"Three Weeks" by Elinor Glyn

I can't remember where I first heard about this book, but I do recall that it was introduced to me as erotica. I've long been curious about Victorian erotic novels. The phrase sounded like an oxymoron to me. I didn't know if I should expect something like the movie Nine 1/2 Weeks (which is something I would consider erotica), or if the era kept even scandalous literature much more tame than that. I was pretty confident that, given the publication date of 1907, it wouldn't be completely pornographic.

Of course I don't have any way of knowing whether this book is typical of Victorian erotic fiction, but this one left everything up to the imagination. Not that this is a bad thing. Reading explicit love scenes kind of embarrasses me, as if someone is going to sneak up behind me, read over my shoulder, and be shocked.

More than once while reading, I thought how this book reminded me of the Twilight Saga (without the vampires, of course). The two stories had much in common: obsession, "fade to black" love scenes, gut-wrenching heartbreak, an all-consuming reunion (or so I thought), and even a kid. I couldn't help but wonder if Stephenie Meyer has ever read Three Weeks.

I didn't sink into this book like I did with Twilight, though. I found myself doubting the "consuming emotion" between Paul and his queen. They convinced themselves that theirs was a love like none other, but I didn't see much evidence to prove it wasn't merely lust.

At least the writing wasn't completely gag-inducing. It wasn't so bad that I would call it a precursor to the modern romance novel. Take the following excerpt, for example. The first bit might have started my eyes rolling, but the cuckoo counteracted that.

"Good-bye, darling," he whispered with a suspicion of tremble in his charming voice. "I shall never love any woman but you--never, never in my life."

Cuckoo! screamed the bird in the tree.

Then there's the cover. I probably examined it much more closely than the publisher intended, but other than the fact that there is snow in the photograph and the two lovers met in the Swiss Alps (where I assume there was some snow, even in May), the cover art, while striking, doesn't seem to apply to the story. That cathedral in the fog has no meaning for the book (unless we see it as a castle and decide that's where the queen probably lived), but even more inexplicable is the man who has discarded his crutches and is propped against the snow-covered rock at the foot of a statue of Christ on the cross which is nestled among the trees. I probably wasn't supposed to notice all of that.

**UPDATE**
The cover art is Caspar David Friedrich's painting entitled Winter Landscape, possibly from 1811, which can be found in the National Gallery in London. Today I noticed that Art.com was recommending that I buy a print of this painting! Funny coincidence or scary example of how invasive the internet is when trying to convince people to spend money??

I'm including a portrait of the author here, which I found while reading about her online. Isn't this a beautiful photo?

Still reading . . .

I feel like Titian's Sisyphus, but with more clothes on

It has been nearly three weeks since I started reading Anna Karenina. Of course, I took a break to read The Help earlier this month, and now I am reading We Were The Mulvaneys instead (more on that another time), but I am not accustomed to spending more than one week reading a book. I am finding it frustrating. Recently I jokingly mentioned to someone that I don't do well on projects which take more than a week to complete, but maybe there was more truth to that than I realized.

It has happened a time or two in the past, of course. I think it took me years to finish reading Under the Tuscan Sun. (If it wasn't literally years, it sure felt like it). I spent weeks on The Historian; I still can't figure out what the deal was with that book, because it had a great story and was well-written, and yet it felt like a slog.

However, I read both of those books before I started blogging. I think this blog may be the source of my frustration with spending so long on Anna Karenina. I have Blog Itch, and I need to scratch it, but it is taking me too long to read this book!

I am really enjoying the story, I am entirely convinced that it will be worth the time I spend, and I have absolutely no plans to abandon the book, but I have partially resorted to a solution I have never tried before. I have downloaded audio readings of the first three parts of Anna Karenina from LibriVox.

I feel like I am cheating! I fully and completely admit that I have done this so I can finish the book faster. For me, actual eyeball reading is faster than listening to an audio book, but I haven't yet figured out how to read while I am washing dishes or running or cooking supper. After spending two weeks reading 100 pages, I happily find that through the magic of LibriVox I have been boosted ahead to page 310 in just the past few days. But, ugh, nearly 500 pages to go, and LibriVox does not have complete readings past page 360. Maybe some kind souls will jump out there and volunteer time and voice so that I can listen to the rest of this book.

"Tinkers" by Paul Harding

I. Am. So. Glad. This. Book. Is. Over.

Did I actually choose this book myself? I remember it's one we got after browsing in Emerald Isle Books & Toys this summer, and if I had to guess I'd say I first picked it up because the cover reminded me a little bit of both A Meal in Winter and Three Weeks. Of course the Pulitzer prize didn't hurt. And I would have to also lay some blame on Marilyn Robinson for calling it "truly remarkable." But after reading it (as well as while reading, for what felt like an eternity) I couldn't figure out what in the world attracted me to it.

Tinkers was like my own personal dementor, only instead of sucking out my soul, it sucked out my will to read. It's a tiny book--only 191 pages--and it literally took me 8 weeks to read. That's less than 24 pages a week . . . less than 4 pages a day . . . for a book that I could have sucked down in one afternoon, if I had felt compelled.

I'm sure Tinkers is a very good and beautiful and worthy book, but I don't even want to talk about it. I just want to pick up something that reminds me why I love to read instead of making me think I hate it. But I have to at least jot down a few memories so I'm never tempted to pick it up and read it again "just in case" (maybe I missed something . . . maybe I would enjoy it more during another season of my life . . . maybe if I *did* read it all in one sitting it would be great). Because I must admit that early on my reading was so fragmented that I forgot there were two main characters (Howard the epileptic tinker/salesman who abandoned his family, and his son George the clocksmith, who is old and dying) and I temporarily conflated the two and confused myself. There, that ought to be enough.

"I Know This To Be True: Greta Thunberg" by Geoff Blackwell and Ruth Hobday

I totally did not expect to finish this book thirty minutes after I first picked it up. I thought it might be something I dipped into occasionally and ultimately spent weeks reading bit by bit while I devoted the majority of my reading time to novels. But as it turns out, the content of this book is not much more extensive than a long read in a magazine. (And I must admit I did wonder how good it is for the environment to put something so brief in book form . . . )

Sam and I watched the documentary "I Am Greta" a few weeks back, and while it was an engaging human interest piece, it ultimately left me wondering, "but what can we actually do?" There were very few proposals of concrete actions we can take to save the environment. In fact, I only picked up on three things: don't eat meat or dairy, don't fly, and stop buying new things. (Admittedly those are three very BIG things.) I was left wanting to learn more specifics about what Greta is fighting for. 

Knowing this, Sam gave me a couple of related books for Christmas, one of which was the Greta book in the I Know This To Be True series. And while I am glad that I read this, ultimately it wasn't what I was looking for. It's very much in the same vein as the documentary, almost like the CliffNotes version of it. I don't feel like I gained any new information from the book, although it did make Greta's main aim more clear: reduce carbon emissions. As far as specific actions to take in order to accomplish that goal, neither this book nor the documentary serve as that sort of guide. Greta's focus is on getting lawmakers to shift policy rather than in teaching individuals how they can help. So now I've moved on to the other book Sam gave me for Christmas . . . stay tuned.

"All He Ever Wanted" by Anita Shreve

At the beginning I found I was not thrilled with this novel, the 3rd Anita Shreve novel I've read. It didn't grab me right away like her others did, and the narrator seemed to be a colossal bore. But I stuck it out. A book has to be REALLY bad for me to lay it down and never pick it up again. Happily, it turned out to be not nearly as bad all the way through.

However, I have put off writing this review for a surprising three weeks now, and I find I still don't have much to say about it. It was a decent book, better than a mind-numbing romance novel, but I think I am beginning to see why Anita Shreve's novels always seem to end up on the bargain book rack. They are good enough, but not great. Although I REALLY did enjoy her novel The Last Time They Met.

"The Mathematics of Love" by Emma Darwin

I didn't expect much from this book. I'd never heard of it, or its author, but there must have been something that drew me beyond its bargain basement price at the Friends of the Library bookstore. Maybe it was the title . . . though it certainly couldn't have been the reference to mathematics. (Math? I hate math. They put me in a room with math once. It drove me crazy.) And love? You know how love stories can make me gag. But the two together? They have some kind of weird synergy.

I meandered languidly through this book over the past three weeks. It tells two stories which are barely more than tangentially related; one is the story of Anna Ware, a teenage English girl sent to live with her uncle at his failed school during the sweltering summer of 1976. (Yes, same summer as Instructions for a Heatwave . . . AND, I think, The Cement Garden which I read in February but haven't had a chance to blog about yet.) The other is the story of Stephen Fairhurst, owner of Kersey Hall and veteran of Waterloo, more than a century and a half earlier.

At first I found myself more interested in Anna's story than in Stephen's. And, though I was enjoying reading, I didn't find the book compelling. Until just a day or so ago. Suddenly, surprisingly, the book reached critical mass, and I realized that both stories (and their tenuous, mysterious links) had quietly and stealthily become fascinating. I finally had the time to finish the book this afternoon . . . but even after I finished reading, I didn't feel like I'd reached the end of the story. It's not that the plot felt unresolved, but I was left with so many unanswered questions.

As I mentally enumerated the remaining mysteries, I tried to convince myself that further elucidation didn't matter (because it would be so freeing if I could just let it go), but the longer I spent in this tally, the more I fretted and wondered, like a dog worrying a bone (or something less clichéd).

My biggest question: What was the deal with Cecil living in Anna's time and yet being seen in by Stephen? Was this just some sort of contrivance added after the book was mostly completed in hopes of making the link between Stephen and Anna seem slightly more substantial and/or interesting? (If so, mission accomplished.) If I knew this was all it was, I could let it go. But I am unable to know and unable to let it go and thus my mind won't stop digging for a deeper meaning.

Another, slightly less captivating question: Who was Anna's father? It is hinted that Idoia is an ancestor on her father's side (she would have been far too old to be Anna's grandmother, but perhaps add a few greats and it might have worked) but it's never made plain, and this is the closest we get to discovering Anna's father's identity. I can see, however, that the fact that Anna doesn't learn more about her father is the less artificial route.

There were many other unanswered questions that aren't quite as niggling, partly because the answers aren't even hinted at and partly because knowing the answers really wouldn't have much bearing on the story. (Consequently--thank goodness!--I feel more able to let these go.) Like: What happened to the school to make it close? Where had Belle been all those years? (I couldn't help but wonder if she'd been in prison for something. But if so, what for?) Who was Cecil's mother, and where was she?

Enigmas aside, I was drawn in to the relationships described in this book. There is something undefined that holds me back from naming this a Must Read, but I can definitely say my expectations were exceeded (and not just because they were low in the first place).

“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 Book Club Report, Part III

Only 30 books to go until I'm all caught up on blogging (I think)! As I was looking at this list and trying to figure out how I can knock out several posts in one go, I realized I'd missed blogging about three Old Book Club selections in my previous two Book Club Reports. So, Book Club Report Part III it is! And because posting about three books isn't enough to make a satisfying dent in my backlog, I will add a special surprise at the end. Just you wait!

The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay by Michael Chabon. My first book by this author, and it won't be my last. Anyone who can get me interested in the birth of the comic book superhero has got to be good. Lucky for me, though comic books were definitely the main theme of the book, there's so much more to it. The writing is excellent, the characters are vivid, the plot flows swiftly, and it's a memorable and believable portrayal of 1940s New York City. I'm looking forward to reading Chabon's The Wonder Boys one of these days. 

A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess. This is the story of a small gang of young thugs who wreak havoc to their hearts' content until the authorities decide to do something about it. I'd seen the movie years ago, but only vaguely remembered the general idea (as well as a few indelible moments that I wouldn't have minded forgetting). What stands out most in my memory from reading the book is Nadsat, the slang vocabulary spoken by the main characters. I'd been forewarned about it, and (maybe largely because I was prepared?) I found it relatively painless to grow accustomed to. The version I read had a weirdly didactic final chapter. I think the book would be better without it.

The Fault in Our Stars by John Green. Surely it's not a spoiler to tell you that this book is about two teenagers who fall in love . . . after they meet at their cancer survivor's support group. (After all, the huge movie adaptation just came out two weeks ago, and even I've seen ads for it everywhere I've looked. If you don't already know the premise, it's your own problem.) I never, ever would have chosen to read this book if not under duress from Book Club. Love? And cancer?? I smell horrifying tearjerker. Not My Thing. But, you know, John Green can do things I never would put up with from the likes of Nicholas Sparks (I'm looking at YOU, A Walk to Remember). And--not that I'm calling him Shakespeare or anything--I have a bit more respect for teenage lovers dealing with cancer than those who end up killing themselves over a big, stupid misunderstanding. 

So, as far as I can remember, that's it for books read with my sad old defunct book club. Your special surprise? Two books that were rejected by said book club--but I read them anyway.

A Place of Greater Safety by Hilary Mantel. This is an incredibly detailed account of the French Revolution and its three major leaders (Danton, Robespierre and Desmoulins). It's an extraordinary work, more history than fiction, about a fascinating time and place. I wish I could have retained more of what I learned from it. 

Despite the fact that this one is definitely worth reading, I think Old Book Club was right to turn it down. I imagine they would have hated it. 

Fingersmith by Sarah Waters. It's Victorian, it's gothic, it's naughty, it's full of mysteries and secrets, and deception is heaped upon deception. It's the story of a pickpocket (hence the title) who agrees to trick an heiress out of her inheritance. If Book Club could have overlooked the naughty bits, I think they would have had just as much fun with this one as anything by Kate Morton. 

Five down, 25 to go!

"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. 

“Very Cold People” by Sarah Manguso

I actually read this book between Scent of Flowers and The Fell but then completely forgot to blog about it. I'm not sure I would have found much to say about it at the time, but now that it's three weeks later, I'm going to have a really tough time coming up with anything to write. 

I do remember that my overarching feeling about this book was that it was weird. The characters were weird--a little inscrutable, kind of hard to relate to, not very open or easy to understand . . . in general, I guess, what you would expect Very Cold People to be like. And the story itself was a bit weird, in a plotless and meandering way. It's written like a memoir (although I assume it's not) and strikes me as an attempt to record every retained memory, with no effort to highlight the transformative or gloss over the mundane. But it was also, I think, nicely written and intriguing; otherwise I would have hated it. 

I also remember that this book stirred up a particular sort of nostalgia in me. It describes a very American childhood with many links to my own very American childhood, from Lite Brite to friendship bracelets. 

“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.

"Instructions for a Heatwave" by Maggie O'Farrell

My sweet husband gave this book to me for my birthday. We were spending a lovely afternoon browsing at The Book People in Austin (if you have a chance to visit them, you should!) and he came to me holding this and The Luminaries by Eleanor Catton and asked me to pick one. I told him that was like Sophie's Choice and he bought me both. He's the best!

As usual I've become distracted from my purpose, which is to tell you how much I enjoyed this book. I started it Friday night. I'd just finished with a different book and wanted to read a few pages of something new before drifting off to sleep. So I plucked this beautiful, luscious-looking hardcover from my Future Reads shelf . . . and read 70 pages. And though it can take me weeks to finish a book these days, here it is Sunday afternoon and I've already turned the last page.

My husband and I had both previously read (and loved) O'Farrell's After You'd Gone, and ever since, I've been intending to read something else of hers. (As well as thoroughly intending to pick up AYG again at some point.) Tops on my list was The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox, after reading about it here, but as I hadn't been proactive enough to procure a copy of that one yet, Heatwave squeezed its way in front.

I kind of love this book's dust jacket, and I must say I much prefer its look to this cover, but what's inside is even better. From a limited perspective the story might be viewed as your run-of-the-mill window on a slightly dysfunctional family--one of many books that may differ in details but is really just a re-telling of the same old story. The general premise, though interesting, is not in itself earth-shattering: three grown siblings, Irish by birth but raised in London, are brought back together when their father disappears. But this over-simplification does not do the book justice. It is borne above the crowd by the triumvirate of excellent writing, indelible characters with an invigorating synergy, and the draw of secrets. Because it's not just about the disappearance of the father. Within that larger mystery are wrapped countless smaller ones, each just as intriguing as the last.

If I had three thumbs, they would all be pointing up: one to say this book is a keeper, one to say I would re-read it, and one to say I can heartily recommend it to you--after two caveats: first, you may want to look up the pronunciation of the name Aoife before you start reading. Unless you're Irish, in which case you probably already know it. (The pronunciation is described in the book, but if you're as impatient as me, you may find it's not soon enough.) And second: be prepared for the disappointment of never knowing what Gabe wrote at the airport. Unless it's one of those things that's obvious to everyone but me, in which case you'll probably figure it out on your own. (And when you do, please tell me!)

“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. 

“Never Anyone But You” by Rupert Thomson

I hate it when this happens. I don't even remember when I finished reading this book--two weeks ago? Three? And here I am only now getting around to blogging about it. 

I remember that I really enjoyed reading this book; it's very well written, and a compelling narrative. I remember it wasn't one of my favorites of all time, but it also wasn't one of those I found it hard to get into. I also remember being impressed that it's basically a true story, albeit one I had previously been completely unfamiliar with. 

The book is an intimate portrait of Suzanne Malherbe (later Marcel Moore) and Lucie Schwob (later Claude Cahun), but it is also a broader chronicle of life in Europe, spanning the time from before the first world war until after the second. 

Lucie and Suzanne first meet as teenagers, and they immediately feel a powerful connection. From that moment on, their love--facilitated by the fact that they end up as stepsisters--is strong and enduring, even if not perfect or reliably happy. Both artistic in their own way, they spend the interwar years in the exhilarating bohemian circles of Paris. By the beginning of the Second World War, they are living a more tranquil and private life on the Isle of Jersey, but hostilities soon encroach as the Nazis occupy the island. 

The history-driven plot is never the point of the book, though. Its true weight lies in the relationship between Lucie and Suzanne.

"Always Looking Up: The Adventures of an Incurable Optimist" by Michael J. Fox

Yeeees, another library book. When will I learn? Probably about the time I finish up my TBR list. Which means probably about never.

I read about this book in Reader's Digest. Like any good little American girl who grew up mostly in the 80s, I had a great big ol' crush on Alex Keaton. (That is, until I found out that Michael J. Fox was, like, old. Not that my "chances" for getting a date with him would have improved much had we been closer in age.) My former crush on still-boyishly-handsome Fox, in combination with my own incurable (or, to some, unendurable) optimism, made me snatch up this book as soon as I saw it on the shelf at my local library.

This book is basically a memoir that spans the past 10 years of Fox's life. It is divided into four sections: work, politics, faith and family. Fox later describes these as his four pillars. This got me to thinking. (And, by the way, I absolutely love it when a book manages to do that). What are the pillars of my life? I would definitely describe two of mine as faith and family, but so far I haven't really been able to decide what else in my life might be described as a pillar. (All I know is "politics" and "work" would not be it for me). I am a little bit uncomfortable with the idea of a two-pillar life, because that doesn't seem stable enough; but at the moment, nothing else comes to mind that has the robust aspect of a pillar. I will have to ruminate further on that point. So, back to my thoughts on the book.

During the first of four sections ("Work"), as I read about the Fox family's vacation in Provence and Paris, I found myself alternating between annoyance at the offhand way he was tossing out references to his amazingly posh life, and nearly salivating at this opportunity to sneak a glimpse into the Real Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. Hanging out with Lance Armstrong and Robin Williams? Check. Living for several weeks in a French villa actually owned by literal royalty? Check. Flying from Paris to New York in three hours the day before the deadly crash that ended the era of the Concorde? Oh my gosh! But, check.

Most of the "work" section centered around Fox's transition from actor to Parkinson's activist. I was a little bit disapointed that, though he writes about the vast sums of money that the Michael J. Fox Foundation has poured into research, he mentions nothing about any sort of success or headway towards finding a cure. I would have been interested in reading at least a few scientific details, even if they only led towards dead ends or an uncertain future.

The "work" section segued neatly into the "politics" section, as stem cell research has been a ray of hope (for Parkinson's patients as well as many others) while also quite politically charged. I was impressed by how respectful Fox was of those whose political ideology differs from his. I am not interested in using this forum to express my political leanings, but Fox's desire to have restrictions lifted from stem cell research is such a common theme throughout the book that it caused me to attempt to solidify and define my previously amorphous stance on the topic. Here is what I find I have to say: First, I believe the (however unlikely) possibility of growing actual entire humans for use as replacement parts is unethical, but I don't think those who advocate stem cell research are suggesting that this be done. I am all for legislature to keep this from happening in the future, and though Fox doesn't actually come out and say so, I feel certain he would think the same way. Second, if in vitro fertilization is not wrong, how can using the byproducts (excess embryos which would be discarded anyway) be wrong? Yeah, I know that my stance is still pretty amorphous, but at least it's not nonexistant.

Where I find I do disagree with Fox somewhat is in his support of political candidates who are pro-stem-cell-research based solely on that issue. Sure, it's not like we have Hitler running for office here, but it's kind of like my discomfort with having only two "life pillars." Supporting a candidate based on only one "pillar" is not to my liking. On the other hand, I bet I would feel differently if stem cell research struck closer to home for me.

All in all, from what I gathered in reading this book, Michael J. Fox seems like a geuninely good guy with his feet on the ground and his head in the right place. It's encouraging to see someone with so much passion and drive in his position. Even if I am jealous about the castle in Provence.

“Tom Lake” by Ann Patchett

I just finished reading Ann Patchett's pandemic project, which causes my own (paint-by-number) to pale in comparison. (Actually I'm not sure that Patchett really wrote this book during lockdown, but it was partially set then.) 

First, I just want to ask: How in the world did Ann Patchett publish a new book and I had no idea it was coming? I didn't even hear a peep about it before I saw it on the shelf at Target two weeks ago. I must be reading the wrong news. Although I did feel a bit better when I saw it was only released on August 1st, so it's not as if it's been out there for months. 

I'll tell you a secret, though. I didn't buy it when I saw it at Target. You know why? I don't like the dust jacket. It looks so shiny and cheap! I thought surely it was just the shiny cheap Target version and figured I would find a nicer one to buy online. But nope, this is it. Shiny and cheap. But you know what they say about books and their covers, and that's, like, a thousand percent true here.

Because this book is super awesome. I enjoyed reading it so, so much. It tells the story of Lara (formerly Laura) Kenison, one-time ingenue who starred in a famous movie but ended up finding her happiness and her life on a cherry farm in Michigan. During the summer of 2020, when all three of her twenty-something daughters have come home to weather out the pandemic and help with the harvest, Lara finds herself telling them of that long-ago summer at Tom Lake when she played Emily in a summer stock production of Our Town. And whereas the story of that summer alone could have been a novel, here is where Ann Patchett reveals her genius: what might have been melodramatic or cloying if told on its own becomes so much more when viewed through the hazy lens of time and nostalgia. It's a gripping story, and as I read I almost felt like I was Lara's fourth daughter. I was definitely absorbed by this book, which Sam can attest to after seeing me wander around the house with it glued to my face. 

SO here's something really weird. You know that I tend to read every single word in a book--especially books I really like--from the Advance Praise to the author's bio. So of course I noticed that Patchett's author photo in this book appears to have been taken in her bookstore, as do some of her previous author photos, but in this one I can see several stacks of multiple copies of the same book (not uncommon with new bestsellers in bookstores). One of these looked so familiar to me--cream colored book, dark frame on the spine--so much so that I thought for sure I owned a copy of it. I literally scanned all my bookshelves looking for it, only to discover that no, I do not have a copy of this book, although Wicked and The Mysterious Benedict Society are probably the reasons I found it familiar-seeming. I figured that I needed to make like Elsa and let it go. BUT as I was scanning the interwebs just now to make SURE there isn't a less shiny and more luxurious-looking version of Tom Lake, I FIGURED IT OUT. It's Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver (which I don't have a copy of, but probably should). It's weird to me that that book just popped up in relation to Tom Lake. I wonder if there are other weirdos like me who had to know what book that was. And now they're inextricably linked. Or maybe it was just the Pulitzer thing.

The staycation continues! Well, for a few more hours, anyway . . .

"Mick Jagger" by Philip Norman and "Complicated Shadows: The Life and Music of Elvis Costello" by Graeme Thomson

I've been on a rock star binge in the last few weeks. The Jagger biography was a birthday present from Kathy, the Costello one something I got myself because I've been listening to his first four albums a lot recently in my car and wondering about that period in the late 70s and early 80s when he was so incredibly prolific while at the same time being out of his head on drinks and drugs.

I've always been fascinated by that combination of creative flood and hedonistic frenzy, and particularly involving artists from my two favorite eras in pop music: 1965-70 and 1977-82. I'd already read Philip Norman's biographies of The Beatles and John Lennon, and the Fab Four are perhaps the ultimate example of what I'm talking about: startlingly young men (George Harrison was still only 27 when The Beatles SPLIT UP!) who were ingesting ludicrous quantities of mind-altering drugs, going through traumatic relationships, turning from best friends into enemies, dealing with the most intense levels of fame any working-class people had ever experienced, and somehow, at the same time, writing and recording some of the best music ever made.

The Stones and Elvis Costello weren't quite on the same plane, either in terms of fame or music, but they weren't too far off. The Stones made great singles, while Costello made great albums, and both lived in interesting times. So how could the books not be entertaining?

Well, the main problem is that Mike Jagger and Declan MacManus are both very private people, unwilling to talk to biographers and (I'm guessing) perfectly capable of ordering their friends and associates not to talk to biographers either.

One of these two writers overcame this problem, the other didn't.

Mick Jagger was a riot of a read, smoothly and amusingly written, full of stories and quotes and perfectly calibrated in terms of its concentration upon the most interesting years of Jagger's life (the 60s take up well over half of its 600 pages). Complicated Shadows, on the other hand...

OK, it wasn't completely uninteresting. There were a couple of gross/juicy tour stories and a reasonable amount of insight into the beginnings of the 'Elvis Costello' persona (the name was invented by the boss of Stiff Records; the 'angry young man' character was essentially an exaggeration of MacManus's natural personality). But there was so much missing! Call me nosy and vulgar if you like, but surely two of the main reasons people read rock biographies are to find out about the star's sex life and their bank account.

In 450 pages packed with information (we are given the set list for practically every gig he ever played, for God's sake!), I don't feel I got to know the real Declan MacManus at all, and certainly not what he was like in bed, or what his three wives were like, or how much money he (and how little the Attractions) made. It was as if Graeme Thomson was too discreet to divulge such crass facts. Either that, or no one talked. I get the impression, though, that he just had too much respect for his subject, that he wanted Elvis to read the biography and think, 'Well, actually that Graeme Thomson seems like a decent chap'.

Well, I don't care about him being a decent chap. He's a rock biographer! I don't want to read a muck-raking hatchet job (the reason I'm reading these books in the first place is because I'm a fan of their subjects), but I do want some juice, some dirt, some sense of what it was like to be there. It would also be nice to read prose that wasn't dry and clunky and full of clichés. And I must admit I have a serious problem with a professional writer who thanks someone in his acknowledgements for 'correcting my spelling, a task she has been performing since I was old enough to write' and then publishes a book that is FULL of spelling mistakes. I'm not kidding. One sentence sums up everything that is wrong with this book. This is pretty much all the insight we get into Costello's first wife and the mother of his eldest son: 'She was bright, loquacious, funny, temperemental (sic), with a bouyant (sic) sense of humour.' I don't know, maybe I'm being unfair - maybe Graeme is dyslexic - but in that case, FIND A PROOFREADER WHO ISN'T!

Philip Norman is probably the most famous (and best-paid) rock biographer in the world, and (this may just be down to the fact that I read Mick Jagger straight after reading Complicated Shadows, but...) I can see why. He's witty, detached (i.e. his tongue stays well away from his subject's arsehole) without being overly cynical, and he obviously has a bulging contacts book. It's hard to know to what extent the truth is embroidered here, of course, but the book felt plausible and authoritative, and - most importantly - it was never boring. And when you're dealing with a sexagenarian pop star who refuses to talk about the past, that is no mean feat.

"We Others" by Steven Millhauser

Discovering new authors that you love is great, but it's even better when you discover an old author you love -- because you don't have to wait for the next book to come out, you can just dive into the author's backlist. This has happened to me in recent years with James Ellroy and Patricia Highsmith, and now it's happened with the somewhat less famous Steven Millhauser. In all three cases, it was movie adaptations that drew me in: LA Confidential, The Talented Mr Ripley, and - in this case - The Illusionist, starring Edward Norton.

I rewatched The Illusionist recently and, curious about its source, read the credits and found out that it had been adapted from a short story by Steven Millhauser. I had never heard of Millhauser, though apparently he is now in his seventies and has won the Pulitzer Prize. He has written a few novels, but is more renowned as a short-story writer. I generally don't read many short stories. The only ones I can think of that I've ever really loved are by Kafka, Borges, Calvino and Poe, because, in all four cases, they're like novels or entire encyclopedias miraculously shrunk down into a few pages: the universe in a grain of sand. Now, guess who Millhauser's stories were compared to in the first review of him I read online? Kafka, Borges, Calvino and Poe!

So I bought We Others, which is a selection (by the author himself) of the best of his published short stories over a 30-year career, plus a collection of six new stories. And I loved it. Maybe not every single story. On the whole, I thought the shorter stories were by far the weaker: unlike Borges, for instance, Millhauser seems to need at least 12 pages to create a world and/or a narrative that really sucks you in, and his very best stories are more like 25-50 pages long. But at their best they are truly wondrous, and I am still thinking about several of them now, weeks after finishing this collection.

On the whole I would place him on the Borges/Calvino end of the supernatural fantasy spectrum: whimsical and miraculous rather than dark and gothic, though there are certainly some nicely dark moments here, particularly among the more recent stories. At his best he is subtly disturbing, haunting, but also inspiring, with just the right blend of fantasy and reality. His prose is beautiful and concise; it reads as though it's been lovingly polished, planed down to a perfect smoothness.

His stories tend to take place either in late 20th century America or in late 19th century Europe. Many of his characters are either inventors and illusionists  or ordinary adolescents, and he is equally deft at evoking fin-de-siecle Vienna or the porch gliders and suburban back lawns of what I assume was his own childhood. He also appears to have a thing for girls who push their sweater sleeves up to their elbows. I really enjoyed the recurrence of these autobiographical and obsessive details throughout these wildly different stories. Without them, the whole thing might have come across as an exercise in style, a little too abstract and intellectual, but with them you have a sense of his life and personality.

He can also be quite funny. A few of the stories reminded me of David Mitchell, who is one of my favorite contemporary novelists. The one that really lodged in my mind, though, was 'The Next Thing', a sort of dystopic vision of a world taken over by a brilliantly convenient company a bit like Amazon. It's all too plausible, and it's made me feel guilty every time I've pressed 'BUY IT NOW' recently. But given that I discovered and bought this book on Amazon, I guess I'm not quite ready to give up the habit altogether.

“Intermezzo” by Sally Rooney

Terrible news. I finished reading this book two weeks ago but never blogged about it. And now… I definitely haven’t forgotten about it, but nothing is fresh on my mind. Here's what I can dredge up from the muck: I enjoyed reading it, as expected where Sally Rooney is concerned, but for me it wasn't on the same level as Conversations with Friends or Normal People. It's OK, that's a high bar. And it's solidly on par with Beautiful World, Where Are You. (Although I just reread my blog posts for those three books, which made me think maybe I didn't love the experience of reading Normal People as much as my obviously almost non-existent memory tells me I loved it.)

To me, this book had less in the way of so-high-level-as-to-be-almost-unbelievably-intelligent conversations between characters. (Or maybe these conversations were so expected in a Sally Rooney book that I didn't even notice them this time around?) Which helped in the arena of not making me feel inferior. Not that the characters were idiots or anything--there were still a lot of really high IQs floating around--but they found other paths to superiority (like world-class chess skills and incredible beauty). 

I must admit I did not reach critical mass with this book, but that's OK too. I don't have to be desperate to finish a book in order to enjoy it. It's actually kind of a relief to be able to put a book down any time I need to. And I definitely did not have to force my way through, which is never a good indication.  

Books-A-Million is my Kryptonite . . .

. . . and my kids are fully aware of that fact. One could even say they exploit my weakness. I should know better than to even go in there anymore, especially with my kids.

During my last trip to B-A-M (a post-book-club sortie), I managed to leave without spending any money (a minor miracle!) even though I carried a pair of books around with me for a good long while, fully intending to buy them. I bet the poor things were so disappointed when I put them back on the shelf and left without them.

Tonight, I was not so lucky. Tonight I was not able to resist the inexorable pull of the printed word. Tonight, books were leaping off the shelves left and right, directly into my waiting hands.

First to make the jump: The Railway Children by E. Nesbit. Yes, yes, I know I could have downloaded this onto my Kindle for free. In fact, I probably already have, though I haven't read it yet. But what a cute little Puffin Classic edition, and only $5 (without even being on sale)!

If I'm going to mention E. Nesbit, though, I might as well go on and confess: I don't believe I've ever yet read any of her books. I've been meaning to read something of hers for years, ever since The Magician's Nephew name-dropped the Bastables (though don't ask me how I figured out who the Bastables were. This was long before Google came on the scene). Anyway, I'm planning to LOVE this book, and I might even share it with my children.

The City of Ember by Jeanne DuPrau quickly followed. I've somehow become convinced that I need to read this entire series, though I can't recall who to credit that notion to. This seems to be an intriguing combination of The Matrix and The Giver. I'd definitely like to engage in a bit of read-the-book/see-the-movie with this one.

THEN I managed to find two books labeled "Buy 1, Get 1 FREE!" and they were both only $2.97! I must admit I selected them with my children in mind (even more so than the previous two), but I have a feeling I will enjoy them as well. First is A Taste for Red by Lewis Harris, a very tongue-in-cheek-sounding story about new sixth-grader Svetlana Grimm, who is afraid she might be a vampire. Yeah, I know, vampires are overdone these days. But an eleven-year-old vampire? That lends a slightly new twist to the trope (if you haven't read Let the Right One In). And I love the cover!

The second book in my BOGO offer was Bad, Bad Darlings: Small but Deadly by Sam Llewellyn. What caught my eye was (yet again!) the cover, not to mention the price tag. But what sold me on the book was the idea of a family of thieves attempting to abandon their old lifestyle. Why on earth shouldn't their first step be to set sail on the good ship Kleptomaniac? Throw in a little bit of a Gilligan's Island situation, and it sounds like something my kids and I can all love.

With four books already in hand, I figured I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. So I purposefully tracked down one of the two books I'd narrowly avoided buying a few weeks ago: This is Where I Leave You by Jonathan Tropper. I'm not sure exactly what draws me to this book, but Greg's glowing review didn't hurt. And I'm quite fond of the little tree on the cover.

Too bad I can't remember which other book I'd been planning to buy during my previous B-A-M trip. Actually, it's probably a good thing I couldn't remember, or I would have ended up buying yet another book tonight.

This last book wasn't my selection, but it could have been, based on cover and title alone. Bookworm Child picked out The Last Invisible Boy by Evan Kuhlman. I'm pretty sure I'll be borrowing it when she's through, especially if she gives me her irresistible "You have GOT to read this" line.

I'll spare you the details on the other three books I bought (a HALO book for Oldest Boy and a Scooby Doo zombie book, of all things, for Littlest Girl). I also added a cute little Halloween picture book called The Copycat Costume to the stack.

I did manage to refuse renewal of my B-A-M discount card. I really didn't want to spend $20 to save $5 (though this perspective doesn't take future savings into account). Besides, I probably need to wait long enough for my card to expire again before I go on another book shopping spree!