"Perfection: A Memoir of Betrayal and Renewal"

"Perfection: A Memoir of Betrayal and Renewal" (Hyperion, 2009), by Julie Metz, tells the story of a 40ish woman whose husband suddenly dies, and of what she finds out after his death about his complicated secret life and his many affairs. Metz is shocked and devastated by her husband's early and sudden death, and shocked and devastated again when his many betrayals come to light. Only her young daughter, her friends and family, and time can help her rebuild her life and her faith in other people, and help her let go of at least some of her bitterness. I don't think I am giving too much away by revealing that the story has a happy ending. I realize as I type this summary that it sounds like the plot of a weepy bestselling "women's" novel. But Metz's writing, although sometimes veering a bit toward the overly dramatic, is convincing, and we feel for her. She makes her story compellingly readable, and I have to confess that I read it all in one day. And I admire her (seeming, at least) honesty and openness even about aspects of the story that put her in a less than ideal light. There is always a slight feeling of voyeurism in reading a memoir like this one, but I think we learn about the human condition from such stories as well. (I admit that it is possible that the second half of that sentence may just be a rationale or excuse for the first half, but I am not going to go there today....)

"Walks with Men"

In contrast with the hefty "The Lacuna" (507 pages), which I posted about yesterday, "Walks with Men" (Scribner, 2010), by Ann Beattie, is a little slip of a novel (1-2 pages and measuring just 5" by 7"). I have read Beattie's stories and novels for years, including the many stories she has published in The New Yorker; in fact she, along with John Updike and a few others, seems the quintessential New Yorker short story author. This new book is, like much of her work, understated, with her usual low-key style, but packs a punch. Recent Harvard graduate Jane moves to New York in 1980 and becomes involved with Neil, who as a writer 20 years older seems to Jane the epitome of worldliness, sophistication, and knowledge of "how to live." (Don't we all, when young, long for someone to instruct us in how to live well?) His advice, which he pronounces with great authority, ranges from the very specific ("Wear only raincoats made in England") to the very general ("Time changes everything"). Jane has her own tentative and erratic career, but her life is organized around Neil and his authoritative pronouncements. Their relationship is bumpy, with betrayals and reconciliations and a surprise ending, near but not at the actual end of the novel. Jane learns to put her life with Neil in perspective, and the novel ends with another surprising and counter-intuitive scene, quiet, a little sad, but lovely. This novel will speak to many who look back on their early adulthood, seeing with the clearer perspective of age the people who attracted and influenced them, and the sometimes inexplicable decisions they (OK, we!) made.

"The Lacuna"

Reading "The Lacuna" (Harper, 2009), by Barbara Kingsolver, was for me like climbing a steep mountain: long (over 500 pages), arduous, breathtaking (in both senses of the word), and worth the effort. (Not that I have climbed any mountains lately, but it seems like an apropos if not very original metaphor.) I initially resisted reading this novel, but since it was chosen for my next Reading Group meeting, highly recommended by one member, I tackled it. It took me almost a month to read, and I read a few other (shorter and less arduous) books during this time. I started reading it in large print, got tired of that (see my 5/31/10 post on large print), continued in regular print, and finished the book on CD (read very effectively by the author herself) during two recent car trips. The main character is Harrison Shepherd, a young man born in the U.S. of a Mexican mother and American father and raised in Mexico, a classic bicultural person, so common in the 20th century. In the 1930s, he works for Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo, and then for Trotsky in exile, before returning to the U.S. and becoming the author of bestselling novels about ancient Mexican history. He tries to live a quiet life in Asheville, NC, but is blindsided by the anticommunist McCarthy era, which targets him for having associated with Communists and accuses him of being anti-American, using distorted and completely false "evidence." This is ironic, as he is actually very pro-American, and tragic, because it destroys his life and career. Kingsolver's portrayal of the viciousness and mindlessness of this witchhunt era is powerful and frightening, especially in view of some present-day echoes of this mentality. Kingsolver's writing has always been admirable not only for its literary quality but also for engaging with important social/political events and issues; "The Poisonwood Bible," for one outstanding example, is unforgettable. There are other rewards of this book, including the evocative portrayals of the main character, his assistant Violet Brown, Kahlo, and Trotsky; lovely and detailed descriptions of the various locales; and the way the author gives readers a vivid sense of history, both ancient and recent.

Will I Ever Read All of the "Great Books"?

Forty-plus years ago, my parents bought the 54-volume "Great Books of the Western World" set (Encyclopedia Britannica, 1952), and these impressive volumes have been a fixture on my parents' various living room bookshelves over all these years. This set was edited by Robert Maynard Hutchins and Mortimer Adler, and was based on their educational theory that all college students should read these classic books; the program was implemented at the University of Chicago and elsewhere. Over the years my late father and I and other family members read some of the volumes. It has always been understood that eventually the Great Books would pass to me (as the English major and biggest reader in the family). I love the idea of the books, I love how they look on the shelf, and I love taking volumes down and browsing through them. I love what it shows about my parents' priorities that they spent a considerable sum of their hard-earned money on this set (as well as the Classics Club set and many other wonderful books). My vague idea when I was younger was that "someday" I would read all 54 volumes. Now, older and more realistic, I realize that it is highly unlikely that I will ever have the time or - more crucial - the inclination, if I am honest with myself, to read Euclid, Plutarch, Ptolemy, Thomas Aquinas, Gibbon, etc. I am probably almost as unlikely to re-read some of the authors I read in college classes: Euripedes, Rabelais, Milton, Hegel, Goethe, etc. As I am mainly a novel reader, the volumes I am most likely to read, or re-read, are the novels by Swift, Fielding, and Tolstoy. However, even if I have to relinquish the grand vision of myself reading my way through those 54 volumes, I love the idea of them, with their solidity and their embodiment of hundreds of years of history, literature, science, and culture. Of course the fact that they are from the "Western World" means they are limited culturally, and nowadays - appropriately and fortunately - we are much more aware of global and multicultural knowledge and literature. But that doesn't mean we can't continue to treasure these glorious "Great Books."

"Romancing Miss Bronte"

As "Jane Eyre" is one of my all-time favorite and often-read books, I have read a lot about the lives of Charlotte Bronte and her sisters and brother as well. I read Elizabeth Gaskell's biography of Charlotte, as well as later books and articles and at least one fictionalized version of her life. I have just completed another fictionalized version: "Romancing Miss Bronte" (Ballantine, 2010), by Juliet Gael. Although it sometimes veers a little into the "romance novel" genre, and has touches of the portentous and overwrought style you might expect in that genre, it is generally well-written. It recaps the sad but compelling story of the very bright children of a parson in the small, isolated town of Haworth on the Yorkshire moors, the precocious fantasy stories they write together, the diseases that take them one by one, the difficult path to publication by the three surviving sisters, and finally the late marriage to a curate by the sole surviving sister, Charlotte. Where the book is strong is in its exploration of Charlotte's psyche. An enjoyable if often sad read.

Reading Engages the Senses

In my 6/18/10 post, I quoted Thomas Newkirk as saying that memorizing literature helps readers "taste" the words. This reminds me of one reason I love reading in print rather than online: Old-fashioned print engages the senses. Sight of course is primary, but not just for understanding the words. The way the book looks (size, shape, color, cover art, etc.), the way the pages look (layout, margins, etc.), the way the font looks, the size of the print, illustrations: all are part of the reading experience. Sound enters with the whisper or crackle of pages turning, and with the satisfying sound the book makes when set on a table, or when pulled from the shelf. Touch: Is the cover embossed? smooth? made of paper or fabric? Is the binding sewn or pasted? Are the pages thin or thick? How heavy is the book? How does it feel when held in the hand? Smell: All books have distinctive scents, especially very old and very new ones; those scents are part of the reading experience as well. All of this is lost when reading online....

In Praise of "Slow Reading"

An AP news story yesterday ("NH Professor Pushes for Return to Slow Reading," by Holly Ramer, June 17, 2010) describes the "Slow Reading" movement, which now has many proponents, and focuses on one professor's efforts. Professor Thomas Newkirk of the University of New Hampshire says that "students have told him they've become accustomed to flitting from page to page online and that they have trouble concentrating while reading printed books." To help counter this problem, Newkirk "is encouraging schools from elementary through college to return to old strategies such as reading aloud and memorization...to help students truly 'taste' the words." I am, as you might guess, very much in support of this movement. As I was reading this article, my thoughts flashed back to my beloved 8th grade teacher, Mr. George Fisher, and how he would have us memorize poems. Sometimes we resisted this assignment, but we enjoyed it too, and felt proud of being able to recite the poems. Learning a poem "by heart" does indeed, as Newkirk says, promote "tasting" the words. One poem that Mr. Fisher had us memorize that sticks in my mind still, although I can no longer recite more than a few lines, is "The Brook," by Alfred Lord Tennyson. "I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glide.../For men may come and men may go/But I go on forever."