"The Lighthouse" by Alison Moore

I broke my rule and didn't blog about this book before starting a new one. I've probably explained this before, but that rule is mainly to prevent me from lapsing into another blogging slump where I get so far behind that I'm afraid I'll never catch up (see The Lost Years) but it's also because my memory is already bad enough without waiting a week or two AND overwriting the old book with a new one. 

At least I can still remember that this is an interesting, well-written book and I enjoyed reading it. It tells the story of Futh, a middle-aged British man who is taking a "restorative walking holiday" in Germany while his soon-to-be-ex wife packs up all his belongings and has them moved out of their house. Unsurprisingly, Futh spends most of his hiking time in ruminating on his past, from the more recent (his failed marriage) to his childhood (and his father's failed marriage). Futh's story is interspersed with that of Ester, who runs the bed and breakfast where Futh spends the first night of his trip (but also where, mysteriously, he is not offered breakfast the next morning).  

The book is full of repeated themes: lighthouses (obviously), perfume and perfume bottles and scents (especially oranges and violets, with a little camphor thrown in), the name Angela, the wife who strays or leaves or both, the Venus flytrap, and likely a few others that I've forgotten due to my blogging delay. It would be interesting (if time-consuming and complicated) to draw a Venn diagram of all the characters and what they had in common. Sometimes I had to pause, realizing I was conflating one character with another just based on their echoed idiosyncrasies. 

I did feel like the penultimate chapter was maybe slightly overblown. Whereas until that point the common themes were treated with a lighter hand, all of a sudden at the end I was bombarded with all of them, one right after another, and instead of the previous clever and subtle effect it was a little overwhelming and claustrophobic. Luckily this did not hide the building sense of dread (though Futh himself was oblivious) and did not ruin the book for me. It's a good one! You should read it.

"Hamnet" by Maggie O'Farrell

 Maggie O'Farrell is one of my favorite female authors, along with Ann Patchett and Geraldine Brooks. They all write flawlessly, and come up with such good stories! Hamnet is no exception.

This is a story about a boy named Hamnet in 16th century England. It is also about Hamnet's parents and sisters and grandparents and aunts and uncles. And it is about grieving the death of a child. I didn't put this in my blog title, but you may be able to see from the book cover that it has a subtitle "A Novel of the Plague". I feel like that subtitle is slightly misleading; the plague does not seem to me to be the focus of the book, for example, the way it is in Geraldine Brooks' Year of Wonders, though it does have a definite presence and directly affects the plot. I think, really, the book is mostly about Hamnet's mother. 

I have deliberately left out Hamnet's last name thus far, making his identity just as tangential as O'Farrell does in the story, but in fact Hamnet's surname is Shakespeare. And yes, his father's name is William (though I'm not sure those facts are ever actually mentioned directly). In fact, if I hadn't read the back cover I might not have known that Hamnet was anyone other than a random English lad from long ago (though I might have guessed, and wondered if I was right), until right up close to the end of the book.

The thing I am likely to remember most clearly about this book is the section of grieving. It was so incredibly intense and moving. It was almost too much; I reached a point where I'd nearly had enough. Normally I scoff at sad stories, priding myself on my dry eyes, and feeling annoyed when an author is obviously trying to manipulate my emotions, but there was none of that here. Tears streamed from my eyes as I read. When I reached the end of that section, rather than feeling manipulated, I felt wrung out. 

I can't believe I still haven't read all of Maggie O'Farrell's books. I need to remedy that soon.

"Hemingway's Girl" by Erika Robuck

 

Funny that I'd been talking about my interest in more stories of Hemingway's women when I posted about Love and Ruin back in June. Earlier this month as I was scanning my bookshelves, looking for my next read, I pounced on this one as soon as it caught my eye. I have no memory of where or when I bought it (although the price tag on the front makes me think it was probably from a Friends of the Library bookstore, because where else can you find such amazing deals?) but I'm sure it was months (if not years) ago, and it felt as if I had wished it into existence.

This book wasn't exactly what I was looking for, as the titular female is a fictional one, but the story takes place during Hemingway's marriage to Pauline (or "Fife") in Key West in the 30s. And I feel like Robuck does just as good a job as Paula McLain in painting a picture of Ernest Hemingway as seen through others' eyes--so much so that the three books could all be of a series by the same author, the characterizations dovetailing nicely. The fictional character here, though she is the main character, doesn't eclipse Hemingway or relegate him to a bit part; rather, she serves to showcase his larger-than-life persona.

The "girl" of the title is a nineteen-year-old native of Key West, half Cuban, who is hired as a housekeeper for the Hemingways. Insatiable as he is, Ernest is of course attracted to her (and the feeling is mutual) but Mariella is also forming a relationship with a young WWI veteran who is working on the Overseas Highway. At times the book does inch dangerously close to a silly romance, but it never went far enough to earn my scorn.

I'm wanting to read How it Was and Ruth Hawkins' book about the Hem-Fife marriage even more now. 

"Hangsaman" by Shirley Jackson

This is a weird little story that I'd never heard of before, but its title caught my eye (helped along by the presence of the little penguin on the spine) and of course I've heard of Shirley Jackson, although perhaps her short story "The Lottery" and her ghost story The Haunting of Hill House may be the only works of hers that I've previously read. (I've definitely heard of We Have Always Lived in the Castle but, dang amnesia, I can't remember if I've read it.) I was also intrigued by the cover. Those blood splatters might be somewhat misleading but it would have been a boring cover without them.

Hangsaman is the story of Natalie Waite, a seventeen-year-old girl on the verge of leaving for college. Her father is a semi-famous writer who encourages her own writing talent, and right from the beginning it is evident that Natalie has a lot going on inside her mind, something more than just a vivid imagination. Not surprisingly, at college she is lonely and has trouble fitting in. By the time she befriends Tony it's almost impossible to tell what is actually happening outside of Natalie's head and what is only happening inside it. I was kind of hoping (but simultaneously fearing) that the book would end with another character explaining ("Here's what really happened . . . ) but I was disappointed (and relieved) to be left to figure it out on my own. 

I bought this book in a great but tiny used book store in Santa Fe, a fun place to browse if you ever have the time . . . I wish I could remember the name of it. Maybe Palace Avenue Books? 

"A Hundred Million Years and a Day" by Jean-Baptiste Andrea

This is a really good book, and I'm not just saying that because I'm sleeping with the translator. I wouldn't have thought a story about a paleontological expedition would be my sort of thing (especially with a cover like this), but this one definitely was! I finished reading a week ago and have put off blogging ever since, hoping this would give me time to come up with something worthy to say, but alas, it appears that is not going to happen. 

This is the story of Stan, a professor of paleontology, who has been enthralled by fossils ever since he found his first one at the age of six. Now, in 1954, he is consumed with the idea of achieving fame and glory--not to mention the money that generally follows--by uncovering the remains of a previously-unknown dinosaur. Only problem is that the skeleton is high in the French Alps, its location only reported in shreds of anecdotal evidence. Oh, and Stan isn't much of an outdoorsman. Driven by his dream and aided by three other men (a friend, an assistant, a guide), the search is rife with subtle conflict and tension.

It was an odd but welcome contrast to read about such cold in the heat of summer, and the story was interesting, compelling, and suspenseful. As with most good books, the main character was brought to life by mixing in stories from his past, allowing the reader to see a lifetime of events that led him high into the mountains. It was really beautifully written (and, of course, superbly translated) and it's unfortunate to know that I never would have chosen this book from a bookstore, and I would have missed a true gem. 

"Talking to Strangers: What We Should Know About the People We Don't Know" by Malcolm Gladwell

Once again a book caught my eye that seemed to be a guide for making good conversation, and once again the book wasn't what I expected. But the unexpected is often a good thing.

I've never read anything by Gladwell before, but I get the idea that this book follows his typical format: he takes some interesting psychological or social principles and illustrates them anecdotally. This book seemed to be very thoroughly researched (and I noted no Igon values), but despite the presence of footnotes and an extensive index, it was in no way dry or dull. If all non-fiction were like this I might read more of it. Especially because while reading this one I noticed a weird thing: it's really relaxing to read a book I'm not desperate to finish, but which is interesting and worth reading.

Talking to Strangers was published in 2019 but seems all the more timely in the late spring and early summer of 2020 as the Black Lives Matter movement gains momentum. The book begins and ends with the story of Sandra Bland, delving into the reasons why such a terrible situation arose and how it got out of control, and runs through a whole spectrum of issues that people have in communicating with each other.

Here are Gladwell's main principles:  

1. Humans default to truth. Generally, humans "operate from the assumption that [the person they are speaking with is] telling the truth," unless or until the listener is presented with an overwhelming number of clues that cause the listener to doubt the speaker. (Gladwell doesn't go into this, but I would add "unless the listener has a 'default to lies' gained by experience with a particular teenaged daughter, in which case the listener assumes that the person they are speaking with is lying every time she opens her mouth."  I guess the difference there is that Gladwell is discussing our reactions to those we don't know rather than those we do know.)

2. Transparency bias: we tend to believe statements made by those who appear to be telling the truth (even when they're not); we doubt those who appear to be lying (even if they're honest). People who are "mismatched" (seeming honest when not and vice versa) confuse us because we expect people to be "matched."

2a. Alcohol is an "agent of myopia" which "narrows our emotional and mental fields of vision." 

"It creates . . . 'a state of shortsightedness in which superficially understood, immediate aspects of experience have a disproportionate influence on behavior and emotion.' Alcohol makes the thing in the foreground even more salient and the thing in the background less significant. It makes short-term considerations loom large, and more cognitively demanding, longer-term considerations fade away" . . . Without alcohol, one may be "willing to temper their own immediate selfish needs (to be left alone, to be allowed to sleep) with longer-term goals (to raise a good child). When alcohol peels away those longer-term constraints on our behavior, it obliterates our true self." 

So, maybe drinking alcohol is like meditation, albeit a less healthy version that may make you a bad parent.

3. Coupling: crime is closely tied to location. Suicide is closely tied to opportunity. When we fail to recognize these ties, we are overlooking an important factor in human behavior. 

I would sum up the book by saying we assume we know others better than others know us; we think we can trust our gut and our judgment and "read" strangers easily; but we are wrong. Communication is difficult and understanding is not a given. Interactions with strangers should involve caution, humility and restraint.

"Look at the Birdie" by Kurt Vonnegut

It is possible, if shameful, that this is the first book I've read by Kurt Vonnegut. I mean, I've been *aware* of Slaughterhouse Five for at least three decades, but I have no memory of actually having read it. And I have no memory of actually having heard of most of the other books printed in the "Also by Kurt Vonnegut" list inside the front of this book. I sense a failure somewhere. 

But let's focus on the fact that I did read *this* book of short stories by Kurt Vonnegut. And it was really quite good! I tend to find two things about short story compilations: 1) they're uneven. There may be a gem or two, the majority are mostly just OK, and there's always a stinker and a clinker. And 2) the stories are some combination of weird, bizarre, unsettling and shocking. They can punch you in the gut and make you uncomfortable. 

Look at the Birdie didn't match either of my expectations (which, especially as far as #1 is concerned, is not a bad thing)--at least not at first. Stories one through five even had a somewhat happy ending--no gut punches there. So I let my guard down, and then the gut punches came. (Even so, they were nothing like the Mike Tyson variety.) 

The rest of my post is not for you, dear reader, but for me. I took brief notes on each story so that I would remember what I'd read, and it may be slightly boring (though hopefully not spoiler-y . . . well, maybe a little bit) for you to read. It won't hurt my feelings if you skip the remainder. 

1. Confido: Like Siri or Alexa but it's actually just amplifying your inner thoughts. 

2. Fubar: Fuzz Littler hates his job until his new secretary shows him how to take what's available to him and make the best of it. (Come to think of it, that's a nice lesson for anyone to learn.)

3. Shout About It From the Housetops: Housewife writes poorly-disguised tell-all about her neighborhood and the resulting fortune and notoriety temporarily ruin her life.

4. Ed Luby's Key Club: Harve and Claire experience a real-life nightmare when trying to celebrate their 14th anniversary, but luckily the end up vindicated. 

5. A Song for Selma: A genius is told he is not. A dolt is told he is a genius. Their teacher, who is neither, helps them to see they are more than their IQ.

6. Hall of Mirrors: The murderous hypnotist may have met his match. In the end he isn't quite as clever as he'd thought.

7. The Nice Little People: Weirdest story yet, and the only one without a happy ending. On his seventh wedding anniversary, Lowell finds a paper knife that turns out to be an alien spaceship with six tiny people inside. That same day, his wife Madeleine tells him she is leaving him for her boss, and he kills her . . . with the spaceship.

8. Hello, Red: Kind of a sad and depressing story about an angry young red-headed man who has discovered he has a red-headed 8-year-old daughter, Nancy, who was raised by Eddie, the man his former girlfriend married. Red wants to take Nancy from Eddie, but is deterred in the only way possible: Nancy cuts off her red hair, her only link to Red, and has Eddie give it to him.

9. Little Drops of Water: Lothario music teacher ruthlessly seduces and discards a string of beautiful female students until there's one who won't let go.

10. The Petrified Ants: Russian archaeologists (actually myrmecologists) discover that ants once had a civilization to rival ours, and their fate is portentous.

11. The Honor of a Newsboy: Mean Earl probably killed waitress Estelle but there may be no proof . . . unless Charlie the police chief can prove that the newsboy delivered the Wednesday paper. In the end it doesn't matter; justice is served by a dog named Satan. 

12. Look at the Birdie: A murder consultant is actually an extortionist.

13. King and Queen of the Universe: A young and rich couple crosses paths with a down-on-his-luck scientist.

14. The Good Explainer: A man and his wife can't have kids. The wife finally arranges to have Dr Akebian tell her husband why. 

And one final thing I want to remember about this book: I read most of it in Santa Fe, while lying in the shade of the trees in Cathedral Park.

"Ghost Wall" by Sarah Moss

Ghost Wall is my kind of book. It was weird--really weird--without being quirky just for the sake of quirkiness. It was suspenseful and tense, but not in a painfully uncomfortable way. And it was so evocative. It was amazing the way Sarah Moss did so much with so little; the writing wasn't flowery or overly descriptive, yet with writing that was almost spare, the heat and the fear and the hunger were real.

Ghost Wall tells the story of one small group in the countryside of northern England for an Experimental Archaeology course. Events are seen through the eyes of Silvie, the 17-year-old daughter of Bill (a bus driver whose hobbies are Iron Age Britain and living off the land) and Allison (who does all the cooking for the group--over an open fire, of course). Professor Slade has three university students on the course who never seem to take things seriously enough for Bill, and all sorts of interesting dynamics develop between the seven characters. The attempt to learn what life was like for ancient Britons starts as whole-hearted for some, half-hearted or light-hearted for others, and ends up in a sharp divide.

The contrast between The Silent Patient and Ghost Wall is stark. Maybe reading them back-to-back made the former seem worse and the latter seem better by comparison, but it's clear to me that I would have preferred Ghost Wall no matter when I read the one in relation to the other.

Overall, this book was a treat to read and it's a book I want to keep. I'd be happy to re-read it again someday; it doesn't hurt that it's super-short and can be read in just a few hours.

"The Silent Patient" by Alex Michaelides

I think I would have been more forgiving of this story if it had been a movie instead of a book. (I'm thinking about Final Analysis, which probably would have been a pretty crap book but which kept me on the edge of my seat as a film. Keep in mind that I was a teenager when I saw it the one time, just in case you've temporarily lost respect for me.) The Silent Patient was no Gone Girl; it wasn't even The Girl on the Train. I was not impressed by the writing, which is more genre than literary. But I have to admit I was drawn in by the story. 

Beautiful red-haired artist Alicia Berenson becomes a patient at an asylum for the criminally insane after killing the husband who she, by all accounts, completely adored. From the moment of the murder she never spoke another word. Years later psychotherapist Theo Faber is certain he can help Alicia open up and deal with her past. He also--like the reader--wants to understand why. 

So . . . now I know why. And while I don't regret reading the book, and I wouldn't go so far as to say you shouldn't read it, I've already put it in the box so it can go back where it came from (Half Price Books). 

  

"Love and Ruin" by Paula McLain

I read McLain's The Paris Wife a few years back and really enjoyed it. So what could be better than a book about another one of Hemingway's doomed marriages by the same author, right? 

Unfortunately I wasn't as entranced by this one. Personally, the main issue was that Martha Gellhorn never became real to me. Maybe this was my fault; maybe I didn't identify with her drive to experience war zones (admittedly, that drive goes against all my instincts and desires). Gellhorn seemed like a tough cookie, and somehow that didn't come through naturally on the pages; again, maybe my fault because she is so different from me? Or maybe I was thrown off by this statement on the colophon: " . . . the situations, incidents and dialogues . . . are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events." I mean, yeah, it's historical fiction, and I'm sure that was a necessary disclaimer, but it was difficult to pay no attention to the man behind the curtain after reading that.  

Reading about Hemingway through the eyes of his wives, however, is pretty intriguing. I find myself contemplating buying books about his second and fourth marriages. A quick search suggests perhaps Unbelievable Happiness and Final Sorrow: The Hemingway-Pfeiffer Marriage by Ruth Hawkins, which I assume is more historical than fiction, and How It Was which was actually written by Hemingway's fourth and final wife. 

"Kudos" by Rachel Cusk

Another brilliant book by Rachel Cusk which I thoroughly enjoyed reading. I'm sad that I'm finished with the trilogy! I would definitely read them all again, which--in case you were wondering--is high praise. There are so many books in the world, and though many of them may not be worth reading, I will never have time to read all those that are. Because of this, my tendency is always towards choosing something new over going back to something familiar . . . except for a select few (but ever-growing number of) books.

Once again, as with Outline and Transit, I found myself both jealous of and slightly appalled by the conversations in Kudos. Jealous because I don't often have soul-baring conversations, appalled because I definitely don't have them with strangers. But I also realized (because Sam pointed it out) that the dialogue in this book can't really be called conversation; instead, the book is full of monologues delivered to the narrator. And (as Sam also pointed out) despite the natural feeling of these monologues, they're still fiction. Just because it seems like the narrator's actual experience doesn't mean her chats are as constantly scintillating as this book would make one think.

I want to memorialize page 200 here, because I strongly identified with it. I grew up in a household of silent, awkward family dinners, and I have a clear memory of one dinner where teenage me decided (without speaking the thought aloud, of course) that when I grew up I would have a family that talked at the dinner table. Page 200 raises the bar. "Huge comforting meals were served and . . . everything was discussed but nothing examined, so that there was no danger of passing . . . into the state of painful self-awareness where human fictions lose their credibility." Now I want to ensure that we both discuss and examine. Although this may have to wait until my seven-year-old is a bit more mature. 

The setting of this book is never revealed. I spent a good bit of the book trying to figure out where it might have taken place, and then felt a brief moment of annoyance that it wasn't specified, but then I imagined what the book would have been like if I knew where it took place, which made me realize this would have made it an entirely different book. The location really isn't that important, and it actually makes more sense for it to be anywhere/nowhere. But . . . ugh, but I'm still curious. 

"The Driver's Seat" by Muriel Spark

This novella is stark and strange. Sam read it first and then wanted me to read it so we could talk about it but I don't know what to say.

The story follows Lise, who (though this is not explicitly spelled out) must be mentally ill. She flies from Copenhagen to Italy (or somewhere like it) in search of her "boyfriend" (who doesn't actually exist). She draws attention to herself wherever she goes, prompting stares of annoyance and discomfort rather than glances of admiration. The end is made evident from the beginning, but though there is mention of a "whydunnit" I don't feel like I got an explanation.

Should the story be taken at face value? Sam had an interesting idea. The only way he could make this book make sense is if Spark took the notion that "she was asking for it" and wrote this novella from the ridiculous perspective of what it would be like if the victim was actually asking for it. At least that does seem more feasible than imagining that this collection of bizarre characters (referring to Lise, Bill, Mrs Fiedke and her nephew) would actually intersect.