Three Novels by Rumaan Alam

“Leave the World Behind” (Ecco, 2020), by Rumaan Alam, was one of the “hot” novels (literary division) of 2020. Interest in its strange yet compelling story was enhanced by its exploration of race and class issues, combined with its apocalyptic tone that resonated with our inchoate (and not so inchoate) fears during the plague we are living through. A White couple and their teenaged children rent a vacation home on Long Island, and strange things begin to happen. Then an older Black couple appears at their door, stating that they are the owners of the house, and that something strange has been driving people out of New York City. There is no phone, television, or Internet reception, so no one knows what is happening. The story continues to get stranger, and there are human connections made in the face of the unknown, but always with the undertone of uncertainty about each other. Race and class are present in the interactions, although under the surface. In general I don’t like fiction that in any way approaches science fiction, but this one kept my attention, more for the interpersonal parts than for the mysterious events. I had read reviews of the novel, but before those appeared this year, I didn’t know of this author. So I found and read his two earlier novels. “Rich and Pretty” (2016) tells the story of two close women friends whose lives gradually diverge. I always like the theme of female friendship, and I liked this novel, but it was not memorable. Alam’s second novel, “That Kind of Mother” (2018), is a more complex story, exploring motherhood, race (again), female friendships (again!), adoptions, and more. The story is absorbing and well written. All three of the novels are insightful psychologically. I liked “That Kind of Mother” best of the three, but each of the three made me think and offered an engrossing reading experience. I will definitely watch out for Alam’s next novel.

"Girl, Woman, Other," by Bernardine Evaristo

I read good reviews of the novel “Girl, Woman, Other” (paperback Black Cat, 2019), bought it, hesitated a bit in the face of the slightly unorthodox paragraphing and punctuation, set it aside for a few days, and then was nudged to read it by the strong recommendation of my friend SB. (Thank you, SB!) I was soon overwhelmed by how good this book is, and felt a bit embarrassed and annoyed at myself that I had allowed myself to be, at least temporarily, deterred by a little bit of experimentation in the writing. I soon found that the many short paragraphs, and the dearth of both capital letters and periods, were actually very effective. The novel portrays the lives of several Black British women of different ages, classes, sexualities, and situations. Each section focuses on one or more main characters, but the characters often reappear in future sections as well, thus knitting together a widespread community or network of very different women. I became completely absorbed in this book and its characters, and marveled at the poetic yet down-to-earth writing. The author, Bernardine Evaristo, listed as an “Anglo-Nigerian” writer, was deservedly awarded the prestigious 2019 Booker Prize for this book.

A Box Full of New Memoirs

Yesterday I got a shipment of books that I had ordered from one of my favorite local independent bookstores, the small chain Books, Inc. As I unpacked them, it hit me that seven of the eight books were memoirs; only one was a novel. I hadn’t consciously decided to read more memoirs, although it is true that over the past few years, I have been reading more and more of them. I just never thought I would read more of them than I read novels and short stories; fiction has always been my reading life’s blood. I don’t want to read too much into this one shipment of books, but I do think it is significant. Yes, I have gradually been reading more, but I wonder if the current pandemic and stay-at-home mode has somehow made me turn to “true” stories more than ever. Or perhaps it is simply that more wonderful, compelling memoirs are being published now than ever. In any case, I look forward to reading the books on this lovely pile of brand-new memoirs, and I am sure I will be posting about at least some of them in the weeks to come.

"Seize," by Brian Komei Dempster

My colleague, the poet Brian Komei Dempster, previously wrote the wonderful collection of poems, “Topaz,” which I posted about on 11/26/13. Now I have read his brand-new poetry collection, “Seize” (Four Way Books, 2020), and it is both gripping and moving. The main focus of these poems is the poet’s son Brendan’s severe physical and cognitive disabilities related to epilepsy and other health conditions, and the complicated, serious, sad, challenging, painful but loving experiences that Dempster, his wife Grace, and Brendan have gone through and are still going through in consequence. The details he gives about their daily struggles, so utterly frustrating, are a transcendent sharing of pain and suffering, as well as of deep parental love. Nothing is sugarcoated, and there are no overt “silver linings” presented, but there are small, meaningful victories along the way. Readers are privileged to see the insights and deep connections this family experiences. The poems are candid and wrenching. Dempster also makes connections between his family’s situation with Brendan, on the one hand, and his family of origin’s experiences with discrimination, denigration, and painful suffering because of their Japanese American identities. (The earlier collection, “Topaz,” is named for one of the internment camps during World War II.) Besides writing here about the content and focus of the poems, I want to testify to the beauty and the power of the poems, and the language that simultaneously captures the unique and the universal.

"The Secret Lives of Church Ladies," by Deesha Philyaw

Deesha Philyaw’s small (179 pages) collection of short stories, “The Secret Lives of Church Ladies” (West Virginia University Press) packs a strong punch. First, what a great title! Second, each story individually, and even more the collection as a whole (some of the stories are interconnected), creates a small universe that pulls the reader right in. The focus is on Black girls and women at various ages, in various situations, often to do with love, sex, family, connections, faith, hypocrisy, loss, and grief. And yes, there are many secrets, including forbidden attractions and affairs. There is some (rather grim) humor too, as in the story “Instructions for Married Christian Husbands” who want to have affairs with the narrator; these include practical, non-negotiable guidelines regarding parking, phones, Facebook, religion, health, the man’s wife, and more. In “Peach Cobbler,” a girl writes about her mother’s affair with their church’s pastor. There is “Snowfall,” about women from the South who have trouble with the snow up North; the first line of the story is “Black women aren’t meant to shovel snow.” And poignantly, in the story “When Eddie Levert Comes,” a woman with dementia waits every day for a man she met once years ago, a minor celebrity, to come visit her. Each of these stories shows a writer in complete control, and on every page evokes emotions and insights. This is Philyaw’s debut book of fiction; I look forward to reading more by her in the future.

"We Need to Talk: A Memoir about Wealth," by Jennifer Risher

Some readers of this blog may recall that I am academically and personally interested in matters of social class, and have studied and published about some aspects of class. So I was intrigued by Jennifer Risher’s “We Need to Talk: A Memoir about Wealth” (Xeno, 2020). Risher and her husband both worked for tech companies, and her husband’s success in particular made the couple very wealthy. They were not born to wealth, so although they were happy to be so financially secure, it took them a while to feel comfortable spending a lot of money. Just for one example, they -- especially the author -- initially didn’t feel right about spending the money to travel first class, so they chose Economy Plus as a compromise. By the end of the book, they have graduated to expensive private planes. The same hesitations occurred regarding designer clothes and other luxuries. But they gradually adjusted to spending freely. They also appreciated the freedom to leave their jobs when they wanted to do other things. The most interesting part of the book is the portrayal of the psychological aspects, the doubts, the worries of newly (very) affluent people. It may be, very understandably, hard for readers and others to sympathize with their situations, but from a sociological point of view, it is useful and interesting to understand more about the process of changing social and economic classes in this way, especially since there is an increasing category of such people made wealthy by the tech world (something very visible to those of us living in the San Francisco Bay Area). The writing of this memoir is only workmanlike. But the work the author has done to understand this identity of becoming wealthy is revealing, and I admire her (seeming, at least) candor. I also admit that although this author doesn’t make her life sound fabulously exciting, it is fun -- in a slightly voyeuristic way -- to read some of her stories about the lives of the wealthy.

"Eat a Peach," by David Chang

Longtime readers of this blog may remember that I have posted about quite a few chef/restaurant memoirs. I love the world of restaurants! But for the past eight months, because of the coronavirus pandemic, I have been in strict stay-at-home mode, and have not eaten at any restaurants; gradually, I have found myself much less interested in such memoirs. Every time I saw a mention of, or a review of, David Chang’s new memoir, “Eat a Peach” (Clarkson Potter, 2020), I fleetingly considered reading it, but just couldn’t sustain interest. But recently I went ahead and bought it, and as I started reading it, I was inhaled back into the restaurant world. Chang is the enormously successful founder of Momofuku in New York, along with several ensuing restaurants there and elsewhere around the country and world. He has won numerous awards, including six James Beard Awards and several Michelin stars. Of course I had heard about Momofuku, a refined, original noodle place that became incredibly popular, although unfortunately I have never eaten there. I loved hearing the backstories, and the author’s takes on other chefs, critics, and related people and events in the food world. But what adds another dimension to this memoir is Chang’s description of his own struggles with depression and bipolarity, along with his blend of confidence and insecurity. He is candid about his own bad behaviors as well, including much screaming at workers in his restaurants. Although readers can never be sure if candor is sincere, or an attempt to win sympathy and to pre-empt criticism, I believed Chang, and felt for him. He also writes of his own blind spots about the restaurant world, and how it took him too long to recognize sexism and other problematic issues in that world. In any case, this fascinating memoir drew me back to the world of restaurants, and now I am sadder than ever that the pandemic has been so devastating for restaurants. And on a selfish personal note: I remember, pre-COVID, when I was sometimes sorry that I couldn’t try ALL the wonderful restaurants I read and heard about (although I did try a good many!); now I am sorry that I can’t try ANY of them for the foreseeable future.

Short Takes: Three Novels and a Memoir

Due to pandemic shelter-at-home, I somehow am reading (even) more but too busy with work (from home) and everything else to post about the books I read. Some books I don’t post about at all, as they are perfectly fine but don’t stand out (in my humble opinion), but others I want to at least mention, so a backlog has developed. Thus my collective post of 10/20/20, about five books. Today my post covers four books that I recently admired and enjoyed, but am writing about in one post to reduce the backlog. First is the novel “Payback” (Pantheon, 2020) by the always-superb Mary Gordon, whose work I have been reading and been in awe of for many years. “Payback” is a novel of revenge, not against the man who took advantage of the main character when she was a vulnerable teenager, but against the kindly teacher who inadvertently put her into the situation leading to the sexual assault. The main character changes her name, bides her time, becomes a celebrity, and plots the “payback” of the title. It is a very timely and unsettling story. Second is Caroline Leavitt’s novel “With or Without You” (Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill, 2020). I have also read and enjoyed several of Leavitt’s earlier novels. This one is about an unexpected and complicated love triangle, precipitated by the illness and two-month-long coma of one of the characters. It is also about the main character’s discovering her artistic and psychological powers. Third is Nick Hornby’s latest novel, “Just Like You” (Riverhead, 2020). Hornby’s reliably sensitive, humorous, psychologically aware, and always entertaining novels are a joy to read. This one is about a fortyish woman and a twenty-two year old man, of different classes, races and educational backgrounds, who somehow unexpectedly fall in love. The path is hard but touching and the story is witty and engaging. Hornby is also an author many of whose prior novels I have read. The only “new” author to me, in this group of four, is Melissa Cistaro, and her book is a memoir rather than a novel: “Pieces of My Mother” (Sourcebooks, 2015). It tells the story of how Cistaro’s mother suddenly left the family when Cistaro and her brothers were children. Thirty-six years later, Cistaro goes to see her mother as she is dying, and finds unposted letters that explain at least some of the reasons for the abandonment. The story is very sad, but at the same time shows how families somehow survive so much, and how resilient people can be. As a side note: the author is (or at least was at the time of this book's being published) the events coordinator of the wonderful bookstore, Book Passage, which is located just a few miles north of where I live in Marin County, just north of San Francisco. I have been going to that bookstore, one of my absolute favorites, for decades, not only to browse and buy books (including almost all my Christmas gifts every year), but to attend many readings by local, national, and international authors.

"What Are You Going Through," by Sigrid Nunez

Sigrid Nunez is a truly original writer, in a somewhat quirky way that takes getting used to. On 2/7/19, I posted about her novel “The Friend,” which is about a woman who unintentionally and somewhat against her will acquired a dog companion (left to her by a friend who died), and with time, found the dog to be a treasured friend. This perhaps sounds annoyingly sentimental, but it definitely isn’t. It isn’t a book that I would have expected to like, and I had to warm up to it, but then I was completely captivated, perhaps won over as the main character was by the dog. In Nunez’s new novel, “What Are You Going Through” (no question mark) (Riverhead, 2020), there is a similar strange, uncomfortable vibe in the sense that it involves the main character being drawn into something that she never asked for or wanted to do: she reluctantly agrees to accompany her friend who has a fatal disease in her final days, knowing that her friend plans to commit suicide (self-euthanize). But in this novel as in “The Friend,” the main character is drawn in, wanting to be a good friend, and also somewhat fascinated by the decision her friend has made. The novel is about death, yes, but really it is more about life, about friendship, about enduring what seems unendurable, and about savoring the time together as the story moves toward the inevitable end. As with “The Friend,” the description makes the novel sound sentimental (the friendship part, not the dying part), but it is in fact quite unsentimental and unsparing in its observations about how people feel and behave in such circumstances. The main characters in both books are a little prickly, although caring, and do not make it easy for readers to immediately appreciate them or desire their company, but they end by being compelling, as are both the books themselves. In other words, in both novels, the characters and the stories sneak up on the reader. Both novels are beautifully written. This is a small book, physically (just over 200 small pages), but it shows us so much about friendship, connection, and what human beings do for each other over and over again.

RIP Diane di Prima

I heard San Francisco poet Diane di Prima read within a month of my arriving in San Francisco for a new teaching position, many many years ago. I was excited to be in this fabled city, with its beauty and vibrant culture. As an English major, I had studied the Beat poets, but of course those were mainly men. The reading was in Golden Gate Park, and sure enough, the poets were almost all men. I was thrilled and starstruck to see them and hear them read their work. But Di Prima was a revelation, and she is the one whom I remember from that evening of poetry. That evening came back to me when I heard of Di Prima’s death on October 25th, at the age of 86. She was originally from New York City, and started writing poetry at a young age. One of her high school classmates, with whom she shared her early poetry, was another gifted and legendary poet, Audre Lorde. De Prima was a teacher, an editor, an organizer, an activist, and at one point, San Francisco’s poet laureate. She was also the mother of five children. She was unafraid to write about female sexuality, graphically at that, and about motherhood. She never stopped writing, even during her final eight years during which she suffered from Parkinson’s disease and other health problems. She lived life fully, literarily and otherwise, and she was a pioneer in poetry. I know she inspired many, including this blogger/reader/feminist. (Thanks go to reporter Sam Whiting at the San Francisco Chronicle, in his 10/29/20 obituary, for some of the details included in this post.)

"The Names of All the Flowers," by Melissa Valentine

As with Yaa Gyasi’s novel, “Transcendent Kingdom,” about which I posted last time (10/28/20), Melissa Valentine’s memoir “The Names of All the Flowers” (The Feminist Press at CUNY, 2020) has a central tragedy: a young woman’s tragic loss of her beloved brother. In both cases, fictional and real, the loss has to do with all the difficulties faced by young black men in the United States. Valentine in particular makes it very clear that her brother’s life represents so many young black men’s lives. Her father is white and her mother is black; they raise six children, always somewhat struggling for money, but hanging on to a barely middle-class life, and making sure their children get good educations. The place the author and her brother grow up is Oakland, California, which added to the interest of the memoir to me, as Oakland is in the San Francisco Bay Area, where I too live, but in a different county. The memoirist is the “good girl” who gets good grades, takes care of family members, and always mediates among family members when there is tension, but for the sake of her beloved brother Junior, she is willing to break some rules too. The memoir is about family, race, gender, education, and much more. It is well-written, feels very “real,” and is poignant and moving.

"Transcendent Kingdom," by Yaa Gyasi

I know I should like, am even supposed to like, the novel “Transcendent Kingdom” (Knopf, 2020), by Yaa Gyasi, author of the best-selling “Homecoming.” I could see that it was well-written and engaged with important themes. It got excellent reviews (although in one or two cases, with slight reservations) from excellent reviewers and publications. But I struggled to finish the book. (I did finish it, but it took a while.) Usually I am interested in themes of race, immigration, family, mother-daughter relationships, education, and the ravages of heavy-duty drugs, all of which this novel addresses. The characters are well-drawn, especially the main character, Gifty, who is also the narrator. Gifty’s family has immigrated to the U.S. from Ghana. Her father returned to Ghana, her mother has psychological problems, and her talented but troubled brother is lost to a terrible fate. Gifty feels, then, that she has to be the successful one. She is studying for a PhD at Stanford, has published and done well in her field, and is devoted to her work with lab mice, hoping to discover what causes addiction and depression. And this, although obviously important work, is where the novel kept losing my attention; there was too much extended exposition about neuroscience for my taste. This is probably a shortcoming on my part, but there it is. I did like the powerful and poignant parts about the family dynamics. Gyasi is obviously a talented writer, and has hit a nerve with her two novels. I will continue to follow her literary progress with interest.

Five Books That Don't Get Their Own Posts

Today I am writing about five books I have read in the past few weeks that I don’t want to write whole posts about, but just to note. When I read a book and don’t post about it, it is usually either because I didn’t feel strongly about it, or because I felt there wasn’t a lot to say about it. Here is my list. About the first two: I have loved reading mysteries ever since I started reading on my own, beginning with the Nancy Drew books. But I sometimes get tired of mysteries and don’t read any for months or years. I haven’t read many for at least a couple of years now, but in these pandemic stay-at-home days, I have picked up a couple and enjoyed them. I read one of Louise Penny’s recent Chief Superintendent Armand Gamache books, some of which I have read before, and I have always savored the Montreal (city of my birth) setting among other attributes. This one was “Kingdom of the Blind” (St. Martin’s, 2018), and I did indeed enjoy it, if mildly. The other mystery was G. G. Vandagriff’s “An Oxford Mystery” (Orson Whitney Press, 2019), and I am sure people who know my Anglophile taste will see why I was drawn to it. It was quite entertaining for its Oxford setting and its female main characters, although not outstandingly well written. Third, I read the bestselling author Emily Giffin’s “The Ties That Bind” (Ballantine, 2020), an absorbing book if too much in the category often called “chick lit.” (I don’t like that label, but I often find it relaxing to read books that people classify that way.) Then, fourth, there was the much more critically esteemed book, “Weather” (Knopf, 2020), by the also critically esteemed Jenny Offill, which is about a woman and climate change and human relationships (sorry, that is a reductive description!) and is mostly written in short fragmentary sections, very intense, which I admired but didn’t particularly enjoy. Fifth and finally, Heidi Pitlor’s intriguing book about a woman ghostwriter, “Impersonation” (Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill, 2020), did engage my attention and I relished the literary aspects as well as the parts about the main character’s complicated personal life, but when I closed the book, I felt I wasn’t left with much I wanted to say about it. I apologize if this post sounds dismissive; I don’t mean it that way, and I have a deep respect for how hard it is to write fiction, but I am perhaps trying to convey the mishmash of books I am reading these days, some of which are very satisfying and some not so much, quite possibly my fault rather than that of the authors.

"Monogamy," by Sue Miller

Sue Miller’s novels are reliably “good reads,” and I don’t mean that in a condescending way at all. I have read all of her novels and her book of short stories, starting with the bestseller (later a movie) “The Good Mother” (1986). She is one of the writers that the minute I see she has a new book out, I make a note to get it as soon as possible. She writes her best about women’s lives, loves, and families. Her new novel, “Monogamy” (Harper, 2020), is in this vein as well. As the title suggests, the novel focuses on a couple, Annie and Graham, and is mainly told from the point of view of Annie. It is a good marriage, one that others admire and are drawn to. Graham is a big, amiable, sociable man who owns a bookstore. Annie is an art photographer, although her work has gone a bit by the wayside as she tends to the needs of her husband and (now adult) children. They are both friendly with Graham’s first wife, Freida, the mother of Graham’s son Lucas. Graham and Annie have a daughter, Sarah. But then Graham dies (the front flap tells us this, so I am not giving anything away), and Annie finds that not all is as she had thought it was. She then struggles with reconciling the strong and wonderful relationship the couple had in many ways with the part that was secret. So the novel is “about” many things: marriage and the way every marriage has some unknown parts; parenting, and accepting the difficulties that one’s children may have despite everything parents do to protect and help them; what women often give up for their marriages and children; the varieties of families and friendships (Frieda’s still being such a close part of Graham and Annie’s family); the style of living of a certain strata of professional and artistic people in Boston and Cambridge (and perhaps in general of “the Coasts”), and so much more. So much to think about, so much to relate to, so much to admire about the recognition of, and acceptance of, the “grey areas” of most marriages, relationships, and lives. Suffice it to say that I finished the novel in two days.

Two Novels on Aging: "Hieroglyphics," by Jill McCorkle, and "The Weekend," by Charlotte Ford

I have just read two novels featuring “older” characters, both books at least partly about the topic of aging. “Hieroglyphics” (Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill, 2020), by the wonderful writer Jill McCorkle (whose books I have read for decades), is a deep dive into the lives of a recently retired couple, Lil and Frank, who have moved from Boston to North Carolina, where Frank spent his childhood. Frank is obsessed with the house where he grew up, and Lil is equally obsessed with going through old letters and diaries with the idea of leaving a family history for the couple’s adult children. Both of them are remembering both good and bad events in their lives. At the same time, both of them find that they are having more trouble remembering things in general. The novel is also about secrets, families, parenting, and the role of place in our lives. “Hieroglyphics” is both profoundly human and humane, on the one hand, and quite discomforting, on the other. There is some joy, but there is also much melancholy, and overall the book felt bleak to me. The other novel I read "about" aging is “The Weekend” (Riverhead, 2020), set in Australia and written by the Australian author Charlotte Ford. Three lifelong friends in their early seventies gather at the beachside home of their late fourth friend, in order to clean out her belongings, at the request of her lover. Their weekend together illuminates both the friends’ deep connections and the ways in which they have diverged. They get on each others’ nerves, and old secrets are revealed. The author does not avoid facing some of the inevitable problems of aging, and this book too has its bleak aspects. Yet at the end we know that the women’s friendship is deep and lasting, despite everything. I am always glad to see novels with older characters, as this is a stage in life that is too often neglected in fiction. I am also always glad to read fiction with the theme of friendship, especially female friendship.

"Daddy," by Emma Cline

The characters are ordinary, but with an air of disappointment. They are passive, feeling that things happen to them without their will or control. They limply hope that things will get better, but don’t do much to change things. To be clear, though, these are people who are basically OK – safe and healthy and with enough money. Nothing truly bad is happening to them, just a sense that life is not living up to their expectations. These are the people in Emma Cline’s short stories, in her new book, “Daddy” (Random House, 2020). Cline’s name may be familiar to readers, as her 2016 novel “Girls” was a bestseller. Rachel Kushner’s back cover blurb compares Cline to Mary Gaitskill and Joy Williams. It happens that although I have respect for Kushner, Gaitskill, and Williams, all of whom I have read, I have not really enjoyed their work. There is something chilly about the work in each case. Yet although I understand Kushner’s comparison of these writers’ work with Cline’s stories in “Daddy,” the note of sadness (often inchoate) in her stories ameliorates some of the aforementioned chill. I should note too that there is a mildly tawdry feeling to some of the stories, as in the story (“Los Angeles”) of the middle-class girl who has moved to Los Angeles hoping to be an actress, knowing how predictable she is being, and who although she has a (low-level) job and some support from her mother, stumbles into selling her underwear to men to make some extra money. She distances herself from this scheme by taking an ironic tone; “It was that time of life when anything bad or strange or sordid happened, she could soothe herself with that thing people always said, ‘it’s just that time of life.’ When you thought of it that way, whatever mess she was in seemed already sanctioned” (p. 46). Many of the other characters in the other stories in this collection reiterate this passivity and acceptance of “fate,” this avoidance of responsibility for their own lives and decisions, as I commented at the start of this post. Thus the stories claim our attention but somehow end up dampening that interest.

RIP Florence Howe

I was very sad to hear that Florence Howe, one of the founders of the field of Women’s Studies, and the founder of the breakthrough publisher The Feminist Press, died earlier this month (September 12, 2020), at the age of 91. She was a great pioneer and, although not as famous as some other feminist icons, had a deep and wide influence on the lives, intellectual and otherwise, of many, many women, even many who have never heard of her. She taught at Goucher College and realized how little attention was given to women’s lives and women’s literature in colleges and beyond. She practically founded the field of Women’s Studies. She tried to persuade several publishers to publish more work by women, but they declined, saying that it would not sell. So she started her own press, The Feminist Press, in 1970. There she published work by authors out of print as well as by contemporary authors. These included Zora Neale Hurston, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, Grace Paley, Paule Marshall, Ama Ata Aidoo, Shirley Geok-Lin Lim, Tillie Olsen, Marilyn French, Alice Walker, and Barbara Ehrenreich, along with several anthologies. Note the diversity timewise as well as in race and ethnicity. The Press especially focused on marginalized voices. Gloria Steinem stated that the Feminist Press “created an opening for hundreds of women writers and thousands of readers.” I was and am one of those readers; I am old enough to remember when women writers were much less published, and when literature classes were bereft of works by women (except for the very few “classics”). Early on I found and read many of the Press’ books, often, and gratefully, “discovering” writers new to me through the Press. I also took one of the first Women's Studies classes offered by my university. (Note: Years later I taught several Women's Studies classes, especially Women's Literature classes.) I hope Florence Howe knew how many, many women (and some men too!) appreciated what she and The Feminist Press, along with the Women’s Studies field she helped to found, did for women and for all who care about equality and inclusion. Thank you, Florence Howe! You made a huge difference in the world!

"In the Land of Men," by Adrienne Miller

When I read descriptions of Adrienne Miller’s memoir “In the Land of Men” (HarperCollins, 2020), I knew I would enjoy reading the book. Miller started off her adult life in New York City in the mid-nineties working as an editorial assistant at the magazine GQ, and in a few years, improbably at her age, became the literary editor of Esquire, then one of the most important publishers of fiction, among other features. There she got to know many literary figures, experienced various forms of sexual harassment, and became involved -- literarily and personally -- with the very well-known and controversial (both idolized and derided) writer David Foster Wallace. So we have the following enticing (to me, definitely) elements: a young woman starting off her adult life; immersion in the publishing, literary world; revelations about various famous writers and editors; discussion of sexism in the publishing world as well as the larger world; and plain old good gossip. As I expected, I thoroughly enjoyed reading this memoir.

"Under the Rainbow," by Celia Laskey

The novel “Under the Rainbow” (Riverhead, 2020), by Celia Laskey, begins with an unlikely plot device: An LGBT group sends a “queer task force” to live for two years in a town that has been billed “The Most Homophobic Town in the U.S.” Their task is to try to change people’s minds. Of course it is hard, and they suffer many setbacks, but – and this is predictable, right? – they start to make some inroads. First, there are of course closeted queer people in the town (“Big Burr, Kansas”), and they gradually, tentatively, make contact with members of the task force, and some even start to join in on the group's work. Second, some townspeople are won over as they get to know the visitors. Although this plot could go very wrong, in seeming too predictable, it manages to approach that state but not go over the line. The characters seem genuine, and the artificial original premise yields real-feeling situations and relationships. The novel is in fact heartwarming, and that is OK; the author has not taken the easy way there, and therefore has earned the book’s emotional status.

"America is Not the Heart," by Elaine Castillo

There is a fairly large body of Filipino-American literature, but it doesn’t seem to be as well-known as other Asian-American literature, such as Japanese-American and Chinese-American fiction. And many of the Filipino/a authors have only become published and somewhat well-known in the past couple of decades. I remember that in the early 1990s when I taught a class titled “Contemporary Fiction by Nonwestern Women” (now I would probably not use the Western-centric term “Nonwestern”), I taught a novel by one of the rare (in the U.S.) well-known Filipina writers at the time, “Dogeaters,” by Jessica Hagedorn, who lived in the San Francisco Bay Area and was also a performance artist at the time. I have just read an intense, vivid, bursting-with-life novel by the born-and-raised San Francisco Bay Area writer Elaine Castillo: “America is Not the Heart” (Penguin, 2018; paperback 2019). This is the author’s first novel, but you wouldn’t know it: it is a take-no-prisoners tour de force. It is over 400 pages long, but the reader is swept into and out of it with the author in complete control. The novel is set in the San Francisco Bay Area, and in particular in the suburb of Milpitas, where many Filipino-Americans live. The main character is a woman named Hero, who has recently arrived in the U.S., after starting life as part of a prestigious and wealthy family, then joining the rebels living mostly in jungles for ten years; she has been imprisoned and tortured. We also learn about her extended family, both in the Philippines and in California, as well as the community of friends in which she is caught up. She falls in love with a woman, takes care of and dearly loves a younger relative, and is constantly caught up in the conflict between her past and present lives. One realistic aspect that I appreciated was the characters' easily going back and forth among Filipino English, Tagalog, and other Filipino languages, as well as “standard” American English. There is little in the way of explaining words or terms; the author trusts readers to figure them out for themselves if they don’t already know. The novel is crammed full of intrigue, violence, love, sex, caring, friendship, work, and just plain getting on with life and dealing with what has to be dealt with. Highly recommended.

"Saint X," by Alexis Schaitkin

Many readers will remember the sad case of the young American woman, Natalee Ann Holloway, who disappeared while on a high school graduation trip in Aruba in 2005. Her body was never found, and the leading suspect was never convicted; he was, however, convicted of the murder of another young woman in Peru five years later. Alexis Schaitkin’s novel, “Saint X” (Celadon, 2020) does not explicitly refer to that case, and the facts and details in the real-life case and this imaginary case diverge in many ways, but Holloway’s story is clearly the inspiration for this novel. College student Alison Thomas disappears while on a family vacation on a fictional Caribbbean island called Saint X. The novel shuttles back and forth between the story of that vacation and the story of how Alison’s younger sister Claire, only seven years old at the time of the tragedy, spends much of the next many years, well into her adulthood, focusing on -- one might say obsessing about -- her sister’s disappearance. In a huge coincidence, she sees one of the suspects (who has been exonerated by police) in New York City, and becomes fixated on him. Finally she actually meets him, and strangely they develop a sort of friendship. This is a story of the longlasting effects of family tragedies, as well as of the effects of age, gender, and race in every aspect of life. It is a compelling story, compellingly written. Despite the huge danger that the novel will seem exploitative, it does not feel that way; the author tells the story in a very humane way, slowly revealing the complexities of all the characters. There is a resolution which readers may or may not find satisfying, but which in any case brings a kind of closure to this sad, very readable and well written novel.

"Rodham," by Curtis Sittenfeld

Curtis Sittenfeld’s new novel, “Rodham” (Random House, 2020), is very timely, as the upcoming U.S. presidential election reminds us of the 2016 election, and of the sad loss of that election by Hillary Rodham Clinton. Some of us older feminists have been waiting for decades for a woman (not just any woman, of course) to win the U.S. presidency for the first time; it is disgraceful that there has never been one. We were crushed when Clinton lost. And we know that she would have done so much better a job than the current incumbent, especially during this deadly pandemic. This novel – and it is fiction -- is an artful and compelling blend of true biographical facts, especially in the first half of the novel, and the author’s imaginary story of what could have happened. I don’t want to give too much away. But the plot of “Rodham” is not the main point; the novel is full of the kinds of details we would all want to know if we could know more about the character. The over 400 pages allow a leisurely (and very engaging) laying out of the different stages of the main character’s life, and of the context of the changing political and social landscape of the U.S. over those years. Sittenfeld, the author of several other novels, has written about politics and the presidency before, in her novel “American Wife,” which is based on the life of First Lady Laura Bush. I read that novel, despite my disinclination to be interested in the Bush family, and found it almost riveting. Actually, Sittenfeld had me at her first novel, “Prep,” about life in an exclusive boarding school. I have read most of her novels since then, and will keep doing so.

"Only the River," by Anne Raeff

I will start with a simple statement: Anne Raeff is an outstanding writer. As I wrote about her first book, she is in complete control of her material, and her fiction, although (or, of course, partly because) her topics are serious and grim, she makes us feel the life force that always comes through. That first book, the 2002 novel “Clara Mondschein’s Melancholia,” which I posted about here on 3/2/11, completely won me over. I was thrilled when her second book, a story collection titled “The Jungle Around Us,” appeared in 2016. I posted with great appreciation and enthusiasm about it on 12/8/16. Then Raeff’s third work of fiction, the novel “Winter Kept Us Warm,” was published in 2018. I was overwhelmed by how good it was. And here is the confession I am building up to: I kept wanting to write about that third book here, but I kept being paralyzed by the feeling that I couldn’t possibly do it justice. So I put off and put off writing about it, and finally gave up, not without a feeling of failure and even shame. Now I have just read Raeff’s latest book, the novel “Only the River” (Counterpoint, 2020), and once again, I am blown away by how wonderful, profound, meaningful, and expansive it is. Once again, I feel inadequate to express how good it is, and how great a writer Raeff is. But I am determined to at least try to do so. It is “about” the ways in which people are affected by wars and immigration, and about how people and families change as they move among cultures. It is about generational connections, family connections, the environment, and so much more. It is compelling and beautifully written, a real triumph. And it has intangible qualities such as integrity, deep honesty, and true caring about the characters and issues Raeff writes about. Although I feel the book deserves more than what I have written here, I am going to leave this post at that, so that I don’t delay any longer in giving tribute to both “Winter Kept Us Warm” and the current book, “Only The River.” Highly recommended!

Four Novels about Summers in Nantucket, Martha's Vineyard, and Cape Cod

It is summer, but because of the pandemic, most of us are not going on beach vacations, or any other kind. I realize how fortunate I am that I and my family have our health, our jobs (which we can do from home) and our pleasant homes to shelter in. So I am not complaining, but I do miss summer vacations or some type of travel. I have turned to “summer”/beach novels for escape. It happens that three of the four such novels I have very recently read, in search of that summer feeling, have the word “summer” in their titles. All four are set in the storied New England area encompassing Nantucket, Martha’s Vineyard, and Cape Cod, with all the history and magic suggested by those names. All four are reasonably well-written examples of a certain genre, with romance, family issues, obstacles and triumphs over those obstacles, all in gorgeous settings. Two of them are relatively light-hearted; the other two are a little bit heavier, darker, but only a little bit. Two of them feature surfers among their characters. The four novels all go down easy, and distract from the fact that most readers themselves probably do not have access to these settings, especially not during the pandemic. I am not going to “review” these four novels individually, but will list them here: “28 Summers,” by the bestselling author Erin Hilderbrand; “Girls of Summer,” by the also bestselling author Nancy Thayer; “Summer Darlings,” by Brooke Lea Foster; and “The Second Home,” by Christina Clancy. Note that the first two are the more lighthearted ones that I mentioned, so if you really want escape, you might want to go for those two.

"The Vanishing Half," by Brit Bennett

“The Vanishing Half” (Riverhead, 2020), by Brit Bennett, has received much attention since its publication earlier this year, and rightfully so. This is partly because the always-important topic of race in America has even more dramatically come to the fore in recent weeks. It is also because of Bennett’s powerful take on race and gender in the United States, both in her prior novel “The Mothers” (see my post of 1/30/17) and in this novel. Her two main characters are twin sisters who grow up in a Black family in a small southern Black town that prides itself on its population’s being very light-skinned. The twins run away together at the age of 16, first landing in New Orleans. They are extremely close. But then one day one of them, Stella, disappears without a word, leaving Desiree behind. Stella is the “vanishing half” of the title. The twins do not have any contact for years, as their lives completely diverge, and Stella has to keep a big secret. She slips into passing as White, and marries a White man who does not know she is Black; she lives in terror of someone finding out her secret. Desiree, on the other hand, chooses a very dark-skinned man for her partner. Both sisters have children; Stella’s daughter is blond, while Desiree’s daughter is dark-skinned. The two daughters become part of the story, and even meet by chance in Los Angeles. There is some closure at the end of the novel, but I won’t give any endings away. The topic of “passing” reminds me of Nella Larsen’s novel titled “Passing,” as well as other books on the subject. Bennett's novel and the others raise many questions about the meaning and significance of race in America, and all of the weight and freight carried by race and color and the way they are perceived. However, the novel is not only “about race,” but also a beautifully written and constructed story of the carefully delineated characters of the twins, their mother, their partners, their daughters, and others.

"Rebel Chef," by Dominique Crenn

Since I love restaurants, especially restaurants in the San Francisco Bay Area, I was happy to see that chef Dominique Crenn had written a memoir, “Rebel Chef: In Search of What Matters” (Penguin, 2020). Crenn writes of her adoption into a French family in the French countryside, her wonderful family, and her early love of cooking. The “rebel” part of her title comes from her desire to go further out into the world, to fight the rather rigid and male-dominated world of high-level restaurant chefs, and to create her own way of cooking. Eventually, after cooking in several restaurants of various types, including one in Indonesia, she became the three-Michelin-star chef-owner of three restaurants (Atelier Crenn, Petit Crenn, and Bar Crenn) in San Francisco. It was a hard road, but she was determined, always buoyed by her parents’ unconditional love and belief in her. Other topics include her wondering about her birth mother, and her gradual realization that she was a lesbian. Over the years, I have dined at all three of Crenn’s restaurants, and have so appreciated her creativity, as well as the thoughtfulness displayed in her food, the atmosphere of her restaurants, and her sense of hospitality. Besides choosing the best ingredients, drawing on the different cultures she has experienced, she is also inspired by poetry, even presenting diners with a poem at the beginning of their dining experiences. And as she says in this memoir, she purposely kept her restaurants quite small, and when possible comes out into the dining room to welcome and speak with the diners. She did this when a friend and I dined at her first restaurant in San Francisco, Atelier Crenn, some years ago, and we did indeed feel welcomed.

"The Jane Austen Society" and "Jane Austen Made Me Do It"

Regular readers of this blog KNOW with great certainty that periodically I will write about Jane Austen’s novels, as well as books about the author, her novels, and the many tribute novels and related books by others. Here I write about two more books in this category that I have recently read. “The Jane Austen Society” (St. Martin’s, 2020), a novel by Natalie Jenner, imagines a fictional version of the group of Austen fans who got together in the 1940s to preserve the house in Chawton where Austen spent her last and most productive years. Some of the members of this society already live in Chawton, and others have connected with those locals to form the Society. The members are mixed in terms of background, nationality, gender, age, class, type of work, and more, but they are bound by their common desire to buy, save, and take care of the house as a permanent tribute to Austen. There are many backstories and subplots, all interesting in a low-key, sometimes melancholic way. The writing is lovely and the devotion of the author and her characters is evident. I truly enjoyed this charming and thoughtful novel, not only for the Austen focus, but also for the portrayal of the small village of Chawton and its inhabitants and visitors. Some readers may remember that I visited the house in Chawton some years ago, and was incredibly moved by being in the very house where Austen lived and wrote a large portion of her works. The second book is a collection of short stories titled “Jane Austen Made Me Do It: Original Stories Inspired by Literature’s Most Astute Observer of the Human Heart” (Ballantine, 2011), edited by Laurel Ann Nattress. The stories are all connected to Austen in various remarkably creative and intriguing ways. There are love stories, satires, ghost stories, and many other genres. I wasn’t sure that I would enjoy this collection, but, although the book is not as compelling as "The Jane Austen Society," I definitely did enjoy it.

"Queenie," by Candice Carty-Williams

The British novel “Queenie” (Simon & Schuster/Scout Press, paperback version 2019), which takes place in contemporary London, has been termed “Black Bridget Jones meets Americanah,” and that gives readers a very rough idea of the book. But the “Bridget Jones” books seemed much more lighthearted than this book; even the wonderful novel “Americanah,” although it focuses on racial analysis regarding the United States, has more of a wry, satirical tone in its observations than “Queenie” does. Queenie, the character, attempts to be a modern, free-spirited young woman, and there is certainly plenty of sex and drink and some drugs involved. But there is much pain as well. Some of the pain comes from a kind of depression that hangs over Queenie, getting worse as the novel progresses (although – spoiler alert – there is a cautiously optimistic ending to the novel). And some comes from being broken up with by a boyfriend. But some of that pain and depression comes from racial prejudice and discrimination, some of it internalized. So the book is a slightly uneasy mixture of “young and free woman in the city” (there is even a slight “Sex in the City” vibe as Queenie and her three best friends often meet and share their experiences about life, men, sex, work, and more) and of commentary on racial (and gender as well) matters. I like the portrayals of Queenie’s friends and how supportive and loving they are, as are some family members. Even her boss tolerates a lot of flakiness on Queenie’s part (some of it brought on by her troubles). The format of the book includes frequent series of tweets among the friends, which gives the book a contemporary vibe. At times the various aspects of the novel don’t quite fit together, but the result is still a compelling read.

"Home Baked," by Alia Volz

“Home Baked” (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2020), by Alia Volz, is a combination of biography, memoir, San Francisco history, social commentary, political advocacy, and -- at times --humorous romp. Volz tells the story of her mother’s career baking and selling marijuana brownies in San Francisco, mostly in the 1970s and 1980s. Volz’s mother Meridy was a “good girl,” a “square,” at college in Wisconsin before she moved to San Francisco for adventure and freedom, and stumbled upon the opportunity to bake and sell these special treats; her venture was called Sticky Fingers Brownies. She would dress in hippie-type clothing and make her rounds in various San Francisco neighborhoods, selling to regular customers and others. Her friends and later her husband helped in the enterprise, with the procuring of the marijuana, the baking, and the selling. Meridy was fearless, and somehow avoided getting into serious trouble during those years. She often made decisions based on the I Ching. Alia grew up with this, and always felt loved and safe, enjoying the adventures her mother took her along on. The book portrays the atmosphere, spirit and feeling of San Francisco during the 70s. Later, as AIDS became the scourge of the city, Meridy provided her brownies to many who suffered from that disease, easing their symptoms such as pain, nausea, and lack of appetite. Alia also conveys the horrors and sadness of that disease and its destruction of huge numbers of the young people, mostly but not only gay, and their diverse, creative community. She also shows the underside of San Francisco’s freedom and reputation: she tells of the Jim Jones devastation in Guyana, and of the assassinations of Mayor George Moscone and City Supervisor – the first openly gay Supervisor – Harvey Milk. As an adult writer, in preparation for writing this book, Volz did extensive research and many interviews, including of her mother and her father, and she has created a book full of descriptions and details of that unique time in a unique city. She has done something that seems difficult to me for a child to do: try to give an honest, accurate portrayal of her parents, their strengths and weaknesses, their eccentricities, and their (Meridy’s and Doug’s) initially close but later troubled relationship with each other (leading to divorce, but in later life to a friendship again). (Parenthetically, I have lived in San Francisco since those days, and I treasure the descriptions in this book of times and events that are very familiar to me, although my life and career have obviously been quite different than those of Meridy.)

Short Takes: "Days of Distraction," by Alexandra Chang, and "All Adults Here," by Emma Straub

I am reading (even) more than ever during these pandemic stay-at-home times, and getting behind with posting on what I have read. I don’t always post on every book I read, even in ordinary times, but I want to at least briefly mention the two that I write about today, because I recommend each of them to your attention. First is Alexandra Chang’s novel “Days of Distraction” (Ecco/HarperCollins, 2020), in which a young Chinese-American woman writer in Silicon Valley impulsively decides to move to upstate New York with her boyfriend. There she feels somewhat adrift, but makes some realizations about herself and her gender and ethnicity. I initially was attracted to the part about Silicon Valley (just south of where I live in Marin County and work in San Francisco), but soon was drawn into the story with all its low-key but important daily events and thoughts and new understandings. Chang is an excellent writer, and one cannot help getting caught up in her main character’s story. Next is “All Adults Here” (Riverhead, 2020), by Emma Straub, author of “The Vacationers,” which I wrote about here on 6/8/14, and of “Modern Lovers.” In all three of these novels, Straub writes about families, lovers, and relationships. She often focuses, as she does in this latest novel, on relationships among parents, adult children, and grandchildren. The story is deceptively breezy at times, but then we see some of the darker undertones of the relationships. Interestingly, a New York Times review of Straub’s earlier work compares her work to that of Anne Tyler (“All the pleasure of Anne Tyler’s compelling family portraits”), whose most recent novel I posted about a few days ago, on 6/14/20. I would not have thought of that comparison, and I think the younger writer Straub is excellent but not at Anne Tyler’s level (yet, at least). Still, there is something related in both authors’ preoccupation with, and uncanny understanding of, families and generations and their complex interactions.

"Lost and Wanted," by Nell Freudenberger

I almost didn’t read Nell Freudenberger’s novel, “Lost and Wanted” (Vintage, 2019), because the reviews and cover copy indicated that it had some spiritual-ish, semi-science fiction-ish aspects. Those who know my reading tastes know that I tend (with exceptions) to dislike and avoid both of these aspects/genres. However, something drew me to read the book anyway, and I am glad I did. The aspects mentioned above are embedded in a much broader context and story, where they make sense. In fact, the main character, Helen, is a professor of physics, and is very rational in her thinking. How she deals with what appears to be irrational and supernatural, in the time period after her best friend Charlie’s death, is the crux of this novel. But of course the true focuses are the friendship, the grappling with what a friendship means, and the coming to terms with grief and the finality of death. The novel also addresses romance, marriage, single parenthood, the relationships of young adults with their parents, career paths, and race (Helen is White and Charlie is Black). There is a little too much scientific exposition about physics, astronomy, and related matters for my taste. (I can frame this positively as my complete engagement with the arts and humanities and my comparatively lesser interest in science, or I can less positively but probably more accurately admit a kind of ignorance about such areas as physics.) This is an intelligent, thoughtful and engaging novel. For me, it was also a reminder that I should not dismiss too easily fiction that seems that it will be a little different than what I usually tend to read. In the case of “Lost and Wanted,” it had all the focus on relationships among family members and friends that I could ask for. And as for the other parts: well, it is good for me to stretch my reading choices.

"Redhead by the Side of the Road," by Anne Tyler

There are certain writers whose latest work I will always look for and read as soon as possible after it is published. These authors include, but are far from limited to, Anne Enright, Jane Gardam, Penelope Lively, Alice Munro, Lori Ostlund, Ann Patchett, Anne Raeff, Richard Russo, Zadie Smith, Colm Toibin, Kate Walbert, and Meg Wolitzer. Another, and the one I focus on today, is the wonderful Anne Tyler; I believe I have read, admired, and enjoyed every one of her twenty-two published novels. Highlights include “Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant,” “The Accidental Tourist,” “The Amateur Marriage,” “Digging to America” (which I twice taught), and “A Spool of Blue Thread”; I have posted here on several of these. I have just read her newest novel, “Redhead by the Side of the Road” (Knopf, 2020), and it too is excellent. Like most of her novels, it takes place in Baltimore, where she lives. And like most of her novels, the characters are very “ordinary” and down-to-earth (but like all people, more complex than they initially appear). Often not a lot “happens” in Tyler’s novels, and that is true of this one too. The main character, Micah Mortimer, is a middle-aged man with a simple life. He is good to his family, friends, and clients (he has a one-man computer repair service). He likes people, and people like him, but he has trouble connecting in a deeper way. His relationships with women are always pretty good, but somehow the women eventually leave because they feel he is not committed enough, or emotionally available enough. He doesn’t quite understand why they leave, and is rather passive in simply accepting the end of these relationships. Micah reminds me, in his somewhat isolated life, emotional limitations, and passivity, of the main characters in some of Tyler’s earlier novels, including Noah in “Noah’s Compass” (2009). Micah meets some new people and has some new experiences during the course of this new novel; none of these are dramatic, but they ease him toward new insights and new or renewed connections with people. As always with Tyler’s novels, “Redhead by the Side of the Road” is deceptively low-key but very "real" and very satisfying.

"Stray," by Stephanie Danler

I have often, and most recently in the past three months or so, posted here about memoirs of women writers who have dealt with extremely difficult, even traumatic, childhoods and sometimes adulthoods as well. I have just read another such memoir: “Stray” (Knopf, 2020), by Stephanie Danler. Danler is the author of the bestselling novel “Sweetbitter” (about which I posted on 6/8/16), which is about a young woman training in New York City to be a professional in the world of fine dining; although “Sweetbitter” is a novel, it is at least somewhat based on the author’s own experiences. But “Stray” covers a much wider and deeper range of Danler’s difficult life, especially her extremely damaged parents. She, along with her sister, has been greatly scarred by these parents, and has a love/hate relationship (although that oversimplifies her feelings) with each of them. Both are alcoholic and drug-addicted, although they – especially her father after he leaves the family – live an upper middle class life. They both, especially her mother, have extreme health problems, at least partly related to their substance abuse. Fortunately, Danler has other relatives – grandparents and an aunt – who provide more “normal” support and affection. And she has some successes in her own life, both personal and professional. But her own damage causes her to have unhealthy relationships with charming but difficult, unavailable men, including the married lover she calls the “Monster.” This is a harrowing story, with so much pain involved. I don’t want to give any spoilers, but I will just say that her years of therapy and work on herself do help, and do allow her to live a better life by the end of the time period of the memoir.

"Recollections of My Nonexistence," by Rebecca Solnit

The unique writer and activist Rebecca Solnit has just published a fascinating memoir, “Recollections of My Nonexistence” (Viking, 2020). I especially enjoyed her loving and detailed tribute to San Francisco, where she has lived most of her adult life, as have I. In addition, she is a highly original, thoughtful, and inspiring thinker and writer. She has written numerous books and articles. I have always particularly appreciated her attention to gender and feminism, a major topic interwoven throughout this current book. But I have also appreciated and learned from her dedication to engaging with ideas about “nature and landscape and gender and the American West” (p. 146). Solnit always has an original take on a topic, and always makes connections among ideas and experiences in ways that are not obvious. I have read two of her previous books (see my posts of 3/18/11 and 9/10/14 - the latter about the book titled "Men Explain Things To Me," the inspiration for the phrase "mansplaining") as well as many of her essays, and have heard her speak and even briefly met and chatted with her after a talk she gave at my university a few years ago; she is a compelling speaker. She definitely deserves the title of “public intellectual,” although as I write this, I realize that the term is most often by far used about men rather than women, and that the term has certain pompous associations. Still, I want to apply the term to Solnit, meaning it in the best sense of the phrase, and in my very small way, attempting to rescue the term from negative connotations and from sexism.

"Everything is Under Control: A Memoir with Recipes," by Phyllis Grant

Phyllis Grant’s “Everything is Under Control: A Memoir with Recipes” (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2020) is a small book, and each chapter is made up of a short series of short (usually one to four sentences each) vignettes. This is an unusual but quite effective technique. Grant writes of her life as a dancer at Juilliard, then a chef at prestigious restaurants in New York, then a wife and mother in Berkeley, California. She also writes of her grandparents and her parents, especially her mother. She is candid and generous in writing about problems she has dealt with in her life, especially that of postpartum depression. There is joy too, most notably the joys of family and parenting, and the joys of gathering, creating and eating good food (about which she writes with detailed, vivid appreciation). The last 30 pages of this short book (232 small pages) are given to recipes. As someone who loves going to good restaurants, and who appreciates her husband’s excellent cooking, but seldom cooks herself, I must admit I more or less skipped over this last section. However, rather surprisingly, in this pandemic stay-at-home era I have started occasionally cooking again (as I used to in the early years of my marriage and of raising my daughter). Perhaps one of these days I will try, despite their somewhat complicated nature, some of Grant’s recipes.

"The House of Deep Water," by Jeni McFarland

I admit I was first drawn to “The House of Deep Water” (Putnam, 2020), the debut novel by Jeni McFarland, because it is set in Michigan, where I lived for some years as a high school and college student (many years ago!), and where I continued to visit family and friends for many years after. (I have posted here about going to my late parents’ Michigan lake cottage many summers even long after I had moved to California, and the joys of choosing the books to take for the plane and for reading by the lakeside.) The setting of this novel, in a small town near Kalamazoo, is not anywhere I had lived, but I had been to Kalamazoo and knew people from that area. And there are a few references to Michigan life. But as it turns out, this aspect is not emphasized in the book. Of interest, though, are the social class aspects of the story; social class is a topic I have addressed in my academic research and writing. The small town where the story is set, River Bend, is mostly working class, with residents struggling to get and keep jobs and to make enough money to survive. Within that context, the main focus of the novel is on the complicated relationships among various members of two extended, multi-generational families. One family is white and one is mostly black. But race is only a minor focus. The novel is about the tangles and the troubled yet supportive interconnections among the members of the families. The spine of the story is the return to River Bend by three women family members who were eager to leave the town some years ago, but who are now, separately, either drawn or driven back by their current life circumstances. We learn to know three generations of each of the two main families mentioned above. I was very grateful for the family tree chart at the beginning of the book, and I referred back to it many times while reading. The characters are vividly portrayed. Everyone knows everyone else’s business; even the secrets are often not very secret. The characters are all complex, with various perspectives and quirks; the author isn’t afraid to show some of the characters in a bad light, and yet shows their redeeming qualities as well. There is a fair amount of infidelity within their small circles, and some competition for the attention of one of the characters, Steve, which even the author is puzzled by, as he is unprepossessing (except in a sort of smarmy way), dishonest, often drunk, and completely unreliable. A lot of plot happens; there is constant moving back and forth between the present and the past. In fact, the past is always present in these characters’ lives.

"Actress," by Anne Enright

I first “discovered” Irish writer Anne Enright when I read her wonderful 2007 novel “The Gathering” (before I started this blog, or I would have definitely posted about it!). I went on to read more of her books, most notably the 2015 novel “The Green Road” (which I posted about here on 7/3/15). Enright has become one of the preeminent Irish writers today, and was appointed the inaugural national laureate for fiction in 2015. Her writing is about relationships, sex, marriage, and families, with the emphasis on the perspectives of women. She has been clear about her experiences of misogyny in Ireland and in particular in the literary world. Her writing is fresh, sharp, crisp, original, and compelling. So when I heard about her new novel, “Actress” (W.W. Norton, 2020), I was excited, and bought a copy as soon as possible. This is an indelible portrait of two women: the actress Katherine O’Dell and her daughter Norah. The story is told mostly from the perspective of Norah, who constantly struggles to figure out who her mother is, what her secrets are, and what her inner world is like. There is great love between them, but also much misunderstanding, semi-estrangement at times, and profound mystery. Katherine is intensely gifted but also insecure, both idolized and underestimated, even mocked at times. She suffers as so many actresses have over the years with losing parts and attention as she got older. She seems, much of the time, to be performing her life, as much as she performs on stage. Norah, of course, has her own life, her own needs, her own secrets. It is both an honor and a burden for her to be the keeper of her mother’s legacy. This is a book that pulls the reader in, with its dense exploration of the mother-daughter connection, the life of a performer, the context of Ireland, and the secrets all the characters carry. Enright never disappoints; I consider her one of the great writers of our day.

Happy Birthday to my Friend and Fellow Reader B.!

I treasure friends with whom I can talk about books. One of my very good friends, “B.,” is also one of my very best fellow devotees to books and reading. I have mentioned her in this blog a couple of times over the years. Besides, or rather as an important part of, being very good friends for years and years (and years!), we have shared so much in the world of books. We have talked about what we have read and are reading, we have given each other books, we have exchanged articles and clippings, we have recommended books to each other, and we have shared book news. I have learned so much from her, as she is deeply educated and grounded in the world of English literature. As she has been slightly downsizing the contents of her apartment in recent years, she has given me some beautiful and meaningful books from her collection, books which I will always treasure for themselves and because they are from her. Most of all, we have shared the joy and delight of the world of books. We both get excited about Jane Austen! George Eliot! Virginia Woolf! Barbara Pym! And so many, many more writers and books. Thank you, B., for all those conversations and all the ways we share our love of books and reading. I am writing today because I want to pay tribute to this very special friend on her very special “big” birthday. Happy, happy birthday, dear friend, with much appreciation and love!

Two Memoirs Driven by Family Secrets: "Miss Aluminum" and "The Escape Artist"

I have just read two memoirs whose driving force is the family secrets that the two memoirists’ lives were built on, and the massively dysfunctional families that they each grew up in. The novelist Susanna Moore has had a fascinating and successful life as an actress, model, and – especially – a writer. Her life has been glamorous in many ways, and this memoir – “Miss Aluminum” (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2020) is full of stories of famous movie stars, directors, writers, and others she has known and in some cases had romantic and/or sexual relationships with. But throughout, she is deeply negatively affected by questions about her mother’s death, and by the bad experiences she had with her stepmother, among other difficulties in her childhood. Fortunately, she also had some very kind people in her life who helped her along the way. Lawyer and writer Helen Fremont’s memoir, “The Escape Artist” (Gallery Books, 2020) is also dominated by family secrets and family dysfunction: the secrets her parents keep from her about their background in Europe during World War II, the secrets her mother keeps from her father, and the secrets her sister Lara and she keep from each other. There is great love in the family, but the love is almost always overshadowed by the intensity of the dysfunction, and by the various psychological problems each of the four members of this sad nuclear family experience, most dramatically and frighteningly in the case of Lara. Both of these memoirs are extremely readable and compelling. And it is encouraging that both of the authors seem to have prevailed and eventually “graduated” to a calmer and better life than their troubled and turbulent backgrounds would predict. On a personal note, reading such memoirs about such difficult lives makes me more grateful than ever for having had the great gift of a calm, happy childhood with wonderful, loving parents. That is not to say that everything was perfect, for them or for me, but any bumps in the road were very, very minor compared to the ones these two writers and their families experienced.

"The Other Bennet Sister," by Janice Hadlow

I’ve written here before that Jane Austen spinoffs – prequels, sequels, stories focused on minor characters, mystery and zombie genre versions, etc. – range from pretty good, to only-so-so-but-mildly-fun-to-read, to awful. Last week I read an Austen spinoff that completely bowled me over: “The Other Bennet Sister” (Holt, 2020), by Janice Hadlow. This novel centers on Mary, the middle sister in the Bennet family in “Pride and Prejudice.” I admit that that focus caused me to hesitate; if Jane Austen herself gave Mary short shrift, mocking her a bit cruelly but mostly dismissing her, did I want to read a 463-page novel about her? The answer turned out to be, emphatically, yes! In the original novel, Mary is a plain, rather humorless young lady whose focus on books and their ideas seems labored, and whose speeches are didactic. Mary is largely lost in the shuffle of the Bennet family; the other members of her family are kind enough to her but mostly ignore her. She is the odd one out, in the middle, between the pair of her older sisters Elizabeth and Jane, best of friends, and another pair, her younger sisters Kitty and Lydia, also always together. But in the plentiful pages of Hadlow’s novel, Mary is given the glorious space to grow into a very interesting woman whom one wants to know more about. The qualities for which she is satirized by both Austen and the other characters in “Pride and Prejudice” are revealed to be positive ones, much more complex and with much more depth than “P and P” allows. For both the reader and Mary herself, there is a dawning realization of the depth of emotion Mary is capable of. As her world expands, we see her strength of character, her courage, and her capacity for joy. She increasingly appreciates not only the “improving” books she has always read, but also poetry, travel, beautiful things, and yes, love. She never has the “sparkle” that Elizabeth and the other sisters have to various degrees in “P and P,” but Hadlow wisely gives her a different path to self-discovery and, eventually, a joyful and meaningful place in the world. I can’t tell you much I admired and thoroughly enjoyed this book. The combination of its faithfulness to my much-beloved “Pride and Prejudice,” on the one hand, and Mary’s story being vastly expanded and extending into the future, on the other hand, is a potent and most satisfying one in Hadlow’s hands. I highly recommend “The Other Bennet Sister." I believe all but the most purist Jane Austen devotees will enjoy this novel immensely. Even those who haven't read "Pride and Prejudice" will enjoy it as well.

Books as the Language of Grandma’s Love

During this stay-at-home era of the pandemic, one of the most painful losses has been not seeing our beloved grandson E., almost two and a half years old, except on Facetime and in pictures and videos sent by our daughter. They live just a few miles away, and we used to see him (in “the olden days” of about two months ago…it seems much longer…) about two times a week. But because of the state and local orders, and because my husband and I are “seniors” and have health conditions that make us vulnerable, we have not had in-person visits. I particularly miss reading to him. One thing that has been helpful to me during this time is sending him cards, kids’ musical instruments, and – especially – books! I do research about kids’ books, combined with memories of what I read to my daughter when she was small, then order the books online from one of my favorite independent bookstores and have them delivered to E.’s house. My daughter is great about telling me which ones they have read to him so far, and which ones he especially likes. She recently texted me that he said, when books arrived for him, “new books from Grandma!” You can imagine how this adoring grandmother’s heart fluttered on hearing these words! This experience reminds me of how giving and receiving books can be a form of sharing, an expression of love, and a bond among family members and friends. P.S. For the first time in the ten years I have been writing this blog, I had the urge to append a heart emoji to a post…not my usual style (except very occasionally in a text or on Facebook), but the topic is so close to my heart! OK, I resisted that urge. But I came “this close”!

"We Wish You Luck," by Caroline Zancan

And…yet another book about writers! No, I am not in a rut, it’s just a coincidence…I think! “We Wish You Luck” (Riverhead, 2020), by Caroline Zancan, is a novel about a group of aspiring writers at a low residence graduate writing program. Twice a year they meet at the school in Vermont for ten days. The expected happens: friendships, romances, enmities, competitions, etc. But there are strong elements of surprise as well, and the author keeps us guessing until the end. So the book is a mixture of a writer’s novel, a campus novel, and a small-community-in-a-small-space novel…with a touch of mystery and a touch of thriller in the mix. The three main characters form a quirky, very loyal group that fascinates the other writing students who form the collective “we” that narrates the book as a sort of Greek chorus. No one knows what the members of the group will do next. They are the “popular kids” with a touch of menace, and everyone wants to be near them to see what they will do next. And then there are the instructors, famous or semi-famous writers themselves, who have their own issues. Readers are left on the proverbial edge of their seats to find out how it all turns out. But not in a bestseller-y embossed-cover-paperback way. Well, maybe a little. But mostly in a literary way.

RIP Deirdre Bair

I am very sorry to hear, today, of the death of writer Deirdre Bair. She died on April 17, at the age of 84, of heart failure. She was the highly respected biographer about whom I wrote very recently, on 2/18/20, on the occasion of my having read her 2019 book, “Parisian Lives: Samuel Beckett, Simone de Beauvoir and Me.” This book was a memoir about writing biographies of these two towering writers. In my post, I raved about this book, saying it was “one of the very best books I have read recently.” The combination of the fascinating subject matter, the excellent writing, and Bair's good eye for the telling detail made the book pure joy to read. Bair also wrote biographies of other well-known people, and was an active scholar and professor. I am sad that she is gone, and sad that there will be no more books from her.

"Later: My Life at the Edge of the World," by Paul Lisicky

Since my post of 4/5/20, about having very recently (since being in the pandemic stay-at-home era) read six books about women writers, I have now read more books about writers. The first one (I will write about others later) is a memoir by a gay male writer, “Later: My Life at the Edge of the World” (Graywolf, 2020), by Paul Lisicky, tells of the time period during which the author took up a writing fellowship in a program in Provincetown, on the East Coast, a somewhat isolated, charming small city famed for its artists and for its gay life. Lisicky had had a difficult time dealing with homophobia, overt and subtle, in his family and in most parts of his life. Thus Provincetown was for him a sort of magic city, where being gay was the norm, not an aberration, and where he was surrounded by writers, “kindred spirits.” In many ways this was a joyful time for the author, during which he felt free to openly be his real self. But this was in the early days of the AIDS crisis, and he, like every gay man, was both afraid for himself and mourning his friends and others who fell ill and -- in those times before there was life-prolonging medication -- died. He tells of his relationships with lovers, friends, fellow writers (some people were in two or even three of these categories), and with Provincetown itself. “Later” is a bittersweet memoir, one of great interest both for the parts about writing and the parts about the terrible epidemic of HIV/AIDS. And of course, these past few weeks, we readers -- especially those of us old enough to have been around during the beginnings of the appearance of AIDS -- have increasingly seen parallels between that crisis and the current one.

Pandemic Awareness Suffuses My Reading

These days of “shelter-in-place,” I am reading more than ever, partly to distract myself from the pandemic. But I find it intrudes itself even as I read novels and memoirs published well before the coronavirus crisis. For example, there is an occasional reference to a virus, an illness, a health crisis, a hospital stay, and I feel a chill. Even when books don’t directly mention anything to do with illness, I instinctively -- at least for a millisecond -- recoil from scenes in these books in which people sit or stand too close together, at restaurants or parties, or in parks or classrooms or theaters. I find myself wanting to call out to caution the characters: “Don’t do that!” "Stay home!" "Remember to “social-distance!" Or “Don’t sip from the same glass!” Or "Did you wash your hands?" Or “Don’t open that package or letter without wiping it down with alcohol, and/or leaving it unopened for a day or two first!” These reading experiences remind me that even if we are fortunate enough to be in relatively safe situations, as my husband and I are (working from home, able to stay in a comfortable home, getting groceries and other supplies delivered, etc.), we are all vulnerable (we, for example, are now -- like it or not -- defined as “seniors” and thus more vulnerable), we are all on high alert, sensing danger everywhere. We all feel the profound weight of the uncertainty, pain, and loss that surround us.

Why Did I Just Read Six Books in a Row about Women Writers?

It seems that I have unintentionally, unconsciously, read six books in a row (and yes, I am reading even more than usual, now that I am basically confined to my home during the pandemic shelter-in-place orders, and despite still working -- teaching, committee work, research and writing -- remotely, spending time figuring out how to get groceries, and obsessively reading pandemic news) that are by and about (mostly older) women writers, writing about writing and reading. A week ago (3/28/20) I posted about one of these, Vivian Gornick’s book on re-reading, which is a blend of literary criticism and memoir. The second one, “Leave Me Alone, I’m Reading: Finding and Losing Myself in Books” (Random House, 2005), is a memoir by the “Fresh Air” radio program’s longtime book critic, Maureen Corrigan. She writes enthusiastically about her life in books, and the joys of writing, speaking, and teaching about literature (she is also a professor at Georgetown University). The third book is a novel by Lily King, “Writers & Lovers” (Grove Press, 2020), which is “about” exactly the two focuses of the title, although also, among other matters, about the main character’s feelings of lostness after her mother died. Although this main character is only in her thirties, she fits somewhat with the next two books in that she is a blocked writer, a writer who has been working on her novel for more than six years and can’t seem to make progress on it. These next two books (fourth and fifth) are indeed about older (or at least late middle-aged) writers; one book is a memoir and one is a novel. The memoir, “Scratched: A Memoir of Perfectionism” (Harper, 2020), by the well-respected Elizabeth Tallent, explains why she stopped writing after publishing several successful novels. For 22 years, she could not write, which she attributes to her struggle with a serious case of perfectionism. This is not the kind we sometimes speak lightly or even humorously about, but one rooted in the childhood trauma of growing up with a withholding mother; this perfectionism requires psycholanalysis for many, many years. This is a sad and difficult book to read, and Tallent’s somewhat stream-of-consciousness descriptions of her feelings are sometimes overwhelmingly draining even to read. As a result, to be honest, I considered bailing halfway through, but pushed myself to finish. Next, the main character (Judy) in the novel, “Separation Anxiety” (Ecco, 2020), by Laura Zigman, also wants to write something literary; she has published one very successful children’s book, but her following books were unsuccessful. She is paralyzed by the need for money, by her parents’ recent deaths, by the clinical anxiety of her husband, by their fraying marriage, by the (normal but difficult) changes in her teenaged son, and by the approaching death of her best friend. One of her adaptive mechanisms is a strange one: she starts carrying the family dog in a baby sling left over from her son’s infancy. Despite the problems, the reader has a sense of Judy’s underlying strength, devotion to family and friends, and a certain resiliency. These, and her well-drawn characters and the various episodes described in the novel, and the moments of humor, make the book enjoyable to read. The sixth book of this unintentional “series” on similar or at least closely related topics is Joan Frank’s “Where You’re All Going: Four Novellas” (Sarabande, 2020). Joan Frank is a San Francisco Bay Area writer, and her setting many of her books in that area (where I live) is one (but only one) of the reasons I have been reading, admiring, and enjoying her books for years. (See my posts of 7/6/10, 7/11/10, 12/31/10, 4/9/12, 1/5/13, and 3/9/17.) In the first of the four novellas, the main character (who seems in many ways to be based on the author herself) is also a writer. Each of Frank’s four novellas is compelling, and the book reminds me yet again what a wonderful writer she is. So, why did I read so many books by and about women writers during the past couple of weeks? I have always, especially in my twenties and onward, tended to read more books by women than by men. And I enjoy reading books about writers. So books about women writers are a natural preference (obviously with many exceptions), and I have read many of these over the years. These are, however, not usually so densely in evidence in my reading as in these six read consecutively. So the confluence is probably accidental, but I am (idly) trying to puzzle out how this “coincidence” took place.

Changes in My Reading Life during this Pandemic

Among all the huge changes in our lives during this coronavirus crisis, there are some smaller but still important, to me, ways in which the virus has changed my reading life. First, I want to clearly acknowledge that these are small and insignificant in the larger picture. But here on my book blog, speaking to others who love to read, I want to share these changes. First, as I briefly mentioned in my 3/19/20 post, since libraries and bookstores are closed, if I want to read new books (beyond the ones already in my home), I need to order them. I have been ordering books from local independent bookstores (who are still “open” online), and this process makes me so happy. First, I feel good about supporting these wonderful bookstores, especially now when their businesses have been hit so badly. Second, it is such a treat, such a lift to my spirits, when these books are delivered to my door. These beautiful new novels (mostly 2020 books) are now forming a lovely stack on my “to read” shelf. Second, my husband and I are longtime subscribers to and readers of our local newspaper, the San Francisco Chronicle, and reading the paper with our morning coffee is a cherished ritual. But now we wonder if the physical newspaper, delivered to our door every morning, could be a carrier of the virus. We are wary. Should we spray it with alcohol? Leave it to sit for a while before opening it up? So far we have done each of these, at various times, inconsistently. We could decide to just read the paper online (as I already do with the New York Times and the Washington Post). But we love the physical newspaper on newsprint, and don’t want to give it up. We also want to support the press in general and the Chronicle in particular with our subscription dollars (which of course are more than the online price, but worth it…). A third change is that I am – more than ever – uninterested in reading anything even vaguely dystopian. It is not a favorite genre for me anyway, but occasionally I have liked (besides the classics such as “1984”) a novel such as Emily St. John Mandel’s excellent “Station Eleven” (about which I posted on 3/15/16, noting that the reason I liked it was that besides its description of life after a pandemic (!), it did what all good novels should do: focus on characters and relationships. Today, in a book of short stories, I encountered a semi-dystopian story, and felt an almost-physical revulsion; it is a little too close to home these days. Fourth, my reading of novels and other books has been strangely influenced by the current restrictions, in that when I read about a party, or friends meeting each other on the street and shaking hands or hugging, or kids playing on swings and slides in a park, or other actions that violate social distancing or rules of scrupulous virus-era cleanliness, my first instinct now is to say “NO, NO, don’t do that! That’s dangerous!” Of course these books were written in pre-virus times, back in the old days of a few months or a couple of years ago or earlier. But my immediate reaction of worry and fear is instinctive, not logical.

"Unfinished Business: Notes of a Chronic Re-Reader," by Vivian Gornick

The wonderful author, feminist, literary critic, and memoirist Vivian Gornick has a terrific new book out: “Unfinished Business: Notes of a Chronic Re-Reader” (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2020). This is a small, short book that will appeal to most avid readers. I couldn’t resist it, not only because of the topic, but also because I know Gornick to be a compelling writer. Among her earlier books are the acclaimed, wonderful memoir “Fierce Attachments” (1987) and the more recent memoir, “The Odd Woman in the City” (2015), both of which I have read with pleasure, and the latter of which I posted about here on 10/15/15. Gornick writes with conviction and with an approachable, beguiling manner. In this new book, she writes about the joys of re-reading. As she is in her early 80s, she is able to write about reading certain books several times over the years, both rediscovering what she loves about them and often perceiving them quite differently each time, for better or for worse. Throughout, she weaves her experiences with these books into her other life experiences. Some books and topics that she focuses on here include D.H. Lawrence’s “Sons and Lovers”; Colette’s novels, especially “Cheri” and “The Last of Cheri”; Marguerite Duras’ “The Lover”; Jewish- American writing; the work of Natalia Ginzburg; and Thomas Hardy’s “Jude the Obscure.” Perhaps best of all, for me, was the chapter on the work of Elizabeth Bowen, of whom both Gornick and I are great admirers. (Note that I wrote quite recently – 1/25/20 --about Bowen’s book on “English Novelists.”) Gornick writes so well about the role of “receptivity,” in other words, whether or not one reads a novel at the right time, the time that one is ready to read it and connect to it. Most of all, though, I love this book because the author’s deep love of reading, thinking, and re-reading is so evident. I am a chronic re-reader myself (e.g., re-reading each of Jane Austen's novels many times, as well as the novels of Virginia Woolf, Edith Wharton, Barbara Pym, and E.M. Forster, among many others). Re-reading is truly celebrated in the 161 pages of "Unfinished Business," and I loved reading and celebrating along with the author!

"Topics of Conversation," by Miranda Popkey

A small, intense novel titled “Topics of Conversation” (Knopf, 2020), by Miranda Popkey, is packed with stories of women, mostly single mothers, mostly somewhat precarious financially, who are often unsettled, in transit and in transition, unsure about where they are going. One main character is the through thread, and each chapter is set in a different city with different characters in literal conversations with this main character. At first I felt the structure of the novel was a bit disjointed, but then connections among the chapters and the conversations became clear, and the novel felt more consistent than it did initially. The stories themselves are important, and the framing of the stories being exchanged during the course of conversations provides important added context, depth, and layering. The stories are powerful; they address motherhood, marriage, divorce, sex, mobility, and other topics. Some of the stories are quite raw, gritty and even disturbing. The strengths of this novel are its realism; its up-close, you-are-there feeling; and its revelations about the lives of women. I can’t say I “enjoyed” this book, but I was caught up in it and learned from it, so I am glad that I read it. This is Popkey’s first novel; I feel quite sure we will be hearing more from her.

Reading in the Time of Coronavirus

I hope you are all doing well despite these unsettling times during the coronavirus crisis. I wish you all good health. I also note that one source of strength, comfort, and inspiration during difficult times is reading. I am now working from home and “sheltering in place” per our local directives, and libraries and bookstores are closed, but I always have books at home, and I just ordered quite a few books online from two of my favorite local independent bookstores: Green Apple and Books, Inc. This is of course for my own benefit, but I also want to support independent bookstores, now more than ever. So I will continue reading, probably even more now that I can’t leave home (except for essential tasks), and I will continue posting on this blog. I hope you will continue reading as well, perhaps ordering a book or two from your local independent bookstores, and will receive the sustenance that reading can bring even in times of crisis.

"Late Migrations: A Natural History of Love and Loss," by Margaret Renkl

Having recently lost my mother (and having lost my father sixteen years ago, as well as other relatives and friends along the way), I find myself drawn to accounts of loss and death and their effects on those left behind. The current corona virus pandemic adds to this forced preoccupation with illness and death. One beautifully written account is “Late Migrations: A Natural History of Love and Loss” (Milkwood, 2019), by the New York Times opinion writer Margaret Renkl. This powerful and evocative collection of short, interconnected, memoiristic chapters tells stories of the author’s family history, of the sustenance and joy she receives from family (alive and deceased), from gardening and close attention to birds and other elements of nature, and yes, of the losses she has experienced. There is a poetic quality to Renkl’s writing. Complementing the writing are the lovely illustrations, mostly of birds and other aspects of nature, by Renkl’s brother Billy Renkl. There is a unique balance of the delicate and the sturdy in the descriptions of the family and nature. I will end with a few lines from the book that especially spoke to me. “Dad had always been the one person who could make me feel both completely protected and certain of my own strength” (p. 154). Both of my parents made me feel that way too, and I know how fortunate I am to have had that foundation, which has sustained me my whole life. “I think of…my parents every single day. They are an absence made palpably present, as though their most vivid traits…had formed a thin membrane between me and the world: because they are gone, I see everything differently” (p. 191). I can only say “yes” to this description. And this one: “Here is what no one told me about grief: you inhabit it like a skin. Everywhere you go, you wear grief under your clothes. Everything you see, you see through it, like a film” (p. 218). Yes. Yet this book is not only about loss and pain; it is also about the consolations of life, of nature. Renkl ends with this: “There is nothing at all to fear. Walk out into the springtime, and look: the birds welcome you with a chorus. The flowers turn their faces to your face. The last of last year’s leaves, still damp in the shadows, smell ripe and faintly of fall” (p. 218), and “I learned the world would go on. An irreplaceable life had winked out in an instant, but outside my window, the world was flaring up in celebration” (p. 219). The strength of this book -- besides the impressively beautiful writing -- is the realistic weaving together of the feelings of grief and the feelings of consolation. This book speaks to me on both levels, as I am sure it does to many of its readers.

"Calling It Quits: Late-Life Divorce and Starting Over," by Deirdre Bair

Having very recently read and posted on (2/18/20) Deirdre Bair’s new book on her experiences researching and writing biographies of Samuel Beckett and Simone De Beauvoir, I picked up and read her earlier book on a completely different topic, late-life divorce, titled “Calling It Quits: Late-Life Divorce and Starting Over” (Random House, 2007), and found it almost (not quite, but only because the new book was exceptional) as engaging as the more recent book. In other words, she is a good writer and teller of stories, no matter what the topic. Before going further, I will note that yes, my husband and I have been married for a long time, but no, we are not considering a divorce! But I was fascinated by the many, many stories of those who did divorce, including consideration of why they divorced, how their lives changed afterward, the problems and rewards of divorce, and how the divorces affected the (mostly adult) children of those divorced couples. Bair did extensive research on the topic, but this was not surprising considering how much deep and far-reaching research she did on her biographies. The research for this book included interviews with 184 women, 126 men, and 84 adult children, as well as with many lawyers, mediators, judges, therapists, social workers, and others who work with those divorcing and divorced. The reasons for divorce were of course various, but without simplifying too much, almost all came down to “freedom.” Bair delves into the emotional, financial, and other consequences of divorce. She notes that when people really wanted to divorce, they did so despite often having drastically reduced financial security. Although not explicitly labeling her book feminist, she does in fact show that very often women are more harmed by divorce financially and logistically, not only because of sometimes vindictive husbands, but also because of outdated laws, conservative judges, and societal mindsets. These older women often did not work, or did not have real careers, because at the time they married, it was generally assumed that women would stay at home to take care of the children, houses, and all domestic matters. Or they had careers, but their husbands’ careers always came first, and some of these required many moves, making it hard for the wives to have any continuity in their own careers. Fortunately, these assumptions and related laws have changed somewhat over the past years, including after this book was published in 2007. But to go back to the stories themselves, those shared by these interviewees (and informed by the author’s research of the literature as well) are what make the book so compelling. As always, the stories of human lives, loves, problems, struggles, failures, and triumphs, in all their particularities as well as their universalities, are what I -- and most of us, I believe – find irresistable to read about. Bair’s presentation of her research in such a riveting way is impressive.

"Drawing Power," edited by Diane Noomin

I recently (2/10/20) wrote about the graphic book (text and drawings), “Good Talk: A Memoir in Conversations,” a meditation on race by Mira Jacob. I just finished another highly effective graphic book that focuses on social issues – in this case, violence against women. This substantial (in all senses of the word) book is labeled “A Comics Anthology,” and titled “Drawing Power: Women’s Stories of Sexual Violence, Harassment, and Survival” (Abrams, 2019), edited by Diane Noomin. (Note the dual meaning of the main title, “Drawing Power.”) The editor invited over five dozen women comics writers/artists to contribute their own stories about sexual violence and harassment in comics form. Individually and collectively, these personal stories are stunning, deeply sad, and very disturbing. They provide still more evidence to anyone who doubts that sexual abuse and gender-based mistreatment of women is found everywhere. The variety of situations is great, and yet the stories are essentially very similar. Despite the terribly difficult experiences and the longlasting consequences the contributors tell of, and that are so discouraging, there is also a note of hope: a sense that many of these women have learned to turn their experiences into at least partial healing, and into support of other women, through their art and their activism. Once again, we see the immense power of art. The words and drawings interact in a uniquely powerful way. The book is aptly dedicated to Anita Hill, and introduced by Roxane Gay.