"These Precious Days" by Ann Patchett

I could have sworn that I wrote a blog post about this book! But I see now that I started a draft and never wrote anything. And now, whatever I might have said three weeks ago is gone into the void. 

What remains is that I love Ann Patchett's writing. And especially after having read a couple of her non-fiction collections of essays, I feel like she is my friend. I know she's not, and that this is a completely one-way street, but I feel like I know Ann, and like her, and would enjoy spending time with her. 

“The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue” by VE Schwab

This book and I did not get off to a good start. 

Sam read it first. His suggestion that I might like it seemed lukewarm. “It was pretty good.” And then I saw that someone for whose literary opinion I lack respect had read this book and enjoyed it. I don’t know why Sam’s (respected) positive opinion should carry less weight than the (disrespected) positive opinion of one-who-must-not-be-named. But apparently it did. 

Eventually Addie LaRue worked its way to the top of my TBR pile, so I picked it up. And put it down. And reluctantly picked it up. And put it down again. It took me quite a while to get into this book. Like, weeks. If I had reached the point in my life where I could finally allow myself to give up on a book after 50 pages, I would never have finished this one. I found that every time when I had a quiet moment to read, I was instead picking through the mess of old copies of Readers Digest that my mom had brought with her at Christmas. I was actively avoiding Addie LaRue. At first I wasn’t sure why, other than the fact that the story had not grabbed me yet, but I came to realize that the writing annoyed me. I’m sure this is partly because it followed so closely on the heels of Ann Patchett, whose writing I really admire, but I did not like the voice of Addie LaRue. And I was almost insulted by the cadence. 

Why so many paragraphs of one sentence?

And so many fragments? 

(Annoying, right?)

But this week we have been on a journey, and I forced myself to finish this book by packing it and bringing only one other reading option with me. (Well, truth be told, I also brought the last two Readers Digests.) And would you believe that (after reading the RDs) when I finally picked up Addie LaRue again, I got INTO it and ENJOYED it and didn’t want to put it down? 

I hate being wrong. 

Anyway, for those of you who have been living under a rock, here’s the synopsis. Three hundred years ago there was a 23-year-old French girl named Adeline LaRue who did not want to get married. So she sold her soul to the devil in return for what she thought of as freedom, but what turned out to be the inability to leave a mark on the world. No one is able to remember her once she leaves their sight—not even her own parents, who now believe they never had a child. The deal stands until she is ready to give up, and Addie turns out to be quite tenacious, which means her story spans centuries. I found myself more interested in her 21st century life than anything else, but without the rest of it there wouldn’t have been a story. 

"Rose Royal" by Nicolas Mathieu

This was an intriguing little novella that just flew by. It felt like I'd only been reading for about five minutes when I noticed that I was already more than halfway through. Another five minutes later it was over--well, five minutes and a shock. (Yeah, I'm exaggerating about the five minutes, but not about the shock.)

The story here is about Rose, an aging-but-still-hot administrative assistant who spends most of her evenings drinking among friendly acquaintances at a dive bar. Though her life is not devoid of happy moments, neither is it incredibly satisfying. Yet she doesn't strive much towards making changes that would increase elements of value, and this is more due to inertia than to being content. 

Enter Luc. 

The subtitle of this book is "a love story" but I have it on good authority that that's meant in irony. Whereas at first blush being with Luc seemed like an improvement, in many ways it turned out to merely highlight Rose's dissatisfaction with her life. 

Overall I found this novella to be a fun momentary diversion: strong writing that flows well, a story that moves the reader through it effortlessly, and a powerful ending that took me by surprise.

"Hell of a Book" by Jason Mott

This is a really hard blog post for me to write. It would have been hard anyway, for two reasons, but unfortunately it's made even more difficult by the fact that I finished reading this book about two weeks ago and we all know by now that such a delay does not help a literary amnesiac write a blog post.

The author of Hell of a Book has written a book about an author who has written a hell of a book and is on a book tour to promote it. The writing from the author's author's perspective seems light-hearted and tongue-in-cheek, reminding me somewhat of Christopher Moore. Mott describes a man who is a bit self-destructive (drinking too much, being surprised by an angry husband who chases him through hotel hallways away from the wife he hadn't known was married) but Mott does not at first describe what the author looks like, so initially I didn't even think about it, and then I started to wonder, and finally Mott confirmed that the author was black. (That's not a spoiler. It's right there in the blurb on the cover--how did I not notice that at the beginning?)

Flitting around the periphery of the author's story is a news story. A tragedy has occurred, and everyone knows the details--everyone, that is, except for the author (the one in the book, not the one of the book). When people ask if he's heard about the tragedy he truthfully says yes, because of course he has heard people talking about a tragedy, but he hasn't heard any details. Throughout the book, those details emerge slowly: from an amorphous blur to a vague outline to harrowing details. 

So are you wondering about the two reasons that this blog post would have been difficult for me to write even if I'd written it right away? One is (in case you hadn't already guessed) because I am white. And while on one hand Mott has done an excellent job of portraying the disturbing reality of being black in America (particularly of being black and male) without alienating those who are not, I still feel uncomfortable expressing an opinion (especially publicly) on that disturbing reality. Like . . . who am I to say anything? The other is that this was a pretty complex story, with enigmatic characters whose relationships with Mott's author are difficult to determine and possibly even open to interpretation. Including too many details would surely either give away spoilers or contribute erroneous interpretations or possibly even both. 

"Apples Never Fall" by Liane Moriarty

I JUST REALLY ENJOYED THIS BOOK. I never wanted it to end, I was enjoying it so much. It was almost like a guilty pleasure, but I just couldn't stop reading, though it's inevitable that when that happens the book eventually ends. And so this one did. But oh, I had so much fun while it lasted! 

Sam and I (purely due to me being influenced by ads) had watched and enjoyed the TV series "Nine Perfect Strangers" last fall, which is based on a book by that title which was also written by Moriarty. So Sam gave me this book for Christmas (or was it for my birthday? they're close enough in time that sometimes they blend together) and what a perfect gift idea it was!

This was the story of Stan and Joy Delaney, recent retirees who sold their highly-successful tennis school a year ago and had since found themselves at loose ends. Their four grown children, each recovering from a childhood as a tennis prodigy, lead adult lives with varying degrees of success and happiness--lives which didn't necessarily match up with what their mother wanted for them. It was a mystery and a family drama infused with humor, but that describes the type of book that would normally make me want to vomit (well, maybe not the mystery part, but definitely the rest of it) though somehow this book evaded that fate. In fact, between the abrupt appearance of Savannah on the doorstep one night in September, contrasted with Joy's unexpected disappearance the following February, I was hooked (and no vomit in the forecast).  

As avid readers, I expect you all know about Chekov's gun? The playwright was known to have repeated on several occasions that if a gun is placed in a scene it must at some point be used. Well, it was not obvious from the very beginning (and that in itself is a good thing), but in Moriarty's book, nothing appeared that didn't later fit in as an integral piece of a very complex puzzle. One might think this could be annoying--having everything explained, nothing left vague, all the loose ends tied up so neatly with a bow--but instead it was so completely satisfying, and clever. The cleverness!! And it was all fair and above-board. There may have been misdirections, but there were no true red herrings.

When I was almost finished with this book, I was telling Sam about it and comparing it to the story of Nine Perfect Strangers. My take at the time was that the two stories were quite similar, with dark themes that somehow all ended happily. But that was before I read the last chapter of Apples. 

Shudder. 

"Home Fire" by Kamila Shamsie

Sam read this book first, told me it was quite good, and put it on my pile of books in the Reading Room. (Speaking of which, my system has broken down. Remember that great plan where I would pick a group of four books to be my next reads, then read them from least interesting to most interesting, then pick another group of four books to be my next reads? Well, somehow that group of four has become a teetering stack of seventeen. I mostly blame Sam, but also I don't blame him, and I don't really mind.) 

I was hesitant as I first began to read, mostly because I did not feel like I identified with the characters. Maybe that is partly because the main characters are Muslim, and Islam is so far from what I know. But more broadly than that, any intensely held religious faith makes me uncomfortable

As the story evolved, it started to seem more like a Sally Rooney relationship book (not that there is a single thing wrong with those). I mentioned this to Sam at that point, and he disagreed pretty strongly. And now that I've finished the book, I can see that he was right. Because wow. This book became its own thing. And what an ending! 

This story is about a British family of Pakistani descent: the older sister Isma, and 19-year-old twins Aneeka and Parvaiz. They'd been orphaned seven years previously, and now that the twins were no longer children, Isma can finally pursue the education that she had put off for so long. Soon after arriving in Massachusetts to study, Isma runs across Eamonn Lone, who she actually already knows because of his politician father, though Eamonn does not know her. They form a friendship of sorts that is truncated when Eamonn returns to London. There, he hits it off with Isma's sister Aneeka . . . until it is revealed that Aneeka's twin brother Parvaiz left England to join ISIS, making Aneeka part of a family that the son of the new home secretary should not be associating with. And it was just about at this point where the book really took off.

One of the best things about this book is how hard it makes you think. Between the character development and the situation (encompassing huge themes of relationships, politics, religion), there are few clear villains and no pure heroes. I'm glad Shamsie did not attempt to make her story didactic; that would have been a huge turn-off. She is not trying to point to any of the main characters and say, Here's your bad guy, and here's who you should root for. Instead, she creates complicated, real characters, and those are always the best kind.

"Bel Canto" by Ann Patchett

I spent most of this book not enjoying myself. Which is odd, because (as I'm sure I've mentioned before) I really like Ann Patchett's writing. I think I didn't like the book even before I started reading it, just based on the premise: the guests at a fancy party in a nameless South American country are taken hostage at the home of the vice president. All of the women and children are allowed to leave the next morning, with the exception of the famous and beautiful opera singer, Roxane Coss, who is retained by the terrorists as a bargaining chip. And most of the book is exhausting, as the story drags by in palpable boredom and minutiae.  

But all of a sudden, twenty pages from the end, I was surprised by the realization of what a beautiful book it had been all along. And all of a sudden, the story that had been occurring at a snail's pace was moving forward at breakneck speed. And all of a sudden, the illusion of security that I had been lulled into was shattered. The beautiful future that I had come to trust in was revealed for the impossible fantasy it always had been, though I had failed to recognize it. And my faith in Ann Patchett was restored. 

"My Phantoms" by Gwendoline Riley

My Phantoms is narrated by Bridget, but we don't learn much about her through the course of the book; rather, we are treated to an intense character study of Bridget's parents (but mostly her mother). 

The pictures painted of Lee and Helen ("Hen") are so vivid--quirky, detailed, solid--that I am low-key consumed by trying to figure out if Gwendoline Riley is describing her actual parents. They seem so real (if not necessarily likeable). My only problem was trying to hear Lee make his constant obnoxious pronouncements in a British accent; he kept sliding into an American voice in my mind. Anyway, a quick internet search for an answer to this question has not provided me with a satisfying conclusion. I suppose it's most likely that the characters are a conflation of Riley's parents, other people she's known or come in contact with, and her imagination. 

This book is a short, absorbing read, with its engrossing depiction of Bridget's non-relationship with her dad and strained contact with her mom, but I found it fell apart somewhat towards the end, through Hen's illness. Still real, but almost too real, with the sense that I was reading about mundane boredom which was . . . kind of mundane and boring. 

"The Man in the Picture" by Susan Hill

I really enjoyed this creepy little story. I think it would lend itself well to a creepy little movie, which is not surprising as Susan Hill also wrote The Woman in Black. 

I probably should have read this on a dark and stormy night instead of in the thin sunlight of Thanksgiving Day, but it was still plenty of fun to read about a haunted painting and the story of revenge behind it. The writing was very atmospheric even without help from my surroundings. 

I find myself with two big questions after reading, and I'm not sure whether they are plot holes or intentional ambiguities. Why didn't Mr Parmitter appear in the picture? And what did Clarissa have against Oliver? (I can satisfy myself with explanations for my second question, but not for my first.)

"Mrs Dalloway" by Virginia Woolf

I am proud of myself for having read something by Virginia Woolf. (Now you know that I am not afraid.) However, I do not think I am interested in reading anything else of hers. Except that I do feel somewhat obliged, as a woman, to read A Room of One's Own. 

Mrs Dalloway takes place all in one day. The narrative follows a meandering path, always returning to Clarissa Dalloway and her preparations for the party she is throwing that evening, but diverging regularly into the minds of side characters. The stream- of-consciousness style of writing reminded me of Ulysses, but thankfully I did not find Mrs Dalloway quite so baffling. (Side note: I did wonder whether the difference was heightened by the fact that I read Ulysses on a Kindle? To me, it's just so much easier to find your bearings, or flip back and refresh your memory on what you've previously read, in a real book made of paper.) 

As I mentioned here nearly a year ago, Rachel Cusk's Arlington Park was inspired by this book. And as you can see from the book cover pictured here, it also inspired The Hours (though I have neither read that book nor seen that movie, and now I feel driven to do at least one of those two things). I definitely enjoyed my reading experience more with Cusk, but I am also glad to have read Woolf. 

“Where’d You Go, Bernadette” by Maria Semple

Sam suggested that I should read something I knew I would enjoy for my birthday weekend. I think he meant that I should re-read something I had enjoyed in the past, but I preferred to pick something new. There’s always the risk that I would end up choosing a clunker, but really—with so many books and so little time—I would rather try a new book (and not like it) than do a re-read. Especially considering the possibility that the re-read wouldn’t live up to my memory of it!

This book totally worked for me. It was a lot of fun. Not necessarily a book that invited deep thought, but it was engaging and a pleasure to read. The only problem was that I finished it before the end of my birthday weekend!  

There was a lot of chatter about Bernadette in the blogosphere when this book first came out, but I'm nearly a decade behind the times by reading it in 2021. In case you missed it the first time around too (AND missed the 2019 Cate Blanchett movie), here's the story: Bee Fox is a highly intelligent young teenager about to finish middle school in Seattle. Remembering a promise they'd made years before based on her perfect grades, Bee's parents offer her anything she wants as a reward, and she chooses (of all things) a family trip to Antarctica, despite the fact that her mother (the titular Bernadette) is basically agoraphobic and really only leaves the house to get Bee to and from school. After a series of unfortunate events and before embarking on the planned voyage, Bernadette disappears. The story is told in a compilation of emails and a variety of other notes that Bee is collecting to try to figure out just exactly what happened. 

By now you know I'm one of those weird people who reads every single word in a book (ok, well, maybe I skip most of the colophon). So it should be no surprise to you that I read all the advance praise found in this book even though there were a dozen pages of it (or at least four). The odd thing is that almost every line claimed that this book was laugh out loud funny. I'm here to say no, it was not. I will agree that it was amusing and mostly light-hearted, but I'm pretty sure not a single giggle escaped me as I read, and that's not because I was intentionally keeping my giggles prisoner. Just trying to temper your expectations. You may smile on the inside as you read this book, but I won't promise that you'll laugh out loud. 

"Luster" by Raven Leilani

 

I feel I'm at a loss for words over this gritty, quirky, dark story told from the point of view of Edie, a young black woman in New York City. But Sam read this book before I did, and I am feeling lazy today, so I am going to turn this post over to him. 

SAM: Okay, since it's your birthday, I will write it for you! I really enjoyed this novel. I think what stood out for me, particularly considering it's a debut, was the vibrancy, consistency, distinctiveness and sheer confidence of the narrative voice. It was itself, all the way through. It also feels very compressed: it's only 227 pages long, but reading it is an experience. Every sentence feels charged, sometimes to the extent that you have to read them two or three times to unpack all the meaning. And even then, I felt like there were quite a lot of references that I didn't get. Maybe because I'm not American, or I'm too old.

Luster is a very 2020s novel in terms of its diction, frames of reference, subject matter, themes, and so on, but in other ways it's quite classical/traditional. It reminded me -- and I know this will sound incongruous, but it did --  of writers like John Updike, Philip Roth and Martin Amis. Partly it's the verbal pyrotechnics, partly the dark wit (sections of the book read almost like a highly poetic stand-up routine), and partly the unflinching, unsentimentalized, deglamorized (but still erotic) sex scenes. I'm pretty sure the title is intended to have a double meaning: not only sheen or gleam, but one who lusts.

KATHY: Thank you, Sam! I'll just add "yeah, what he said." And I'll try not to continue abusing my birthday powers too much throughout the rest of the day.