"Henry, Himself," by Stewart O'Nan

Stewart O’Nan is one of my most-admired contemporary writers, a true student of human nature. My favorite book by him is “Emily, Alone,” about which I wrote here on 5/17/11. His new novel, “Henry, Himself” (Viking, 2019) is also a masterpiece. This novel is a prequel to “Emily, Alone,” depicting the life of Emily and her husband Henry before he died. Henry is a sort of Everyman who lives in Pittsburgh, is an engineer, and tries to live an honorable life. He is somewhat limited in his thinking at times, but is (usually) self-aware about his limitations, and tries to overcome them. He does his best at work and at home, and as he ages, wonders if he has done the right things in life. His style, and the style of the writing, is plain, simple, and understated. It is through the abundant small details, the descriptions of the routines of Henry’s life, that we build up a picture of him and other men of his type. This novel reminds me of Evan Connell’s “Mr. Bridge” and of John Williams' “Stoner.” The main characters in all three novels are somewhat trapped by society’s expectations of men, and all three characters stolidly and without drawing attention to themselves try to fulfill those expectations. They are all flawed but good men. I highly recommend this novel.

"At the End of the Century: Stories," by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala

I have been drawn to Ruth Prawer Jhabvala’s fiction for many years (actually decades) now. One reason is her identity as a Polish/German woman who married an Indian architect and lived much of her adult life in India (although she also later lived elsewhere, most notably New York City); thus she is one of those insider/outsider people who are so interesting to me, and who are representative of so many people in the world. And there is the India connection; as regular readers of this blog know, I spent much of my childhood there. She also wrote screenplays adapting such wonderful novels as “Howards End” and “A Room with a View” for films that were produced and directed by the famous team of Ismail Merchant and James Ivory. These three were wonderful collaborators and friends, even living in the same Manhattan apartment building for many years. Of course the main reason I appreciate and enjoy Jhabvala’s fiction so much is that it is very, very good. I just read “At the End of the Century” (Counterpoint, 2017), a collection of many of her short stories published over the years, some in periodicals such as the New Yorker, and some in earlier story collections. The author died in 2013, and her family chose the stories (among the many she had published) for this posthumous collection. The settings for the stories are in various areas of Europe, India, and the United States; the main characters are often travelers between countries and cultures. Each story is compelling, and the author’s knowledge of and portrayals of human nature are impressive. The collection is further enhanced by its thoughtful introduction by the (also excellent, also one of my favorites) writer Anita Desai (who, too, has a mixed identity and has lived in various countries including India). Desai notes some very insightful descriptions of Jhabvala by various writers: Caryl Phillips said that “she was postcolonial before the term had been invented,” and John Updike called her “an initiated outsider.” And the author, a Jewish refugee from Europe, said about herself, “Once a refugee, always a refugee” who was “a chameleon hiding myself in false or borrowed colors.” For anyone who is interested in insider/outsider/refugee/mixed identities, and who at the same time loves wonderful and revealing literature, I highly recommend Ruth Prawer Jhabvala’s novels and short stories. This volume is a good place to start.

"Joy, and 52 Other Very Short Stories," by Erin McGraw

The pleasures of short stories include the compacting of plot, character, and themes into a small space (compared to the luxurious open spaces of novels). I love novels most of all, but I also have a very real appreciation of short stories, especially collections of stories by one author, as there are often connections among the stories, even if not explicit. Now imagine compacting short stories even further, into “very short” stories, as Erin McGraw has done in her new collection, “Joy, and 52 Other Very Short Stories” (Counterpoint, 2019). The stories are mostly between three and five smallish pages long. Readers get a clear sense of the characters; there is always a defined and intriguing plot; there are compelling themes; the language is carefully chosen and very effective, sometimes even lyrical; and we readers finish each story with satisfaction. One of my favorite things about these stories is the way a critical plot point or character revelation often appears in one sentence, just when and where one does not expect it. The stories often engage with social class, in that they mostly reveal the lives of people who are getting by, but just barely – working class people, or people who have somehow gotten off-track. There is often a feeling of despair, or of reluctant resignation. One aspiring songwriter concludes, in the brilliant but sad story with the brilliant but sad title “Nobody Happy,” that “My talent is a kid with his nose flattened against the toy-store window, wanting what he can’t have.” But there are moments of happiness, as in the story “Joy,” where the character writes that “These times come for no reason and too rarely, days and evenings that quiver like a bee’s wing…Nearby, a bobwhite whistles, and my skin wants to dissolve and let something pure slip free.” But then the character tells us, in a flat, straightforward voice, all the ways in which her life has been hard and disappointing. The concluding sentences capture the complexities of grief and joy: “Maybe this is grief. Who cares what we call it? Joy comes in waves, and will not hear no.” This story collection is full of insights, sad moments, jolting truths, and, yes, at times, joy.

Local Bookstore News

An article in the 5/25/19 San Francisco Chronicle tells of a new, smaller, “more focused” Barnes and Noble store opening in Concord in the East Bay (of the San Francisco Bay Area). I never thought I would be glad to see another chain bookstore opening; when Barnes and Noble, as well as Borders and other chains, expanded rapidly, they drove out many independent bookstores, to my dismay and that of other readers. Eventually, Amazon, in turn, drove many chain bookstores out as well, even completely vanquishing the Borders behemoth (which I loved way back when it was one very special store in Ann Arbor, Michigan, where I visited it from time to time when visiting my good friend M. in Ann Arbor). But eventually I realized that it was better to have chain bookstores than no land-based bookstores; I also realized that although I live in an area with many independent bookstores, many other readers do not, so it was selfish of me to deprecate chain bookstores. Well, the landscape keeps changing. Barnes and Noble still has 627 stores in the United States, and now it is opening these new smaller stores, like the one in Concord, hoping for them to become community centers as many independent bookstores are. And in the best bookstore news of all, the Chronicle reporter Shwanika Narayan tells us that independent bookstores continue their recent comeback; the number of such bookstores in the United States “increased 50% between 2009 and 2019, from 1,651 to 2,470.” Hurray! (But, showing that we can never relax or celebrate too much, I just heard – after writing this post but before posting it – that the Sausalito store in our much beloved very local and very small “chain,” Book Passage, is about to close. It is disappointing and sad news.)

"Out East: Memoir of a Montauk Summer," by John Glynn

Readers of this blog may remember that I am easily seduced by books about beach towns on the East Coast, especially those on Martha’s Vineyard, Nantucket, Cape Cod, and the like. So when I saw the book “Out East: Memoir of a Montauk Summer”(Grand Central, 2019), by John Glynn, I was sold. The only thing that stopped me from checking it out of the library, just for a minute, was – being honest here – that it was by a male author; most such books are by women. But I quickly got over that. In fact, I read the whole book in a four-hour sitting (OK, the last two hours I was lying in bed). The book, as the title says, is a memoir, rather than the usual novels in this genre. (Yet another memoir, like the last three posts here! But very different than two of them in that it is about a fairly privileged, young white man, in contrast to the two memoirs about young African-American men who, despite their talents and ambitions, have had to struggle with racial discrimination.) It has some of the same elements as the aforementioned summer/beach novels: many scenes at the beach, in beach houses, and at bars and restaurants. There are also a few scenes “back home” in New York, but even those scenes are filled with thinking about, planning for, and talking about one’s time in the beach town. Montauk is, as the book helpfully explains for those of us (let’s say, those of us who live on the West Coast) who know the mystique of the place but are a bit unclear on its actual location, on Long Island, a sort of extension of the fabled Hamptons. The author, Glynn, is a man in his mid-twenties, loving living in New York as he starts his career and life there. He is thrilled to be invited to join in on a “share house” in Montauk, where some old friends (mostly from his Boston College days) and many new ones have an elaborate schedule of who can be there which weekends (eight weekends per guest) and holidays, along with a list of fees, rules, responsibilities, and room assignments. I can summarize the share house participants’ activities in Montauk as follows: going to the beach, eating, drinking, partying, and hooking up with various others in the house or that they meet in bars. I must say -- not judging but just observing -- that a huge part of the book has to do with the constant drinking. Glynn is in heaven; he loves the people, the partying, the feeling of belonging. But he is also lonely because he doesn’t have a partner. Although many of the house members are gay, Glynn sees himself as straight. However – and readers can see this coming a mile away, so I am not giving away suspenseful plot points – he falls for a male housemate, and realizes that he is either gay or bisexual. The setting in Montauk becomes the context for Glynn to finally confront his own sexuality. Glynn writes well about the experiences of being a house sharer, and more generally about being a young person starting off his adult life. He also writes well about his gradual understanding of his true self. The author interweaves these aspects very well. He is in essence taking a generally lightweight (but great fun to read) genre and delicately infusing it with important life realizations.

"Notes from a Young Black Chef: A Memoir," by Kwame Onwuachi

I seem to be in another memoir-reading phase, as I have been more and more often in the past few years. Today’s post -- on Kwame Onwuachi’s “Notes from a Young Black Chef: A Memoir” (Knopf, 2019) -- is the third post in a row about memoirs. Interestingly, two of these three – Laymon’s and Onwuachi’s – are about the lives of African-American men who write of the difficulties and discrimination they have experienced, but also of their ambitions and successes; one becomes a professor and writer, the other a chef and restaurateur. Their successes, of course, do not cancel out the discrimination and pain each endured and still endures. In another overlap, two of the three memoirs – Reichl’s and Onwuachi’s – are about lives in the world of restaurants and food. These of course are only broad connections among the memoirs, and each of the three stories is completely individual and quite different from the others. Turning to Onwuachi’s memoir (which is co-written with Joshua David Stein) specifically: I was drawn to it on both the counts listed above, and was pulled into it because of its compelling story. This young chef has gone through so much, and accomplished so much, and was still only 29 at the time of writing. He grew up in New York, Nigeria, and Louisiana. He got off track for a while, including selling drugs, but gradually his love for food and cooking, and his incredible entrepreneurial spirit and confidence, led him to start a catering company, work as a chef on a oil-cleanup ship, study at the Culinary Institute of America, go on the television show “Top Chef,” work in top restaurants such as Per Se and Eleven Madison Park in New York, and then start up not one but several of his own restaurants. Although some restaurants failed, he learned from each experience. He has always believed in the power of food to evoke family, bring people together, and reflect history and cultures.

"Save Me the Plums: My Gourmet Memoir," by Ruth Reichl

Regular readers of this blog may remember that I am a “foodie” (although I have very mixed feelings about the label…). Mainly this means, of course, that I -- like most of you, I am sure -- enjoy eating good food, especially at good restaurants, but it also means that I like to read about and learn about good food, especially restaurant food, and the restaurant world. So finding and reading excellent memoirs about the world of food and restaurants is an enjoyable experience in which my foodie side intersects with my reading side. Usually these memoirs are by those who work in the restaurant business; in the case of Ruth Reichl’s books, we learn about the experiences of someone who has spent most of her adult life writing about food and restaurants. Among the books (and other writings) I have read by her are three terrific and engaging memoirs, “Tender at the Bone,” “Comfort Me with Apples,” and “Garlic and Sapphires.” These tell the stories of her growing up as a child and young adult unusually tuned in to the tastes and pleasures of food, and later of her time as the restaurant critic of The New York Times. Reichl’s newest memoir, “Save Me the Plums: My Gourmet Memoir” (Random House, 2019), recounts her experiences during her ten years as the editor of Gourmet Magazine. It is a fascinating story, well told, with detailed explanations of and insights into the workings of the magazine, the personalities involved, Reichl’s own feelings along the way, and of course depictions of some wonderful food and food-related experiences. Her descriptions of food are inspired, almost poetic. Speaking of poetry: Poetry readers may note that this book's title refers to the iconic William Carlos Williams poem, “This Is Just to Say,” which, because it is short (and just plain wonderful!), I will include here: “I have eaten/the plums/that were in/the icebox///and which/you were probably/saving/for/breakfast///Forgive me/they were delicious/so sweet/and so cold.” What could be simpler yet more vivid and evocative? Reichl’s new memoir, like the poem, is also simple (in the sense of accessible and also primal), vivid, and evocative, and I thoroughly enjoyed reading it. I think you would too.