"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.