“Look Alive Out There” by Sloane Crosley

After a brief foray into Sloane Crosley's novel-writing, I'm back to her essays, which is where I started (with I Was Told There'd Be Cake). And this one was every bit as good as that first one. In fact, it was so equivalently good that I can't help but wonder if I was mistaken about her second book of essays. (I didn’t like the second one as much. Looking back now, I have decided surely I was wrong.)

In reading this book, my consistent experience was an amalgamation of fun and of wondering just exactly how one person can get herself into so many unique situations. Biting off way more than she could chew in a decision to climb a volcano in Ecuador? Check. Playing herself in a cameo on Gossip Girl? Check. Depending on hippie pot-smoking swinger neighbors to keep from starving to death while house-sitting? Check, check and check. I assume it all really happened, though. At least mostly.

My only real complaint about Look Alive Out There: on page 122, during the story "The Grape Man," Crosley mentions "a glossy photo book called Designing with Books." Like, how to decorate your house (or at least your bookshelves) with books, right? Like, basically, bookshelf porn (but classy), right? So of course I immediately stop reading and pick up my phone and Google "designing with books book." And what does the AI summary tell me? "There is no single book titled Designing with Books." Ugh! I did, however, find Books Make a Home and Elements of Timeless Style, both of which are currently heading my way, so hopefully those will help me scratch that itch.

“Severance” by Ling Ma

Weekend before last, we had the opportunity to go to a cute little bookshop in Atlanta's Ponce City Market: Posman Books. I guess there were more customers in the store than I prefer, but the shelves were full of lots of good books, along with fun bookish appurtenances. As we browsed, the title Severance caught my eye (along with the cover's pretty pink color!), and I wondered if the book had anything to do with the Apple TV show that has so baffled me (it doesn’t). But then I ended up standing there and reading the entire prologue in the store, oblivious to anything going on around me. And I did not want to stop reading. 

But by the time I actually sat down to read the book several days later, I had already forgotten what I learned from the prologue, so I just had to start over again. And weirdly, I did not find it so compelling the second time around, which made me worry for the rest of the book. But now, having reached the end, I've decided that this was just an effect of re-reading the prologue after having read it so recently.

This is the story of Candace Chen, a young-ish Chinese-American woman living in New York City in 2011 and working in a publishing consulting firm (specifically, the Bible production division). But it's also the story of her childhood, from the age of four when her parents immigrated to the US without her, to the age of six when she moved to the US to join her parents, to her older, teen-aged years and the loss of her parents. AND it's the story of a devastating global pandemic and its aftermath. 

It was, of course, the pandemic part of the book that stood out to me the most. In fact, this book brought back so many not-so-fond memories of 2020 that this fact blows my mind: Severance was published almost two years before the term "COVID-19" even existed. How could this book NOT have been based on our real-life pandemic? Yeah, maybe the fictional pandemic was fungal instead of viral, but it even originated in China. Quarantines, travel bans, wearing masks, working from home, arguments over the ethics of allowing people to mass together to protest . . . it's like Ling Ma was predicting the future. 

Was anyone else a little unsatisfied with the ending? Kind of like this one?

“What We Can Know” by Ian McEwan

I haven't read all of Ian McEwan's books, and he has written quite a few of them (like, enough that I may not get around to reading them all), but a new one is kind of an event. So when I heard about What We Can Know, I pre-ordered it without really knowing anything about the story. When the book arrived, I spent a moment reflecting on the cover (is that a mirror pictured? I wondered if the title could have been continued with "about ourselves." But as I read, I decided that didn't apply). 

I'm not quite sure whether going in blind was a good thing or a bad thing. Maybe if I'd known a bit about where the plot was heading, I would have been quicker at finding my bearings. As it was, I was continually distracted by how weirdly like a David Mitchell book this seemed to be. Even weirder, I wasn't really enjoying it (which I don't think has ever happened to me before with David Mitchell. Or with Ian McEwan. Except maybe with Saturday). 

The majority of the Mitchell-ness came from the timeline (although the characters and the setting fit right in as well). The narrator, Tom, is an academic and a university professor whose area of expertise is the famous poet Frances Blundy. It's said that in 2014, Blundy wrote a poem as a gift for his wife's Vivien's birthday. He recited it at her dinner party, gave her the only copy, and then no one ever saw or read it again. In 2119, the mysterious poem still eludes the world, and it is Tom's holy grail.

Yeah, that's right, I said 2119 (which seems to me like a very David Mitchell plot point). And the world is no longer the world as we know it (there's Mitchell again). It was uncomfortably different: not different enough to be a fantasy, but different enough to be depressing. But somewhere around the time that Tom and his quasi-estranged wife Rose were digging holes, I started to get into it. 

There are two different timelines (one for Tom and Rose, one for Blundy and Vivien), thus two different groups of characters. And I think what I will remember most about this book was the way one of the main characters goes through the sad and depressing ordeal of watching her husband disappear into early-onset dementia. It's a particular kind of loss, when the body is still present but the person you loved no longer exists. (New fear unlocked, by the way.) But before his disappearance, she had this to say about him: "What's so lovely is that basically, in a quiet way, he's simply glad he exists. Whatever the difficulty, the baseline isn't disturbed. Then that line becomes mine too." A worthy aspiration if ever there was one. And I also want to remember this gem, as one of the characters explained why she kept a journal: "...most of life is oblivion. To rescue fragments of the past would be to claim a bigger existence."

Do you want to know what I decided about the title in the end? I'll try to explain it without any spoilers. Basically, Tom knows all that it's possible to know about Frances Blundy (which is a lot, given his life in the Information Age; a multitude of his papers have been preserved, along with myriad emails and text messages). Despite that, there were multiple layers to Blundy's story that Tom could never have uncovered from Blundy alone, despite his deep scholarship.

“Cult Classic” by Sloane Crosley

I’ve already read three different books by Sloane Crosley (two books of short stories that I assumed were autobiographical, but I could be wrong, and one grief memoir). But somehow the fact that Crosley has also written two novels had escaped my notice until very recently. This discovery surprised me. Somehow I'd gotten the idea that Crosley was a young, debut writer. (This is probably because I just stumbled upon her in 2022 and didn't realize the book I was reading had come out nearly a decade and a half earlier. I mentioned my surprise to Sam, explaining that I'd thought Crosley was young--too young to have already written so many books; then I looked up her age and said, "Well, she is quite young," which made Sam laugh, because she was born in 1979. Funny what constitutes young these days.) But as usual, I digress. The point I wanted to make was that, of course, as soon as I became aware of Crosley's novels, I had to buy them. 

I started with Cult Classic (published in 2022). I found it a bit disconcerting at first, because I kept trying to figure out where the story fit into the author’s life, and then remembering that this was a novel and was therefore unlikely to be autobiographical. Even once I got to the point where I felt I was regularly recognizing the story as fiction, I found the voice of the protagonist was quite similar to Crosley's voice in her other books. And New York City looms large, as usual. 

Lola, newly engaged to Boots (which is, thankfully, a  nickname), is out to dinner in Manhattan (Chinatown, specifically) with former coworkers when she unexpectedly runs into an ex she hadn't seen for years. They have a pleasant enough conversation, then they go their separate ways. The next night: same song, second verse. This time it's an ex from ten years ago. And the next day, you guessed it--she sees another ex. On one hand it was starting to seem like a literary device allowing the author to describe a handful of different relationships--like a bunch of short stories all linked to the same character--but as an actual plot point, it felt a bit contrived. Granted, I am not George Strait (because only one of my exes lives in Texas), so who knows what it would actually be like if I'd had a decade-long, extremely active dating life in NYC? Maybe running into an ex a day wouldn't be as implausible as it sounds. 

But then it turns out it actually was contrived. In a really quirky and unexpected way. That twist was both welcome (because we see it wasn't just a parade of exes for the sake of anecdotes) and a bit surreal. But it also allowed for more depth, bringing interesting introspection on love, commitment, and letting go of the past--all in a witty and stylish package. (The Classic, of course...)

“Ask Again, Yes” by Mary Beth Keane

Oops... I did it again. 

I don't even remember when I finished reading this book, but it was probably close to two weeks ago. I had intended to blog about it while sitting around at the airport on my way out of town on Friday the 12th. But when the time came, I realized I had forgotten to take a cover photo, which threw me off enough that I decided to wait until I got back home. But I didn't manage to squeeze it in until this evening. While I'm sure I never had anything profound to write, I'm also sure that if I had, I would have lost it to the mists of time by now. 

So you'll have to settle for whatever synopsis I can scrape from my brain, plus a brief verdict. This book starts in July 1973 with two rookie cops in NYC: Francis Gleeson and Brian Stanhope. They end up as next door neighbors in a small (fictional, I think, but idyllic) town north of the city, where they are friendly enough, but definitely not friends. Brian's wife Anne certainly never warms up to Francis's wife Lena, anyway. But eventually there are children in the picture, and Kate Gleeson and Peter Stanhope establish a strong bond despite the lack of connection between their parents. 

This is one of those really complicated family dramas. I honestly did not expect to like it that much, but it was very engrossing. At least I think that's what I thought. But I may need to read again, yes?

A realization

Postcard from Artillery in Savannah, GA

I was just taking a moment to admire the way my page views have increased recently. Not as if my book blog is going viral by any means, but individual post readership has gone from (high) single digits to (low) triple digits, which is nice to see. I’d like to say I have Bookstagram to thank for this, though I fear it’s more likely due to web crawlers and automated browsing from the likes of ChatGPT. 

But here is what I realized. I have been getting comments! Not lots and lots of them, but some--from this year!!--that I was not aware of. My blog used to be set up to email comments to me, but it appears that system must have failed somewhere across the years without me noticing (until now). 

I need to pay closer attention to this and maybe try some responses. 

“The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox” by Maggie O’Farrell

It isn’t often that I have five  uninterrupted hours to sit and read. But solo air travel  does have its benefits! I started reading this book while waiting for my (delayed) flight, and turned the last page while my eager fellow travelers were still clogging the aisle waiting for the doors to open at our destination.

TVAOEL gets off to a running start with Iris Lockhart in her vintage shop in Edinburgh. She is an intriguing character in her own right, but the real story centers around Esme, the great-aunt Iris never knew she had. We soon find out that Esme had been committed to an institution more than sixty years ago, but at first we don’t know why. We spend most of the book learning the details, skipping between past and present. 

I’ve decided I should have read this book years ago. I don’t know why I put it off, really. It piqued my interest from the moment I first heard about it (though of course I don’t remember exactly when that was). But it’s one of the good O’Farrells. Not the best (I still hold After You’d Gone in highest esteem, and Hamnet and The Marriage Portrait were both excellent), but I rank it as fourth best. I probably don’t even need to mention that the writing was excellent. But the characters were also solid and real. And while I guessed at a major reveal pretty early on, the ending took me by surprise. That’s generally a good thing, and definitely so in this case.

“Abyss” by Pilar Quintana

*Translated from the Spanish by Lisa Dillman

This is the second of four books that ChatGPT chose for me from my TBR (and I have just now realized s/he—it?—must not have made it very far down the alphabetized list: the four books include one whose title starts with a number, and three whose titles start with the letter A. Lazy much? . . . says the girl who outsourced the choosing of her next books to read).

But I digress. I must confess that I was not super-excited about reading Abyss, as evidenced by the fact that we bought it more than two years ago and I hadn't touched it yet. In 2023, it was one of the five finalists for the National Book Award for Translated Literature and while on one hand I do believe this honor is bestowed on high-quality works, on the other hand I have the (possibly mistaken?) feeling that the finalists for this award are often so . . . worthy. (Yes, worthy of renown, but that's not what I mean in this case; what I really mean is too worthy: maybe a bit pretentious, maybe taking itself a little too seriously, maybe just too earnest. Maybe not very fun). 

I should not have had these fears about Abyss. This book was worthy only in the good sense. This is the story of eight-year-old Claudia, living in Cali, Colombia. She's the only child of her older, hard-working father and her young, beautiful, bored mother. Claudia watches the adults around her, half-understanding some of the things she sees and hears; she's more oblivious to other circumstances, but feels the undercurrents of tension anyway.

This tension is definitely passed on to the reader. The tightly-wound narrative gave me a near-constant feeling of dread (but the good kind). Without even meaning to, I read half the book the first night I picked it up. 

*I should be more diligent about noting information like this on my blog. I obviously have not read the book in Spanish so I can't compare the two versions, but I was impressed by the natural way Dillman preserved the childlike voice of the narrator.

“My Good Bright Wolf” by Sarah Moss

My Good Bright Wolf is a deeply personal memoir by Sarah Moss, who also wrote several other books I have enjoyed. I didn't know what to expect ahead of time (other than good writing!)--this is one of the books I bought as a vacation treat for myself in July, and the only recommendation I needed was the author's name. 

I was right, of course, about the good writing. But I was a bit blindsided by the intensity of Moss's story. I had no idea that she has been battling anorexia for most of her life, to the extent that she has been at death's door more than once. Now I think back to the mother character in Summerwater, running through the woods, with the hint of impending heart failure that I didn't understand. At the time I thought, Why would a fit young mother be nearing heart failure? Now, having read MGBW, I think that mother was the author: also a runner, also with a damaged heart.

There are two kinds of people in the world: there are those who, like me, will find this book very eye-opening; it's a window on a harrowing disorder that I have (fortunately) never had to deal with, whether in myself or in any of my loved ones. And there are those who will find solace in it, because it helps them to understand the struggle they have witnessed in others--or even in themselves. But no matter which group you are in, I think you will find this a powerful and engaging read. 

(Maybe it's not necessarily a vacation book, though?)

Sarah Moss is very brave, not only because she has opened herself up and shared her story with the world, but also because she endured and survived her story.

“This Must Be the Place” by Maggie O’Farrell

I'm not doing a very good job of reading my four ChatGPT-selected titles from my TBR pile. One down, three to go, and this was not one of them. But it felt like it was time to test my two-Maggie-O'Farrells theory, and I already had a copy of this book. 

To start with my overall verdict as relates to my theory: I have decided there are not two Maggie O'Farrells, because this book belongs somewhere between the categories of "Amazing" and "Doesn't Quite Measure Up." There's obviously more of a continuum than a bimodal distribution. 

This Must be the Place tells the story of Daniel Sullivan, starting in the remote countryside of Ireland in 2010 where he lives with his beautiful, spunky (though O'Farrell would never use that adjective to describe her) wife Claudette and their two young children, but it spreads its tentacles into the past, the future, and the minds of others: the two children from Daniel's first marriage, his roommates when he was a postgrad in London, Claudette herself, and even her son from her first marriage. In 2010, Daniel and Claudette are happy and in love, but their complicated pasts make their future complicated as well. 

Overall, it was an enjoyable if imperfect read. I think my main complaint is that Daniel's character seemed like too many different people. Throughout it all, he has piercing blue eyes, but other than that he's all over the place. I guess there's a fine line between a complex persona and one who just isn't cohesive. And my secondary complaint is that Daniel's son Niall and Claudette's son Ari seem like they could have been one and the same person. Not that they don't each have distinguishing features, but that they seem to serve the same purpose in the narrative.

Even if this book doesn't belong in the Amazing category, I'm not done with Maggie O'Farrell. I've been meaning to read her Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox ever since I first heard about it, which was all the way back in 2010. But for whatever reason, I had never bothered to get myself a copy of it. So you'll be happy to know I've just ordered it. Hopefully I'll read it before another decade and a half goes by. 

Speaking of the passage of time, this reminds me: it's been quite a while since I had the realization that I don't have enough years remaining to read all the books I want to read. I remind myself of this every now and then in hopes of becoming one of those people who is able to stop reading a book that they're not enjoying (though so far this has had no effect). But I had an idea the other day. Right now, while I'm still working full time, I obviously can't read all day long. But what if, after I retire, I make it my life's goal to read All The Books? Could I possibly read a book a day? (Probably not. But I could certainly read more than one a week, if my vacations are any indication.) By my calculations, I could read all the books on my TBR shelves in anywhere from 1.5 years (at the rate of one per day) to 11 years (at the rate of one per week). Only problem is, I keep buying more . . .

“The Bradshaw Variations” by Rachel Cusk

Next in the lineup of Book Treats for our July vacation (even though the vacation has now ended), an old-but-new-to-me book by Rachel Cusk. (I did read most of it on the plane on the way home, for what it’s worth.)

Unsurprisingly, this book isn’t plot-heavy; it’s more descriptive about family relationships and the thoughts of the individuals in those relationships. It starts with Tonie and Thomas Bradshaw, who have recently made a change that flips the dynamic in their lives: Tonie is now working full-time while Thomas stays home with their young daughter Alexa. Then we move on to Howard (brother to Thomas) and his wife Claudia and their three children. We also see Leo (a third brother), his wife Susie, and their two kids, and we even meet Mr and Mrs Bradshaw, the parents of the three brothers. The book is written almost like a group of short stories with a strong Bradshaw thread running through them all. 

So the title obviously refers to the various Bradshaws—how they are similar, what makes them different. But it also refers to the subtle shifts that occur within the group of relationships. We are given less about what the Bradshaws do than about what they notice (or fail to notice) about themselves and each other, but the hidden tensions are palpable. And in the end it seems the old cliché is true: the more things change, the more they stay the same. 

But did I like it? Yeah, I liked it. I don’t think I’ve ever been disappointed in Rachel Cusk’s writing before. I wouldn’t name this as one of my favorites of hers, but I still want to (eventually) make my way through all of her books. 

“Memorial Days” by Geraldine Brooks

Don't let this immediately put you off, but Memorial Days is a grief memoir. Until his untimely death in 2019, Geraldine Brooks was married to Tony Horwitz, a Pulitzer prize-winning journalist and author (sounds like he was quite famous, though I'd never heard of him--not that there's any significance to that). What with the bureaucracy of death, and her own career, not to mention a global pandemic, Brooks never found the time to truly grieve her loss until she managed to escape to a remote island off the coast of Tasmania in 2023 to feel her feelings and write a book about it. 

The result is beautifully crafted and quietly heartbreaking. Brooks delves into her memory of Tony's death and its aftermath, and interleaves this with her experience on Flinders Island. The story is bittersweet and universally relatable (at least for anyone who is in a relationship that they want to be in). As I read I couldn't help but put my feet in Brooks' shoes and feel her grief right along with her, as I imagined and dreaded going through the same kind of loss in my life. In fact, I assumed that this is what everyone always does when confronted with death, so I was surprised to read in this book that three months before Tony died, his childhood friend had died suddenly at age 60. At that time, Brooks felt sympathy for the man's family but didn’t even think about what it would be like if the same thing happened to Tony . . . until it did. 

Another thing that stood out to me was that Tony used to scribble his thoughts all over the pages of the books he read. Brooks states, “I am glad of this now. If I pick up one of his books that I haven’t yet read, I can know what he thought of it.” I tend not to write in my books (well, other than cookbooks!) but this book blog fulfills that same purpose. My main reason for this blog is to keep track of what I've read and what I thought about it; but it is also a gift to you, Sam.

What I want to remember most from Memorial Days is the advice. Not because it's the most poignant or emotional part of the book, but because death is a fact of life and though no one ever wants to think about it, someday I will be glad to have this guidance. 

• First, the incredibly practical, and something that can and should be done as soon as possible: Jot down all the tasks you do to keep the household afloat. Brooks suggests creating a document called Your Life: How It Works and periodically updating it. 
• Very soon after Tony's death, a friend approached her with what he described as advice that couldn’t wait. There were three things:

1. Make it safe for others to talk about the loved one you have lost by talking about them first.

2. Don’t come home to a silent house; leave the radio on. 

3. Brooks couldn’t remember the third thing! Which is going to drive me crazy. What if it was the most important thing?? (I try to tell myself if that were the case she would have remembered it, but that's not working for me.)

• Make more time for the beauty. I don't think this is necessarily something that would be helpful right away, but it's what Brooks did on Flinders Island more than three years later.
• Accept the fact that the future you had expected is gone and there is no getting it back; make the life you do have as vivid and consequential as you can. 

I feel like Sam and I already do a good job of squeezing all the juice out of life, but this book was a good reminder of the importance of doing so; it brought it to the forefront. 

“My Lover’s Lover” by Maggie O’Farrell

I am becoming convinced that there are two different Maggie O’Farrells: one who has written amazing books like After You’d Gone, Hamnet, and The Marriage Portrait, and one who is readable but doesn’t quite measure up (The Hand That First Held Mine, and now this one). 

Am I being too harsh? There were parts of My Lover’s Lover that really shone. Like, true O’Farrell-level writing. And even in the parts that didn’t have the same gleam, I found myself really getting into the story. But there was a surprising amount of this book that struck me like the product of a creative writing course. Showing off? Trying too hard? Whatever it was, those parts didn’t ring true for me. 

The story starts with pretty but impulsive Lily, who has a meet-cute with handsome but impulsive Marcus, and suddenly they’re flatmates (along with the also-handsome but less impulsive Aiden). Lily quickly realizes she has replaced Sinead, who was until very recently Marcus’s girlfriend, but Lily is not quite sure of Sinead’s fate. All she’s gotten from Marcus is “Sinead is no longer with us.” 

So far this sounds like a relatively silly romantic comedy, right? Which you know is not exactly my thing. But you also know that not finishing a book is also not my thing. And I have O’Farrell Faith. So I kept going. 

And then it kind of became a ghost story, and I followed all sorts of red herrings. What had happened to Sinead? Did Marcus kill her?? Or maybe she wasn’t actually dead? I even took a crazy leap: Aiden is an anagram for Sinead (if you take away the S). Maybe Aiden was a trans man who used to be Sinead! (Spoiler alert: I was way off track.)

All of these parts of the book were disappointing but readable. It’s only when we get to go back in time and learn about the relationship between Sinead and Marcus that it stopped seeming like a creative writing effort and started seeming like a book by Maggie O’Farrell (the real one). Maybe this was just what Sam would call a “difficult second novel”? Anyway, it’s not going to stop me from reading her books. Six down, three to go. 

“Last Things” by Jenny Offill

This is my dream world: reading all the time. 

Before our vacation in May of 2022, we treated ourselves to a handful of new books to bring with us. (Pretty much the opposite of what we did in April 2025.) This year we decided it was time for another treat. Last Things is the first of five. 

Though new to me, this book was published a quarter of a century ago! I’ve already read Offill’s other two books (for adults) and really loved them, but somehow I’d totally missed the fact that this one even existed. Not surprisingly, I liked this one just as much as the others. I really enjoy Offill’s writing. 

Last Things encompasses the life of Grace Davitt at the age of 8. Her father Jonathan is a science teacher at the local school and her mother Anna works at the raptor rehabilitation center. Family life is eclectic but idyllic. But bit by bit, cracks appear. Jonathan loses his job. Anna decides to homeschool Grace. Jonathan temporarily leaves town for a new job. And all throughout, Anna’s behavior seems increasingly erratic. For a man who proposed to a woman because she never bored him, I would not be surprised if Jonathan found himself wishing for a more boring wife. 

And now, time for the next book!

“The 7th Function of Language” by Laurent Binet

After how long it took me to choose this book, I decided to take a surprising new tack: I asked ChatGPT to choose my next four reads. The 7th Function of Language was one of the four. 

This is a book I probably should have read years ago (though aren’t they all, to some extent?) but better late than never, right? I must admit a lot of the delay probably came from the fact that I felt a bit intimidated by the subject matter. I mean, I’m not sure I’d even heard of semiology before I became aware of this book, and I am not familiar with any of the writings of Barthes, Derrida, Foucault, et al. 

Binet weaves a story around the death of semiotician Roland Barthes in 1980. History tells us Barthes died as a result of injuries sustained when he was run over by a laundry van in the streets of Paris. Binet tells us this death was no accident: Barthes was in possession of a document describing the “seventh function of language”, one that allows the speaker to persuade anyone to do anything. Just think how dangerous such a skill could be if it fell into the wrong hands. 

While it’s entirely possible (maybe even likely) that my reading experience was a more superficial one than it might have been if I had any sort of foundation in linguistics, I am living proof that such a foundation isn’t necessary for reading (and even enjoying) this book. It’s basically a spy novel, and (despite, I’m sure, missing many references) I enjoyed reading this more than I enjoyed reading The Tailor of Panama. I’m sure this was due at least in part to the impeccable translation! I’m obviously not surprised, but I did find myself amazed on more than one occasion; this must have been a very difficult book to translate, but somehow it has the appearance of effortlessness. 

“Mr Salary” by Sally Rooney

I guess I knew this was only a short story when I bought it, but I was surprised when it arrived by how tiny it is. It’s hardly bigger than my hand, and more of a pamphlet than a book. But I moved on from the slight initial disappointment as one does when one can’t get enough of Sally Rooney. 

I started reading yesterday evening during a small gap in our schedule; I spent maybe five or ten minutes with it, and I was sucked in from the very first paragraph. I picked it up again at breakfast and had another small shock when I turned page 33 and saw the remaining pages were blank. How could it be over already??

This could have been a full-length novel, and it would have been just as great as Rooney’s others. But even in this tiny format, it’s a good read. It’s really amazing that in only a few dozen pages Rooney was able to develop the characters of Sukie and Nathan, and juxtapose them in a compelling relationship. It’s like magic. 

“as she climbed across the table” by Jonathan Lethem

After I finished my last book of fiction, I took a long time to select my next one. I had plenty to choose from, so that wasn't the problem. I stood in front of my TBR shelves, contemplating first one, then another, but eventually rejecting each one (this one too long, that one too short, another too sad or too silly). 

Finally I settled on as she climbed across the table. Short, but not too short. Possibly sad or silly or both, but at least the author wasn't untested: Jonathan Lethem has written more than a dozen books, of which I've read one. (Though that was more than a decade ago!) 

This is one of those stories that seems simple and can certainly be taken at face value, but it feels really allegorical. It seems like one of those books that is rife with symbolism and full of deep meaning.

At face value, this story is narrated by a professor of anthropology, Philip Engstrand, who was living with particle physicist Alice Coombs until very recently. A Nobel laureate at their university, Professor Soft, has created something never seen before: a void, an absence, a vacuum, a separate universe, that comes to be known as Lack. Alice's professional interest in Lack quickly becomes an obsession, to the point where she admits to Philip that she is in love with It. Most of the story revolves around Philip dealing with having been jilted for Nothingness, with Alice in turn being rejected by It. 

Digging a little deeper . . . I didn’t get it. It's a story about obsession and the human need to find meaning in the unknown, even when the unknown is unknowable. And maybe that's why I didn't get it? Because there's nothing there to get? (Probably not. But that's what I'm going with.)

“Unsettled?” by Steven E Koonin

Nearly a year and a half ago, I ordered four books about climate change, aiming to fill gaps in my knowledge. I chose one that was very simple and straightforward, which I hoped would give me a good foundation; one that went into greater detail but seemed like it was pretty neutral (just the science and facts); one that I haven't read yet but I'm assuming takes a pretty hard turn towards insisting anthropogenic climate change is unquestionable and we must take drastic steps to combat it (because it consists of a bunch of essays collected by Greta Thunberg); and one that swings in the other direction--without espousing outright climate change denial, it definitely sows seeds of doubt about the current conventional wisdom: Unsettled?

I think I pretty much detested my way through reading it. In fact, I wrote this exact thing in my notes: "I'm on page 3 and I already hate this book." I didn't note why, though. Glancing back at that page now, I can guess it's because this is one of the pages Koonin uses to try to prove he has the necessary expertise to be its author. (He is a scientist, and I am sure he is very intelligent, and he has worked both in the US government and for British Petroleum as an advisor regarding the climate . . . but I find it hard to get past the fact that he is a physicist, not a climate scientist.) Even a dig at Trump on page 6 (a quote from John Lewis: "When you see something that is not right, not just, not fair, you have a moral obligation to say something, do something") is not enough to convince me to put my faith in Koonin. I mean, I feel like that quote was included just to try to get me to let my guard down. It seemed like a too-obvious signal that the author isn't one of those under Trump's sway. 

I think the loathing began with the blurb. "When it comes to climate change, the media, politicians, and other prominent voices have declared that 'the science is settled.'" Is that true? (Not that the science is settled, but that prominent voices are claiming so.) I don't recall anyone referring to climate science as "settled science." I am inclined to view this statement as a straw man. Not to mention it's not surprising if the media are getting it wrong. The media are always getting it wrong, or at least they rarely get it exactly right, no matter what "it" is. The media are reporting about climate change in black and white when the truth is more nuanced? When you're limited to a few column inches rather than a 700 page report, oversimplification is kind of a given. "The climate is changing, but the why and how aren't as clear as you've probably been led to believe." There's just something presumptuous and insulting about this statement. "Despite a dramatic rise in greenhouse gas emissions, global temperatures actually decreased from 1940 to 1970." Is this really true? I don't want to have to fact-check this whole book, but it's starting to feel like I may need to. "Unsettled is a reality check buoyed by hope"--sounds like it's pandering to climate change deniers--"offering the truth about climate science that you aren't getting elsewhere," which sounds like a red flag to me, as it is any time one person claims to be the sole bearer of the truth.

My overall impression of this book is that Koonin doesn't see the forest for the trees being cut down. I would summarize his position like this: past climate data is inadequate in scope and quality, and it doesn't show strong patterns. Climate predictions for the future are not reliable: how the climate is responding to our influence, and the impact our influence will have, are core questions that remain unanswered. We don't know for sure what will happen if we stay on our current course. If we take action to try to mitigate climate change, we don't really know what the result will be (if any). So why bother doing anything? We might as well just keep doing what we're doing, and learn to adapt to changes. 

To me, Koonin's logic seems circular. It's like he's saying our only really precise data is very recent, so we can't use it to predict what will happen with the climate in the future. But he also says we can't just extrapolate current trends--we also have to take past data into account. To put it more succinctly, it's like he's saying: We can't rely on past data. But look at the past data.

Here are just a few of the specifics that bothered me. 

• Koonin states that "heat waves are now no more common than they were in 1900... the warmest temperatures in the US have not risen in the past 50 years..." This shows either deliberate obfuscation or clear misunderstanding of climate change. The current definition of climate change is that global average temperatures are increasing. 

• A graph on page 39 clearly shows a dramatic increase in global ocean heat content since 1990. Koonin first tries to argue this away by saying we've only been thoroughly measuring ocean surface temperatures for the past 50 years, with deeper levels only measured since 2000 (hinting that the dramatic rise since 1990 is just the continuation of a trend that isn't seen on the graph because data from prior years is insufficient). Then he claims that the ocean has seen similar rises in temperature in the past, prior to human influence (and prior to the more thorough measurements that are being taken now). Which is it? Insufficient data from prior years not allowing for formation of a graph that doesn't make it look like ocean temperatures are rising precipitously? Or the data from prior years is sufficient, and we can see that the current rise mimics past rises prior to human influence? It seems to me like the data is sufficient when it fits Koonin's worldview, and it's insufficient when it doesn't. 

• On page 68, Koonin states what I've been thinking: yes, hundreds of millions of years ago the atmospheric CO2 levels were far higher than they are now--but there were no humans back then, and humans are not adapted to such high levels. He even admits that at current rates of increase, atmospheric CO2 will rise to levels high enough to cause drowsiness in humans . . . but not for "some 250 years." Right, no one alive today will be around for that. But does that absolve us of all responsibility? It won't affect us personally, so we don't have to care?

• On the same page, we learn that CO2 remains in the atmosphere for so long that reducing emissions "would only slow the increase in concentration but not prevent it." Isn't slowing the increase better than nothing?? Koonin gives the impression that there's no point in even trying.

• In the same vein, on page 165 we see that it should take 200 years for sea levels to rise enough that Honolulu is inundated. According to Koonin, because of this time scale, we should calm down and not worry. Whereas my thinking is: shouldn't we try to make changes with the aim of preventing this from happening? Or make changes to help us cope with the eventuality? 

My opinion: the recent rise in CO2 (and methane) in our atmosphere is undeniable, and its rapid rise is unequivocally caused by humans. (Koonin doesn't deny this either.) I guess I'm on board with the uncertainty of climate predictions. But I'm totally not on board with the idea that we shouldn't bother trying to course-correct. The bottom line is that our carbon emissions (pollution!) do have an effect on the climate, and that effect is not good. So we should be reducing carbon (and methane) emissions. Even if it turns out not to make any difference--we have to try. We have to do better.

Instead of reading this book, I think it would be much more helpful to explore Information is Beautiful. 

“The Hill Road” by Patrick O’Keeffe

Following closely on the heels of yesterday’s finally-concluded book and aided by a day off work, I’ve finished reading this collection of four novellas set in the Irish countryside. At a total of 225 pages, I should have come to the end far sooner than I did, but I suppose that's neither here nor there. 

When I first came across it, I didn't know anything about this book or its author, but I can tell you exactly why I bought it: it was on sale for $1 at Books-A-Million, and it was published by Penguin. And although I have no specific memory of this, I'm sure I also did the Dip Test to make sure the writing didn't suck (spoiler alert: it didn't). All this was years ago, though--who knows how long, exactly--and in the intervening time, this book languished on my shelves in a very un-Kondo-like way. (For those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about, see "The moment you first encounter a particular book is the right time to read it.")

This is the last of the slim volumes I brought with me on our April trip (though I obviously didn't read it during our April trip) with the idea of leaving a trail of books behind me. Having so nearly achieved its purpose (being read, obvs), I couldn't just re-shelve it, so it stayed in my TBR short stack. But when I finally got started, I found it slow going. I'm sure it didn't help that I was trying to read three other (non-fiction!) books at the same time. Each evening I would start with the one I was least interested in and force myself to read it for five minutes (which, in tangential but exciting news, has now brought me within 25 pages of the end of that one!) and would then cycle through the other two books until I allowed myself the treat of fiction. While this system will give me the (eventual) benefit of having read some books that are more good-for-me than enjoyable, I think it was detrimental to my reading of The Hill Road. Maybe for my next fiction selection I should try the "dessert first" method. (As I type this, I already know I won't allow myself to do that. If I do, it will end up being the "dessert only" method.)

The titular novella in this book comprises nearly half of the entirety, and I'm pretty sure it was my least favorite story of the four. It seemed to take me weeks to get through that one, and only a day or so for each of the others. That's not to say it wasn't well-written or worth reading, because it was both; but I don't feel like I settled into it the way I did with the other three. The central element that I remember is Albert Cagney's unraveling after his return from fighting in the Great War, as told through the memories shared with the story's narrator. Next was "Her Black Mantilla," about orphaned Alice Gilmartin who is sent to live with Lena Tarpey and her bed-ridden brother; Alice very nearly has a tryst with the man who had been in love with her older sister years before. Which, now that I think about it, is kind of a spoiler--oops, sorry about that. Then, in "The Postman's Cottage," Eoin O'Rourke's mysterious disappearance is ruminated upon years later, and although it's never clearly stated, by the end it seems that Kate Dillon knows what happened to Eoin. Lastly, in "That's Our Name," the death of the beautiful Yank found beaten and hanging in a tree is not such a mystery to Marty's mother. All four stories have secrets and memories and death, but maybe the first was a bit too sprawling or expansive compared to the other three.

“god is not Great” by Christopher Hitchens

I can’t believe it’s been more than a month since I last finished a book . . . okay, that’s not entirely true. It is a bit surprising given my typical reading habits, but when you know the specifics—I have been reading four books at the same time, and I’m not especially keen on any of them—it makes perfect sense. 

Anyway, one down, three to go. Unfortunately I didn’t give this book the most careful of readings, and now I’m wishing I had taken notes. 

Why did I choose this book in the first place? I don't remember even being aware of Christopher Hitchens until relatively recently. Maybe I first heard of him when Sam named him as one of the Four Horsemen of New Atheism; then Skeptics' Guide to the Universe talked about him in episode #336, following Hitchens' death in 2011. (I've been listening to their back catalog, and probably came across this episode in January of this year. Notably, I have just discovered that in 2.5 more episodes, I'll be hearing a SGU/Hitchens interview from 2007). Jay Novella specifically called this book a Must Read, and the provocative title piqued my interest. 

Hitchens has a very sharp and sarcastic tone in this book, and he refers to myriad people and historical events that I have no knowledge of. I could have spent ages on this book, going down all kinds of rabbit holes and learning many things I still don't know, but I was not prepared to spend that amount of time with it. My aim was to get a taste of the writer, not to intensely inspect all his claims and statements. But I do think I can sum up the main ideas of the book: all religions (and the god or gods of each) were created by man. Faith has been used as an excuse for many evils and abuses. And religious faith is not a prerequisite foundation for acts of kindness or a life of good moral character. Hitchens describes a focus on the afterlife and religion in this way: "It is as if someone, offered a delicious and fragrant out-of-season fruit, matured in a painstakingly and lovingly designed hothouse, should throw away the flesh and the pulp and gnaw moodily on the pit."

“Lady” by Thomas Tryon

This is the last of the ugly books I brought on our trip last month (which I obviously didn't read during our trip, but I of course felt compelled to read soon afterward). This is the second (and likely last) book I've read by Thomas Tryon, the other being The Other. I was sure Lady had been recommended to me in a comment on my Three Weeks blog post, but I checked just now, and that wasn't the case. Then I thought maybe the comment had followed my post on The Other, but it wasn't there either. I guess I'll never find that comment, and I'm sure I'll never remember where to look for it. And so I'll never recall why exactly the commenter thought I would like this book.

I didn't not like this book, but there was something a little off about it. I found the story a weird (if slightly less wholesome) combination of Stand By Me, A Christmas Story, Where the Red Fern Grows (without the dogs, or the fern, or the tear-jerkiness), and even a little bit of Anne of Green Gables (without Anne, or the nostalgia). The writing seemed overly florid and old-fashioned. And half the time I found myself wondering if it was possiby quite autobiographical--not because the story was so believable or realistic, but because it was so full of unnecessary detail. Not in a quirky, Dickensian way, but in a "what was the point of that paragraph?" way. But in the end I decided it wasn't based on Tryon's life (although he was born in Connecticut) and I found myself not really warming to the book. I don't know if that's because I'm being a book snob (this book is already fifty years old, but I'm pretty sure it's not considered a classic; it doesn't seem to be talked about or remembered) or if the book just isn't that great.

Lady tells the story of Woody, a young boy living in Pequot Landing, Connecticut, in what is probably the early 1930s. He befriends the pretty, wealthy widow living across The Green, Adelaide Harleigh, who goes by the nickname Lady. And the whole book is basically Woody growing up and gradually, over decades, learning Lady's secrets (most of which were probably much more shocking nearly a hundred years ago--or even in 1974, when the book was first published; and most of which were telegraphed pretty clearly before being spelled out in plain English). All that said, I still managed to enjoy the reading experience, and I'm always glad to knock another book off my TBR list (and it's just a bonus that it's one I'm happy to expunge from my shelves afterwards). 

“The Life Cycle of the Common Octopus” by Emma Knight

I'd been looking forward to reading this book ever since I first heard about it, which was months before it was released. But by the time it finally arrived, I found myself avoiding picking it up for a little while. What if it was just meh? What if I didn't like it at all? Or what if I liked it too much?  

Finally I got over myself and read it, and in the end it was just right. Knight's writing is clear and precise, and she has some really good turns of phrase. Unfortunately I didn't note any until this one towards the end: "Her way of looking made Pen feel like a fish at the market, gutless and splayed on ice chips, on the verge of being sliced up and eaten raw." Pretty evocative! I could imagine just what that felt like.

Despite the title of this book (and the reference to a fish market), I made it all the way through chapter 40 with nary an octopus in sight (unless you count the epigraph). But that's not as surprising as it might seem. This is not a story about marine biology, but about human relationships, and how they grow, change, and sometimes dissolve over time. The octopus only exists as a metaphor for the self-effacement of motherhood, which can occur in even the most intelligent beings; when fought against, it can make the mother feel judged as selfish and unnatural. At least according to Margot.

Motherhood isn't really the major theme of the book, though. It definitely appears in various tangential threads throughout the book, but the main character (Penelope "Pen" Winters) is a Canadian university student studying in Scotland, with not even a hint of a baby on the horizon. There is a minor mystery in her life, though. When Pen's dad went to university in Scotland, his best friend was Elliot Lennox. But for some reason Lord Lenox and Ted Winters are no longer on speaking terms, and Pen wants to know why. So we are treated to a cast of unique characters and their university life, as well as Pen's interactions with the posh (but also down-to-earth and welcoming) Lennox family. And as it turns out, sometimes the best mysteries aren't the ones you solve--they're the ones that teach you something about yourself and the people you love.

“The End of the Road” by John Barth

I don’t even know what to think about this book.

Jacob "Jake" Horner has been under the care of a doctor for Remobilization Therapy for the past two years. (What is Remobilization Therapy, you may ask? It is intended to resolve Jake's inability to make a decision, which is severe enough that it rendered him practically catatonic in a train station for more than a day.) Now twenty-eight, and having floated between temporary jobs throughout his therapy, his doctor has told him to take a teaching position at Wicomico State Teacher's College in Maryland. So he does. 

There Jake meets fellow teacher Joe Morgan and his wife Rennie. Joe and Jake are both highly intelligent, but beyond that they are opposites: married vs single, a parent vs childless, but most importantly, their ways of thinking are diametrically opposed. Joe is decisive and opinionated, sees everything in black and white, and wants everything defined and discussed. He has a very strong (if strange) identity. Whereas for Jake, all of life is a gray area. He avoids making decisions, is impossible to pin down in a debate because he has no strongly-held beliefs, and when asked what he thinks about something, his most frequent answer is "I don't know"--not because he finds it difficult to express what he thinks, but because he just doesn't think about that thing. He has an almost complete absence of identity.

I usually try to avoid spoilers in my blog posts, but I'm just going to lay it all out for this one, partly because it was written decades ago so it's not likely that you've been waiting all this time for just the right moment to read this book, and partly because I'm a bit baffled and maybe I'll figure something out as I type. So here we go. Jake, Joe and Rennie become close friends, spending a lot of time together and having deep philosophical conversations that mostly just flew right over my head. Then one night when Joe is out of town, with no preamble or even much of a hint of sexual tension, Jake and Rennie end up in bed together--Jake because he's just going with the flow and not making any decisions, and Rennie because--well, I don't know that she ever gives a reason, but afterwards she's definitely regretful. After a few agonizing days, she confesses to Joe, who reacts in a very Joe way and wants to understand the motives behind their betrayal. He obviously finds it very unsatisfying that Jake can't provide any explanation. So Joe basically decides to force Jake and Rennie to continue their affair until they can come up with an explanation . . . and after a month or so, Rennie ends up pregnant, but there's no way to know who the father is . . . and she ends up dying from aspiration of vomit while under ether for an abortion performed by Jake's Remobilization Therapist. And I was left thinking, WTF was all of that? I feel sure it was rife with symbolism and allegory, but I'm not sure what the hidden meaning was. The whole thing left me feeling a bit unsettled and off balance. And (if you're ready for an embarrassing confession) it didn't help that throughout most of the book I had conflated John Barth with Roland Barthes. 

So I'll wrap up with a thought about the ending. While abortion is not what this book is about, it's obviously a major plot point, and it portrays a horrifying experience that leaves a woman dead. Here's what I find interesting: I know that some people would read this and say, see, this is why women shouldn’t be allowed to have abortions. But others would read this and say, see, this is why abortion should be legal . . . so that it can safely be performed by a trained doctor rather than a Remobilization Therapist.

“The Red House Mystery” by A. A. Milne

Next up in the line of Paperbacks To Shed was much more enjoyable. Did you know that A. A. Milne wrote more than just Winnie the Pooh? I was vaguely aware of this, but had never read anything of his other than Pooh, When We Were Very Young, and Now We Are Six. So I didn't know what to expect from Milne's writing for adults, although I guessed it was possible he would be shockingly raunchy and I might never be able to look at that silly old bear the same way again. 

Thankfully, The Red House Mystery is a cozy one, much in the vein of Agatha Christie (which, as you know, is right up my alley), so Pooh is safe. This is the story of a very English house party during a (maybe not so English) hot summer week. Host Mark Ablett's estranged brother Robert returns from Australia, is found dead in Mark's office only minutes after he arrives, and Mark has disappeared. Four of the houseguests scarper to avoid the awkwardness (but no matter, their alibis were airtight); two remain to solve the mystery. At first it seems obvious that Mark was the killer and is now on the run, but as Antony Gillingham collects clues with the aid of his Watson, William Beverley, they begin to realize things are not as simple as they seem. I guessed the solution long before Tony and Bill did, but that was part of the fun. 

While I was left with much happier feelings about this book than the one I finished the day before, I was happy to shed it as well, and do not plan to buy a nicer copy.

“The French Lieutenant’s Woman” by John Fowles

The last time we went away for a week, I only brought two books, and it was very nearly a disaster. I’d been trying to pack light (at which I succeeded) and also trying to be reasonable about the amount of time I would have available for reading (at which I failed—or, viewed from another perspective, maybe I was too reasonable). 

This time I brought six books (albeit short-ish ones, and paperbacks only, so they would not take up too much space in—or add too much weight to—my luggage). And I purposely chose old, humdrum editions that I would not want as part of my collection after reading (if I really loved the story and wanted to possess the book forever, I would buy a nicer copy). This way I could shed weight as I went, leaving a trail of books behind me. (Which, I have just realized, would be the best superpower ever.)

Up until now, I have enjoyed all of my John Fowles reading experiences (of which there have been at least three), but I will decidedly not be buying a nicer copy of The French Lieutenant's Woman. Unsurprisingly, the writing was great, and the story was absorbing enough. It starts with a betrothed Victorian couple, Charles and Ernestina, strolling along the seaside in Lyme Regis and gossiping about Tragedy, the miserable young woman all in black who has scandalized the town by pining over a French sailor. It ends with everyone being miserable (including me). The advanced praise at the beginning of the book promised the story would grab me from the first page (it didn't) and a sex scene so steamy that it would, like, cause my head to explode or something (skull is still intact). But even if I hadn't had too-high expectations, I think this book would have fallen flat for me.

I do understand that the story is meant to be a social commentary on Victorian repression, but I just can't grasp the character of Sarah Woodruff. I don't understand her or her motivations, and I don't identify with her at all. What did she want? What was she trying to achieve? Did she just decide she didn't want it after all, or was it not what she expected, or did she feel she didn't deserve happiness (but if not, why not?), or was she just completely perverse in a way that I can't wrap my mind around?

I’m just angry.

Ugh.

“Le chien jaune” by Georges Simenon

Check it out! I've read a book in French! (Did it take me almost six years? Yes. Yes, I literally started reading this book in 2019. This teeny, teeny tiny book of only 183 pages.)

Here's how it went. 

1. I took 5.5 years of French in school, which was only enough to make a bank clerk giggle when I said, "Je voudrais échanger de l'argent." (I still don't know what I did wrong there. Was it just my accent? Or did I somehow word it the way a pirate would, asking for pieces of eight?) I always intended to get better at French, so maybe next time I ask a waiter "Avez-vous du beurre," he won't superciliously reply, "Oui, nous avons du beurre" instead of just bringing me some dang butter. 

2. I took a few decades off from learning French and probably forgot most of the little bit I'd learned in school.

3. In September 2018 I discovered Duolingo, and started learning French again. 

4. Sam told me that reading books in French would accelerate my progress. On one of our too-rare but always-fun visits to Half Price Books, I discovered a teeny tiny foreign language section, and picked up this slim mystery novel called "The Yellow Dog." 

5. I tried reading it and found it very very difficult. I felt like I had to look up almost every word (or ask Sam if I was getting it right, which made it feel too much like work for him). I started keeping a list of new words in a little notebook . . . that list goes on for pages and pages. Some words appear on the list more than once, because I forgot that I had already learned them. 

6. I was initially trying to read a little bit every night before I went to sleep, but I don't think I stuck with that for very long. I don't remember for sure, but I probably let this project lapse for quite some time. 

7. About a year and a half ago, I decided to get back to it, and decided on the more reasonable schedule of once a week, working through one or two pages in each session. I also started writing down an English translation. (Believe me, the end result is not impressive. But it did help me keep the story straight in my mind.)

8. Now here I am, at the end! 

Did it work? Did my progress accelerate? Hard to say. I continued needing to look words up until the very last page. Maybe, just maybe, by the end it was more because I wasn't sure I was getting it right, as opposed to having no idea what was going on. And possibly I could work my way through a page marginally faster by the end than I could at the beginning. It HAD to have done some good, right? I mean, it can't possibly have slowed my progress. But I must admit it didn't do as much good as I had hoped and expected. 

So what about the story itself? It's part of a series built around a particular character, a police inspector named Jules Maigret (or Le Commissaire Maigret), who is a less flamboyant and less obviously arrogant Hercules Poirot. He is called in to investigate a series of incidents linked to l'hôtel de l'Amiral in Concarneau: Mostaguen, the wine dealer, is shot (but not killed) through the letter box of an abandoned house on his way home from the cafe; his friend Yves le Pommeret has drinks in the cafe, goes home for dinner, then dies of strychnine poisoning; their acquaintance, the journalist Jean Servieres (also called Goyard), disappears, leaving behind his bloodstained car. What is happening in this formerly sleepy seaside town? Leave it to Maigret to get to the bottom of this mysterious business.

Obviously I was more interested in what this book could do for my French than in the story itself, but it helped that the book wasn't dry and dull. And I plan to keep going! I have three more French books lined up and waiting for me. Get ready, because I'll be reviewing the next one in about six years . . . 

“The Whisperwicks, Volume I: The Labyrinth of Lost and Found” by Jordan Lees

The day I’m too old for children’s books will be a very dark day indeed. 

So says the surprising Minotaur at the center of the labyrinth. And suddenly I'm feeling off-kilter because I hadn't really been enjoying reading this book. It has plenty of elements that I love, taking place in a magical world discovered on the other side of a doorway in the basement of a bookshop. It's full of adventure, intrigue and mystery. But somehow this book wasn't hitting it for me. I couldn't possibly, finally, actually, be . . . old??

We bought this book purely for the cover art, which is by Isobelle Ouzman. If you're not familiar with her work, you really should check it out. But, being a book that we own that I had not yet read, it ended up on my TBR shelf (which is actually multiple shelves) and I decided it was time to give it a go. So it's a little disappointing that it turned out to not be my thing, but I aim to keep it on display!

“I’ve never met a reader who wasn’t special in one way or another. When you read, you connect with the world . . . As it once was, as it is, and as it one day might be. To read, to be curious, is the most astonishing kind of magic.”

“Insignifiant Events in the Life of a Cactus” by Dusti Bowling

So get this. My 12-year-old baby read this book in school last month, then decided I needed a copy of my own to read. He conspired with Sam to get me one, it arrived on Monday, and Baby gave it to me as a surprise gift. Which marks the first time in about 15 years that one of my kids has been so strongly affected by a book that they coerced me to read it; I can remember Bookworm Child (who is now Bookworm Adult) reading a children’s novel and then telling me, “You have GOT to read this book!!” (Although now I can’t remember which book that was. I was sure I blogged about it! But I searched for it to no avail.)

I love surprise books! And it's even better when it's a book that I enjoy. I'm sure I never would have picked this book up (or even heard about it) on my own, but it definitely wasn't a chore to read. It was actually quite interesting. It's about a 13-year-old girl named Aven who moves from Kansas to Arizona in the middle of the school year so that her parents can manage a failing theme park called Stagecoach Pass. Such a move might be hard on any adolescent, but it's especially so for a girl who was born with no arms. Aven is very self-sufficient and has learned to do amazing things with her feet (including writing and playing guitar), but being "unarmed" certainly sets her apart as different. But instead of being mired in self-pity and moping about all the things she can't do, Aven is spunky and sarcastically funny and doesn't let her armlessness stop her. 

I think my favorite part about this book was how, every morning, Baby asked me how much I'd read and what I thought. You should have seen his eyes bug out on Thursday morning when I told him I'd already finished it!

“The Tree” by John Fowles and Frank Horvat

It's strange how memory works (or doesn’t). Sam read this book years and years ago, and he loved it. Then, a while back, we bought a copy and started reading it aloud to each other  . . . and it wasn't very long before Sam said, "Wow, this book is kind of boring." So we set it aside, but (as usual) I always intended to finish it.

When I finally pulled The Tree out again (though not to read aloud), Sam smiled and said, “I love that book!” He still remembered his initial experience with it and had forgotten all about the boredom since then. 

This book is more like a long essay, with each facing page a different tree photographed by Frank Horvat. It was first published in 1979, and while the photographs seem to me to be "of their time" and may not be the type of art you want to hang on the wall in large format, each one has its own subtle beauty. The writing could be described in the same way. It is a call to protect our natural world--more for the wildness of it than specimen preservation, arboretum-style--which I think may be even more warranted now than it was decades ago. It ends with a fascinating description of Whistman's Wood, which I would love to see in person someday, but for now I'll have to be satisfied by the Wikipedia entry.

By alex jane from london, uk - ancient woodland, CC BY-SA 2.0

“Cheese, Wine, and Bread” by Katie Quinn

Cheese, Wine, and Bread is part travelogue, part memoir, and part exploration of the most delicious of human creations, with a few recipes scattered throughout. The title makes it pretty obvious what the main topics are; author Katie Quinn delves into how each of these things are made, going to England to learn about cheese, Italy to learn about wine, and France to learn about bread.

I wouldn't go so far as to call this book a cookbook, especially considering the fact that I tried one of the recipes (yes, just one!)—the “drunken spaghetti”—and did not love it. If the first recipe in a book is a dud, I am hardly tempted to try any more of them. 

My sweet friend RME gave this book to me for Christmas 2021. It took me a while to make my way through it! I wasn't consistently reading it at first, but I finally found a rhythm with reading a few minutes of it every night at bedtime. I know I was reading it regularly by May 2024, because our visit to Neal’s Yard Dairy in Covent Garden was inspired by this book! 

Speaking of inspiration, this book did NOT inspire me to up my bread-making game. Can more amazing bread than mine be made? Yes, I’m sure it can. Can it be made more easily and efficiently than mine? Well, if this book is any indication: no. No, it cannot. So I plan to remain content with my great-if-not-amazing, easy-and-efficient loaves. As long as they're good enough for Sam, they're good enough for me!

“Taft” by Ann Patchett

Another one moves from the "I'd Like To Read All Of Her Books" group to the "I've Read All Of Her Books" group! 

Ann Patchett's writing is magical. While I haven't unequivocally loved all of her novels (see Bel Canto and The Magician's Assistant, though these were still Very Good), I have found most of them to be brilliant, beautiful gems. Taft is up there with the best of them. 

Taft is the story of John Nickel, a former drummer who now manages a bar on Beale Street. He has a nine-year-old son, Franklin, who has moved to Miami with his mother Marian. Nickel hires a young waitress named Fay Taft, whose life (and that of her brother Carl) quickly gets tangled up with Nickel's. And there's a parallel story running through it all: Fay and Carl growing up back east, out in Coalfield, before the sudden and unexpected death of their father.

So have I done it? Have I really read them all? Well, apparently Ann Patchett collaborated on a book called Nashville: Scenes from the New American South, which (although it was published in 2018) I only heard about for the first time about ten minutes ago. I'll probably end up reading that someday, just because I can't not, but for today I'll give myself a pass so she can be in The Club. I'll just change it from "I've Read All Of Her Books" to "I've Read All Of Her Novels."