"The Forever Marriage," by Ann Bauer

I know I sounded a little crabby when I wrote about “The Kissing List,” “Seating Arrangements,” and a couple of other books recently, and now I am going to be crabby again, this time about “The Forever Marriage” (The Overlook Press, 2012), by Ann Bauer. It is hard to warm to a novel that starts with a wife’s being happy when her husband dies of cancer. Not happy because he is no longer in pain, but happy because she is finally released from a marriage of 22 years in which she has been disappointed from the very beginning. Carmen knows and fully admits that Jobe is a good man, but she has never been in love with him, and their love and sex life has been tepid and unsatisfying for her. She married him because she felt grateful to him, and sorry for him, and because she felt grateful to his mother (I know, this reason is strange, but true in this story), and because he had the money that would allow them a comfortable life. She did her duty as a wife and mother, and took good care of him in his illness, but did have affairs. Although it is clear that the marriage was unhappy, one still does not feel comfortable rooting for a character such as Carmen. Yet it slowly becomes clear that Carmen is not a bad person, and that there is more to the story than it seems. The tone of the book is an odd tension between the wrong and even -- seemingly -- despicable, and on the other hand, the heartwarming. This would be unsettling in a good way if the book were better, but as it stands, it just seems a bit artificial. There is a subplot about Jobe’s being a genius mathematician, and about what will happen to his ideas and discoveries in that area; this subplot is mildly interesting but seems tacked on, especially as it brings us to a sort of false-feeling closure at the end of the novel.

"The Kissing List," by Stephanie Reents

Is it my age that makes me come close to disliking the stories and their characters in “The Kissing List: Fiction” (interlocking short stories) (Hogarth, 2012), by Stephanie Reents? Although well written, the stories seem like so many others I have read about smart, well-educated, urban twenty-somethings stumbling their way through life, full of angst, having lots of sex and doing lots of drinking, but not seeming to really enjoy even those pursuits. The characters are not unlikeable but not particularly likeable either. Some of the characters blur; their lives are so similar and so intertwined. I am sure that even for these privileged young people, Reents’s portrayal of the disappointment and difficulty involved in searching for meaningful work and fulfilling relationships is accurate. I also suspect that – except for the unfortunate young woman with cancer – these characters will land on their feet and lead comfortable lives. It is not that I don’t like reading about young people. I do. I enjoy reading about characters of all ages. But this particular subset of young people has been done, and done, and done by young writers. Although each book, including this one, has its own twists and its own rewards, the problem is still a sort of wearying predictability. (P.S. I confess that I skipped one story; when I saw that it featured a mouse, my rodent phobia kicked in, and I thought “No, I just don’t want to read this." So it is possible that this is the one story that would change everything I have written above. But I doubt it.)

"Lulu in Marrakech," by Diane Johnson

Like Alix Kates Shulman, about whose novel “Menage” I posted last time, novelist Diane Johnson was born in the early 1930s. Both of these writers started writing about 1970, and now in their late 70s are still publishing. This is impressive and inspiring. Today I am posting about Diane Johnson’s 2008 novel, “Lulu in Marrakech,” which I just finished listening to in my car on CD (Books on Tape, 2008). I have read most of Johnson’s novels over the years, so when this novel came out, I thought about reading it, but somehow it didn’t sound appealing, probably because the main character is a spy, although a nontypical one, and I am not at all drawn to spy stories (even knowing this novel – despite the spy character - wasn’t actually in that genre). But when looking for books on CD for a recent driving trip, I saw this one on the library shelf and decided to try it. Johnson’s novels, such as her French trilogy (“L’Affaire,” “Le Mariage,” and “Le Divorce”) tend to be beautifully written but light and entertaining rather than profound, although they do make interesting points about marriage and about cultural differences. “Lulu” too has some of this light, comic aspect. But it also reminded me of Johnson’s earlier (1998) novel, “Persian Nights,” about an American woman’s visit to Iran; it has some of the same balance of almost frivolous lightness and more intense political and cultural commentary. To me the main question about Lulu is whether she is intended by the author to be taken as a serious character, or a sort of parody, or a representative of the sort of clueless bungling that spies – American and otherwise – are sometimes known for…or some combination of these elements, or maybe something else entirely. The way Lulu is portrayed, as a kind of girly-girl and yet an independent and fearless woman, is intriguing. Overall I thought this novel was lesser Johnson, but I must admit I enjoyed it more than I expected to.

"Menage," by Alix Kates Shulman

Alix Kates Shulman has had a permanent place in my pantheon of admired women, ever since I read her classic feminist novel, "Memoirs of an Ex-Prom Queen" (1972). She is (or at least was) also well known for being one of the first to write about how married men and women should share housework (and everything else). Let me take a minute here to thank, once again, the pioneering second wave feminists of the late 60s and the 70s who made such a huge difference for women. As for Shulman: I have only read a couple of her books over the years since then, but I just read her new novel, "Menage" (unfortunately I can't figure out how to insert the accent mark over the first "e" in this blog program)(Other Press, 2012). This is the story of a married couple who invites into their home an intense, respected-for-his-celebrated-past-work-but-with-no-recent-work emigre writer originally from an unnamed Eastern European country. He has fallen on hard times, and they provide him with a space to live and write in their large, luxurious house in the woods of an upscale part of New Jersey, where the couple has moved from Manhattan. The husband, Mack, is an expansive, kindly-but-calculating real estate entrepreneur. His wife, Heather, wants to be a writer but so far mainly only writes an online column on the environment; she rationalizes that she will write more - preferably a novel - when their two children get older. Meanwhile, she is vaguely dissatisfied with her life, and Mack thinks that inviting Zoltan to stay with them will be good for her, as she will be able to discuss writing, literature, and other intellectual topics with him. Complications arise when the prospect of sex enters the picture, and when the expectations of the three main characters teeter out of the delicate balance of who will get what from the arrangement. This novel is quite interesting as a psychological study of the three characters and of their complex interactions. Overall, though, it does not have the heft, the impact of a book that the reader will remember much past reading it. (Now, on a completely different note, I would like to register a small complaint against some paperback books' being given an inside cover flap, similar to those on a hardback book's paper cover; these are fine for hardbacks, and eventually get removed anyway, but on paperback books, since the flap is actually attached to the front cover, it is thicker, and can't be detached (especially as in this case, when the copy I read is from the library), and keeps rising up and getting in the way. I think the publishers who use these are trying to raise their paperbacks to a higher level than the regular ones, to "class them up," so to speak, but the annoyance outweighs any such positive impression.)

"Seating Arrangements," by Maggie Shipstead

“Seating Arrangements” (Knopf, 2012), by the first-time young (29-year-old) novelist Maggie Shipstead, is an example of books that evoke a specific, albeit complicated, response in me: I “enjoy” reading them, or at least find myself wanting to keep reading, yet feel a bit dismayed and even slightly repulsed by them. This novel tells the story of one weekend on a New England island before, during, and after a wedding. The characters are the bride Daphne and groom Greyson and their families (parents, multiple siblings, grandparents, aunt), with a few friends and others (e.g., a chipper wedding planner) on the fringes of the action. Complicated but somehow not very interesting family dynamics loom large, as do rehashings of old grievances, flirting, and random sex, with resultant jealousy and other bad feelings. But the main character and his limitations take center stage: he is Winn Van Meter, the father of the bride. Winn comes from an upper middle class family, went to Harvard, was a member of its most desirable club, is financially successful, but is still striving, still feeling he hasn’t quite made it in the social world. He desperately wants to join the prestigious Pequod Club on the island, and can’t understand why his application has been stalled for three years. His open striving, his one-sided rivalry with a neighbor with a perceived higher status, as well as his doomed flirtation with one of his daughter Daphne’s friends, Agatha, make him appear very shallow and lamentably foolish. No one in the novel does anything truly terrible, but none of them appears very admirable, interesting or likeable either. I can’t be sure whether the author expects us to dislike these characters, and is focusing on the social satire that exposes them, or if she wants us to see them as flawed but very human characters that we can all in some ways identify with. In any case, it was with a sense of relief that I finished and closed the book.

"A Queer and Pleasant Danger," by Kate Bornstein

One of the great things about reading is its allowing us to enter whole worlds that we would never have known much or anything about without books or other written works. This is an obvious observation, a cliché, but occasionally certain books powerfully and even viscerally remind us of its truth. I just finished reading Kate Bornstein’s “A Queer and Pleasant Danger” (Beacon, 2012), a memoir described on the front cover as “The true story of a nice Jewish boy who joins the Church of Scientology and leaves twelve years later to become the lovely lady she is today.” This description is a good short summary of the “plot” of Bornstein’s life, but doesn’t begin to capture the way she invites readers into the painful and exhilarating highs and lows of her life. About those worlds that we learn about (“we” here meaning “I,” and others like me who are well read and somewhat knowledgeable about the worlds within our world, but have only superficial – even if open-minded and accepting – real understanding of some of those worlds): Here we learn about the worlds of scientology, transgender, and sadomasochism (and various permutations in the complicated taxonomy of gender and sexuality). Our guide, Bornstein, is a complex, troubled, yet resourceful and resilient person who has somehow survived (sometimes just barely) a complicated dance of insiderness/outsiderness throughout her life, and now is at what seems to be a place of hard-earned (at least relative) peace and happiness. Her person and voice are candid, confiding, bracing, even endearing. She is a pioneer in her openness, as well as a good writer; I thank her for her honesty and courage, and wish her well.

"Wild," by Cheryl Strayed

"Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail" (Knopf, 2012), by Cheryl Strayed, is not the type of memoir I would normally read. A book about a long, tough, physically and mentally bruising 1,100 mile solo hike? For this not-at-all-athletic, camping-averse reader, there was nothing compelling about the prospect of reading a 300-plus-page book about a young woman's trek up and down mountains, through alternately freezing and steaming weather, encountering bears and rattlesnakes, carrying a backpack that is so heavy that the author calls it the Monster, experiencing aches and pains and blisters and calluses that she has never imagined, often going days without seeing another human being, and sometimes suffering hunger and thirst, among other hardships. Strayed had had no experience with long-distance hiking, but decided it was the challenge she needed in order to deal with the blows life had dealt her and the unhealthy ways she had been living in order to blot out those blows. The most devastating loss was her mother's death when Strayed was only 22. She then embarked on aimless traveling, used destructive drugs, and entered unhealthy relationships. But after four years of this, she pulled herself together to plan and earn money for the big trek along the Pacific Crest Trail. The story of her adventure is both painful and inspiring. Despite my initial reservations about the book, I found myself completely caught up in Strayed's recounting of the journey, as well as her flashbacks to the earlier events in her life. There is an honesty and openness in her writing that is hard to read but also makes it easy for the reader to connect with the narrative and the narrator.