband left her for the other. Now that he has died, they briefly reconnect, and we learn what happened before and after his death. The story is sad, and delineates the fragile relationships among the three main characters. In “Making Conversation,” a marriage is imperiled when a married man is in a relationship with another woman, and his wife comes to tell his mistress about the marriage. “An Idyll in Winter” is about a broken love story, and what happens when it is revisited. And “The Women” tells of a teenaged girl finding out the unlikely truth of who her mother is; this story is inflected by social class and adolescent self-consciousness, as well as by the heartbreak of the mother who just wants to see a glimpse of her daughter. The other stories in the collection are equally compelling. As I describe the book and its stories, I feel again, as I said at the beginning of this post, that my comments are extremely inadequate to convey the exceptional quality of Trevor’s stories. So maybe I will just repeat what I said above, bluntly but with heartfelt enthusiasm, “His stories are so, so, so good…you should all read them!”

PBS's "Little Women"

PBS recently showed a three hour production of Louisa May Alcott’s “Little Women.” My friend B. had seen it before I did, and she was not enthusiastic about this production, especially decrying the last hour, which she felt rushed too quickly through the later parts of the characters’ lives, skipping years at a time. I partly agree with this assessment, BUT – perhaps being overly sentimental – I still enjoyed it, including (I admit) weeping through several parts of it. The acting was good (although I couldn’t help remembering the terrific 1994 film directed by Gillian Armstrong and featuring a star-studded cast: Winona Ryder, Claire Danes, Kirsten Dunst, Christian Bale, Gabriel Byrne, and Susan Sarandon). Of course I loved being reminded of this book, so cherished by so many, and read and reread multiple times, especially by young girls and women. We loved the gumption of Jo, and dreamed of being writers like her. We worried about Beth’s ill health. We got annoyed at Amy’s occasional brattiness. We loved that Marmee and her minister/soldier husband and their four girls were so close, and so kind, but with interesting quirks as well. There was romance as well. Who among us didn’t have a little crush on Theodore “Laurie” Laurence? One part I think the production wisely downplayed was the very moralistic, didactic preachy aspects of the novel. I remember rereading it some 25 years ago after a long time away from it, and being surprised by the heavy, transparent, unapologetic preachiness embedded in the charming and inspiring story. I have read that Alcott didn’t necessarily believe in or endorse a lot of that, or at least wouldn’t necessarily have featured it so strongly, but that her editors and others encouraged it, because such “lessons” in fiction, especially for young readers, were considered important at the time that the author wrote. Still, nothing could turn me against this treasured and often reread novel, and it was a pleasure to see the new KQED production. And sometimes it is enjoyable to weep about a story!

"Pops: Fatherhood in Pieces," by Michael Chabon

This post is for Father’s Day today. Happy Father’s Day, everyone who is a father, stepfather, grandfather, uncle, or in any way in a father-like role, and to those who love and are loved by them. I have a very good impression of the writer Michael Chabon, who lives in Berkeley and therefore seems like a kind of neighbor; although I haven’t met him (I once briefly met his wife, a well known writer herself – Ayelet Waldman), I have only heard good things about him. But the fact is that I haven’t read much of his fiction. It is work that I can see in the abstract is very good, but I just don’t relate to. Too male? Too magical/fantastical? I don’t know exactly why, but despite trying a few times, I just haven’t connected to his fiction. However, I do like his nonfiction, especially essays, when I occasionally run across them. I just finished his recent very short collection of essays, “Pops: Fatherhood in Pieces” (HarperCollins, 2018), and enjoyed it. The books starts with a compelling essay, “The Opposite of Writing,” which tells of the author's encounter, early on in his career, with a famous male writer (I wish I knew who!) who told Chabon that he would have to choose between writing and having children, and advised him not to have children. He said that each child would subtract a book from a writer’s lifetime production. This is quite interesting to me, because women writers and readers have discussed this topic -- whether one can be a writer and a mother -- for many, many years, but we usually hear that male writers who are fathers are able to take the time they need for their writing, mostly because they often have a wife or other partner or family member to do most of the childrearing and even to financially support the male writer, in many cases. I am a little torn about this discussion, as on the one hand I admire a male writer who grapples with these issues and doesn’t treat them as women’s issues only, but on the other hand I feel a bit like he is appropriating an issue that women writers have long discussed, and not acknowledging a kind of male privilege he has in the whole discussion. However, I have had the impression, even before reading this book, that Chabon is a dedicated and evolved father, so it is not surprising that he didn’t have to think long before deciding that he didn’t buy the older writer’s reasoning, and that even if he had, he would have chosen to have children. He went on to have four children and publish 14 books. He has some fun, in this essay, with speculating about whether, if he had not had his children, he would have published 18 books. Of the other essays in this collection, the most striking one is “Little Man,” about Chabon’s son Abe, who is fascinated, almost obsessed, with fashion, dresses with flair, and seems not to care that he is out of step with his middle school classmates. Chabon supports his son’s passion by accompanying him to Paris Men’s Fashion Week, where Abe feels he has found his people. The other essays are mostly about the author’s children and such topics as grappling with racism and with sexism. Chabon also writes about baseball and his mixed feelings about his son’s playing in Little League. The book ends with a touching essay on Chabon’s own father and their relationship.

"When God Was a Rabbit," by Sarah Winman

As I wrote on 6/5/18 in my post on Sarah Winman’s novel “Tin Man,” I liked the novel so much that I wanted to read more by her. Accordingly, I found and read her first, highly acclaimed novel, “When God Was a Rabbit” (Bloomsbury, 2011) and was definitely not disappointed. Winman’s voice – sincere, straightforward, thoughtful, a little whimsical in a very understated way, and very humane – caught me up immediately, as did the plot and the charming, eccentric, and believable characters. The main character is an imaginative young girl named Elly; the other main characters are her brother Joe and her best friend Jenny. The story is bursting with vivid and compelling characters: others of Elly’s family members, people who are so close to the family that they might as well be family members, friends, lovers, and more. The story takes place between 1968 and the recent present (early 2000s). It begins in England and then toggles between England and the United States, New York City in particular. Some events of recent history are important components of the novel. There is much evident love among the characters, as well as confusion, pain, and sadness. The writing is exceptional. Oh, and that title? When Elly is small, she names her pet rabbit God, and that rabbit is a talisman for her even in later life when it is long since physically gone.

"Tin Man," by Sarah Winman

Sarah Winman’s fiction is new to me. I also did not know much, if anything, about her as a British actor who has appeared in many films, plays, and television shows. But her new novel, “Tin Man” (G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 2017) completely grabbed my attention and wouldn’t let go. It is the story of an unusual triangle of friends and their relationships. Ellis and Michael are childhood friends who become lovers. Annie is the woman who later marries Ellis and welcomes Michael as the third member of their close (but nonsexual in the case of Annie and Michael) mutual relationship. On the face of it, such a very close, happy, longlasting relationship among the three (an apparently bisexual man, a gay man, and a straight woman) seems unrealistic or at least very unusual, yet Winman makes us believe in it, and rejoice in it. At some point, though, Michael disappears, and not until years later do we find out what happened. We also learn of the family backgrounds of the three, especially of Ellis and Michael. Ellis’ parents had a difficult marriage, but his mother Dora had a streak of strength and independence that served her and Ellis well; Dora also became a source of strength and nurturance to the young Michael, who badly needed her surrogate mothering. The characters are all compelling, and the story is both believable and mysterious. The writing is exceptional. Although I often or even mostly read authors I already know, I occasionally “discover” new (to me, at least) authors, and it is always a joy; Winman is the most recent writer in that category for me. Now I plan to find and read Winman’s earlier two novels. (No, I don't know if the fact that Tin Man and Winman rhyme is significant, and if so, how, but I would assume it has something to do with identification with the character.)

Remembering Favorite Authors Who Have Died

The recent death of Philip Roth (see my post of 5/26/18) reminded me of how many great writers we have lost in the eight years (and a few months) since I have been writing this blog. I have posted about the deaths of several of these authors, writers whom I have read and admired and to whom I have felt somehow connected. Some of these are more well-known than others, but each one of them is missed by me and by many others. As a reminder of, and in honor of, the writers that have died, and about whom I have written “RIP” posts, I list them here (in alphabetical order): Edward Albee, Maya Angelou, Vance Bourjaily, Judy Brady, Anita Brookner, Dorothy Bryant, Alan Cheuse, E.L. Doctorow, Shulamith Firestone, Paula Fox, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Nadine Gordimer, Sue Grafton, Kent Haruf, Shirley Hazzard, P.D. James, Ruth Prawer Jhabvala, Bel Kaufman, Carolyn Kizer, Ursula Le Guin, Doris Lessing, Philip Levine, Kate Millett, Bharati Mukherjee, Robert Pirsig, Philip Roth, James Salter, Anita Shreve, and William Trevor. (As a reminder, you can search for any of these posts in the small search box on the top lefthand side of this blog.) It makes me sad all over again to construct this list. But I remind myself that each of these writers has left a legacy of her or his written work. And we can always find and read or re-read their work. My great hope is that more readers, now and in the future, will continue to discover these great writers.

RIP Philip Roth

The prolific and much admired American writer Philip Roth died May 22, 2018, at the age of 85. He was often spoken of as a possible recipient of the Nobel Prize for Literature. (I wonder if he might have done so this year, if it were not for the scandal that prevented any writer’s being chosen for this year, and now it is too late, as Nobel Prizes are not awarded posthumously.) Although he did not win the Nobel, he received two National Book Awards, a Pulitzer, a Mann Booker Prize, several PEN awards, and many other prestigious recognitions of his work. He received a National Humanities Medal in 2010, presented by President Obama in the White House. He wrote 27 novels and four books of nonfiction. I, like so many, read, admired, and enjoyed his early books. At a certain point, though, I became more disinclined to read his novels because they were so heavily representative of a very male, very masculine viewpoint. On the one hand, I admire any thoughtful and truthful representation of human experience and thought, and I did and do admire Roth for portraying areas of male experiences and especially sexual behavior that were not much written about before by mainstream literary authors. I am not a prude, and am not offended at all by this. But as an individual female reader, I felt discouraged from continuing to read every novel he published. Still, I want to honor him as one of the great American writers of the mid-to-late twentieth century, often grouped with Saul Bellow and John Updike as the preeminent American writers of their time. I also acknowledge that he wrote about many themes besides male (heterosexual) sexuality, including some political and historical ones, as well as, in particular, about Jewish American life. Roth will be long remembered for his fearlessness as well as for his great gifts as a writer.

On Avoiding Certain Novels, Until I Don't: "The Immortalists," by Chloe Benjamin

Regular readers of this blog may remember that I occasionally start a post with something like “I didn’t want to read this book because…” or “I resisted reading this book because…” but then say that because of a recommendation, or because a book fell across my path, or some other reason, I ended by reading the book and being very glad I did. As this has happened many times over the years, I am wondering what I can learn from that pattern. Should I chide myself for being too “fussy” about what I read, or too narrow, or too dismissive of certain genres or types of books or of certain topics? Or should I congratulate myself for, in at least some cases, having overcome my initial resistance, somehow knowing on some level that the decision to read the book after all would be a good one? I am still not sure of the answer to these questions. But I do have yet another example to share with you. I read several glowing reviews of Chloe Benjamin’s novel “The Immortalists” (Putnam’s, 2018), and couldn’t get past the woo-woo element of four young siblings’ (just children at the time) being told by a sort of fortune teller the dates of their deaths. The whole thing sounded creepy and left me deeply uncomfortable. But for whatever reason, I decided to read the novel after all, and it is a fascinating one. I won’t tell you whether the fortune teller’s predictions come true, but they do force each of the siblings to face and struggle with the possibility that they might, and each of them is affected by the predictions in different ways. The novel is about more than this, though; it is above all, in my opinion, about families and their lasting deep connections, even when family members don’t see each other for a long time, and even after the death(s) of some family member(s). There are also the larger questions of what is important in life, and how one should live one’s life. Varya, Daniel, Klara and Simon live their lives vividly and very differently from each other. Their mother Gertie looms large in the story as well, along with the memory of their father Saul, who dies early on in the novel. An added point of interest for me: The siblings grow up in New York, but two of them move to San Francisco. The author’s San Francisco childhood is evident in her detailed knowledge of the city, which this San Franciscan appreciated. But back to the beginning of this post: perhaps I am encouraging myself and others to push a little past our initial resistance to and dismissal of certain novels and other books, reminding ourselves that there might be a reason for all those good reviews and enthusiastic recommendations, and maybe at least giving those books a chance.

"An American Marriage," by Tayari Jones

Last year my friend (and longtime supporter of this blog) SB recommended to me the 2011 novel “Silver Sparrow,” by Tayari Jones. I read and was very impressed by it (see my post of 10/26/17). Now I have just read Jones’ most recent novel, “An American Marriage” (Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill, 2018), and found it equally well written and compelling. By the way, I am happy for this young rising star writer that this book was chosen for the Oprah’s Book Club 2018 selection. (I know some writers and readers scoff at the Oprah selections; you may remember the notorious case of Jonathan Franzen’s novel “The Corrections” being chosen for Oprah’s book club back in 2001, and his disparaging her taste in general and stating that it did not fit “the high-art literary tradition," upon which there was quite a backlash against Franzen, who was called arrogant and ungrateful.) (P.S. As readers of this blog may remember, I agree with those negative comments on Franzen.) The main characters in “An American Marriage” are Celestial and Roy, a young up-and-coming African American couple who seemed destined for a successful and happy life. But something terrible happens: Roy is arrested for, and convicted of, a crime he did not commit, and is sentenced to 12 years in prison. Celestial tries to stay loyal to Roy, but is drawn into a relationship with her childhood best friend, Andre. When Roy’s conviction is overturned and he is released from prison after five years, Celestial is agonizingly torn between the two men and two possible futures. The characters and plot are riveting enough, but in addition readers are drawn in, even if perhaps unwillingly (because of the painfulness of witnessing the blatant unfairness of Roy’s imprisonment, and the obvious racism involved in his being convicted of raping a white woman, solely because he is black and the rapist was black, so he "must have" been the rapist) to the horrors, dangers, and humiliations of incarceration in America’s prisons, especially for black men. Without being didactic, the author makes sure that we readers have to face up to the way black men are criminalized and treated in the U.S. penal system. The novel is psychologically astute about all three of the main characters, along with some peripheral characters such as parents, relatives, friends, and co-workers. And none of the possible answers are easy, even when there is a semi-resolution at the end of the novel. I highly recommend this novel, and will be watching for Tayari Jones’ future fiction.

"Straying," by Molly McCloskey

The last few years I seem to have read more fiction by Irish writers than usual; something has drawn me to it. Part of this is my affinity for Colm Toibin’s and Anne Enright’s fiction (not to mention my longtime admiration for the late William Trevor’s work), but there have been other works I have enjoyed as well. The novel I just read, “Straying” (Scribner, 2017), by Molly McCloskey (who is Irish but now lives in Washington, DC), is beautifully blurbed by the above-mentioned Anne Enright: “As gripping as a memoir and as intimate as a poem…a novel that is both urgent and reflective, a tender and unsentimental exploration of love’s dark corners.” Yes. Indeed. “Exploration” is a good word for what happens in this novel. “Straying,” set almost entirely in Ireland, mostly in a small town outside of Dublin, with trips into Dublin, features as the main character a young American woman named Alice who moves to Ireland almost on a whim, and soon finds herself embedded in life there. She travels, works, learns, and meets the man she will marry: Eddie. They are happy, but – as the title of the novel indicates – Alice “strays,” as in falling into an affair with another Irish man, Cauley. Her own feelings are complicated, as are those of both men involved. In some senses, of course, this story of a love triangle is a classic story, a well worn one. Yet McCloskey brings a freshness to it. Alice is a complex yet very relatable character. She does a lot of pondering about her situation and about love, connection, family, and more. At some point in the novel, the story jumps about 30 years into the future, where we find that Alice has long been an aid worker, working all over the world in countries in various types of crisis, and she is well respected for her work. She is now back in Ireland. She sometimes muses about her youthful time in Ireland, and about her mother, and about all she has seen and learned since then. The plot sounds low key, and on some level it is; even what seem like the “dramatic” aspects of the story are not overly dramatized. This is a thoughtful novel about thoughtful characters, albeit ones who make some mistakes (but who doesn’t?).

"Spoiled: Stories," by Caitlin Macy

Regular readers of this blog might remember that I am very interested in the topic of social class and how it affects everyone and everything. I often read nonfiction and fiction on the topic, and have written and published about it as well (as it connects to educational settings). I also like fiction by and about women. And I like fiction set in New York City. So, what was not to like about a book of short stories by Caitlin Macy titled “Spoiled” (Random House, 2009)? It was a bonus that the book’s epigraph is a quotation from Edith Wharton (whose works I have read often and with great pleasure and appreciation). “Spoiled” does, as the title suggests, feature young women who live in New York City and who have, in general, had material and other advantages. However, as we know, those advantages do not guarantee happiness or fulfillment. And sure enough, these characters often struggle and often misstep. Sometimes the author is quite sharp-penned in her revelations of the kinds of petty competitiveness that sometimes exist in the world of prosperous but often insecure (financially and otherwise) young women in their Manhattan setting, as illustrated in the story “Christy.” Sometimes they are out of their depth and almost arrogantly oblivious when they travel abroad, as in the ill-fated trip one young couple took to Morocco, portrayed in the story “Taroudant.” Class differences and the uneasiness caused by them come out in stories about the relationships of one woman with her nanny, and of another woman with her cleaning woman. Although many of the main characters are definitely “spoiled,” the author makes sure we see their complexities as well, and they are never defined only by their class statuses. The stories are well-written, with many telling details.

On Beginning to Read "The Female Persuasion," by Meg Wolitzer

I don’t think I have posted here before on a book before I actually read it, but a book I just began reading reminded me of how enjoyable the anticipation of reading a long-expected new book, along with the pleasures of the first few pages of that book, can be. I was happy when I got an email from my wonderful local library telling me that my turn in the library queue had come up. The book is the novel “The Female Persuasion” (Riverhead, 2018), by one of my favorite contemporary writers, Meg Wolitzer. I have been reading her novels with pleasure for years, most recently “The Interestings” (see my post of 4/18/13). I had read positive reviews of this new novel, learning that it was about a leading feminist writer, Faith Frank, and the young college student, Greer Kadetsky, who is inspired and influenced by her for years after their first meeting. The front flap copy says that the novel is about “power and influence, ego and loyalty, womanhood and ambition.” It sounds like a good list to me! What attracts me as I start reading this novel is the prospect of a story that puts feminism at the center, and at the same time has compelling characters and an equally compelling plot. I love that the book is dedicated to several women writers, including Nora Ephron, Mary Gordon, and the author’s mother, Hilma Wolitzer. I love the prospect of two feminists (and more) being at the core of the novel. And, as a related side note, I love that Greer is a devoted reader, one who has read voraciously since childhood, when she early on discovered “the strange and beautiful formality of the nineteenth century” (p. 7). I can’t wait to keep reading this novel, and will just have to guard against it taking over all the time that should be devoted to more pressing (but less interesting) matters!

"The Alice Network," by Kate Quinn

When my friend F. suggested that I would probably like the book “The Alice Network” (William Morrow, 2017), by Kate Quinn, I hesitated a bit, because I understood it to be about spies during World War I, and spies are not a major interest of mine. But I trust F.’s judgment, and the main spy in question was a woman who was recruited rather than choosing the “job,” so I decided to at least look at it. Well, you can see where this is going: I started reading and got completely caught up in the story. The plot has two parts and two heroines. Eve is the spy, and we see her in 1915 and then again in 1947, when she meets a young American woman named Charlie in London. We soon find that there is a connection between these two women. But first a mystery has to be disentangled. Along the way, we learn much about the two women’s lives and relationships. And yes, we learn much about the particular network of spies in German-occupied France, and I found this more interesting than I expected to, as well as inspiring; these were immensely courageous women. These women, led by the titular “Alice,” are amazing, and risk their lives over and over again to save many lives. But there is misunderstanding and unfinished business, and this is what we start to understand when Eve and Charlie come together. This book appeals on many levels, and I appreciate F.’s recommending it to me.

"White Houses," by Amy Bloom

It has long been known, though only discussed very openly in the past couple of decades, that First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt had a close and cherished woman friend/partner/lover for some years, including much of the time she was in the White House. At the time, their relationship was only known in certain circles, and was tolerated (if reluctantly in many cases) by those in those circles. Her husband Franklin D. Roosevelt tolerated it because he had his own extramarital relationships, in some cases quite well known in certain circles as well. A new novel, “White Houses” (Random House, 2018), by Amy Bloom, fictionalizes the relationship between Eleanor and her lover, the newswoman Lorena Hickok. Furthermore, this novel tells the story from the point of view of Hickok. Bloom’s portrayal of this relationship is open, candid, thoughtful, loving, revealing, and enjoyable to read. The two women obviously had a close and loving relationship, one that outlasted their romantic relationship; both had the best interests of the other at heart (although Eleanor, probably understandably given her high position, was usually the one with more power and agency in the relationship). This novel gives us great insights into the time period, the White House, the Roosevelt presidency, and the society of the times (especially the 1930s). Lorena came from a very poor and deprived background, yet by dint of her brilliance, her hard work, and her hunger for knowledge and a better life, she created a career for herself first as a reporter and then in a job in the Roosevelt White House. We also learn more about Eleanor’s character and personality. She was formidable and admirable indeed, yet with a tender, loving side that we see in this book. I note that the author of "White Houses," Amy Bloom, is one whose fiction I have already read, admired, and enjoyed; see my posts on “Where the God of Love Hangs Out: Stories” (2/27/10) and on “Lucky Us” (9/24/14). If you have not discovered Bloom’s fiction yet, I highly recommend it.

RIP Anita Shreve

I have read many of Anita Shreve’s novels over the years. I have always thought of them as “middlebrow” (see my post of 2/8/10 on “middlebrow” fiction by Shreve and other authors such as Anne Rivers Siddons, Elizabeth Berg, and Joanna Trollope). Of course the label “middlebrow” is very subjective, and could be interpreted as negative, although as I said in my earlier blog about the topic, novels by these authors have given millions of readers, including me, many hours of pleasure. There is also the issue that nowadays the terms "middlebrow" and "women's fiction" are sometimes conflated. Today I want to give tribute to Shreve, who died of cancer on March 29th at the age of 71. Shreve’s 19 novels sold millions of copies, and three of them were made into movies. Many of them were inspired by real life events and characters. Her best known novels were “The Pilot’s Wife” and “The Weight of Water.” Two endearing (to me at least) and telling details that some obituaries mentioned were that she was most inspired as a teenager by Edith Wharton’s novel “Ethan Frome,” and that she preferred to write her novels in longhand. Her novels mostly focus on women characters, often those who are “haunted or traumatized” (according to Hillel Italie’s obituary in the San Francisco Chronicle, also the source of some of the other information in this blogpost). In later life, she received not only popular but some critical acclaim. Whatever the labels used about her writing, and these were, as mentioned, in any case both subjective and shifting, Anita Shreve was a dedicated and excellent writer whose enjoyable, gripping, and inspiring works meant so much to so many readers, especially women.

"Halsey Street," by Naima Coster

Gentrification is a big topic in many U.S. cities, and Naima Coster’s novel “Halsey Street” (Little A., 2017), is set in the context of, and preoccupied with, that topic. It is an important one, and should be addressed; the problem is that the gentrification of parts of Brooklyn is portrayed in a rather heavyhanded manner, especially for the first part of the novel, at which point the topic is more or less dropped, except for an occasional mention. But the more overriding topic or theme of this book is family, and the ways in which even loving families can somehow find their members have become disassociated from, even alienated from, each other. Even when they are together, they somehow look past each other, misunderstand each other, and find that what they thought was a loving foundation has weakened, or perhaps never was what they thought it was. The main character here is Penelope, the late-twenties daughter of an African-American father, Ralph, and a Dominican-American mother, Mirella. Penelope loves her father, yet sometimes resents having had to return to Brooklyn to help take care of him. She had gone to art school in Rhode Island for a while, then moved to Pittsburgh, needing to get away, but now is “home” in Brooklyn. She lives in an elegant attic in the home of a white family who has moved into the neighborhood (representing, among other such symbolic people and institutions, the gentrification of Brooklyn, specifically the Bed-Stuy area) and her relationship with her landlords goes predictably awry. As for her relationship with her mother: it has never been a good one. Mirella took care of Penelope’s basic needs, but never knew how to be a real mother emotionally. Penelope’s biggest attachment and true love was her grandmother Ramona back in the Dominican Republic, and Ramona’s death devastated her. At one point in the story, Mirella, who has moved back to the Dominican Republic, reaches out to Penelope, but the results are not happy. Throughout, we sense that Penelope is directionless, lost, and sad. Yes, she teaches art to schoolchildren, and yes, she still draws (but only small objects). Yes, she has plenty of relationships with men, but nothing seems to be enough to address her feelings of emptiness. She also doesn’t take the initiative to change anything much about her life. Does Coster imply that because Penelope didn’t get the kind of attention and unconditional love that all children need (and I agree that this is extremely important), she is doomed to a meaningless life? In any case, she is a depressed (as well as judgmental) character with what sometimes seems to be a dreary life. The novel ends with a sad event, but also a small note of hope. This novel wrestles with issues of race, gender, family, parenting, urban life, gentrification, and millenials’ trying to find their way.

"Fire Sermon," by Jamie Quatro

Jamie Quatro’s intense new novel, “Fire Sermon” (Grove Press, 2018) has received high praise for its depiction of extramarital desire and longing, mixed with desire and longing for God. The cover of the book is bright red, and there is much talk about burning. The main character, Maggie, is a professor and writer and in a marriage of some years to Thomas; they have two children. She meets an also-married poet/professor whom she only sees at academic conferences, but with whom she carries out an intense ongoing conversation, replete with poetry and various literary talk, by phone and email. They agonize about being unfaithful to their spouses, and about wanting to but not being able to stay away from each other. They try to rationalize their relationship as just an intense friendship. All of this is, of course, self-delusion. It's not an unusual plot. But what makes it different than the usual such novel is the way the story, relationship, and correspondence are all enmeshed in the adulterous couple’s feverish, high-flown, theologically/poetically-inflected interchanges. Forgive me if this makes me sound like a philistine, but this over-the-top, self-involved, self-important ongoing conversation smacks of literary/metaphysical self-indulgence, and I found myself getting quite impatient with it.

"Mrs. Osmond," by John Banville

Henry James fans: I hope and believe that John Banville’s novel “Mrs. Osmond” (Knopf, 2017) will be a great treat and pleasure for you, as it was for me. However, I know what high standards James connoisseurs have, so it is possible that some of you will not appreciate or enjoy this “sequel” to James’s “The Portrait of a Lady.” I am no James expert, but I have read many of his novels, and studied his work during my English major college years. With that limited expertise, I find Banville’s novel, style, character portrayal, and plot admirably compatible with, though of course not as great as (which would be impossible!), James’s. I am particularly impressed by the language, which manages to sound authentically similar to that of James. The plot developments appear seamless, and – spoiler alert? – take a slight but definite feminist turn. Without giving too much away, I can say that the story delineates what happens to Isabel, and what Isabel causes to happen, in the months after her visit (against the wishes of her despicable husband Gilbert) to her dying cousin Ralph. She finds out new information about her husband and about Madame Merle, meets new people, takes new trips, faces up to her situation, and makes decisions, in some cases surprising ones. I, for one, was completely caught up in this “sequel,” a worthy one in my opinion.

"The Truth about Me," by Louise Marburg

The stories in the collection “The Truth about Me” (WTAW Press, 2017), by Louise Marburg, are a strange and fascinating mixture of odd and sometimes grim and cruel, on the one hand, and matter-of-factly ordinary, on the other. The stories have been called (by blurbers, at least) “audacious” and “sometimes shocking,” as well as “perceptive” and “compassionate.” Making allowances for blurber-talk exaggeration, I find these adjectives appropriate for this collection. The stories usually start off with pedestrian, everyday situations, and then there is always a jolt, a surprise, yet one that is told in an unsurprised tone. The characters are resolutely ordinary, yet somehow encounter, or cause, or tolerate, the non-ordinary. Some themes are grief, addiction, death, abandonment, the pragmatic compromises that spouses and lovers often make, family, and mental illness (including a story about a mass shooting, which by chance I read the day of the most recent tragic school shooting, in Parkland, Florida, this month). This is Marburg’s first book, and I look forward to reading more by her.

"Obama: An Intimate Portrait," by Pete Souza

I have seen some of Pete Souza’s brilliant photos of President Barack Obama in various publications and online, so it has been a treat to peruse those and many more photos collected in his large-scale, beautifully produced and printed volume “Obama: An Intimate Portrait” (Little, Brown, 2017). The book is elsewhere dubbed a “visual biography” of Obama during his years as president. Souza was granted what seems to be complete access to him and his family, his staff, and his meetings with other government officials and international statespeople. Many of the photos are taken in the White House, but others are are from various sites around the country and the world. Souza is highly adept at capturing important and telling moments, whether serious or relaxed and even humorous. Loving moments with his family are particularly touching, as are photos of the President engaging with small children, often in the Oval Office; he leans or kneels down to talk with them, or even lies on the floor to hold an a baby overhead; his sincere affection for these young children is palpable. There are of course also photos of the difficult times when the President and his staff had to deal with crises and tough decisions. The wide variety of photos in a wide variety of settings show the President as the thoughtful, serious, compassionate, caring president and person he was; whether or not one agrees with every decision he made, these characteristics are palpable in the photos. The photographer took nearly two million pictures during the eight years of Obama’s presidency, and over 300 of those are included in this book, along with very light annotation (mostly the pictures speak for themselves). This book, as I turn its pages now in the context of living under the current administration, makes me extremely nostalgic for those eight years.

"Improvement," by Joan Silber

“Improvement” (Counterpoint, 2017) is a novel by Joan Silber, a writer whose fiction I have enjoyed in the past (e.g., "Fools," reviewed here on 6/11/13); I enjoyed this novel as well. Although the book is a novel, it is similar to a series of interrelated stories. It tells the stories of several characters, and of how their actions and decisions affect other characters, other lives, in a sort of ripple effect. The structure of the novel is perhaps a bit too schematic, but it is interesting and even compelling. The characters are very different in race, social class, economic status, and more. Most of them seem to operate in a rather contingent fashion; there is an unsettled nature to their lives. One, Reyna, is in love with a man in prison, yet cannot bring herself to get very involved in an illegal scheme he and his friends carry out. Then she feels she has let him and his friends down, with tragic results. Her aunt Kiki, who spent a good part of her life in Turkey, is in some ways a steadying influence, and also a reminder of the larger world. Other characters come and go; some are able to keep re-inventing themselves, but others get stuck along the way. Although I enjoyed the novel, I probably won’t remember it for very long, perhaps because of its feeling of being slightly scattered, albeit in an organized way.

RIP Ursula Le Guin

I was sad to hear of the death, on Jan. 22, at the age of 88, of Ursula Le Guin. She was a critically acclaimed, prolific, and popular novelist, short story writer, poet, and essayist. Her books have been translated into more than 40 languages. She is best known for her science fiction and fantasy works, such as “The Left Hand of Darkness” and “The Earthsea Trilogy.” For us in the San Francisco Bay Area, she was a “local” writer, a Berkeley native, although she lived in New York and other places, and eventually settled with her husband and children in Portland, Oregon. As readers of this blog may remember, I personally don’t usually enjoy science fiction and fantasy, but because Le Guin’s work in those genres was so literary and, especially, because she was a real feminist and her feminist sensibility pervaded her fiction, I did read and admire some of her work. Le Guin was a great believer in the power of art, especially literature, as a moral force. She will be missed.

"Moral Disorder," by Margaret Atwood

When I was about to go on a car trip recently, I followed my usual habit in such cases of going to the library to find a good audiobook to accompany me on the trip and make the time go faster. This time I found Margaret Atwood’s 2006 story collection, “Moral Disorder” (Books on Tape). As I was listening, I remembered a couple of the stories from earlier readings, but some seemed new to me. In any case, it is a wonderful collection of somewhat interconnected stories, and echoes some of the events of Atwood’s own life, including her childhood as the daughter of an entomologist who often took his family when he did fieldwork deep in the forests of Ontario and Quebec, giving his children much freedom there. The stories deal with marriage, broken families, reconstructed families, memory, secret lives and hopes, mental illness, farming, city versus country, the powerful effect of one’s housing, fragility and strength, adaptation, acceptance and much more. The stories are about both the everyday and the philosophical aspects of life. As always, Atwood has a unique, piercing, yet forgiving style of observation and writing voice.

"Marlena," by Julie Buntin

"Marlena” (Henry Holt, 2017), Julie Buntin’s debut novel, is a real knockout. The main characters are two young girls, Marlene (age 17) and the narrator, Cat (age 15). At the beginning of the story, Cat and her mother and brother have just moved from the city of Pontiac, Michigan, to a very rural area in northern Michigan, a big change for Cat. She meets Marlene, who lives next door, and they become fast friends. But very early in the novel, we find that Marlene dies very soon after Cat meets her. The book’s chapters alternate between the time of their friendship in Michigan and a period twenty years later when Cat is living in New York. In the latter setting, although she has a good job in a library, and a reasonably good marriage, and loves New York, Cat is still haunted by the loss of her friend Marlena, and by guilt about whether she could have done more to save her. The main focuses of the book are an intense and fine-grained depiction of adolescence among those teenagers who are both exuberant and on some level hopeless; an up-close look at the powerful and destructive influence of drugs in rural areas; a portrait of families in trouble; and the ever-present difference that even small variations in social class (degrees of poverty and education, in this case) make. But portrayal of these issues, as important as they are, never detracts from the vivid, realistic portrayal of the central friendship of the novel, and of the way such friendships seem to be the most important thing in the world to young girls. There are also boys, there is also sex, there is also the general fearlessness and recklessness of adolescence, with its pranks and problems and bad decisions. But the friendship, along with the serious drugs that Marlena does (including opioids) and the drinking that Cat does, both as a teenager and as an adult, are always front and center. Both girls have been influenced toward, perhaps doomed to, their addictions by their addicted parents. The difference seems to be that Cat has an extra degree of stability in her family, as well as a little bit more social class stability (not a lot, but enough to make a difference). But will she ever forgive herself for surviving when Marlena did not? For me this book had the added power of its setting in northern Michigan. Although I never experienced the kinds of places and lives these two young women did, and although I led a much more privileged life than they did, I do know that area of Michigan a little, and some of the details about it resonate and ring true. Buntin is a powerful and insightful writer, and I look forward to reading more of her work in the future.