"Absolution," by Alice McDermott

Like most of you, I am fairly certain, I have certain authors that, the minute I hear they have new books out, I put those books on my to-read list. Alice McDermott is one of those authors for me, and her new novel, "Absolution" (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2023) came out very recently. Here McDermott has portrayed a group of women seldom written about: American wives of U.S. soldiers in the "Vietnam War." More specifically, the women in this story are wives of officers, and live with their husbands in Saigon. They have comfortable houses and employ servants. Like women everywhere who are in effect part of a colonial enterprise, they are betwixt and between cultures. Two of these women, the powerhouse Charlene and her shyer friend Tricia, choose to use some of their time and resources to help local people who are poor or ill. Again, the colonial comparison reminds us that American (and other) colonizers (to continue that characterization of "colonizers," although I emphasize that McDermott herself does not explicitly use this language) are often a mixture of dutiful patriots and do-gooders, who out of a combination of arrogance, innocence, and genuine efforts to be helpful, try to make a difference. McDermott is clear-eyed but not unsympathetic about the motivations and efforts of these women and others like them. She understands their need for meaning and purpose, and their recognition that as supportive wives and often mothers, especially in a country far from their own, they have few avenues outside of their homes to use their talents and to do something that feels worthwhile. In "Absolution," we readers are immersed in these women's world; we can imagine and sympathize with them, while also questioning their impact on those around them, or sometimes lack thereof. The novel is framed as Tricia's recounting, decades later, the story of those years in Saigon to Charlene's daughter. During the course of their communication, some plot questions are answered, and some new facts are revealed. This is an absorbing, thought-provoking story, and as always with Alice McDermott, we know we are in good hands and will close the book with these characters and these dilemmas taking residence in our minds for some time after.

"Day," by Michael Cunningham

Widely published and respected author Michael Cunningham is best known for his prizewinning 1998 novel "The Hours," which is divided into three parts, all related to Virginia Woolf, her novel "Mrs. Dalloway," and her suicide by drowning. One part of the book focuses on Woolf, the other two on other main characters in other time periods, but all are related somehow to Woolf and "Mrs. Dalloway." As someone who has read much of Woolf's work, in some cases multiple times, and treasures her writings, I was of course drawn to "The Hours" when it came out twenty-five years ago and completely swept up in it. I have just read Cunningham's new novel, "Day" (Random House, 2023), which displays multiple stylistic and thematic connections to "The Hours." "Day" too is divided into three parts, in this case into three days, exactly a year apart in each case: April 5th of 2019, 2020, and 2021. Readers will note that these were years just before, during the worst of, and during the partial easing of the COVID pandemic. The focus is on one family and their connections. Married couple Isabel and Dan, their young children Nathan and Violet, Isabel's brother Robbie, Dan's brother Garth, and Chess, who is the mother of Garth's very young child Odin, are the main characters, and their complicated relationships with each other form the spine of the novel. In particular, and this is a somewhat uncommon focus in fiction, there is much attention to the intensely close but also extremely fraught relationships of the sibling pairs: Isabel and Robbie, Dan and Garth, and Nathan and Violet. There are of course additional characters: friends, employers, lovers, former lovers, and more. Because of the setting during the pandemic years, there are also themes of confinement and isolation, and minute-to-minute densely described slivers of time. The structure of three days, three different years, also supplies a striking distillation of the events, evolutions, and dissolutions portrayed in the story. The writing is gorgeous, perhaps a bit ornate and even precious in places, but spellbinding. Often while reading "Day" I was struck by the author's insights, which made me pause and go back and read them again. For just one example, a description of 17-month old baby Odin's love of habit and repetition causes his mother Chess to be "able to share his attachment to repetition, which resembles the chants of monks and nuns, reciting their devotions so unvaryingly that devotion becomes an involuntary bodily function, like breath and heartbeat" (p. 142). Returning to the connections with Cunningham's earlier novel, "The Hours," and to the references in that book to Virginia Woolf already mentioned above: there are other allusions to Woolf and her work in this book. For example, siblings Isobel and Robbie write social posts in the voice of an imaginary friend of theirs, Wolfe. An actual wolf is also mentioned. And one character's behavior at one point seems to echo Virginia Woolf's behavior, although with a different result. (I don't want to give away plot points.) There is also something about the quality of the language, of the descriptions, that is reminiscent of Woolf's writing. A related noticeable attribute of this novel is the way Cunningham understands and takes seriously the inner lives of children. And, like "The Hours," "The Day" is driven by a sense of time and its effects. This fascinating although sometimes unsettling novel is full of broken and yet somehow resilient characters, doing their best to muddle through the pandemic and through all the difficult times in life, all with their own struggles and their own coping mechanisms. Like all good fiction, "Day" is ultimately a study of human nature, with both its individual quirks and its universalities.

The Queen Elizabeth mystery series, by SJ Bennett

For some delightful, well-written mysteries, I recommend a series by SJ Bennett that I have recently read: "The Windsor Knot" (2021); "The Queen's Men" (2022), and "Murder Most Royal: Her Majesty the Queen Investigates" (2023), all published by William Morrow. Readers of this blog may remember that I have had a lifelong love of mysteries, but with occasional "breaks" away from the genre for months or years at a time. I have been mostly in a "break" phase for at least a couple of years lately. But when I ran across this series about Queen Elizabeth of England's doing some detecting and solving of mysteries, I was hooked. The series, set in the past few years, shows the Queen as interested in, and very clever about, investigating and solving murder cases in her own palaces and castles. But she does it very discreetly, only confiding in and getting help from a high-level female aide. She then drops indirect clues to the police in charge of investigating, allowing them to think they have been the ones to solve the cases. I admit I also enjoy the parts of these novels about the palaces and castles and social events where the events take place. And I like the way the author has some fun with slightly puncturing the egos of some pompous high-level (male) police officials who, condescending to her advanced age and perceived removal from "regular life," believe that the Queen may not understand the intricacies of their thinking, and feel they need to explain them to her; in fact, they have been -- unknown to them -- completely "managed" by her. I have some emotional connection to the British royalty, because of my Canadian background, and my grandmother who adored the royal family. Yet I also understand the objections many people have to the system of royalty persisting into the current day. But -- back to these three novels -- if you enjoy mystery novels, and don't have objections to light, enjoyable, well-written mysteries in which the "detective" happens to be the Queen of England, you may well enjoy these three very much, as I did.

"The Upstairs Delicatessen," by Dwight Garner

How could I resist a book titled "The Upstairs Delicatessen: On Eating, Reading, Reading about Eating, and Eating While Reading" (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2023)? For someone like me (and, I imagine, many of you) who also loves to read, loves to eat, loves to read about eating, and loves to eat while reading....well, this book is irresistible! Regular readers of this blog of course know how much I like to read, but also may have noticed that I have fairly frequently posted about books about the restaurant world and other food-related topics. The author of this book, Dwight Garner, is a longtime book critic at The New York Times, and is obviously, not surprisingly, tremendously well read. In this book he writes enthusiastically about food and his own experiences with food and restaurants; the book is crammed with entertaining anecdotes, as well as with many quotations by famous authors about food (and drink). The tone of the book is light, generous, humorous, joyous, and celebratory of the pleasures of life.

"A Widow's Story," by Joyce Carol Oates

Not to dwell on loss, as I have in some recent posts, but I just read "A Widow's Story" (Ecco, 2011), by Joyce Carol Oates, a powerful, wrenching telling of the story of the first few months of the famous author's widowhood in 2008. She recounts the story in a series of short snapshots of events and of her intense emotional experiences. This style has the effect of a series of punches in the gut (forgive the cliche that Oates herself would never use). She and her husband Raymond Smith, a fellow professor and an editor, had been married for decades, and were extremely close. His illness was fairly sudden, and Oates was completely unprepared for his death. She goes over all the "what ifs," and questions and blames herself, wondering if she could or should have done more, done things differently. She becomes so distraught that she takes several medications for insomnia and anxiety, and at various points considers, or at least contemplates, suicide. Yet at the same time she forces herself to continue with her professional life, going on a long planned book tour within days of her husband's death, priding herself on not letting anyone down and on not showing her devastating grief. She also struggles with all the tasks that a survivor has to deal with: legal and financial matters, deciding what to do with her husband's duties and possessions, etc. (On a personal note, I will add here that everyone I know who has gone through a spouse's -- or other close family member's -- death and the aftermath is shocked at both the stunning depth of their own grief, and the plethora of logistical tasks that await them, in the midst of their mourning and feeling of paralysis. All of this is very familiar to me since my husband's death.) I couldn't have read this book very soon after my husband died, but now that it has been almost two years, I could and did. So much of it resonated with me, although not all, of course. On a surprise note, not mentioned in the book, except for a very vague allusion on the very last page, is that Oates met and married someone else -- another professor -- about a year later. I must admit that before I read this book, I had heard about the remarriage, and almost didn't read the book because of that. How could she do that after her long, good marriage? How could she go from devastating grief to finding a new partner so quickly? Then I thought about it more, and chided myself for being judgmental; who was I to judge the grief of anyone else, or what works for them or consoles them? In any case, this is a powerful, and (not surprisingly!) well-written book, and I recommend it for anyone who is ready for it, but with the warning that it is very difficult, painful, and emotional to read.

"A Living Remedy," by Nicole Chung

Regular readers of this blog know that next to novels, my favorite genre is memoirs. They may also know that I have recently had a major loss in my life, with the death of my husband. And of course, like all of us, I have had earlier losses too, including those of both my parents and of several close friends. I find myself drawn to memoirs about bereavement. Reading such memoirs is often painful, but also makes me feel connected to others who have experienced this huge change in one's life (which of course, eventually, is everyone...). They too know the great pain of loss of loved ones, and the intense grieving that follows, with all of its manifestations (emotional, mental, physical, social, and logistical). Nicole Chung's memoir, "A Living Remedy" (Ecco, 2023) describes the illnesses and deaths of both of her parents within two years, in the context of Chung's complicated relationship with them and their surroundings, and her painful sense of not being able to do enough for them during their illnesses. Chung is Korean-American, and was adopted as an infant by a white American couple living in a rural part of Oregon; she is their only child. Chung loves them very much, but being the only Asian person in her schools and area, was determined to leave home as soon as she could. She was an excellent student, and received scholarships that enabled her to attend a good East Coast college. Although she loved her parents, and stayed in regular touch, her job and marriage and parenthood prevented her from visiting them very often in the ensuing years. As they became ill, she struggled with feeling inadequate to deal with their health issues, and felt guilty. Although this is a sad story, full of regret and grief, it is clear that there was much love on both sides, and that love becomes the overriding truth that allows everyone to experience grace during the wrenching time of illness, death, and mourning.

"Pete and Alice in Maine," by Caitlin Shetterly

Good reviews, along with blurbs by two of my favorite authors -- Richard Russo and Alice Elliott Dark -- impelled me to read "Pete and Alice in Maine" (Harper, 2023), by Caitlin Shetterly. I was also intrigued that it is one of the early novels set in the COVID-19 pandemic, and grapples with some of the on-the-ground issues that families were dealing with in the early part of the pandemic, and in some cases still. Even for those who were fortunate enough not to experience serious illness or death among their families and friends, it was (and still is in many ways) a frightening, difficult time, in large and small ways. Soon after the pandemic begins, Pete and Alice and their two children move from New York to a family home in Maine to wait it out. Of course that last sentence shows the privilege this family has, and to their credit, the couple is aware of that privilege. But, although being away from the city feels safer, and although there are the pleasures of living in a bucolic setting, there are still very real difficulties to contend with. It is hard to get necessary supplies. The local people consider Pete and Alice outsiders, and actively undermine them in various ways. The children are especially affected, with schooling issues and with emotional turmoil at times. Work also becomes harder for both the adults. The elephant in the room, in the context of the pandemic, is Pete and Alice's recently troubled marriage. Alice in particular feels betrayed, beleaguered, overwhelmed by all of the above. The descriptions of the situation and, especially, of the family dynamics, are compelling, and the book is insightful about the inner workings of marriages and families.