"An Onion in My Pocket: My Life with Vegetables," by Deborah Madison

Readers of this blog will not be surprised that I am writing about yet another “food and restaurant” memoir. I find these so fascinating (if they are written at least reasonably well). “An Onion in My Pocket: My Life with Vegetables” (Knopf, 2020) is about Deborah Madison’s childhood in California, years as a member of San Francisco’s Zen Center, great success as a writer of cookbooks and other food-related books, speaker, teacher, and award-winner in all these areas. But she is still best-known as the chef who worked in the famous Chez Panisse restaurant in Berkeley, and then opened San Francisco’s Zen vegetable-centered restaurant, Greens, over four decades ago. At the time it was truly groundbreaking, as vegetarianism was generally considered very fringy and not particularly appealing back then. Although Madison was only there for a few years, her influence is still felt, as Greens continues to this day, with its delicious food, its stunning location on the Bay, and its gorgeous views. Although I am not a vegetarian (and many diners there are not), I have had the pleasure of eating there many times, and it is always a special experience. Madison also writes candidly but with appropriate reserve about her family, her travels, her high and low points, her challenges, and her times of doubt. But throughout she comes across as a very centered person (probably influenced by her twenty years as a Zen student), and one who has always taken great pleasure and pride in her work in the world of food. I like, too, the way she gives generous credit to the people she has worked for and with, and others she has interacted with over the years. As I have said about other San Francisco-based narratives, I take particular interest in, and pleasure in, the scenes related to the city and surroundings, but her descriptions of her times in Europe and other parts of the world, and her current home in New Mexico, are of great interest as well. An admirable and enjoyable memoir and life.

"The Archer," by Shruti Swamy

What a deep pleasure it is to “discover” a “new” (to me) author and her beautiful, lyrical novel! “The Archer” (Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill, 2021), by Shruti Swamy, is painful and exalting in equal measure. It tells the story of Vidya, a child and then young woman in Bombay in the 1960s and 1970s. There is a deep sadness in her life: her mother’s mental illness that keeps her away for years at a time. Vidya’s life is hard, but her discovery of Kathak dancing allows her a way to transcend the sadness and difficulties in her life. This is one of the better depictions I have recently read of the power of art in a person’s life. During college, Vidya also discovers the power of love. The way the story is told, always through Vidya’s consciousness, is effective although at times almost claustrophobic. This is a powerful, expressive, insightful, and just plain gorgeous novel.

"Crossing to Safety," by Wallace Stegner

Although I was of course well aware of the towering reputation of Wallace Stegner, I hadn’t been successful in really engaging with any of his novels. Some years ago, I tried hard with “Angle of Repose,” his most famous book, but somehow – although admiring it on one level – couldn’t get drawn into it, and finally abandoned it. But a few months ago, I read a mention of Stegner’s last novel, “Crossing to Safety” (Modern Library, 2002; original publication Random House, 1987) that convinced me to read it. I admit it sat on my “to-read” pile for a while before I finally did read it. But I am so glad I did. It is a novel that is so rich, so humane, so wise, that I was immersed in it; I know it sounds strange to say, but I feel that the novel seeped into my pores. What it is “about” sounds simple. Two young male professors meet in 1937, and they and their wives become close friends and continue the friendship for about 40 years, until one of the four dies, and beyond. Various events happen in their lives, of course: different jobs, success in the world of literature, the birth and growth of children, regular stays at a summer place in Vermont (which represents the heart of their connection), and more. Each of the characters has her or his faults, yes; in other words, they are very human. Their friendship transcends those faults. The book is about true friendship and true love. Yes, many novels are about those topics, but this one is suffused with a sense of what those words can mean. The writing is quiet, even “simple,” and extraordinary. What a wonderful experience to read a novel one is only curious about, with not particularly high expectations (not because I was not aware of Stegner’s reputation, but because I somehow felt his work was not “my kind” of fiction)…and to find out how wrong I was!

"Lorna Mott Comes Home," by Diane Johnson

Diane Johnson is on my mental list of authors whose new novels I always seek out and read. I feel especially connected to them because they mostly take place in San Francisco, where I have lived (OK, now a few minutes north across the Golden Gate Bridge) and have worked for decades. She doesn’t just nominally set her books there; she immerses readers in details related to the city: streets, stores, weather, styles, trends, social distinctions, prices, and much more. She has also set some of her novels (the famous “Le Mariage” and “Le Divorce”) in France. She herself has lived in both San Francisco and Paris, and still divides her time between the two. Some of her plots seem to be semi-autobiographical, but of course we know we shouldn’t make assumptions about this. I just finished Johnson’s latest novel, “Lorna Mott Comes Home” (Knopf, 2021), which is set in both San Francisco and a small town in France. The title character, Lorna, comes from San Francisco but moved to France 18 years before the beginning of this novel, in order to marry and live with her charming second husband, a French man named Armand. But as the book begins, she leaves Armand (in a quite amicable split-up) because of his infidelity, and moves back to San Francisco. She is happy to be near her three adult children and their own families. But she finds living back in the U.S, especially in super-expensive San Francisco, harder than she remembered. She has money, but not a lot, and her former career as an art historian no longer brings her many speaking invitations and such. Her children each have problems of various sorts, and she wants to help them, but is not able to help them financially. Her first ex-husband is now married to a wealthy woman who has gained her fortune in the tech world (such a big part of the current San Francisco Bay Area’s wealth); the couple’s financial giving to his children with Lorna is erratic, and the cause of jealousy at times. The characters in this novel are realistic in that they are all very “human,” as we say about people who are a mixture of admirable and not-so-admirable, loving but complaining, supportive but jealous, predictable and unpredictable. In other words, although there is a strong note of comedy in this novel as in all of Johnson’s novels, the characters and situations are realistic and mostly believable, if unusual in some cases. My overall feeling about this novel is that I enjoyed it, as I knew I would, and I admire Johnson’s knowledge of human nature as well as her ability to create detailed and fascinating settings. She is clearly a literary writer but with a strong touch of not taking herself or her characters TOO seriously. I have to say, if I am being honest, that although I am glad I read this novel – and how could I NOT; as I said, she is on “the list” of authors I always read – I was a tiny bit disappointed in the novel. I can’t quite put my finger on why. Perhaps it is a little too “flip” at times? But overall, I can never regret reading one of Diane Johnson’s novels, with her unique blend of family drama, attractive settings, believable characters, comedy, and social commentary.

"Malibu Rising," by Taylor Jenkins Reid

As I have noted before, for various reasons I don’t post on this blog about every book I read. But I occasionally note some not particularly demanding but enjoyable books I have read (e.g., on 2/20/21). Today I write about a novel that I mostly enjoyed, and of which I mostly admired the craftwomanship involved. This book, like others I have read and sometimes written about here, exists somewhere between “literary” fiction and popular/bestseller fiction. Such novels are unlikely to be on “best books” lists in the New York Times or in literary magazines, but they are solidly written and they entertain and even move readers. “Malibu Rising” (Ballantine, 2021), is by Taylor Jenkins Reid, best known for her very popular previous novel “Daisy Jones and The Six,” which I also read and enjoyed (but did not post about here). As indicated in the title, the current novel takes place in Malibu, near Los Angeles; it involves a three-generation family that suffers and struggles but also, individually and together, becomes very successful and even famous. Fame and money, as we know, do not always bring happiness, especially if characters’ difficult childhoods undermine their seemingly ideal adulthoods. The main thread throughout, and the part I liked best about the novel, is the fierce family ties among four siblings, despite many obstacles and issues along the way. As with “Daisy Jones,” I started reading this novel with some resistance, but was drawn into the story. So no, it is not particularly demanding, but it provides an intriguing and even poignant world to share with the characters for a few hours. And that is a real and laudable accomplishment. (In case this post sounds condescending, I really don't mean it that way. I could not write such a novel, or any novel, myself. And I am grateful for every book that gives me and others pleasure.)

"Tastes Like War," by Grace Cho, and "Minor Feelings: An Asian American Reckoning," by Cathy Park Hong

Without setting out to do so, I happened to have recently read three terrific and illuminating books by Korean American women writers, two of them memoirs and one a memoiristic collection of essays. On 7/10/21, I wrote here with praise about one of them, a memoir: “Crying in H Mart,” by Michelle Zauner. Today I will write about the second and third of these books by Korean American women writers. The second, Grace M. Cho’s memoir, “Tastes Like War” (The Feminist Press, 2021) is also about being the child of a Korean-American mother and a white father. Cho’s mother, like Zauner’s mother, had a difficult life in Korea, both being hostesses to American military men in Korea and meeting their white American husbands there. These two mothers also both later had severe mental illnesses, surely at least partly caused by their difficult backgrounds. In both cases, their daughters (the authors) tried to learn more about their lives and their illnesses, and to help their mothers as much as they could. They both found that one way to connect with their mothers was through Korean food: cooking, eating, talking about what the food symbolized, telling stories. There are many touching moments of bonding over food in each book. The two books have much in common. Cho’s book is framed a bit more in academic language and theory than Zauner’s book is, but not in any heavy or ponderous way; the stories and the human connections are predominant in both. The third book by a Korean American woman writer that I read recently is “Minor Feelings: An Asian American Reckoning” (One World, 2020), by Cathy Park Hong. This is a powerful and thought-provoking blend of memoir and ideas about racial identity among Asian Americans, and about the pervasive reminders of one’s difference, as well as of stereotypes and misunderstandings constantly encountered by Asian Americans. The book is erudite, painful, personal – a compelling combination. This author, like the other two, writes often of her parents. One representative and heartbreaking passage speaks of the many times “I have seen my parents condescended to and mocked by white adults” (p. 77) and of the shame she as their daughter always felt when this happened. I turned down more corners of pages in this book than I usually do, by far, and have to restrain myself not to quote excessively here. These three books by Korean-American women are, separately and collectively, absolutely necessary and important to the American conversation about race and identity. They are also, each one, gripping and beautifully written. Highly recommended.

"My Broken Language: A Memoir," by Quiara Alegria Hudes

“My Broken Language: A Memoir” (One World, 2021), by Quiara Alegria Hudes, is a striking book, a beautiful book, an insightful and revealing book. The author writes of her Puerto Rican mother and family, and of growing up in Philadelphia, in a dizzyingly vivid, exuberant style. She writes about family (she has a huge, close family that spills in and out of each other’s homes), culture, language, food, dance, spirituality, ritual, and being a second generation American. The memoir bursts with life and a rich variety of stories, told in a candid tone. It is comic, tragic, and knowing. As Hudes gets older, she begins to write, and is now the author of several plays and musicals, including “In the Heights.” I highly recommend this wonderfully written book.

"The Way of Boys," by Anthony Rao

I just read a book that is not typical of my reading, or of the books I usually write about here: “The Way of Boys: The Social and Emotional Development of Young Boys” (Harper, 2010), by the Harvard Medical School child psychologist Anthony Rao (with Michelle Seaton). Why did I read it? Well, I (with my husband) raised a daughter, and now she has a preschool-aged son, and I am learning anew about differences between the way boys and girls behave and develop. The author believes that boys are different, and that parents and teachers need to understand those differences. It is a thoughtful book, informed by the author's years of experience working with young children; there are many examples and much good advice. Over the years, I have read many books about girls, and a few about boys, both from a child-rearing advice point of view, and from an academic and feminist theory perspective. I – like many parents (and grandparents!), educators, therapists, and theorists -- have thought a lot about whether the differences between boys and girls are inherent or socially constructed, or some combination thereof. And of course I understand the many differences within each gender, not to mention the binary and other non-cis identities of some children. I don’t claim to have any conclusive insights (!), but I continue to be interested in the topic, especially now because of my dearly loved grandson. (I now have an equally beloved baby granddaughter as well, making the observation process even more interesting for me). I do have one specific critique of the book: almost all the examples and suggestions refer to “Mom” and her worries, her talks with teachers, her child-raising. The author is very sympathetic to mothers’ concerns. But his emphasis on mothers highlights that child-raising is still – by some, apparently including the author – considered to be mainly the realm of mothers. Fathers are only very occasionally and briefly mentioned. Despite this (rather large, for me) caveat, I found the book interesting, insightful, useful, and very readable. The author has a reassuring and down-to-earth style, and is obviously drawing on a wealth of experience. As a footnote: I am happy to say that my son-in-law (who is very involved with raising the two children) is the one who told me about this book, and is reading it as well.

"My Place at the Table: A Recipe for a Delicious Life in Paris," by Alexander Lobrano

Paris and French food – always a great topic! I read many memoirs; one type I have read frequently, nearly always with pleasure, is memoirs of people in the world of food: chefs, restaurateurs, restaurant critics, cookbook writers, television food shows hosts, and so on. I have written about many of these in this blog. Recently, the title of a new such memoir caught my eye: “My Place at the Table: A Recipe for a Delicious Life in Paris” (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2021), by the American food writer Alexander Lobrano. Lobrano writes charmingly and disarmingly about his somewhat accidental path toward this career. He had always loved good food, and seemed to have an instinct for appreciation of its fine points; he also was fascinated by the idea of living and working in Paris. Gradually he made that dream happen. His detailed, astute, and loving descriptions of various types of food he encountered along the way, and how much he learned from so many people he met along the way, are a joy to read. He has a somewhat self-deprecating style at times, one that invites the reader in. His sense of humor adds to the pleasures of reading about his journey. The stories of food are completely embedded in the larger stories of his life and adventures; of the fascinating people he meets; and of the cultures of the different places he lives and eats, most prominently, as the title indicates, in Paris and surroundings. I thoroughly enjoyed this charming and engaging book, and I think you would too!

"The Shadow in the Garden: A Biographer's Tale," by James Atlas

“The Shadow in the Garden: A Biographer’s Tale” (Vintage, 2017), by James Atlas, is a pleasure to read. Atlas, a literary critic and the biographer of poet Delmore Schwartz and of novelist Saul Bellow, writes engagingly of his own experiences as a biographer; he also puts the art of literary biography in historical and literary context. For example, he writes fairly extensively about one of the most famous biographers of all time, James Boswell, and his subject, Samuel Johnson. He also writes of Lytton Strachey, Elizabeth Gaskell, and many other biographers of well-known writers. His research and knowledge is deep, and it is clear he has a great and genuine love of literature, writers, and in particular biography. But the best part of this book is Atlas’ descriptions of the years-long, complex process of doing the research for his own biographies. He did not know Schwartz personally, as the poet had died before Atlas embarked on the biography. He did know Bellow, and spent much time with the novelist, his family members (including several ex-wives and children), his girlfriends, and his friends. Atlas’ relationship with Bellow was fraught: Bellow was sometimes friendly and cooperative, sometimes resistant and even icy. Atlas writes extensively, although with a diplomatic reserve, about his own feelings about Bellow, but these clearly became somewhat resentful at times. He also writes about his own life and struggles and insecurities, although not extensively or inappropriately. The book is truly a treasure for what we learn about the art of biography and about literature more generally. The way Atlas weaves together all the topics mentioned above is truly impressive. As I said above, the book is truly engaging, whether the reader is a scholar of literature or not. This is true for me even though I don’t know the work of Schwartz well beyond reading him in a college class on poetry, and though despite reading several of Bellow’s novels and being impressed by them in my twenties, I have grown far less enchanted with them over the years. But Atlas managed to draw me in and make me fascinated by these writers and by the process of writing biographies. I will just remind readers here of a related memoir on the writing of biographies that I wrote about with very high praise here on 2/18/20: Deirdre Bair’s 2019 “Parisian Lives: Samuel Beckett, Simone de Beauvoir, and Me.” I personally enjoyed this book by Bair even more than the one by Atlas, but I highly recommend both books.

"Are You Enjoying?" by Mira Sethi

Mira Sethi, a writer who lives in Lahore and in San Francisco, has published a compelling collection of short stories set in Pakistan: “Are You Enjoying?” (Knopf, 2021). The stories inform non-Pakistani readers about Pakistan, but never in a didactic way; at the same time the book draws us in with the many both realistic and surprising situations the characters find themselves in. Most of the stories are about young people and their relationships, including ways in which they are influenced by and sometimes restricted by the norms of their country and families. Sometimes the characters find ingenious ways around these norms. In case any readers might think the stories and the writing would be conservative because of their setting, they will soon be proven wrong. There is plenty in the stories about sex and sexualities, and plenty of frank and colloquial language about these matters and others. The stories deal with family and family connections and obligations. Sometimes sexualities and love affairs have to be hidden, even disguised by such strategems as marriages between gay men and lesbian women. Sometimes there is violence. The stories are brimming with vividly-described experiences, conversations, twists and turns in plots, and all the mixed events and feelings of life; they never allow the reader’s attention to drift.

"All the Young Men: A Memoir of Love, AIDS, and Chosen Family in the American South," by Ruth Coker Burks

I recently visited the National AIDS Memorial Grove in the Golden Gate Park in San Francisco, a beautiful and moving place. I am old enough to remember well the beginning and peak of the terrible AIDS epidemic, well before effective treatments made it a chronic disease rather than a death sentence, usually a quick and very painful one at that. Making AIDS sufferers' situations even worse was the way most people, even many medical people, were too afraid to touch or even get near AIDS patients, although there were many caring people among the gay and lesbian communities and among medical personnel, especially in the big cities, who did help tremendously. Already living in San Francisco at the time, I saw many of the devastatingly affected young men (and at the time, they were mostly young men) on the streets, especially in the mostly-gay Castro District, emaciated and aged-looking, often leaning on canes, with lesions on their faces and bodies. Ruth Coker Burks’ (with Kevin Carr O’Leary) new book, “All the Young Men: A Memoir of Love, AIDS, and Chosen Family in the American South” (Grove Press, 2020), describes the way Burks almost accidentally started to get involved with helping AIDS patients in a small Arkansas town in the 1980s and 1990s. Although she had no medical training, she started providing support and care to patients who were neglected even in hospitals because of nurses’ and others’ (often including their own families') fear of contact with them. She held their hands and talked with them and stayed with them while they were dying. Later when she was contacted by those with AIDS in earlier stages, she helped them find medicine, housing, and other services, always with her own unstinting caring. Because it was in a conservative area, it was even harder to do this work than in big coastal cities such as San Francisco and New York. (But here I pause to give tribute to ALL the medical and social workers and volunteers who gave so much of themselves, even in the early years when little was known about how the disease spread, and when these personnel did not know whether and how they were risking their own health and lives. Another important and compassionate memoir from those days, also set in the South, is Abraham Verghese’s 1994 book, “My Own Country: A Doctor’s Story,” about his work with AIDS patients in a small town in the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee in the early days of the epidemic.) Burks’ work started to be more and more known, and she started working with organizations and governments and getting grants, and even eventually became a consultant for Bill Clinton when he was governor of Arkansas and later when he was President. Many of these men who suffered from AIDS became Burks’ close friends, even, as the title says, her “chosen family.” Like all human beings, these men had both good characteristics and flaws, and Burks does not sugarcoat the descriptions, but her love for them all shines through. This is a story of bravery, compassion, and resourcefulness. Burks never seems to be praising herself for this work; she just describes it in a matter-of-fact way, and it was clearly a labor of love. As sad as the events of the book mostly are, the book is also full of joy, caring, and human kindness. It is sometimes even humorous, as Burks has a cheerful, can-do, even joking-at-times, tone. She and her co-writer have created an extremely informative and inspiring book. Of course the topic is a tremendously tragic one, and that is never forgotten throughout this memoir, but it is also one that makes readers care and want to keep reading. I highly recommend this book.

"Morningside Heights," by Joshua Henkin, and "Crying in H Mart," by Michelle Zauner

I have just read two engrossing books, one a novel and one a memoir, portraying caregiving of very ill loved ones. The books have much in common in their overall themes of the meanings of family and relationships and cultures, but are also very different in many ways. “Morningside Heights” (Pantheon, 2021) is Joshua Henkin’s latest novel, and as in his earlier novels (see my posts of 8/19/12, 9/13/12, and 2/14/13), his voice is (according to Joan Frank’s perceptive 6/27/21 Washington Post review of the current book and alluding to Henkin’s earlier fiction as well) “characterized by compassionate attention to modern human predicaments” and is “unflinching yet kind.” “Morningside Heights” describes the early-onset dementia of a brilliant and highly successful professor in his fifties, and his being cared for by his much younger wife. Fortunately they have the means to employ help, as well as caring friends who pitch in, but it is still a devastatingly sad and difficult situation for her and their daughter, as of course it is for him. Michelle Zauner’s memoir “Crying in H Mart” (Knopf, 2021) shares the sadness and pain of caring for a loved one, in this case her mother, who suffers terribly with cancer and dies when Zauner is only 25 years old. Mother and daughter have had a fraught relationship, complicated by the mother’s being first-generation Korean-American and the daughter’s being half-Korean, half Caucasian-American, as well as by the daughter's youth. The author decided to drop everything (she is a musician who goes by the name of Japanese Breakfast) and dedicate herself to taking care of her mother, and witnessed all the terrible details involving doctors, hospitals, tests, and the horrifying symptoms and pain that her mother endured. The two drew closer and closer during this time. One of the ways they had always connected, and continued to do so even more during the mother’s illness, was through preparing and eating Korean food. The memoir is full of food-related experiences, memories, conversations, and meditations. Zauner writes beautifully about food and its cultural connotations and how it is the way she best understands and draws closer to her Korean family and background. Both Henkin’s novel and Zauner’s memoir are painful to read, yet life-affirming, and both are very well-written and compelling. I recommend both.

"You'll Never Believe What Happened to Lacey: Crazy Stories about Racism," by Amber Ruffin and Lacey Lamar

Sisters Amber Ruffin and Lacey Lamar, in their book “You’ll Never Believe What Happened to Lacey: Crazy Stories about Racism” (Grand Central, 2021) have taken a different approach than most authors do to the topic of race and racism in the United States: they describe it through the use of humor – very pointed, laugh-out-loud and at the same time shake-your-head-about-how-wrong-and-crazy-things-are humor. Ruffin is a writer and cast member on “Late Night with Seth Myers,” and recently began her own show, “The Amber Ruffin Show.” She lives in New York City, whereas her sister Lacey lives in Nebraska, where she works in health and human services. The book focuses, as the title suggests, on Lacey’s experiences with racism, and the sisters’ conversations about those experiences. The book is essentially a series of stories about things that people have said and done to or in front of Lacey; the authors somehow manage to reveal how shocking the stories are and at the same time make them humorous – a real achievement, and an effective approach. The sisters toggle between being discouraged at the fact that racism prevails even now, and being cautiously hopeful that things can and do change, at least very slowly. Besides pointing out the racism in everyday life (as well as in larger settings), their main point is (as they themselves state) that it is important to speak out, to name the problem, and even, sometimes, to laugh at it. This is a brave, thought-provoking, and – yes – humorous book.

Independent Bookstores Thriving Despite the Pandemic!

Many readers worried about how independent bookstores would survive during the pandemic. I am beyond thrilled to see that they have in fact survived, and even thrived. The American Booksellers Association recently (late May 2021) announced that membership actually increased during the past year. The ABA said that the survival and even success of bookshops during the pandemic was due partly to PPP (government) loans and grants, and partly to the rise of online sales. They also mentioned the role of bookshop.org, an online bookseller that partners with independent bookstores. Hurray for this good news!

"Secrets of Happiness," by Joan Silber

I have enjoyed Joan Silber’s fiction in the past, so when I saw that she had a new novel, “Secrets of Happiness” (Counterpoint, 2021), I immediately obtained a copy. The story is mainly set in New York City; its characters include some with roots in Thailand (especially) and Nepal. The main character, Ethan, finds that his father has long had a second family, a Thai woman and her two children, also living in New York. Then Ethan himself becomes involves in a triangle, as he and his male lover stay with his lover’s former longtime lover to take care of him through his serious illness and then death. So there are several overlapping stories, and each character has the chance to give her or his thoughts and feelings, in alternating chapters. This reminded me of Silber's two most recent books, “Fools” and “Improvement” (see my posts of 6/11/13 and 2/11/18), which also have separate semi-interlocking chapters for different characters and stories. The chapters in “Fools” are the most separate, almost like independent short stories, some of which happen to feature the same characters. The chapters in “Improvement” are more directly connected. And the chapters in “Secrets of Happiness, although each is titled with the name of the character through whose eyes we are being told the story, are even more explicitly connected. It is if these three books traverse a continuum from a related short story collection to an almost-novel. I savored all three of these books, but I liked the current one, “Secrets,” the best, and I think that is partly because of the more explicit connections among the stories. Perhaps I am old-fashioned in this preference. But I do think that because of it, the novel, its plot(s), and its characters will stay with me longer than those of the other two books. In any case, as evidenced in all three books (and in her earlier books that I read before I started this blog), Silber is gifted at portraying characters, and at illuminating the often-tangled relationships among them.

Guest Post: A Shakespeare Reading Group, by Johnnie Johnson Hafernik

I am pleased that my longtime colleague and friend Johnnie Johnson Hafernik kindly agreed to my request that she write about the Shakespeare Reading Group that she co-founded and organizes. Thank you, Johnnie! Here is her post: Over five years ago a friend and I attended an informative and engaging long-weekend seminar near Yosemite entitled “Shakespeare and Opera.” I was attracted by the “opera” theme but left not only still passionate about opera but reminded of how much I enjoy Shakespeare. That weekend my friend and I decided to form a Shakespeare reading group. We easily convinced two other friends to join us as core members, with a few others who occasionally attended. Today, the group has grown to eight. Sadly, our most passionate and knowledgeable (about Shakespeare and much more) founding member, B., died last year. Early on, B. gave each of us Tina Packer’s "Women of Will: The Remarkable Evolution of Shakespeare’s Female Characters." The book has been invaluable for our discussions. We miss her. At each meeting, we decide by consensus which play to read for the following meeting. In preparation for meetings, our group has evolved from initially each of us choosing a passage to discuss from the selected play and a character we’d like to play to a more free-flowing and wide-ranging discussion. Each of us has our own way of preparing for our discussions, but we’ve found it especially helpful to listen to an audio version of the play and/or to watch one or more versions of the play, many available for streaming. Our go-to versions are the mid-1980s BBC productions of all the plays; adaptations of the play (e.g., "Throne of Blood," the Kurosawa film adaptation of "Macbeth"; operatic or musical versions such as "West Side Story"/"Romeo and Juliet"); podcasts and commentaries; and novels that are modern retellings of Shakespeare plays from The Hogarth Shakespeare Series (e.g., Margaret Atwood’s "Hagseed," a retelling of "The Tempest.") Our enthusiasm for our discussions and appreciation for Shakespeare have only increased over time. We leave each meeting energized, full of questions, and reminded of his greatness. Even plays some of us were initially not interested in reading capture our attention and spark discussion. Each play offers much to appreciate and explore: the beautiful language, the phrasing, the songs, the structure of the play, the humor, the vivid characters who often resemble well-known and not so well-known individuals, the questions and themes presented, and much more. Perhaps most important, we have found “today” in each play — situations, people, circumstances, motivations, questions of right and wrong. Stephen Marche in his book "How Shakespeare Changed Everything" (a book that B. highly recommended) draws attention to these themes, and to the complexities of life, when he writes that “Shakespeare is a messy writer with a complex view of morality whose conception of the universe is a bottomless, shifting ground” (p. 133). Marche goes on to argue that Shakespeare “recognizes the messiness of life as does no other writer, but it comes at a cost of an easy understanding of life’s ultimate purpose” (p. 135).

"Miss Austen," by Gill Hornby

Most people who know me in person and/or through this blog know how much I love and admire the novels of Jane Austen, each of which I have read many times. I also enjoy some – although not all – of the “take-offs” of her work: prequels, sequels, books about one or more of her characters, and other permutations. I have also read several biographical and critical studies. The most recent Austen-related novel that I have read is “Miss Austen: A Novel of the Austen Sisters” (Flatiron, 2020), by Gill Hornby (sister of the author Nick Hornby). The main character is Jane Austen’s dear, very close sister, Cassandra Austen; the novel imagines her late in life as she tries to find and destroy any letters or other materials that might tarnish her sister Jane’s reputation and legacy. (In fact, Cassandra did in real life destroy such letters and papers.) The novel goes back and forth in time between Cassandra’s old age, long after Jane has died, and their earlier times together. This is a serious book, and I respect the work. I admit that it took a while for me to be drawn into the novel, which is quite “slow,” but gradually I became more caught up in it. The characterizations of Cassandra and Jane, and of their relationship, are of interest; the other characters portrayed – various relatives of the Austen family – are minor characters of minor interest. I am glad that I read “Miss Austen,” and I recommend it to other devotees of all things Austen, but perhaps not to people with less focused and less intense interest in the author and her work. Finally, Austen’s writing is so much a work of genius that almost anything written about her or about her characters pales in comparison.

RIP Beverly Cleary

I was one of the many, many children who loved Beverly Cleary’s books about Ramona Quimby, her older sister Beezus, Henry Huggins, Otis Spofford, and this author’s other indelible characters. Cleary, a librarian, had children ask for books about “kids like us,” so she started writing about kids and situations based on her own childhood in Oregon. Cleary’s books are relatable and funny, and readers feel they know her characters personally. The books have obviously had a wide appeal; 91 million copies of her books have been sold. The books have been translated into more than a dozen languages, and have won multiple awards. As a child, I loved the Ramona books, but the book I felt the closest connection with was “Ellen Tebbets.” Ellen had a secret: her mother made her wear long underwear, and when she changed for her dance class, she was petrified that others would find out. I don’t know why I particularly related to this book or to this situation, but I do remember to this day that the book made me feel like an insider, the one who knew the secret, and I did not want anyone else to know it. I had no idea that millions of other young readers also knew the secret; instead, it was as if Ellen had confided in me, and only me. I was sad to hear that Cleary had died on March 25, 2021, at the age of 104. What a great legacy she left! (Note: thanks to Hillel Italie of the Associated Press for some of the details I have written about here.)

My Increasing Allergy to Newspaper Ink

I have written here about my strong preference for print newspapers. I have subscribed to the San Francisco Chronicle for decades (and my family of origin subscribed to various newspapers during my childhood and teen years), and I love the ritual of finding it at our doorstep in the morning and reading it with my morning coffee. I also subscribe to the New York Times and the Washington Post online, and I skim those, but my most enjoyable newspaper habit is the in-print reading, separating out the sections, trading sections with my husband, and sometimes clipping articles for future reference. So it is unfortunate that over the past few years I have gradually been developing an increasing reaction to the ink used in printing the paper; it often makes me sneeze or sniffle. I don’t have any allergies otherwise, so it is a bit surprising to have this one. It only happens with newspaper print, not other printed matter, so I assume it is because of the fresh ink. My late father used to have “hay fever” (do people still use this term for allergies?) and this included being allergic to print papers as well as to various plants, grasses, and pollen. I remember that because of this allergy, he would hold the paper out quite far while reading, and now I find myself doing that as well. (OK, this is also partly because of my aging eyes!) But reading my morning print newspaper is too deeply ingrained, and too enjoyable, to give it up unless it becomes absolutely necessary. Of course there is also the very real danger that print newspapers are a dying breed, so maybe it will be a matter of a race to which happens first: newspapers stop print versions, or I can no longer tolerate the ink. I dread both, and will be very sad when either or both of these events happen.

"Amy Tan: An Unintended Memoir," on PBS

I still remember the wonderful shock of reading Amy Tan’s novel “The Joy Luck Club” when it was first published in 1989. There had been a few, but very few, novels by Chinese American authors published before this, the most notable of which was (in my opinion) Maxine Hong Kingston’s 1976 book “The Woman Warrior.” These two books together were true breakthroughs, not only for Chinese American writers, but for opening up possibilities for writers of other minority ethnicities. They were particularly meaningful as pioneer Chinese American women writers. It is perhaps hard for younger readers of today to realize how very white and male U.S. literature was before the 1970s and 1980s; see any college literature curriculum of the time, for example. “The Joy Luck Club” became a huge bestseller, and was made into a movie, and Tan’s later books were also very successful. Today I am writing about Tan and her novels because a couple of weeks ago, on May 3, I watched PBS’ program “Amy Tan: An Unintended Memoir,” about Tan, her family (especially her mother), her writing, her supportive husband, her being part of a writers’ rock band, her love of drawing birds, and how she learned to take risks, along with many other topics. Tan has struggled with the early loss of her father and brother to fatal brain tumors; with her own health issues, including a terrible case of Lyme Disease; with periodic writers’ block; and with criticism from those who quibble with her portrayals of Chinese Americans. There are interviews on this program with Tan herself and those who know her, including clips of her with her late mother. Also other authors, notably Kevin Kwan, speak with emotion of how Tan’s work was such a breakthrough, and paved the way for other Chinese-American writers. This program was so insightful, so interesting, and so beautifully produced that I was glued to the screen the whole hour and 40 minutes. It is a lovely tribute to this great writer (who lives in the San Francisco Bay Area, so we take extra pride in her and her work).

Brief Reports on Three Recently-Read Books by Te-Ping Chen, Joan Frank, and Dantiel W. Moniz

My recently-read books have been piling up, so I am going to “catch up” with very brief entries on three of these. First, Te-Ping Chen’s “Land of Big Numbers” (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2021) is a powerful and illuminating collection of stories about Chinese characters in China and as emigrants elsewhere. The portrayals are psychologically and culturally astute, and I felt that I learned more about China from these stories than in all the articles and books I have read about the country. (I am exaggerating, but only slightly.) The second book is by one of my longtime favorite (partly but of course not only because she is from Northern California!) authors, Joan Frank: the novel “The Outlook for Earthlings” (Regal House, 2020). This story of two lifetime friends, Mel and Scarlet, stretches from 1964 to 2013. The friends are very different, often misunderstanding each other, yet their lives are interwoven. Some readers of this blog will remember that I am drawn to stories about women’s friendships, and this one is emotionally gripping. A third recently-read book, a short story collection, is “Milk Blood Heat” (Grove Press, 2021), by Dantiel W. Moniz. It features young women of various backgrounds in Florida. The stories are intense and sharp-edged, as young women’s lives often are; the characters deal with family, bodily issues, racial issues, cultural differences, spirituality, and death. I highly recommend all three of these books.

RIP Robb Forman Dew

I was sad to hear, belatedly, that the author Robb Forman Dew had died on May 22, 1920, at the age of 73, of a heart problem. I read her first and perhaps still most famous novel, “Dale Loves Sophie to Death” (1981) when it came out, and later read her other novels. She is known for, as the New York Times obituary put it, her unhurried “carefully etched novels of family life” that made her “one of our premier chroniclers of everyday life.” Readers of this blog know that these kinds of novels are among my most cherished. Dew was raised in the South, and felt she was shaped by her time there. Her becoming an author was partially influenced by her maternal grandfather, the well-known poet and critic John Crowe Ransom, with whom Dew was close. As a young adult, she formed lifelong friendships with several women writers, including Gail Godwin, Nancy Thayer, Louise Erdrich, and Anne Tyler. Besides her novels, she wrote a memoir, “The Family Heart” (1994), about her and her husband’s reaction to one of her sons’ coming out as gay. I am truly sad to hear of Dew’s death, especially at this relatively young age. Forty years after reading Dew’s first novel, and having read her other novels as well, I am inspired to re-read some or all of them; they are now on my to-read list.

Tommy Orange is interviewed by Laleh Khadivi

A few days ago, I was fortunate to hear (virtually, of course) the novelist Tommy Orange interviewed by another novelist, Laleh Khadivi, at the university where I teach, the University of San Francisco. Orange is the author of the innovative, powerful novel “There There,” about urban Native Americans living in Oakland, California. I wrote about that novel here on 10/26/18. Laleh Khadivi is the Iranian-American author of “The Kurdish Trilogy” of novels; she teaches at the University of San Francisco. The event was originally supposed to be in person, but like so many other events, had to be postponed, and ultimately ultimately conducted on Zoom, because of the pandemic. Orange spoke candidly about his own background and about the writing of this novel, his first. He wrote that he didn’t really know what a novel was until he read the novels “The Bell Jar,” by Sylvia Plath, and “A Confederacy of Dunces,” by John Kennedy Toole. With both novels, he was impressed by the tragedy and the suicide, but also by the way the novelists created art, created something beautiful. These two novels provided a doorway into many other novels he then read, including by Kafka and Borges. (During the interview, Orange noted Khadivi’s books by Borges in the bookshelf visible behind her. I smiled when he mentioned this, as I, like many other readers, often try during Zoom calls to see what books are on other people’s bookshelves.). Orange spoke of the current moment of auto-fiction, fiction which is close to authors’ own lives, almost memoir. He said it was hard to balance his portraits of the characters in his novel, wanting to be clear and accurate, yet avoiding stereotypes about Native Americans. The two novelists discussed how writing a first novel provides a type of freedom that does not exist when writing ensuing novels, when the writer has to deal with all the expectations of readers and critics. But Orange said he felt he could write the (second) book he wanted to write, and in fact is in the process of writing, and wasn’t worried about whether it would be successful or not; he would be happy just to have written it. The two authors talked about how novels develop in writers’ minds, and how they determine the structure of their novels. They talked about the concept of “tribes,” and about unjust systems of power, both novelists having written about oppressed groups lacking power. Orange made the point that Native Americans want to be seen as nations, not just as American Indians. He said that they have been dehumanized, and in order to be rehumanized, they need their culture, their rituals, and their stories. This conversation between two terrific writers was quietly powerful, even revelatory, and I for one felt privileged to listen in on their discussion, and appreciated so much the level of openness and the insights they shared.

"I'll Be Seeing You," by Elizabeth Berg

Elizabeth Berg always writes beautifully about women’s lives, families, love, relationships, and so much more in her novels. I have just read her memoir about her parents’s old age, illness, and death, and it is as beautifully written as her novels, and all the more poignant for being Berg’s own painful family story. The memoir is titled “I’ll Be Seeing You” (Random House, 2020). It is a short book (under 200 smallish pages) but packed with a combination of realism and emotion. Berg says she wondered if it was acceptable to tell her parents’ intimate story in this way, but concluded that what happened in their lives, and the lives of their children, was something that happens to so many people, and is perhaps not written about in this candid way often enough. Berg herself is 70, as she notes, and her parents were in their late 80s and early 90s when the events of their story happened. So Berg is not only thinking of her parents’ decline, but is also reminded that her own struggles with aging will come in the not too distant future as well. Her father is diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, and her mother – who was always dearly loved and taken care of by her strong and doting husband – is having a very difficult time adjusting. This comes out as a kind of simmering anger at her husband and at the situation, an attitude which bewilders him. Berg and her sister persuade her parents that they have to leave the house where they have lived for decades, and move into an independent living facility. The move is especially hard on Berg’s mother. Berg finds herself upset with her mother for not trying harder to adapt to the new situation. She and her sister have long gripe sessions about their mother. Yet of course they dearly love both parents; it is just that no one is happy with the developments, and no one quite knows what to do or how to feel. The memoir ends with both parents dying, first Berg’s father and then her mother. The parents and the daughters have by that time more or less adjusted to their evolving situation. But there is no glossing over the pain and difficulty of the situation for the whole family. Berg is very good at capturing the complexities and contradictions of everyone’s experiences and feelings. My family, like so many families, has had some experience with aging parents and of dilemmas related to aging, illness, and decline, and although the specifics of our stories are different, there are definitely common strands that resonate for me, and, I am sure, that resonate for many readers. There is no denying the often wrenching nature of the changes -- whether to a greater or lesser extent -- that old age brings, both for the aging people themselves and for their families. Berg's memoir provides no magical answers, but offers the validation and comfort of sharing common human experiences.

Two story collections: "Before You Suffocate Your Own Fool Self," by Danielle Evans, and "World Gone Missing," by Laurie Ann Doyle

Today I am writing briefly about two books of short stories that I have read recently. On 1/12/21, I wrote about how struck I was by the power and vividness of Danielle Evans’ 2020 short story collection, intriguingly titled “The Office of Historical Corrections.” I was so impressed by that collection that I obtained her earlier book of stories, “Before You Suffocate Your Own Fool Self” (Riverhead, 2010), and was equally impressed by it. By the way, those are both great titles, aren’t they? The 2010 book was blurbed as “stunningly confident,” “fearless,” and “bold,” and I completely agree with those assessments; those qualities stand out. The stories are mostly about young African-American women who experience various dilemmas. Even though the dilemmas often include common ones related to sex, pregnancy, and money, they are in no way predictable. The second short story collection I read recently is “World Gone Missing” (Regal, 2017), by Laurie Ann Doyle. The author lives in the San Francisco Bay Area, and her stories are set there (here, for me! And you know I always like San Francisco settings for fiction!). As the title implies, in each story someone is looking for someone else who is missing – a father, a brother, a friend, a lost love, a birth mother. The stories are sad, yet the feelings of the characters are more complex than just sadness; their feelings include frustration, loss, and even an unexpected sense of freedom. Both of these story collections are truly engrossing and thought-provoking, and I recommend both of them, even for those readers who don’t usually gravitate to short stories.

RIP Nawal El Saadawi

I write in tribute to the late, great Nawal El Saadawi, physician, writer, feminist, activist, advocate for women, who died on March 22, 2021, at the age of 89. Her work was pathbreaking in her own country, Egypt, as well as throughout the Middle East and the world. She was a brave woman, always speaking out her truth, even when it was dangerous for her. Among other indignities and frightening experiences that she suffered were being jailed by Anwar Sadat in 1981 for protests against the Egyptian government, as well as receiving death threats. She dared to write about women’s sexuality, including in her first book, “Women and Sex.” She fought social and religious restrictions put on women, including fighting against genital mutilation. Meanwhile she wrote over fifty works of fiction and nonfiction; her work was translated into over forty languages. She received many honors, including being on the cover of Time magazine. But she was never given honors in her own country, Egypt. I first read some of El Saadawi’s work in my college days, and as a woman and feminist, I was struck by, and so admired, her work. What a difference she made in the lives of so many women! Thank you, Nawal El Saadawi!

Two Mysteries: "One by One," by Ruth Ware, and "The Mystery of Mrs. Christie," by Marie Benedict

Regular readers of this blog may remember that I have had a lifelong on-again, off-again relationship with mystery novels. Some of my favorites as a young girl were the Nancy Drew books, and later most of Agatha Christie’s work, leading into the mysteries of Dorothy Sayers, Ngaio Marsh, and other British and Commonwealth authors. Still later I devoured the books of several California women authors that featured California women detectives, such as Marcia Muller’s Sharon McCone and Sue Grafton’s Kinsey Millhone. Other favorite mystery writers over the years included Anne Perry, P.D. James, Elizabeth George, Jacqueline Winspear, Deborah Crombie, and so many more. I have read probably hundreds of mysteries over the years. But I have also had several long periods of being tired of mysteries and not reading them. After one such period, I recently picked up a couple. Unfortunately, neither was very satisfying. The first, “One by One” (Scout Press/Simon and Schuster, 2020), was my first book by the popular Ruth Ware. It plays on the theme and plot of Agatha Christie’s famous book “And Then There Were None,” and is expertly plotted. It takes place in an isolated ski resort in the French Alps, where the leadership of an English tech firm gathers. As a storm and avalanche shut them in, the tensions among the techies play out in deadly ways. It kept my attention, but there is something empty about the story and book, at least for me. In an unplanned connection, the other book in this genre that I read almost immediately after the first was Marie Benedict’s “The Mystery of Mrs. Christie” (Sourcebooks, 2021). This novel is an imagined version of a true story: Agatha Christie’s never-explained eleven-day disappearance. The author treats the absence as a mystery to be solved, and gradually gives readers background information that eventually leads to a somewhat satisfying if a little too cerebral resolution. The strong point of the book is its thoughtful insights into the characters’ motivations and emotions. But although I enjoyed this book much more than the first one, it didn’t make me want to start reading more mysteries again. Maybe in a couple of years…following my lifelong pattern…who knows when the yen for mysteries will reappear…

Happy 125th Birthday, New York Times Book Review

The New York Times Book Review (NYTBR) is 125 years old this year. I have been reading it for decades, and it is an absolute essential in my life. Sadly, I don’t have time to read the paper version of the New York Times, although I do subscribe online and skim it, but I was excited, many years ago, to discover that one could subscribe separately to the NYTBR and have it delivered by mail. I read book reviews and stories about books and authors elsewhere as well: in the San Francisco Chronicle and the Washington Post; in magazines such as the Atlantic, the New Yorker, Vanity Fair, Ms., the Nation, the Progressive, and Mother Jones; and on various online sites. (I used to subscribe to the New York Review of Books, but at a certain point I grew tired of it. I have occasionally subscribed for a year or two to the London Review of Books, the Threepenny Review, and other such publications, and enjoyed them but not enough to continue subscribing.) But the most focused, consistent source of reviews is the NYTBR. It comes weekly, and it is full of reviews as well as interesting features (e.g., “By the Book,” with its interviews of authors and others) that give booklovers an inside glimpse into the world of books and authors. When I receive my latest copy, and notice that it reviews a book by one of my favorite writers, or on a topic of interest to me, I get excited. Yes, I am a book nerd. But you knew that already. Naturally, like any periodical, the NYTBR has not gotten everything right. In a recent (2/26/21) NYT article, critic Parul Sehgal explores the archives, and finds numerous examples of racial and gender imbalance, stereotypes, and worse, especially far in the past, but even recently. For example, a survey of 2011 reviews showed that 90% of the 750 books reviewed were by White authors. Throughout the years, books by Black authors were often judged by different standards than those by White authors. Books by female authors were reviewed with condescension and double standards. There is also a history of negative reviews of books by queer authors, and/or with queer characters. These disparities and prejudices make me angry and upset. I can only take solace in the fact that more and more attention has been drawn to the disparities, not only at the NYTBR, but by publications and authors elsewhere, including in academe, and that awareness has led to change…still not enough, but tangible and increasing change that I have observed in my lifetime (and I have been observing closely and with strong feelings!). Despite everything, I treasure the NYTBR, and am grateful for all I have learned from it, and for all the enjoyment it has given me. Here’s to many many more years of reviews, features, and the ever-more-inclusive celebration of the world of books.

From "At the Edge of the Haight" to "Running the Tides" at San Francisco's Sea Cliff

As regular readers know, I live in San Francisco (well, just north of the Golden Gate Bridge), and work there (except during these pandemic times, during which I work from home). I love the city and the Bay Area. I am always happy to read novels set in San Francisco. Very recently, without planning it, I found myself reading two new novels set there. Both are about girls/young women living in San Francisco, but their lives are very different. The main character in “At the Edge of the Haight” (Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill, 2021), by Katherine Seligman, is 20-year-old Maddy, who is homeless, estranged from her family, and lives mostly in Golden Gate Park. The novel portrays her life, and those of her young companions, in a (seemingly, at least) realistic way that such lives are seldom portrayed. Although one worries about Maddy, she is strong and admirable in many ways. The story contains a mystery - a death to which Maddy is a witness - and is compelling. The other novel, which I read immediately after the first one, is “We Run the Tides” (Ecco, 2021), by Vendela Vida, who is active in San Francisco literary circles. Her young heroine, Eulabee, aged 13, lives in the affluent Sea Cliff neighborhood of San Francisco, overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge and the ocean. Although from a middle class family, less affluent than many of their neighbors, she attends an elite private girl’s school, a barely disguised version of an actual school in that area. She and her friends are privileged. But, as with Maddy, there are undercurrents, problems, and frightening situations in their lives. Both novels deal with young women’s lives, families, friendships, entanglements, insecurities, and fears. Both girls/young women are strong. Eulabee’s life is certainly not as hard as Maddy’s, and she is fortunate not only in her schooling and friends but also in her close family. But in some ways the similarities, especially their vulnerabilities as young females, jump out at the reader as much as the differences. Both novels and, especially, their settings felt very familiar to me in some ways. The setting of the first one, in the Haight and the East (grubbier) end of Golden Gate Park, is only a few blocks from the university where I teach. The setting of the other novel is also familiar to me from when I lived in an adjacent (middle-class) San Francisco neighborhood, many years ago, before I moved north of the Bridge. The school that Eulabee attended is known as the rival of the other best-known all-girls private school in the city, the one that my daughter attended. Both writers allude to well-known areas and personalities (e.g., Danny Glover, the late Robin Williams) in the city. But I admire both books not just because of their familiar San Francisco settings, but mainly because each is well-written, and “gets” the lives of young women, no matter their socioeconomic status.

RIP Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Many of us thought, with a kind of magical thinking, that Lawrence Ferlinghetti would always be with us. But the wonderful Beat poet, publisher, free speech advocate, bookstore proprietor, and longterm resident of San Francisco’s legendary North Beach, died February 22, 2021, at the age of 101. He is famous not only for his own poetry, but for such highlights as publishing Allen Ginsburg’s incendiary “Howl and Other Poems” in 1956, for which action Ferlinghetti was tried for obscenity but fortunately won the case due to a judge’s saying the poem had “redeeming social significance.” Ferlinghetti was enormously supportive to fellow poets. Perhaps his most powerful and lasting legacy is the City Lights Bookstore, opened in 1953 and still drawing visitors (pilgrims, in a sense) from all over the world. The bookstore was and is a center for literature and political activism. He received many honors over the years, including being chosen as San Francisco’s first Poet Laureate, and having the alley behind City Lights named for him. He will be honored and missed by those around the world who love poetry. His poetry collection, “A Coney Island of the Mind,” is still the most popular poetry book in the United States, with more than one million copies in print. He will always have a particular place in the heart of San Franciscans. To honor him upon his death, San Francisco Mayor London Breed spoke of “the immense power of his work” and of “his commitment to this city and its people,” and ordered the flag at City Hall to be flown at half mast. Countless people have been influenced by Ferlinghetti. I remember that when I moved to San Francisco as a young adult, decades ago, one of the first places I wanted to visit and pay tribute to was City Lights Bookstore. I was in awe of the place, with its vast variety of literary and political works, and its welcoming atmosphere. Thank you, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, for all you did and all you meant to so many people for so long. (My thanks to the San Francisco Chronicle for the information provided in its several articles about Ferlinghetti’s life and death.)

Three Enjoyable if Undemanding Novels

Sometimes we, or at least I (and I don’t think I am the only one) just want an enjoyable but undemanding novel to read. It doesn’t need to be “great literature,” but it has to be reasonably well-written, with interesting characters and a satisfying story. Some genres that might fit these requirements for some people include mysteries, thrillers, Westerns, and romance novels. The ones I like (besides mysteries, sometimes) might be called, regrettably, “chick lit.” As regular readers of this blog may remember (or guess), I dislike that term very much. But without getting into the reasons why (probably obvious), I will say that people understand something about books with this label. Without further ado, and so readers will understand the type of book I read when I feel this need for something enjoyable and undemanding, I will list three I have read recently. The first, and most obviously proximate to, if not in, the category of romance (one I usually stay far away from) is “Royal Holiday” (Jove, 2019), by Jasmine Guillory. This popular author has several bestsellers with titles like “The Proposal,” “The Wedding Date,” and “The Wedding Party.” The current title is endorsed by Reese Witherspoon for her book club. It involves a middle-aged African-American woman who goes to England with her daughter, who has an assignment to “style” a Duchess. Sure enough, the heroine meets a handsome man who works for the Queen. How will these two manage their romance when they live on different continents? It is an easy and fun read, made especially enjoyable (for this Anglophile) by the English setting. The second book in this category is Lori Nelson Spielman’s “The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany” (Berkley, 2020). The sisters in question are in an Italian-American family in which for generations the second-born daughters have not gotten married, which is considered a curse. This novel explores family stories and romances, thwarted and otherwise, that occur over the years; many family secrets are revealed along the way. The setting in Tuscany, where three of the “cursed” sisters in the extended family – one old and two young – go for a trip together is an added pleasure of this novel. The third novel is “Little Wishes” (William Morrow, 2020), by Michelle Adams. It tells of a doomed love affair that began on the Cornish Coast of England, and of how Elizabeth’s lover Tom once a year comes from London and leaves flowers and a note with a wish on her doorstep, but they never actually see each other or communicate except for this gesture that means so much to Elizabeth. But after 50 years, something changes. I won’t give away any more. What I will say is that, knowing these novels are not “great literature,” I still thoroughly enjoyed each one, and loved that they were undemanding. They are not what I would want to read as a steady diet, but they are what I occasionally need, especially in these difficult COVID lockdown days.

"Likes," by Sarah Shun-Lien Bynum

“Likes” (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2020), by Sarah Shun-Lien Bynum, is a collection of very different short stories. Most of them are contemporary and take place in California, but one is the mythic fairy tale “The Young Wife’s Tale.” The stories focus on families, friendships, longings, love and romance, successes and failures. This author captures readers’ attention with her vivid, carefully etched prose and her gift of creating highly original yet relatable characters. My personal favorite is “Many a Little Makes,” a long (over 40 pages) exploration of the friendship of three girls that begins in childhood and continues for more than two decades. As readers may remember, women’s friendships are one of my favorite topics, and this story is insightful, realistic, and engaging. Another of my favorite stories is the title story, “Likes,” as in “likes” that one’s posts on Instagram or Facebook or other such social media sites are accorded. This is a delicately told story of a barely teenage girl and her family, told by her father, who wants so much to understand and help her when she is sad, and when she doesn’t have many friends; yet he knows she will not appreciate it if he addresses these feelings head on. The story is full of love, and very touching. There is also an insightful and a bit heartbreaking story -- “Bedtime Story” -- about a marriage, one in which there have been problems, yet there is also so much love and history.

"Group," by Christie Tate

I have very mixed feelings about “Group: How One Therapist and a Circle of Strangers Saved My Life” (Avid Reader Press/Simon & Schuster, 2020), by Christie Tate. It is an extremely up-close description of a therapy group (actually several groups with the same unconventional therapist) the author participated in. Normally what happens and what is said in such groups is meant to be confidential, but in this case, part of the nontraditional therapy is that everyone – therapist and fellow group members – is free to talk openly about these matters, inside or outside of the group. Perhaps I am being too conventional, but this openness made me a little ambivalent, even queasy. Yet I have to admit that the details of what was said, and especially the extreme candidness of the author, which in many cases was far from flattering to herself or others, were fascinating, if sometimes almost too raw and unfiltered (details about sexual behavior, bodily functions, various forms of misbehavior, and more). I felt that we as readers were put in the position of voyeurs, which made me uncomfortable, yet I have to admit that I kept reading. The main point was that this therapy did work for the author, and for at least some of the other group members. Also on the plus side, it was clear that the group members were often very supportive of, and helpful to, each other.

GUEST POST: "The Song of Achilles" and "Circe," by Madeline Miller

I am very pleased that my colleague and friend Cathy Gabor has written a guest post on two books by Madeline Miller. Thank you, Cathy! Here it is: "I recently read two books by Madeline Miller, both retellings of—or, more accurately, elaborations on—Greek myths: The Song of Achilles (2011, winner of the Orange Prize) and Circe (2018). They are roughly analogous to Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey but with clear departures. If people know anything about Achilles, it is most likely that he was a hero in the Trojan War. And, indeed, a good part of Miller’s Song of Achilles takes place during that war. Despite the title, the book’s main character is Patroclus, not Achilles. Readers may remember Patroclus as a minor character in Homer’s Iliad, known as Achilles’ trusted friend. Miller’s telling of their lives starts when they are both young boys. Achilles is a demi-god, fated to become Aristos Achaion: the best of the Greeks. He is handsome, lithe, and as talented with the lyre as he is with the sword. Patroclus, conversely, is a pudgy youth, awkward, striving to find what he might be good at. In a word, Patroclus is unnoticeable. But Achilles notices him—and falls in love with him. Song of Achilles is a tale of war, yes, but it is mostly a poignant story of young lovers discovering themselves and each other. In the end, Miller’s book does not celebrate heroes; it celebrates the fumbling, fallible humanity of Patroclus, and all of us. Although Song of Achilles is markedly different from the Iliad, it does follow the same narrative arc. Circe, on the other hand, intersects with Homer’s Odyssey much less often and less neatly. If readers know anything about the minor goddess Circe, it is probably that Odysseus spent time on her island while traveling home from the Trojan war. Homer’s story is about him; Circe is but a chapter in his journey. For Miller, Circe is the main character: an immortal witch involved in many different stories from Greek mythology, some familiar and some created anew. When I had read roughly one-third of the book, I felt as if I were at the end of a narrative. Miller had successfully woven Circe into the myths of Daedalus and the Minotaur, and had seemingly concluded. I wondered what could possibly fill up the next 285 pages. In the middle of the book, Miller delivered another episode of Circe’s millennia-long life, this time paralleling Homer’s familiar tale, ending with Odysseus leaving her island. Now two-thirds of the way through the book, I feared a 100-page long denouement. Not so: Miller conjured up a creative sequel to the Odyssey, starring Circe and Odysseus’ wife Penelope. Circe’s greatest strength is its greatest weakness: it is three stories (more, really) in one. In the most interesting part of the book, Miller fabricates a female-centered myth, pitting mortal Penelope, magical Circe, and the Goddess Athena against one another. I recommend these books to readers who know Greek mythology well: you will nod at unexplained allusions, surely, and enjoy the backstories Miller paints for some of the most beloved myths. I recommend these books equally to those who could not name one Greek god or hero. These books stand on their own: they are tales of love, heartache, aging, parenthood, and pride. While the characters are fanciful and ancient, their stories are our stories. Read, and recognize yourself."

Yet More Memoirs: By Vicki Laveau-Harvie and Natasha Trethewey

Two more memoirs that I have recently read are powerful and painful. Vicki Laveau-Harvie’s “The Erratics” (Knopf, 2020) tells of an extremely dysfunctional family. The two adult children of a delusional and dangerous mother and a cowed, abused father are called back to their parents’ home in a cold and isolated area of Canada when their mother is sick and their father is starving. They feel obligated to help their elderly parents, but all the old destructive patterns are still there. The sisters’ work for their parents is heroic, given their extremely difficult childhoods. Readers are forced to confront wrenching questions of family and history and loyalty. Natasha Trethewey’s “Memorial Drive: A Daughter’s Memoir” (Ecco, 2020) is tragic in a different way, but still related to family. The author’s former stepfather shoots and kills her beloved mother, and the nineteen-year-old is left to wrestle with the emotional devastation this violent event leaves in its wake. The author writes of her family’s history, and of how she has tried to move forward. Race (the author is biracial) and domestic abuse are themes throughout. But so, blessedly, is the place of the arts in our lives. The author is a Pulitzer Prize-winning poet and a former U.S. poet laureate, and her poetic prose is a beautiful feature of this short, intense memoir.

"Our Lady of Perpetual Hunger: A Memoir," by Lisa Donovan

As I have mentioned more than once, I have recently been reading more memoirs than ever. Lisa Donovan’s “Our Lady of Perpetual Hunger” (Penguin, 2020) is yet another memoir I have read from the world of food and restaurants. Donovan is a well-known pastry chef who put a spotlight on traditional Southern food. But the book is at least as much about the author’s family, her insecurities, her struggles, as it is about her actual work in restaurants and in food writing. (Besides being a renown pastry chef, she is a winner of the James Beard Award for her writing in “Food and Wine.”) She writes in detail about her life with an abusive man (whom she found the strength to leave), her children, her parents and other relatives, her financial struggles, her praise of some food world mentors and her criticisms of others in the restaurant world, and her eventually finding love and happiness with her husband and children and the cherished family members and friends in her life. Themes throughout include the importance of family (even occasionally difficult families whom one has to find a way to understand and come to terms with), of being rooted in one’s place of origin and other places that feel like home, and – perhaps most of all – of honoring other women and oneself as a woman. The book is perhaps overwritten a bit, with sometimes melodramatic signaling of events to come, but overall it is a story in which the author honestly (it seems) shares what she has been through, what she has learned, where she has gone wrong, and how she has gradually discovered her true self and her true values. Despite all the difficulties she has undergone, there is a stubborn resolution to be true to her values and to trust herself to find her way.

Two Compelling Short Story Collections

Short stories are often harder to write about than novels or memoirs, as one cannot be as specific about the plot, character, settings, etc. when there are a dozen or so separate stories to describe. I remember that my former reading group used to have the same issue -- difficulty knowing what to focus on -- when we discussed short story collections. Of course there are usually things to say about themes, topics, and styles that are true across the stories of a collection. And regular readers of this blog know that I am a big fan of short stories. In this post I will very briefly describe and recommend two recent short story collections that I have particularly admired and enjoyed. The first is “The Office of Historical Corrections: A Novella and Stories” (Riverhead, 2020), by Danielle Evans. This is a book that will make any reader sit up and take decided note. The stories, mostly about African American women, are powerful, original, astringent, relatable (even when the reader has no obvious overlap with the characters’ defining qualities), sometimes humorous, and definitely very frank. Caroline Kim’s “The Prince of Mournful Thoughts and Other Stories” (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2020) features very different locales, time periods, and characters, focusing on Korean and Korean-American characters (often but not always women) from ancient Korea to the present. Yet there are commonalities between the two books. Both feature vividly described, intense experiences and emotions. In both, readers learn about cultures that may (or may not) be different from their own, but are also universal in some ways. I sometimes think I overuse the adjective “compelling” when I write about books, but the word certainly aptly describes both of these excellent collections. I promise you that you will find each of them engaging and rewarding.

"The Book of Eating," by Adam Platt

Again with the restaurant memoirs, you might be thinking! Longtime readers of this blog know that I love restaurants and I love restaurant memoirs. I have read at least a couple of dozen of these over the years, starting with the late Anthony Bourdain’s notorious and wildly popular “Kitchen Confidential,” and most recently our own San Francisco chef Dominique Crenn’s “Rebel Chef” and New York’s David Chang’s “Eat a Peach.” In between, the food world memoirs I have read include those by Bianca Bosker, Frank Bruni, Phoebe Damrosch, Betty Fussell, Gabrielle Hamilton, David Kamp, Danny Meyer, Ruth Reichl, Eric Ripert, Marcus Samuelsson, and Kim Severson. I just finished restaurant critic Adam Platt’s “The Book of Eating” (Ecco, 2019). For many years I have subscribed to New York Magazine, and read Platt’s restaurant column there. Although I do not live in New York, I enjoy keeping up a bit with the restaurant scene there. And I have always liked Platt’s down-to-earth persona and style in his reviews and articles. This memoir completely comports with his magazine pieces. In addition, I was fascinated with his stories of his upbringing in Asia (Taiwan, Hong Kong, Japan, China) as the son of a U.S. diplomat. Most of his stories of those days, besides showing a very happy family, are about his family’s eating adventures in those countries, sometimes with the whole family and sometimes with his two brothers roaming the cities and trying every kind of food available. Perhaps one reason for my being so intrigued by these stories was the way they resonated with my own upbringing in Asia, in my case in South India. As I started thinking about this connection, food memories came to life, and I became quite nostalgic. In my case some of the foods were basmati rice, biryani, pilau, all kinds of curries, dosa, idli, mulligatawny, papadams, patchidi, perigoo, chaat, pulaharam, guavas, mangos, custard apples, saportas, and more. I remember feasts with food served on stitched together waxy palm leaves. I remember vacations on the beach when we would buy fish straight from the returning fisherman and cook them immediately. I remember going with my friends to the bazaar near our boarding school in the Palni Hills and eating all kinds of food, and drinking tea tossed in the air between two containers. I also, more mundanely but also pleasurably, remember “food parcels” from Canada, including American goodies of various sorts, especially candy bars. Back to Platt’s memoir: He writes of his various jobs as a journalist, his travels, and his gradual focus on becoming a restaurant reviewer/critic. He tells some amusing stories about the process of reviewing, as well as about various people in the food world, some very famous, with whom he interacted along the way. He obviously loves his work. But not all of being a critic is exciting and glamorous; he also tells of eating hundreds of mediocre meals in cookie-cutter restaurants, and of dealing with much criticism of his criticism. He also tells of how things have changed since everyone can now be a critic on the Internet, on Eater and such sites, as well as on Yelp. Readership of newspapers and magazines is dwindling (alas!) and there are fewer and fewer print food writers. Platt also struggles with his weight, and writes about various diets he has been on. A throughline in the memoir is his loved and loving family of origin (fun fact, by the way: one of his brothers is the actor Oliver Platt) and his own equally loving family of his wife and two daughters. Some endearingly candid photos are included. Because some of the chapters are revised versions of already-published pieces, there is some (very minor) repetition from one chapter to another. And there are a couple of sections that drag just a bit. But overall, this is a thoroughly enjoyable memoir by a writer who is companionable, down-to-earth, wry and funny, and a wonderful guide to his adventures and life in the world of food and restaurants.

Celebrating, once again, our wonderful independent bookstores!

I apologize in advance for coming back to a theme I have written about several times before: the importance of supporting independent bookstores. It is just that I feel so strongly about this, and that these stores are endangered by the pandemic. As I have written about a couple of times, most recently on 12/23/20 when I wrote about realizing how many memoirs I had ordered, I have been ordering books online from independent bookstores since the beginning of the pandemic. Pre-pandemic, I either went in person to those same stores, or borrowed books from the library (and donated -- and still donate -- regularly to the Friends of the Library in my town). So I am spending more money than ever on brand new books, but I believe it is more than worth it to give myself this gift during the stay-at-home months, as well as to contribute to the survival and health of these oh-so-important stores. In a recent San Francisco Chronicle article, “Indie Book Shops Have Nurtured Us. It’s Our Turn: We can save them all this winter if we just give them our business,” by Peter Hartlaub (12/20/20), local writers and readers speak of how important these local, well-loved institutions are in our communities. The author tells of writers who sign hundreds of their books especially for their favorite local bookstores, and who ask their readers to buy from independent bookstores; schools that have begun ordering from these independent bookstores; the many customers who attend Zoom readings and other events; and customers and neighbors who have been buying from the stores, and/or making donations. Several writers recall falling in love with books when they were taken regularly to certain bookstores as children. Some speak of the personal attention given, and the deep knowledge of the people who work there. One writer mentions that she often runs into other writers in her favorite local bookstore, intensifying the feeling of community. As the writer Stephen Pastis is quoted in the article: “If you’re not supporting the local bookstores, you will rue the day that bookstore closes. Those people care about the community. They’re another essential part of it.” The reporter reminds us that we can either order from our favorite local bookstores, “or adopt a new one using Indiebound.org, which has a bookstore finder on its home page.” An added pleasure of this article, for me, is that the bookstore featured in the piece, the famous Green Apple, is one I have been going to (or now occasionally ordering deliveries from) since I first arrived in San Francisco, lo these many years ago, and rented an apartment six blocks away from it. I, like many many others, would be devastated if this, or any other of our favorite bookstores, had to close for lack of support from the community of readers. So let’s all keep patronizing these beloved and essential institutions; long live our local independent bookstores!