TC's book talk

Have any of you read Anne Tyler's newest, Digging to America? (Or have any of you, like me, listened to Digging to America?)

Here's the thing: I really enjoyed it. And that was a huge surprise to me, since I haven't really enjoyed anything of hers since Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant which was, what, written in 1982, I think, and which I read soon thereafter. I'm not sure what I've objected to since then...a certain triteness of plot, a certain distance from characters, a certain...I don't know what. (And there you have it: the reason I never became a book critic.)

This book started out that way, and stayed that way for a little while, and then, all of a sudden, it shifted. It became about something entirely other from what I'd thought it was, and that something entirely other was a lot more interesting to me. There was still a triteness to the plot--or, rather, maybe more of a pat-ness, a bit of unreality seeping in--and not all of the characters really came alive for me. But it still caught me up, and I don't entirely know why. I'm hoping that maybe one of you will have read it, and will have something to say about it that captures what I can't seem to right now. It was not, at all, a Great Book, nor even one I would rush out to tell others they must read. On the other hand, I would recommend it. It was better than I'd hoped, and I didn't like seeing (hearing) it end.

[As for real-life, paper-and-paste books, I'm currently reading Joyce Carol Oates' We Were the Mulvaneys, and it is absolutely breathtaking. Painful and lyrical and one of the best examples of 'voice' that I've had the pleasure to come across in ages and ages and ages. If only I could find more than a few pages' worth of time each day to savor it.]

Note to self

When you have a couple of gloriously free hours while Em is in Hebrew school..when you walk down the street to Barnes and Noble in air with only the faintest bit of chill, beneath a sky with only the faintest overcast...when you're feeling better for the first time after four straight days of flu symptoms and just wanting to sleeeeeeeeeeep...when you decide to blow off working at the bookstore and instead to just pick one slim volume from the shelves and just luxuriate in it for as long as you can before you have to go back...

Don't pick Elie Wiesel's Night.

I know, I know. What was I thinking?

I was thinking that I've never read it. I was thinking that I should, some day. I had it in my hands, and I started flipping through it, almost weighing it, wondering if and when I'd find the strength to actually do it, to actually take this pain on, knowingly, willingly. And the next thing I knew, I'd burrowed into one of the overstuffed chairs that was, miraculously for this particular B&N, empty at the moment. And the next thing I knew after that, it was an hour and a half later, and I had to go, and I wasn't finished, but I was done in the bone-wearying sense of the word. Done for the day.

The whole way back to the temple--much more overcast, the skies...much more fluish, my bones--I couldn't shake what I'd read. Not just the images. I've seen those images; I've read those images. But there was a new kind of devastation in this book...something in the spareness of the language, something in the last lines I read before putting the book back on the shelf:

I burst out:

"What does it matter to you? Do we have to regard Hitler as a prophet?"

His glazed, faded eyes looked at me. At last he said in a weary voice:

"I've got more faith in Hitler than in anyone else. He's the only one who's kept his promises, all his promises, to the Jewish people."

I walked to the library this afternoon to take the book out. I can't let it go, now. But I'm going to read the rest of it when and where it should be read: huddled in my bed, when there's nothing but sleep ahead, when there's nothing but night outside.

Time Traveling

It didn't occur to me until the last words passed through the earbuds of my iPod and I found myself unable to do anything more than just continue to walk, walk straight ahead, that I had just finished, within days of each other, two books about time travel. And that I had been nearly paralyzed by the beauty of both of them. That they made time stand still for me.

Sometime last year, after a fairly long hiatus during which time Em was working on her reading-on-her-own skills and I was working on trying to transform N from a special-needs kid into a plain old special kid, she and I began reading together again. Mostly old classics and not-so-classics from my childhood, with some newbies thrown in for good measure. In fact, now that I think about it, I probably left those off of my books of 2006 list, didn't I. I'll have to do something about that.*

In any case, just a few days ago, we finished reading A Wrinkle in Time. I will allow no argument when I say that it is The Greatest Child's Book Ever Written, bar none. There are excellent books out there for kids. There are books I loved. But A Wrinkle in Time is in its own category, and I was thrilled to watch Em sink into the story with the same delight that I did when I was a kid.

Last night, when the kids' beloved Uncle was over, he, Em and I had a rousing discussion about the book, complete with re-enactment of the final scene, when Meg realizes that the one thing she has that It does not is the ability to love. Em talked about how much she loved the whole concept of moving the atoms in a wall aside to be able to walk through a solid wall; I talked about how much I loved the explanation of tessering, which is illustrated using an ant walking along the hem of a skirt. We were talking excitedly, our words and ideas interrupting one another's. It was exactly the sort of moment that I used to envision back in my younger days, when I thought about what it would be like to have kids.

If I could tesser through time and space, that is a moment to which I'd like to regularly return.

And then, today, I finished listening to The Time Traveler's Wife, by Audrey Niffenegger.

Let me begin by saying this: I am a total book snob. The title of this book turned me off, made me think it would be some genre, pulp-fictiony, sci-fi-ish tale. The popularity of this book turned me off even more. How could anything millions of people can read and enjoy be deep or insightful or smart? It might be entertaining, but only on the most superficial level.

I am an ass. And I was totally wrong.

I loved this book. I'm a sucker for a good love story, and oh, this was a good love story. I was awed by the precision of the plotting, the brilliance of the language, Niffenegger's ability to make me laugh out loud and to make me gasp out loud. I envied her her skill as a writer; I envied Clare and Henry their relationship. I never wanted the story to end, and I realized just how much that longing mirrored some of the basic concepts of the book--the inexorability of time, despite its elasticity. When the audiobook ended during my hike to the supermarket and back, I walked the last quarter-mile to my house with the earbuds in place, the iPod still on, silent. I couldn't bear to break the spell.

All I can say now is that I hope there's a sequel in the works. I want to know what Alba decides; I want to know what happens to her. And that in itself is amazing, because I hate sequels. They never deliver. But I have a feeling that if anyone can do it, Niffenegger can.

And one more thing: God, I wish I could tesser. God, I wish I could time-travel. God, I wish I could love and be loved the way Meg loves Charles Wallace, and Clare and Henry love one another. [Insert standard disclaimer here about how much I love Baroy and he loves me, but how of course it's not like in the these books, and you all know it, so stop looking at me like that.]

*I'll post a Books I Read with Em in 2006 entry in the next day or two. Promise.

Books I Read In 2006, Part I

I kept lists. I kept sometimes-notes. I kept the road to hell paved with my good intentions.

What the following was supposed to be was an appropriately linked, well-thought out compilation of the books I read this year (in several parts) followed by the books I listened to this year (in several parts). But, being crazy-busy with work (a Very Good Thing! I know!), none of this has happened. And so, I present to you the first of I-don't-yet-know-how-many parts featuring unlinked books (you'll just have to search Powell's, Amazon, B&N, Coliseum, whatever, yourself) with sketchy, not-especially-useful comments on the side.

But, hey, it's something. And there are some true gems in here this year. So take a browse, and keep coming back in the next week or two for more, OK?

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The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion

Didion was one of my college obsessions--and part pretension, too, since reading her definitely made me feel hip and intellectual. (Yes, I know that using the word hip in the early 1980s meant that I obviously was very much NOT hip. I wasn't. I'm OK with that.) This book is a quick read, simultaneously deep and sad, cool and removed. Her style is inimitable (and trust me, I've tried at times); her voice so very much her own. I found myself wondering if anyone else could have pulled this piece off the way she has. I doubt it. In the end, I find myself admiring and yet somehow feeling left out. And an aside: She talks at one point about how she and John would spend money incautiously when they shouldn't have been doing so. If Joan Didion and John Gregory Dunne couldn't live in a carefree manner on the money from their writings, then I might as well pack it in right now.

All He Ever Wanted by Anita Shreeve

This was recommended to me by a woman in my office, who said it was one of her all-time favorites. I admired the writing, but it left me cold. The problem? No sympathetic characters. An unreliable narrator. And a story of obsession that didn't really feel obsessive through most of it. Thought-provoking, but good? I'm not sure.

What Goes Up: Surviving the Manic Episode of a Loved One by Judy Eron

After I wrote Taming Bipolar Disorder and Judy 'found' it (or me) somehow, she and I corresponded and she sent me a copy of her book. I say this to do due diligence and reveal possible biases. Still, I was really impressed with this book. It's the story of the final, manic year in the life of Judy's husband, and of his subsequent suicide. It's painful, and it's unflinching, and it's good.

Julia's Mother: Life Lessons in the Pediatric ER by William Bonadio, M.D.

The only lesson I could glean from this book is to never let Dr. Bonadio near either of my children. These were some of the most depressing, least inspirational, least insightful medical stories I've ever read. Unimpressive. Not to mention that Bonadio has a very fast and loose relationship with grammar and, especially, tenses, which is something that makes me uncomfortable. I spent most of this book mentally editing, rather than reading.

Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen

There is nothing like rereading (and rereading and rereading) Austen in my view. What IS it about her writing? I often wonder, would I have enjoyed this book as much if I were closer to it in time? Half of the joy of Austen is being so completely transported to a time long past, so completely swayed by her worldview. I long to be these women, these heroines. (Well, maybe not Emma. She was just a bitch. But fun to hang with, I think.)

Memories of My Melancholy Whores by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

I love the concepts behind the stories Marquez writes; loves how he takes you to these weird places that then feel perfectly normal, perfectly logical. Magical realism, indeed. But I didn’t love this book. It felt...unfinished, maybe. I’m not sure. I did, however, enjoy it. I always enjoy reading Marquez; he is a true master of his craft.

The Accidental by Ali Smith

This book made me feel stupid, or out of it, or something, and I resented it for doing that to me. In the end, I felt as if it was three-quarters of a really great book, but one overwhelming quarter of posturing and pomposity.

The Everything Labrador Retriever Book: A complete guide to raising, training, and caring for your Lab by Kim Campbell Thornton

Did I mention we adopted Snug at the end of May? And that I read this book at the end of May? That's pretty much all you need to know about that.

The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald

Gets richer and more meaningful every time I read it. It’s absolutely timeless, despite being rooted in an era. Fitzgerald could write, by golly. (Yes, I do believe that's the first time in my life I used the phrase "by golly.") If I had a hat, it would be off...again.

Persepolis and Persepolis 2 by Marjane Satrapi

Maybe I just haven’t read a large enough number of graphic novels to be all critical and cynical about the genre, or maybe these two (like Maus and Maus II, my only other forays into this area, to which many critics have compared the Persepolis books, for obvious reasons) are just kick-ass good. I like to think it’s the latter. Devastating, informative and somehow, despite the relative paucity of words, deep all at the same time, I was breathless and teary by the end. Bravo.

A Dog Year by Jon Katz

The New Work of Dogs by Jon Katz

Katz on Dogs by Jon Katz

See above, about us adopting Snug in May, and thus reading these in June/July. Except this is different. These books are awesome. I wouldn't have read them pre-Snug, for sure, but they not only interested me and held me in their grip when I read them post, but they also taught me on an elemental level about some of what it is to bring a dog into your family. Katz has stuff to say, and it's all food for thought.

The Doll People by Ann Martin

What do you do when your then-8-year-old daughter glues herself to a book for a couple of days straight, then comes breathlessly to you holding said book out and saying, "Mommy. You HAVE to read this. It's so great!"? You read it, that's what you do. And you don't make snide comments about holes in the plot. You sit down afterwards and say things like, "And what did you think about the part when..." and "Weren't you surprised when she..." and you watch her eyes shine and your heart sings inside, because books have always been your life and any time they can be part of hers is something to celebrate.

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer

Hmmm. I don't know. Yes. And no. And yes.

(Months later, feeling guilty that I never wrote more than that little note after the book, I considered trying to write more. But I'm not sure what I have to say. I liked this book. A lot. But at the same time, I'm not sure I liked it THAT much. Which is meaningless. And so I'll leave it be.)

The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides

Nope. I should have known after being one of the few people who was totally unimpressed with Middlesex, which is supposedly the better book, that this one wouldn’t thrill me. Guess what? It didn’t. Mostly, I think, it was that I found the “we” narration to be odd, and creepy. Obsessive, well beyond either reason or reality. I'm sure it was the key to the book, but it didn't open anything for me. Except, perhaps, the door to my deep, deep wells of annoyance at pretension and arrogance. And there was all this weirdness about what happened when, and I spent way too much time and energy trying to figure out who had tried to kill themselves when and waiting for the other shoe to drop and feeling completley unimpressed or inspired by the dull thump that I heard when it did. I guess I just didn’t get it.