"Solid Ivory," by James Ivory

Oh, what fun it was to read James Ivory’s memoir, “Solid Ivory” (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2021)! James Ivory is the director of the famous Merchant Ivory films, working with his late producer and partner in business and in life, Ismail Merchant. The third of their film-making trio was the late Ruth Prawer Jhabvala, the screenwriter. Many of these films are based on novels by such authors as Henry James (e.g., "The Europeans," "The Bostonians") and E.M. Forster (e.g., "A Room with a View," "Howard's End"). They usually feature highly respected and acclaimed actors, beautiful scenery and costumes, and very high production values. The films are rich, luxurious, somewhat slow, literary but accessible, and pure joy for those of us who love the above-mentioned novels and who love literary films. This memoir is actually a series of memoiristic essays, some of them previously published in such venues as The New Yorker, about Ivory’s life and work, and about the famous people he knew. The book is informative, gossipy, and very frank about the author’s love and sex life. He has lived and worked in many different places in the United States, Europe, and in India, the latter a favorite locale. Photographs of the people and places in his life and work are generously sprinkled throughout the book. Although the Merchant Ivory Jhabvala style of films may be slightly out of fashion now, there are definitely descendants – similar if not quite up to the same standards -- to be found in some of today’s luxe period pieces on television, such as “The Crown,” “Sanditon,” and “The Gilded Age.”

"Disorientation," by Elaine Hsieh Chou

I enjoyed Elaine Hsieh Chou’s novel “Disorientation” (Penguin, 2022) on several levels. It is a very perceptive satirical campus novel, which I always enjoy, being an academic myself. It is about ethnic and gender identities in the United States, specifically what it is like to be a Chinese American woman. And it is a literary mystery, which itself brings up issues of identity and authenticity. It is also funny, although occasionally the humor seems a little exaggerated. The main character, Ingrid Yang, is studying for her PhD, a process that has been dragged out by issues of rather manipulative advisors, as well as by her own boredom with the topic that she feels she was pushed into. She is studying a famous Chinese American poet who taught at Ingrid’s university; during the course of her research, she finds clues that not all is what it seems with that poet and his identity and history. Ingrid soon finds that some other people she knows at the university are not as they seem either. She finds herself in some daring and unorthodox situations as she tries to solve the mystery. Meanwhile she is having some doubts about her supposedly ideal fiancé, a white man who seems a little too proud of himself and his "open-mindedness" for having a Chinese American fiancee. These several elements of the novel are adeptly woven together, and readers are definitely entertained along the way. They also learn quite a bit about ethnic stereotyping, microagressions, and other issues arising out of ignorance but also out of racism and sexism. The author deserves much credit for her vivid portrayals of these issues.

"The Swimmers," by Julie Otsuka

It has been about ten years since the second of Julie Otsuka’s two earlier novels was published, so I was very pleased to hear from my friend S. that Otsuka has a new novel just out: “The Swimmers” (Knopf, 2022). I wrote here about “When the Emperor Was Divine” on 12/22/11, and about “The Buddha in the Attic” on 1/15/12. All three novels are short, intense, poetic. The first two focus on Japanese-American characters and certain historical contexts; “The Swimmers” does not; although a main character is Japanese-American, that identity is mentioned only briefly. This novel is divided into two connected parts. The first part tells, in the voice of the whole group as a sort of chorus, about the setting, atmosphere, people, and habitual customs found in a very specific group of swimmers, who form a very specific community, at a very specific public pool. One of the swimmers, Alice, is sliding into dementia, but still manages to swim regularly, and her fellow swimmers, all of whom seem to feel more at home in the pool than almost anywhere else, gently help her out as needed. The second half of the book focuses on Alice, describing her past and her present, including the time when she can no longer swim at the pool, what she remembers, and what she doesn’t. It seems to be a realistic portrayal, showing how hard the situation is, yet fully acknowledging her as a person and not “just” a “person with dementia.” The writing is detailed and concrete, and at the same time conveys the blurriness of Alice’s memory. The past and present mix. Toward the end of the novel, the story seamlessly slips into being told by Alice’s daughter. This story is a thoughtful, respectful, and very human portrayal of this difficult disease. It reminds me of how people I have known who had dementia, including a beloved close relative, still preserved their basic personalities (although I understand that this is not true for everyone who has dementia). The writing is sensitive, poetic, caring, yet not sentimentalized. It mainly does not sugarcoat the disease, although very occasionally it slips a little too close to doing so. This book is exquisitely written, and I am very glad I read it, but I also admit that because of my late dear relative’s dementia, and my beautiful but sad memories of her, there were times when I was reading “The Swimmers” that it was quite painful for me. I do, though, highly recommend the book.