"Truth and Beauty," by Ann Patchett

Ann Patchett is a highly esteemed and beloved writer, author of such novels as “Bel Canto,” “Run,” and “State of Wonder,” all of which are wonderful. I also recommend her collection of essays, which doubles as a sort of memoir, “This is the Story of a Happy Marriage.” Patchett is also known for the valiant action of opening a bookstore in Nashville a few years ago, in response to -- and despite -- the decline of independent bookstores. I recently picked up an earlier Patchett book that I hadn’t read before, “Truth & Beauty” (HarperCollins, 2004). This book tells the story of the author’s close friendship with a fellow author, Lucy Grealy. Grealy is best known for her memoir, “Autobiography of a Face,” which tells of a life dominated by the ravages of a childhood cancer of the jaw, the many treatments and surgeries she had endured, and her fragile health, as well as her enormous appetite for living life to its fullest. Patchett and Grealy met in college, and later both studied at the famed Iowa Writers’ Workshop. Both authors were successful. But this book focuses on the intensity of the friendship between the two, through thick and thin, no matter what else was going on in their lives. They truly loved each other, and were completely loyal to each other. Patchett never congratulates herself on her loyalty to Grealy, despite her huge and tumultuous personality and her neediness; it is just a given. And because they were so close, she doesn’t just focus on what most other people focused on: Lucy’s deformed face. She writes about both women’s writing, their insecurities, their love affairs, their travels, their nights of drinking and dancing with friends and lovers, and more. Finally, though, both Patchett and we, the readers, have to face the reality of how difficult life was for Lucy Grealy, and of how her difficulties led to some self-destructive behavior. And then Patchett – and we – have to face Grealy’s death. This book is sometimes difficult to read, especially about the worst parts and periods of Lucy’s life, but is also beautifully written and inspiring. Ann Patchett has given us a shining but candid tribute to Grealy, and to the power of friendship.

"Clock Dance," by Anne Tyler

Anne Tyler is one of my favorite writers; I have read almost every novel she has written. I know that, although she is very popular, there are some readers who don’t quite “get” her appeal. Which is fine, of course. But to me she is gifted at portraying the details of daily life, and the accretion of those details over time, and then gradually drawing readers into the larger meanings of those everyday events. If you will forgive my quoting myself, this is what I posted here about one of her more recent novels: “Her novels always seem deceptively plain and straightforward, with little in the way of embellishments, experimentation, or flash. But they are rich with real life, down-to-earth life, the life that we readers can relate to. Her recent novels have tended to feature mature (middle-aged or older) characters), and as a 'mature' person myself, I appreciate this perspective.” The main character in Tyler’s most recent novel, “Clock Dance” (Knopf, 2018), is also an “older” (late middle-aged) female. We read about -- in snapshots, really -- certain influential times in Willa Drake’s life: her mother’s instability, her college years, her first marriage, her being a mother, and her second marriage. Sadly, although she keeps up her spirits and on the surface has a very traditional life, there are large gaps in that life. Both of her husbands are traditional, bossy, and insensitive. Her two sons are not particularly close to her, and as young adults don’t keep in close touch or tell her much about their lives; in fact, when she sees them, they are offhandedly dismissive of her ideas and choices. Suddenly, and this is where the current and main story begins, Willa gets a call about one son’s former girlfriend who, along with her young daughter, need taking care of after the girlfriend’s leg is wounded in a shooting. Willa somehow, uncharacteristically, decides to fly across the country from her retirement home in Arizona to Baltimore, and ends up becoming very fond of the young woman, her daughter, and the neighbors in this tightly knit working class neighborhood. Willa finds purpose in helping out, and finds herself enmeshed in the doings of the neighborhood, which is a true community, albeit with its own odd characters and behaviors. She allows herself to question her current life. I like the way Tyler portrays a woman who has always done the expected thing, and who has always been the caregiver, the one who gives time and energy to others, but now realizes that this way of being is not always good for herself. The scenes in which her husbands casually and with entitlement tell her what to do, scold her, expect her to listen and address their needs, but don’t do the same for her, are masterpieces. Neither of the husbands are bad or even unusually thoughtless men, and she loves them both, but she is never really seen or heard for herself. Her sons in turn treat her with careless affection and minimal attention, when it is convenient; they have unconsciously learned these male roles from their father and from society. (Of course I don’t want to generalize about all men, all husbands, or all sons! But the ones represented here certainly exist, more commonly than we would like to acknowledge.) Tyler never hits us over the head with her interpretations of what life is like for her characters, and for – in recent novels – “older” women, but we gradually absorb her subtle portrayals of what those women’s lives are like, and of the indignities that almost pass unnoticed, until they do become evident, at which time there is a sort of re-evaluation and reckoning.

"No One Tells You This," by Glynnis MacNicol

A common, intensely relevant topic for many women, especially educated women with successful careers that they enjoy and in which they feel fulfilled, is the one of whether and when to get married and/or have children. Glynnis MacNicol’s memoir, “No One Tells You This” (Simon and Schuster, 2018) explores this issue in a very personal way. She does not pronounce on a “right” or “wrong” decision, or try to persuade anyone of anything. She simply shares, in a thoughtful, candid way, her struggle to figure out what it is she really wants, as she turns forty years old. She has had a slightly unorthodox path to her career as a successful writer, she is close to her family of origin, and she is surrounded by a very close and extremely supportive group of friends. She loves living in New York City. But she knows that time is of the essence, at least regarding having children, and she sees that almost all of her friends have married and had children. This memoir doesn’t just dwell on the issue of children, but shows us the author’s very full life, as she travels, works, and spends time with friends and family. She spends quite a bit of time and energy and worry on her family, dealing with her mother’s early onset dementia, her father’s passiveness and history of bad financial decisions, and her sister’s giving birth to a third child just as she splits up with her husband. MacNicol dates and has relationships, but is not happy with the men she meets, especially as prospects for long-term partners. She also teaches herself to take little breaks, even if they are just a night away, or a short river cruise, in order to restore herself from working so hard and from devoting her time and self to her family. Near the end of the book, at a wildly different locale than her usual city life, she visits a dude ranch in Wyoming, which leads to introspection and some decisions. There is a certain amount of (well-earned) handwringing in this book, but little time is spent on feeling sorry for herself. In fact, she often focuses on the happy aspects of her life. I admire the (seeming, at least) candor of the memoir, as well as the very good writing. I am sure almost any woman (and perhaps some men) reading this memoir can connect to it in some ways, no matter which life decisions they themselves have made, or are contemplating making, or will make.

"Robin," by Dave Itzkoff

Like so many people who live in the San Francisco Bay Area, my family had, over the past thirty-plus years, various brushes and contacts and overlaps of friends and classmates and neighbors with the great comic and actor Robin Williams and his family. I absolutely don’t mean to claim any closeness, not at all, but only the kinds of occasional fleeting contacts one has when living in the same neighborhoods, seeing each other on the street, one’s children going to the same schools and socializing in the same circles, seeing each other at local restaurants, etc. I was always a great admirer and fan of Williams, and knew quite a bit of his story already, but I was still very interested in his biography, “Robin” (Gale, 2018) by Dave Itzkoff. It seems to be very thorough, based on many interviews and much research. The prose is perhaps a bit workmanlike, but Williams’ personality, character, career, and story are well presented. The story is such a mixture of joy and sorrow, highs and lows. Robin Williams was such a gifted performer, and loved his family so much. It is true that he had his demons, became addicted to alcohol and drugs, and sometimes didn’t spend the time with his family members that he wanted to. He made some mistakes in his career as well. But everyone who knew him acknowledged his extraordinary talents, and that he was at heart a good man. One thing I wish Itzkoff had written more about was Williams’ many, many contributions to charities, to American soldiers, and to countless friends in need, sick children, and others, very often anonymously or with minimal publicity. The author does mention some of these, but not enough, in my opinion. In any case, I recommend the book “Robin” to anyone interested in Robin Williams and his complicated, unparalleled life and career, cut short too soon by a dreadful disease.

"Cork Dork," by Bianca Bosker

Continuing in the vein of my 8/19/18 post about the chef Eric Ripert’s memoir, I turn to a book -- a sort of memoir -- about learning the world of wine. “Cork Dork” (Penguin, 2017) (clever title!) is well-summarized by its subtitle: “A Wine-Fueled Adventure Among the Obsessive Sommeliers, Big Bottle Hunters, and Rogue Scientists Who Taught Me to Live for Taste.” Author Bianca Bosker is a journalist who decided she wanted to immerse herself in all things related to wine, and she did so in a big way (and with a large measure of obsessiveness herself!). She took classes, joined tasting groups, followed sommeliers around in their fine restaurants, spoke to scientists, studied for wine certification tests, and tasted, tasted, tasted all types of wine. Her base was in New York City, where she lives, but she traveled across the United States (especially to California, home of so many great wines) and to Europe as well. Some sections of the book are rather technical, but Bosker mostly manages to convey information in an interesting way that drew in even this only-mildly-interested-in-wine reader. (I love good food from various cultures, and fine and varied restaurants, and I occasionally drink a glass of wine, but I am not very knowledgeable about it, and don’t have any urge to go to any particular effort to learn more.) It is quite a feat that Bosker makes the book interesting for both the wine enthusiast (e.g., my son-in-law, who read and enjoyed the book) and the reader who is less so (e.g., me). The strength of this book, for the non-wine-fanatic reader, is the stories Bosker tells about her adventures and about the people she meets along the way. She has an eye for the telling detail that brings a story to life. I especially enjoyed the engaging, revealing, and often funny stories that took place in restaurants where the author observed and worked. Like most people, I enjoy the sense of seeing what happens “behind the scenes.” And I definitely learned a lot about wine in the course of reading the book.

"32 Yolks," by Eric Ripert

Eric Ripert, the co-owner of and chef at the famed New York City seafood restaurant Le Bernadin, has written a fascinating and compelling memoir of his life before he arrived in the United States. He is French, and he describes his childhood with candor: both the ways in which he learned about good food and cooking from his mother and other family members and friends, and the ways in which his childhood was difficult because of his parents’ divorce and remarriages. “32 Yolks: From My Mother’s Table to Working the Line” (I love the title!) (co-authored with Veronica Chambers; Random House, 2016) is suffused with Ripert’s love of food and his intense enjoyment of learning about it, preparing it, watching others prepare it, and of course eating it. His mother cooked very special dinners every evening, complete with crisp tablecloths, candles, and flowers. His grandmothers taught and showed him about the importance of fresh ingredients and of taking the time to prepare food well. Despite his difficulties and sadness about feeling somewhat abandoned by each of his parents after they separated and began new relationships, Ripert was fortunate to have several good models and mentors along the way, including some who recognized his interests and gifts early on. Ripert went to culinary school, and then experienced the exciting yet grindingly hard experiences of being a sort of apprentice and then gradually rising up in the hierarchy of the restaurant world. Coincidentally, I had read about the famous chef Joel Robuchon’s very recent death just before I picked up this memoir of Ripert’s, which devotes a big chunk of the pages to his time working at Robuchon’s great restaurant, Jamin. Ripert says this was one of the most difficult experiences he ever had, because Robuchon was such a perfectionist and didn’t hesitate to yell at anyone who did a less than perfect job in carrying out the chef’s vision; however, Ripert also says he was in awe of Robuchon’s creativity, and learned an incredible amount from him. (I once dined at the Atelier Robuchon in London with my daughter and had a superb meal there - lucky me!) He also turned out to be a mentor, and at the end of the book, has helped Ripert find a job at a prestigious restaurant in the United States. That is where the book ends, but we know that he has since gone on to become one of the best known chefs in the U.S. I was fortunate enough to have a meal at Le Bernadin with my friend E. some years back, and it was a wonderful experience, almost sublime! Of course having had that experience made me value and enjoy this memoir all the more. The book is fairly short and very readable, and we learn much about Ripert’s experiences with family, food, romance, and relationships during those formative years that the book covers. It is a worthy member of the group of restaurant memoirs that have come out in the past ten to fifteen years (as well as earlier ones). Some that I have posted about here are those of Anthony Bourdain (RIP), Marcus Samuelsson, and Gabrielle Hamilton. I also posted a list of favorite books (mostly memoirs) about the restaurant world (mostly by chefs, but also by servers and other members of that world) on 2/4/10.

"Astrid & Veronika," by Linda Olsson

As I mentioned in my 7/15/18 post about what I read on a recent trip to Canada, I liked the novel “A Sister in My House,” although it was sad and even a bit grim. After that, I read another novel by the same author, Linda Olsson, titled “Astrid & Veronika” (Penguin, 2005). I also liked this book, partly because of and partly in spite of its similarity in tone and even plot to the “Sister” book. In both cases, the main characters, two women, have had difficult lives full of childhood trauma and further losses in adulthood. In both cases, the two gradually learn to trust each other, and allow each other to see each's vulnerabilities. The novels are both rather slow going and fraught, but also are both positive in the sense that the characters learn (slowly, partially) to heal. Veronika is a young woman writer from Sweden who moved to New Zealand to be with the man she loves. As this novel starts, she has (because of something tragic that happened in New Zealand) returned to Sweden and is renting a house in the forest outside a small village, using it as a refuge and also a place to work on her novel. There she meets her nearest neighbor, a much older woman called Astrid who is more or less a recluse; gradually they become very close friends, and teach each other lessons about life. The writing is beautiful, as it describes the two women savoring the simple pleasures of walks in the woods, good food and wine eaten and drunk slowly and companionably, and halting but encouraging conversations. Not least of the pleasures for the reader is the portrayal of the joys and rewards of female friendship. A lovely book.