"Lessons of Love in Afghanistan," by Suzanne Griffin

My friend and former colleague, Suzanne Griffin, has written a wonderful, inspiring book about her work in Afghanistan. “Lessons of Love in Afghanistan: A Lifelong Commitment to the Afghan People” (Bennett and Hastings Publishing, 2014) describes her decades of connection to Afghanistan. Originally this came about through her husband Michael’s work in the Peace Corps; when they got married, she joined him when he went back there. She grew to love the people, the culture, and the language. When she and Michael went back to the United States, Suzanne became an educator. The couple always wanted and intended to go back to Afghanistan and help in any ways they could. Years later, when her husband died too young, Suzanne, by then a college dean, took a leave of absence to help with setting up programs and schools, especially for girls and women, in Afghanistan. She ended up spending more than a decade, with brief breaks, in Afghanistan, and was involved not only in education but also related matters such as women’s health. All of this was not at all easy; it was dangerous, strenuous, and frustrating at times, but Suzanne loved the work and persisted. In fact, she is still involved with programs in Afghanistan. This book is a combination of a memoir and a description of the situation in Afghanistan. The author’s devotion to the country and the work is clear, yet she writes in a way that is modest and matter-of-fact. This reader shuddered at some of the dangers Suzanne faced. But most of all, I admire so much what she has done. The serious nature of the book, although important, is leavened in a welcome way by the author's sharing her feelings, and weaving in stories about her family and friends and people she meets through the years. The book is very readable and engaging, and I learned much from it as well.

Does the Space Make a Difference?

I have always believed that punctuation makes a difference and has significance. But a difference I hadn’t thought about until fairly recently was whether to leave one or two spaces after a period. I grew up learning, in my high school typing class and elsewhere, to leave two spaces, and I never questioned that. It became absolutely automatic for me. But more and more I have realized that now the standard is one space. The point that jolted me was in a recent article about job applications that stated that for older applicants, leaving two spaces after periods can be a signal of their age, and by proxy, a sort of sign of being outdated or behind the times. I am fortunate not to have to apply for jobs, but I still don’t want to be thought of as behind the times! So I have been trying to remember this, and now I often go back through something I have written to delete one of the two spaces. I actually had to do it for this very blogpost. Such a small matter to be fraught with such possible significance!

"Florence Gordon," by Brian Morton

Brian Morton is a male author writing about a (fictional) leading feminist scholar and author. I initially did a slight double take when I realized this, but then thought “why not?” After all, I tell my students that men can (and should, in my opinion) be feminists too. And I believe that good writers can write about anyone and anything, and should not be limited to writing about their own gender, race, experience, etc. Morton’s novel “Florence Gordon” (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2014) focuses on an aging (75-year-old), rather grumpy, uncompromising, fearless woman who refuses to admit any weaknesses, and who is hard on her family and others around her. It could be said that she is missing some basic social skills. But it could also be said that she doesn’t feel the same socialized need that so many women do to always be aware of and cater to the needs of those around her, and always speak diplomatically. For Florence, her work -- her research, writing, and activism -- is paramount. The only other character that gets her attention and with whom she develops a rapport -- albeit slowly and very undemonstratively -- is her granddaughter Emily. Florence is a forbidding character, yet one that obviously cares about making the world a better and more equitable place for both women and men. I admire Morton’s creation of this character, one who is not easy to like, yet is clearly a good person who makes a difference. But the author resists doing what some authors too obviously do: sentimentalizing by making a slightly difficult character one with a "heart of gold." I also admire his choosing to focus on an older person, which is not very common in modern fiction (as I have discussed here before). The story takes place in New York City, where Florence lives and teaches. The events of the story arise largely out of the interactions among Florence and her son, daughter-in-law, and granddaughter, the latter three of whom have recently come to New York for various reasons. Each of the main characters -- Florence, her son Daniel, her daughter-in-law Janine, and her granddaughter Emily -- has her or his own secrets. There are flirtations with infidelity, entanglements with disturbed others, illness, and more intriguing plot points. Morton tells the story in quite short chapters, which makes the novel very accessible and reader-friendly; at first I felt it also somehow oversimplified it, but I got over that feeling after a while. For those who like portrayals of strong women, for those who care about feminism, for those who appreciate novels that include or even focus on older characters (for a change), for those who like to read about family interactions, and for those who like novels set in New York City, this novel has much to offer.

The Reading Glasses Bookshelves Shuffle

As a person who wears contact lenses and reading glasses over them as necessary (and they are often necessary for a frequent reader/writer/computer user such as I am), I am probably an odd sight when looking at books on shelves in bookstores or libraries. There is already the awkward sideways turn of the head and leaning of the body to see the titles printed along the books’ spines, and the slow shuffling along the length of the shelves to see more and more books. Then there is the constant putting on and taking off of the reading glasses. They need to be off for books on higher or lower shelves, but on for those at eye level. Further, they need to be on when taking a book off the shelf to look at it more closely, inspecting the front and back covers and perhaps leafing through it. Then back off they go, either to be held dangling from my right hand, or pushed on top of my head. Finally they end up back in their case in my purse. But sometimes as I am walking out, the reading glasses have to be fished back out one more time (or two or three) so I can look at another shelf of books, or a display that has just caught my eye. And if I am buying or checking out books, the glasses come back out to facilitate the process of signing the credit card slip or navigating the self-checkout machine. Many years ago I said (with the arrogance of youth) that I would never be one of those people with my reading glasses on a chain around my neck, but I may have to rethink that. On another note, Happy Holidays to all!

A Guilty Pleasure: "The Andy Cohen Diaries"

I debated with myself about whether to post about this book; in other words, I had to decide whether I wanted to admit to reading it. Andy Cohen seems like an amiable, funny television producer, host, and personality. But his shows are lightweight, purely for the sort of guilty entertainment that we all partake in occasionally (don’t we?): his Watch What Happens Live show, and the Real Housewives franchise, most notably. (I have not personally watched any of these, although I have seen glimpses of them, but I am not claiming high ground, as I have watched some equally “bad” shows….). What is appealing about Andy Cohen is that he seems to know very well how unserious his shows are, but acknowledges and shares with viewers the fun of watching something a bit naughty, with no particular “redeeming value.” His (second) book, “The Andy Cohen Diaries: A Deep Look at a Shallow Year” (Henry Holt, 2014), is equally lightweight, and he is equally aware of this, as indicated in the subtitle. So why did I read it? I guess I just felt in the mood for something light, funny, gossipy (he does a lot of name dropping, with some juicy although not-very-consequential revelations, but does so in a mostly non-meanspirited way). And he gives at least the appearance of being candid and self-deprecatory about himself and his life. Along with the hobnobbing with famous people, in beautiful places (clubs, restaurants, awards shows, the Hamptons), he writes affectionately about his parents and besottedly about his new dog. (There is a LOT about his dog.) He writes about friends, dieting, working out, real estate, Manhattan, food, movies, cross-country flights, vacations, and much more. Its 343 pages could perhaps have been condensed a bit; reading it all is a bit like eating way too much candy. But if read just for fun, without too many expectations, it is an enjoyable way to while away a few hours.

"Enchanted April," by Elizabeth von Arnim

I read “Enchanted April” (1922), by Elizabeth von Arnim, some years ago, and loved it. Recently I listened to it on CD (Blackstone, 1994) in my car, and loved it all over again. The pleasure of the novel was enhanced by Nadia May’s beautiful reading on the CD. What’s not to like about a novel about four English women in the early twentieth century who rent a small castle in San Salvatore, Italy, near Portofino, for the month of April? These women did not know each other before, and are from very different backgrounds. Three of them are young, including one who is a “Lady”; the other is much older and a bit crotchety. The place is gorgeous, sunny, comfortable, full of flowers and fresh air, a stark contrast to the dark, dull, and cold London they have just left. After some initial awkwardness, they very quickly all forget their problems and their difficulties with husbands or family members, and grow to appreciate and love each other. As one of the four women says, the place is magic, and the magic comes from love. This is a story about how people are basically good, and when they are given the chance, they blossom. It is about the power of love. And it is, quite simply, a marvelously delightful novel.

"Stoner," by John Williams

When I was in Europe for a conference this past summer, John, a UK colleague at the conference, and I talked about books one night over dinner. He raved about a novel titled “Stoner” (Vintage, 2012) by the American writer John Williams. (No, not that kind of a stoner; Stoner is the name of the main character.) Soon after, when I was still traveling in Europe, I saw the book in a bookstore, and decided to buy it on John’s recommendation. I also looked up reviews, and found that others were also raving about it, and that it was considered a rediscovered gem. When it was originally published in 1965, only 2000 copies were sold; then it was pretty much forgotten. The author died in 1994; it is unfortunate that he didn’t live long enough to know that “Stoner” was republished by the New York Review of Books Classics in 2006 and that it has been so well received. I ended up not reading it in Europe, and it somehow got to the bottom of a stack of books on my shelf, but I finally read it a couple of weeks ago, and was very impressed. It is the story of William Stoner, who was born in 1891 and grew up poor and lonely on a farm in Missouri. As a teenager he discovered literature, went to college despite his extreme poverty, and eventually became a professor of English at the University of Missouri. The novel tells of his difficult marriage to a woman with mental health issues, and of department politics and other professional problems in his career. But throughout, Stoner did his best to be a good teacher, to publish, to take care of his wife and his dear daughter, and to live a good life. He was an honorable man. He did have a brief love affair, but gave it up to preserve his marriage and career. His life was not dramatic, but it was admirable. The novel has a sort of Sinclair Lewis style realism, plainness and simplicity. However, this not-very-exciting plot summary cannot capture the compelling nature of this quiet but somehow riveting novel. I highly recommend it.