"Intuition," by Allegra Goodman

I have to admit (and I am not proud of this) that I am generally not particularly interested in reading about science topics. So I wasn’t sure if I would like Allegra Goodman’s novel “Intuition” (Random House/Books on Tape, 2006), but I was looking in the library for a novel on CD to listen to in my car, and this one looked promising. It tells the story of the researchers at a lab in Cambridge, Massachusetts who seem to be in the process of discovering a possible cure for some cancers. This potential breakthrough is of course very exciting, but soon becomes controversial, with accusations of irregularities by one researcher against another. The novel gives readers interesting insights into how such a lab works, the routines, the sometimes boring stretches, the excitement when it appears there might be a breakthrough, the competitiveness of the science research world, and the politics of funding research. Suspense builds throughout the novel, keeping the reader involved. The most interesting part though, for me, is the personalities and relationships of the researchers, and the insights into their private as well as work lives. This novel will not be on any of my “best” lists, but I did learn from it and enjoy it.

"Levels of Life," by Julian Barnes

The wonderful writer Julian Barnes, about whom I have written here several times, has written a wrenchingly sad new book, “Levels of Life” (Knopf, 2013). It consists of three essays, the first two of which provide a sort of historical/philosophical context for the third. The third is the one that many people will go directly to: the author’s description of his mourning for his wife, with whom he had been for 30 years, and who died about four years ago, suddenly (“thirty-seven days from diagnosis to death”) and too soon. He takes us through his feelings, struggles with various aspects of grief, and is unsparing in depicting the depth and unrelenting character of his loss. Grief, he tells us, is “unimaginable: not just its length and depth, but its tone and texture, its deceptions and false dawns, its recidivism” (p. 75). Apparently he and his wife Pat had a very close relationship, and after she dies, he cannot imagine going on without her. Barnes avoids sentimentality; instead, he cuts to the core of elemental feelings. Although his situation is particular to him, it speaks universally to the terrible truth of death and the unfathomable pain it leaves behind for those who have loved the one who died.

"Bridget Jones: Mad about the Boy," by Helen Fielding

I have written about the problem of critics’ and some male authors’ using the term “chick lit” or similar terms about almost any novel written by a woman that deals with relationships, love, and family. But that is not my focus today. I have also written about the positive side of “chick lit” -- the pleasures of frankly chick-lit-oriented novels -- and how I occasionally indulge in such novels. I have just read the third novel in the British writer Helen Fielding’s Bridget Jones series: “Bridget Jones: Mad about the Boy” (Knopf, 2013). The two earlier ones (and the two movies based on them) were great fun to read (and see), and captured a certain time and atmosphere in many women’s lives with flair, humor, and sympathy. I, probably like other readers, wondered how a third book, telling of Bridget’s life at age 51, would be…I couldn’t quite imagine it. And it was a shock to learn (very early on, and in all the reviews, so this is not a spoiler) that she was now a widow. Yet I soon got caught up in the book and enjoyed it. Bridget’s distinctive voice is still the same, but of course a little older and (well, somewhat) wiser, and tempered by her grief and her trying to find a way to live and be happy again after the loss of her dear Darcy. She struggles, moves forward a bit, then relapses, then tries again. She continues to document her weight gain and loss and the amount she drinks, but in this new book now also documents her texts and her experiments with the new medium of Twitter. And of course meeting men and dating is, again, a focus. But now she is 51, has two children, and finds the world of dating has changed. Suffice it to say that she has adventures that are both hilarious and touching, learns a lot, and realizes that, five years after Darcy’s death, she should, can, and will have a happy life.

"The Lowland," by Jhumpa Lahiri

I have devoured each of Jhumpa Lahiri's three earlier works of fiction (one novel and two collections of short stories), so of course I did the same with her new novel,"The Lowland" (Knopf, 2013). Her focus on the lives of immigrants, in particular immigrants from India, is an important one in this land of immigrants, the United States. My own connection with India (growing up there) makes me even more interested in Lahiri's work. But I admire and like Lahiri's fiction not only because of its subject matter but also because the writing is so very good. Her understanding of character, of landscape, of longing, of loss, of the need for resilience in the face of troubles -- all are great features of her work. This latest fiction from Lahiri differs from the earlier books in that it takes place not only in the U.S. but also in India. (Earlier works referred to India but mainly took place in the U.S.). "The Lowland" is the moving, sometimes wrenching story of two brothers who grow up in Calcutta, brothers who are extremely close, but are different in their characters. Subhash, the older, is careful and rule-following; Udayan is impulsive and passionate. Udayan becomes involved in the underground Naxalite movement of the 1960s, while Subhash travels to Rhode Island in the U.S. for graduate studies. They write to each other, rarely see each other, yet through everything, the strong bond between them continues. Udayan marries, then dies as a direct result of his political beliefs and actions. Subhash returns to Calcutta to find his parents devastated, and has to decide what to do about Udayan's pregnant widow, Gauri. I won't give away the rest of the plot, but suffice it to say that it is compelling, heartbreaking, happy and sad in turns, and at the end, decades later, cautiously redemptive. Lahiri has, once again, written an impressive work of fiction, perhaps her best to date.

Letting a Magazine Subscription Go

As much as I love reading, and spend an inordinate amount of time doing so, I am sometimes overwhelmed by my piles of books, magazines, and academic journals waiting to be read. I periodically resolve to cut my magazine and journal subscriptions, but rarely succeed in doing so, as I always have a good reason to keep each one. Recently, after some agonizing, I reluctantly decided to let one of my magazine subscriptions lapse. I won't say which one, because it is one I respect and still enjoy, but of all my subscriptions, finally it seemed the most expendable. But unfortunately the decision wasn't a simple, one-time action. I have received several renewal notices and letters, all of which make me remember how much I like the magazine, and each time I get one of these letters, I hesitate, reconsider, and wonder if I made the right decision. I do want to support this particular magazine, as I want to support all the ones I subscribe to. But finally I decided to stand firm, and let the magazine go from my life. Sigh. (OK, I am exaggerating my angst about this decision a little, but only a little...)

Too Long Without Fiction

I haven't posted for a few days, mainly because I haven't read a novel or other book for pleasure for about ten days, an unusual length of time for this obsessive reader. It has been a busy time. But have I stopped reading during this time? Not at all. I've still been reading newspapers, magazines, news online, academic journal articles, a collection of essays about discrimination in academe (this for a study series at my university), student essays, manuscripts I am reviewing for academic journals, email, and Facebook posts, among other reading material. All of these are interesting and important to me. But fiction is my true love, and I miss novels and short stories. This evening I started Jhumpa Lahiri's new book, "The Lowland," and as I settled into it, I started to feel the comfort and enjoyment that only fiction gives me. I don't like going so long without my beloved fiction....

Alice Munro Wins the Nobel Prize!

As Julie Bosman of the New York Times writes today, Alice Munro, "the renowned Canadian short-story writer whose visceral work explores the tangled relationships between men and women, small-town existence and the fallibility of memory, won the 2013 Nobel Prize in Literature on Thursday. Ms. Munro, 82, is the 13th woman to win the prize." Oh joy, oh joy, oh joy! I, along with legions of her other readers, and many of her fellow writers (according to what I have been reading online), am so very happy -- OK, ecstatic! -- to see Munro's work recognized in this way. I have often seen her labeled as the best living writer of short stories in the world, and I think that assessment is absolutely right; to have the Nobel Committee confirm that view is just fantastic! I have been reading, appreciating, enjoying, loving, learning from, savoring, and being awed by Munro's short stories and novels for 40 years, and am always excited when a new volume comes out. (See my post of 7/22/10, titled "Ode to Alice Munro."). Sadly, she said when her most recent book came out (see my post of 12/6/12 on "Dear Life") that it would be her last one. If she changes her mind, we readers will rejoice, but no matter what, we have more than 40 years worth of her amazing work to read and re-read (and they all bear re-reading and even re-re-reading). As a personal postscript, I have to say this: the fact that the newest winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature is both a woman and a Canadian (I am Canadian-born) is, for me, a bonus cause for joy.