Bring Up the Bodies

The intrigues of the court of England's King Henry VIII have long been rich source material for novelists and screenwriters. Centuries later, Henry remains one of England's most famous monarchs, noted for his break with the Roman Catholic Church and his six wives. Henry's reign provides ample excitement to fuel the plots of a modern soap opera, but in Hilary Mantel's novels, the sexual politics are primarily background for a languid psychological drama.

The second volume in a proposed trilogy, Bring Up the Bodies continues the story of Henry's court as told through the perspective of his chief counselor, Thomas Cromwell. This is a character study of a specialist in character study, as Cromwell achieves and retains his position through his keen ability to assess the motivations, strengths and frailties of his acquaintances and generally manipulate these to his advantage.

In Wolf Hall, Cromwell was presented sympathetically. A devoted father, grieving husband, steadfast friend, generous employer, he was kind to those in need and generally a good guy. Sure, he plays power politics masterfully, but as he rises to prominence in Henry's government, his primary motivation seems to be to act for the good of England. Happily for Cromwell's household, what's good for England is what's good for Cromwell.

The first volume chronicled Henry's seven-year campaign to set aside his first wife, Catherine of Aragon, for Anne Boleyn, a marriage that was not sanctioned by the Catholic Church and thus severed England's ties with Rome. As the second book begins, Henry is beginning to tire of Anne and cast his eyes on the quiet Jane Seymour, a lady-in-waiting to the Queen. Cromwell, ever sensitive to his monarch's desires, engineers the downfall of Anne and a few men of the court whom Cromwell resents. A darker side of the man now emerges. That he treats his friends well no longer compensates for the persecution of his enemies, even as he rationalizes to himself that those he has convicted of crimes are guilty even if they are innocent of the particular charges.

Mantel's prose is lovely, and Bring Up the Bodies is a shorter, faster read than Wolf Hall, but I think I more enjoyed the first volume, which was richer in period details. Without as many descriptions of household management to distract me, I was more immersed in the political maneuverings and ever on the alert to discern the mistakes in judgement that would lead to Cromwell's eventual downfall. But that will have to wait for volume three.

A Discovery of Witches

The last of my pleasant summer reads was surprisingly diverting, the surprise because I continued to read it after discovering it was a vampire romance novel. The entire genre has previously caused me to snort with contempt. In my 50 years, I've read only one book involving vampires, a well-reviewed Anne Rice novel, and that was so long ago I can't recall the title. I've fastidiously avoided even learning what the "Twilight" series is about beyond an inescapable awareness that it involves teen vampires.

I suppose if a vampire romance is to appeal to a middle-aged book snob it helps if it is written by a middle-aged professor of history, and so Deborah Harkness' A Discovery of Witches was my discovery that maybe vampires could be romantic after all. Previously, the blood-drinking habits of a vampire would be sufficient for me to disqualify him as a romantic hero, but I had not considered the compensatory charms that can be accrued in an exceptionally long life. Imagine a man who has lived for centuries and shows up for dinner with a bottle of 1811 Chateau Yquem that he purchased from the estate the year it was made. The library at his castle in France is filled with rare first editions, many inscribed to him by the authors. Among the treasures is a Gutenberg Bible, a first printing of On the Origin of the Species with a personal letter from Darwin tucked in, and a folio of handwritten manuscripts titled "Will's Playes." Perhaps I, too, could overlook his thirst for blood. Besides, it's not like he needs to drink that all the time!

Reading this novel over the lazy Labor Day weekend provided me the opportunity to consider the essential attributes of the romantic hero. In high school, when my adult literary tastes had not yet developed, I devoured those formulaic Harlequin romances. The hero was always handsome, fabulously wealthy and not as arrogant as he first seems. I will not argue with those who say that every romance writer since Jane Austen has been attempting to recreate her Mr. Darcy.

As I was trying to account for my enchantment with the dashing, 1500-year-old Matthew Clairmont that chained me to my front porch with a book for the entirety of summer's last long weekend, I became aware of what may be a universal characteristic of the romantic hero that previously had escaped my notice. In every romantic novel that has charmed me (as well as millions of other women), be it from an erudite writer such as Harkness or a churn-them-out dimestore novelist, the hero is a protector. (Hear me out; this isn't about rescuing the damsel in distress.) In my personal memory bank of romantic literary heroes, I can think of some exceptions to the rule of handsome (Colonel Brandon in Sense and Sensibility) and several exceptions to the rule of wealthy (Peeta in The Hunger Games, Jamie Fraser in the Outlander series), but I can't think of a single book with a significant female following in which the hero does not protect the heroine, even when she is more than capable of taking care of herself.

Most of our contemporary heroines have no need of a knight in shining armor. They are not Jane Austen's gentle ladies who are prevented by social customs from earning their own way in the world. Our daughters read about Katniss Everdeen, whose skill with a bow helps her feed her family and eventually overthrow her despotic government. Katniss both protects and is protected; she exceeds Peeta in every survival skill except charm, yet Peeta's self-appointed raison d'etre through three books is to safeguard Katniss. (She also protects Peeta, although not with the same single-mindedness). The Outlander's Claire is a woman of courage and accomplishment, yet Jamie is her unrelenting bulwark against a hostile world. Midway through the series, Claire and daughter Brianna are discussing career callings, and Brianna asks Claire what her father's calling is. Claire answers (paraphrasing), "He's a man."

Jamie and Claire

Protection need not involve a sword or a vampiric bite on the neck of a witch who dared offend his lady love. Recall Mr. Darcy, the model of the romantic gentleman, who is Elizabeth's shield against malicious gossip, whether he is silencing it with a sharp remark to Mr. Bingley's catty sister or saving the Bennet family from social disgrace by arranging the foolish Lydia's marriage. The hero provides the form of protection needed.

This protectiveness is rooted and powered in the unselfishness of love, putting the beloved's interests ahead of your own, which may partially explain the magnetism of these stories. But self-sacrifice isn't enough; results matter. An incompetent champion will not do.

Since my teen years, the most frustrating love triangle in literature for me has been Scarlett-Rhett-Ashley. Scarlett is Katniss' spiritual great-grandmother. She doesn't need rescuing, despite often being in distress. Scarlett takes care of herself and everyone else, turning to Rhett on only a couple of occasions when she gets in over her head. My frustration is with Scarlett's obsession with the vapid Ashley, who in every respect save one is the ideal romantic character: handsome, intelligent, honorable, kind, thoughtful, loving. The missing element? He can't protect her! He can't manage anything! Scarlett rescues Ashley repeatedly; he gives her nothing but lovely speeches and shattered dreams. We may believe Ashley loves Scarlett and spurns her for noble reasons involving duty and honor, that perhaps he is even acting in her best interests as he recognizes their ultimate incompatibility. But we aren't moved by this type of self-sacrifice. Rhett, by contrast, will defy public opinion for Scarlett. He'll steal a horse for her and, we suspect, commit murder. Rhett is the competent hero, and woe to Scarlett that she can't see it in time.

Many years ago, my husband I took a weekend class based on the popular book, Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus. The lesson centered on a primary distinction between men and women. According to the author, when women talk to men about a problem they are having, men want to offer a solution, but all women really want is for them to listen. This may be true in our real lives, but our most popular romantic fiction suggests our fantasies play by other rules.

A Breath of Snow and Ashes

I'll remember the summer of 2014 as my summer of Outlander. In three months, I read the first six books in the series, spent an enjoyable evening listening to author Diana Gabaldon at the Traverse City Opera House during her National Writers Series appearance, and got hooked on the television adaptation on Starz. I could've finished all eight books by this Labor Day weekend if I had not decided to give myself a break and do something else. I'll continue with the next book soon.

With regard to the television series, the casting director nailed it with Sam Heughan. I predict he'll do for Jamie Fraser what Colin Firth did for Mr. Darcy.  

One would think that after some 6,000 pages of Jamie and Claire, I would be tiring of this couple. Not even close. If anything, the length of the novels -- which is largely due to Ms. Gabaldon's attention to the details of the world she's created -- makes the reading experience even more immersive and difficult to abandon. Ms. Gabaldon writes well and her fascinating characters are so alive they become friends. OK, I exaggerate, but only slightly.

I enjoyed book six, A Breath of Snow and Ashes, as much as the previous five, and I want to hurry up with my "break book" so I can check out book seven.

The Magicians

As the last novel in Lev Grossman's trilogy has been released to rave reviews, I decided to read the first in the series, The Magicians. Some describe this novel as "Harry Potter in college," and that's not a bad tagline for the plot. Imagine more cynical versions of Harry, Ron, Hermione and friends at college with the concerns of that age group: drugs, alcohol and sex, with only magical studies to differentiate them from their peers at, say, Dartmouth.

As the story begins, Quentin, the main character, is preparing for his Princeton interview but is instead offered an opportunity to enroll in a mysterious magical college. Of course, he accepts and the rest of the story concerns his adventures at Brakebills, hidden in upstate New York and reached through magical portals.

But Brakebills is not Hogwarts, and Quentin is not embarked on a quest to save the magical world from an evil wizard. Indeed, Quentin has no quest at all, which contributes to his general sense of dissatisfaction and unhappiness. As a child, Quentin became obsessed with a series of books set in the fantasy world of Fillory (basically C.S. Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia). We learn of this obsession at the very beginning of the story, and if this novel has a theme, here it is:

"But there was a more seductive, more dangerous truth to Fillory that Quentin couldn't let go of. It was almost like the Fillory books -- especially the first one, The World in the Walls -- were about reading itself. When the oldest Chatwin, melancholy Martin, opens the cabinet of the grandfather clock that stands in a dark, narrow back hallway in his aunt's house and slips through into Fillory (Quentin always pictured him awkwardly pushing aside the pendulum, like the uvula of a monstrous throat), it's like he's opening the covers of a book, but a book that did what books always promised to do and never actually did: get you out, really out of where you were and into somewhere better."

Therein lies the heart of Quentin's journey into self-discovery, and one I look forward to reading more about in the second book of the trilogy.

 

Rebuilding the Foodshed

The selection for this quarter's community resiliency read, Rebuilding the Foodshed by college professor Philip Ackerman-Leist combined optimism with a reality check. My friend Diane's review of it is much better than any I could write, so all I need to do is decide what to cook for the potluck.

The Fiery Cross

The fifth installment in the Outlander series, The Fiery Cross is definitely slower-paced than the preceding four, and perhaps if I had begun reading the novels as they were released, I would have been disappointed to wait three or four years for more breathless Jamie-Claire adventures only to be find them nearly collapsing into the rocking chairs on the porch of their 1770s Appalachian homestead. There's still plenty of drama and passion to be had wherever this duo finds themselves, but in this novel, their creator gives them a little time to enjoy the ordinary pleasures of home and community, and after reading the previous four novels in the span of eight weeks, I was happy to catch my breath as well.

Diana Gabaldon is such a fine storyteller and writes her characters so vividly that even the details of potty training on the frontier can charm and engage the reader. And this particular novel is an exemplary exercise in storytelling. Many of the supporting characters -- and there are legions of them -- get a chance to tell their own stories by campfire or hearthside. I can imagine this novel being serialized in a 19th century newspaper or magazine, or being read by Mrs. March to her daughters as was "Pilgrim's Progress" in Little Women. This is a novel for people who enjoy stories that unfold slowly.

The Third Plate

This week, my newsfeed had a trailer for a documentary that apparently blasts some of the leading environmental organizations for failure to rail against hamburgers. Several other headlines informed me that eating beef results in more greenhouse emissions than driving a car, apparently extrapolating from a study recently published in the journal Climatic Change. And Elizabeth Kolbert writes in the New Yorker of her week-long experiment with the trendy paleo diet and laments the damage so much meat eating could have on the climate.

Never in human history have we been presented with such an an abundance of food choices as at the average U.S. supermarket, and never before have we seen so much hand-wringing about what to eat. As Dan Barber reminds us in The Third Plate, only a few generations ago, human diets were largely restricted to what the local region produced. Cuisine and culture were intrinsically linked to place.

In recent years, the farm-to-table movement featuring prominent chefs such as Mr. Barber, has sought to reacquaint diners with the sources of their food. Farmers' markets have proliferated and the term"locavore" is in the dictionary. In my small town, several restaurants proudly list the nearby farms and producers contributing to their menus.

Yet the resulting "second plate" of farm-to-table goodness still closely resembles the "first plate" it aimed to replace, which at the American table is meat-centric and flanked by a limited supporting cast. Mr. Barber envisions a "third plate" representing a sort of nose-to-tail for the whole farm, incorporating and starring crops that currently may not be beloved, or even known, to diners but are important to the ecology of the land. Chefs, he says, can use their skills to create demand for these oft-discarded goodies, from the bycatch of tuna nets to the cover crops of wheat fields.

Few chefs are better positioned to expound on this than Mr. Barber, who incorporates a farm and educational center as part of his flagship restaurant north of New York City. Nearly all of his journeys to investigate spectacular foodstuffs result in an experimental planting or livestock introduction at the farm, and the mouth-watering prose in which he describes these experiments may have some readers vowing to never again cook polenta until they, too, can get their hands on some Eight Row Flint corn.

If this planet is to support 9 billion humans by mid-century without absolutely devastating every other species, we must get over our predilection to "eat high on the hog." Unfortunately, so many previous calls to mend our dietary ways -- whether the motive is to improve health, environment, economy or even mood -- have led many to equate virtuous eating with limitation. Mr. Barber, thankfully, is an immensely talented chef who refuses to sacrifice flavor for virtue, and he makes a convincing case (one I wish I could taste for myself at his restaurant) that such a compromise is unnecessary.

Now to size up a plot in my backyard for a patch of wheat.

The Circle

I suspect Dave Eggers does not like the internet, and after reading The Circle, I'm reassessing my online habits to ensure I'm not under the spell of a cyber Pied Piper. While this novel isn't quite successful as a novel, it will provoke some thoughts on privacy in the digital age, the power we've ceded to giant tech companies, and the danger of embracing new technologies without scrutiny or limits.

Major new technologies have always been disruptive. If I could time travel into the past to stop an invention before it got out of control, I would bring photos of clogged freeways to 1908 and try to persuade Henry Ford to rethink his Model T. Other denizens of the 21st century might prefer to slow or stop the Industrial Revolution; some yearn for a pre-agricultural existence. It is impossible to know for certain which aspects of the Information Age our descendants in the next century will wish had never happened. Mr. Eggers is not alone in finding the ubiquity of social media obnoxious, but it could be a passing fad and its most significant legacy our collective and voluntarily surrendered privacy.

Of course, thanks to the internet, many summaries and reviews of this novel are easily accessible, so I'll forego a rehashing of the plot, which is thin. More attention is given to the theme of seductive-and-ever-encroaching-cyberstate than to character development or plotting. The internet-bashing theme is not subtle or nuanced, and that could be off-putting to readers who prefer novels that don't bludgeon them with a message.

Despite its length, this was an easy weekend read and I was engaged with the story, mostly because I was expecting something exciting to happen just ahead. In that, I was disappointed. Still, I don't regret reading it. A little examination of our personal and cultural relationships with digital technology couldn't hurt.

Drums of Autumn

Notice: knitting content ahead!

I don't know what else to say about Diana Gabaldon's Outlander series, so I'll just note that I've finished the fourth book, Drums of Autumn. I'm sure to read the next one after I catch up on some non-fiction titles due back at the library soon.

All of this reading about Scotland has made me desperately want to visit that country and has put me in the mind of Scottish-related activities, such as knitting. [In the last book, Jamie taught Claire to knit, because is there anything Jamie can't do?]  Scotland has a vibrant knitting tradition and is home to one of my favorite pattern designers, Alice Starmore. Recalling that I have yarn for one of her fisherman sweaters, I'm eager to begin work on it. But I have that pesky cardigan to finish first.

So last night, during a bad movie I didn't finish, I picked up my knitting bag and attempted to make my progress on the unpleasant sweater. I've gone too far to abandon it. Only the sleeves and finishing remain.

Incidentally, the bad movie was Highlander. I saw it on a list of films featuring Scotland, but it wasn't my kind of thing.

And finally, I've managed a post with all three topics: knitting, books and movies!

Happy City

I'm now in the second half of my 2014 challenge to read a book a week and I'm slightly ahead of pace, which is fortuitous as the next three books in my queue range from 450 to 900 pages.

Of this year's (so far) 28 completed books, the tome I just finished is the only one I wish I could force all of my fellow citizens to read. Those of us interested in urbanism have been schooled in the benefits of shaping our cities to a scale suited for humans rather than designing them to facilitate motorized traffic. Human-scaled cities, in which the tyranny of cars is minimized so that residents feel comfortable navigating public space, can reduce pollution, improve health, and save money. In Happy City, Canadian writer Charles Montgomery focuses on another benefit that is often overlooked: good urban design can make us happier.

bike rack, St. Paul, Minn.

Drawing on the findings of psychologists and sociologists as well as designers, architects, planners and philosophers, Montgomery considers both the large and small elements of design contributing to well-being. That happiness is increased when the view out the window is a lovely body of water rather than a cement wall will come as no surprise. But quite likely, very few people are aware that the arrangement of windows and doors in buildings will impact their comfort and enjoyment when walking by at street level, or that the height and layout of living spaces can influence residents' relationships with each other.

As in most books and articles touching on the movement known as New Urbanism, suburbia does not get much love in Happy City. However, Montgomery refrains from vilifying sprawl. He notes that some people enjoy suburban living and he does not condemn that preference. The family with the one-acre lot on a cul de sac in Rockville is just as entitled to their happiness as are the apartment denizens of Dupont Circle (my example). However, as other writers have argued, Montgomery agrees that urban dwellers should not be subsidizing the inefficiencies of sprawl, and the gap between supply and demand of housing in walkable communities needs to be reduced so that this choice is available to more who want it.

Montgomery travels the world to highlight places where human-scaled design interventions have met with utilitarian success such as Bogota, Vancouver, Portland, London, and, of course, Copenhagen [note to self: must stop googling Danish immigration policies]. Ultimately, this is a call for citizen activism (with a supporting website), to inspire neighbors and "citadins" that the road to happiness is more easily walked together.

Dragonfly in Amber

I fear I'm on the path to insanity.

Last month in my review of Outlander, the first in a series of eight (so far) extremely lengthy time-travel romance novels by Diana Gabaldon, I confessed to having the second book on hold at the library already. I went through the nearly 800 pages of Dragonfly in Amber like it was a box of See's dark California brittle and I'm already half-way through the third. I'm hopelessly addicted and I suspect I will read little else until I've finished the series, plus the accompanying novellas and short stories. I'm also planning to upgrade my cable service to include STARZ so I can watch the televised series beginning in August.

I won't write a summary of any of these books because such blurbs are widely available on the internet and can be spoilers. I'll limit my remarks to my opinions. Dragonfly was even more of a can't-put-down read than Outlander, and -- a warning to those who haven't read it yet but might -- it ends on a cliffhanger which will compel the reader to immediately begin Voyager.

Enough writing. I must get back to reading.

A History of the World in 10 1/2 Chapters

I'm going to be lazy and not write about this strange "novel" by Julian Barnes, mostly because I don't feel competent to review it. I liked it very much, and it's undoubtedly clever. That's all I have to say!

Outlander

In my teen years, the bulk of my pleasure reading was romance novels, but with the notable exception of Jane Austen, I abandoned those after discovering the joys of literary fiction in college. If I had an inkling that Outlander was a bodice ripper, I doubt I would have checked it out. It only came to my attention because I have tickets to see the author at her upcoming and sold-out appearance in my town next month, and I wanted to know what all the fuss was about.

Part fantasy (the main character travels through time), part historical fiction, the novel is somewhat atypical of the romance genre, and the writing is better than most. However, it did strain my credulity at times even though I understand the convention in these stories is for the hero to always be rushing to the damsel's rescue at the last possible moment. The numerous narrow escapes from danger might be excessive even in a Hollywood action movie.

I have many nits to pick with this book, but perhaps I would be wise to judge it by its peers and note that the works of Hilary Mantel are not among those peers. This is light, albeit lengthy, entertainment. It is a diversion, if one is not too appalled by the prolific sex and violence, all of which receives absolution from a priest before the story ends. Despite the annoyances, I've already put the sequel on my holds list at the library. It's summer, after all.

Mr. Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore

Of the 23 books I've read so far this year, Mr. Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore was the most entertaining. It was exactly the diverting and fun tale I needed after so much heavy lifting from the other pages I've turned recently.

I don't know if author Robin Sloan grew up playing video games and reading fantasy novels, but I suspect he did as his narrator and main character, Clay Jannon, is attuned to the realm of wizards, warlocks, warriors and rogues, although their representatives in the novel tend to work at Google rather than reside in Middle Earth. As the late shift clerk in the strangest bookstore in San Francisco, if not the world, Clay sees his role in the mystery unfolding before him as a quest given him by a wizard, the eponymous bookstore owner.

This novel has mystery, adventure, secret societies, the parrots of Telegraph Hill, film special effects artists, knitting, friendship, romance, books, cyber-wizardry, and nerdy cocktails, yet it has no dark villain. The only character who could even remotely be considered a villain is nothing more than a disappointed and inflexible business executive. The other characters are uniformly endearing. Clay gets by with a little help from his friends, a Bay area collection of high tech superheroes. (One moral in the story: if, during your childhood or adolescence, you befriend the weird kid who sits alone at lunch, you will not regret it later!). The "quest" brings these 20-something tech wizards into the company of an eccentric group of scholars who are perhaps still dazzled by the invention of the Gugenheim press.

Sloan's writing is sharp, intelligent and witty, infused with wonder at the magic of human creativity and invention, whether the product is books or self-driving cars. Mr. Penumbra's reminds us that the world is still full of interesting things to discover. As Clay would say: cool.

My Life in Middlemarch

When I added My Life in Middlemarch to my list after reading glowing reviews, I expected to encounter something similar to Julie and Julia for the bookish set. Since I've only seen the film version of the latter, I can't adequately judge if this is a valid comparison, but the first parallel I noted was that each author's famous muse steals the show.

Rebecca Mead, a writer for The New Yorker, has penned this extraordinary memoir about her lifelong relationship with George Eliot's masterpiece, which some critics consider the greatest English novel. Mead combines biography, literary criticism, travelogue and personal reflection to explore the impact a single book can have on a reader. Yet Mead keeps herself in the shadows and the spotlight focused on Eliot.

Mead brings herself into the story somewhat reticently, as if she dares not suggest to her audience she is worthy of sharing a stage with Eliot. While this humility is to her credit, I would have liked to get to know Mead a bit better and understand why this novel, of the hundreds she has undoubtedly read, spoke so strongly to her for three decades.

I did not first read Middlemarch at age 17 as did Mead. My high school experience with Eliot was Silas Marner, which like most of my classmates, I did not appreciate at the time. As a teen, I would've found Middlemarch slightly less tedious than Silas Marner only because it had a bit of romance. I would've been enchanted by the dashing Will Ladislaw and, had I become bored with the other inhabitants of Middlemarch, skipped to the end to find out if he and Dorothea managed to get together.

I was in my 40s when I finally read Middlemarch, but even with three additional decades of maturity, I still did not successfully mine it for profound insights as Mead did, so I'm grateful to have her as a thoughtful and articulate guide to its nuances and I look forward to re-reading it in my 50s.

Kitchen Literacy

Kitchen Literacy reads almost like a dissertation and has the copious endnotes to complete this presentation of research on the evolution of the American meal from colonial times to the present. Historian Ann Valeisis' goal, as noted in the subtitle, is to explain "how we lost knowledge of where food comes from and why we need to get it back."

Valeisis begins in colonial New England with Martha Ballard, a herbalist and midwife who kept a detailed diary of her daily life and work. Everything eaten by Martha's family was produced on their farm or a neighbor's. In the next few decades, industrialization -- particularly the advent of rail -- begins to distance Americans from the source of their food, and the process accelerates in the 20th century as more people move to cities and suburbs.

The author provides much detail, some of which can seem repetitive or distracting and warrants skimming. The last chapter -- the prescription for restoring kitchen literacy -- will not be a newsflash to anyone even marginally acquainted with the work of Alice Waters, Michael Pollan, the Organic Consumers Association, the Slow Food movement, etc.: buy organic, patronize farmer's markets, cook, plant a garden and avoid heavily processed foods.

If the reader needs additional incentive for doing those things, Valeisis provides it with a history of food regulation and consumer protection in the 20th century. Reading about the failures of regulatory apparatuses to protect consumers from harmful substances made me want to keep my foodshed as close to home as possible.

The Goldfinch

Among my reasons for temporarily converting this knitting blog to a book blog was the desire to better remember what I've read. A few months ago, a friend loaned me a novel she thought I'd like, and as I looked at the cover and read the back blurbs, it had a vague familiarity that made me wonder if I'd read it or simply read reviews of it. Coming home, I discovered I already owned it and yes, I had read it a few years ago. To make matters worse, it was a Louise Erdrich novel, which should definitely be in the unforgettable category.

Obviously, my brain was clogged with too many books and I needed to make a personal card catalog, hence this blog.

I predict my latest completed book, The Goldfinch, will require no effort to remember. Theo Decker, a boy who survives an explosion that kills his mother, is a character for the ages, and nearly all of the supporting characters in the novel are just as intriguing and vividly rendered.

This book recently won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, so I'll refrain from describing or critiquing it as hundreds of superior reviews are easily accessed with a Google search. Mostly I'd like to record my impressions while they are still fresh.

The adult Theo reflects in the beginning of the story that his life would've been much different if his mother had lived. She is a central presence, or non-presence, in the story, and almost every bad decision the young Theo makes is a direct consequence of not having a mother, or more specifically, a good mother who is alive.

The foster mothers who step in for the teen Theo can't replace the angelic qualities of his dead mother. The wealthy Mrs. Barbour, who first shelters him, may be emotionally distant, but she is kind and has the wherewithal to keep Theo out of too much trouble. However, she doesn't have the legal standing to prevent his derelict father from taking him away.

Xandra, the seedy girlfriend of Theo's father, is on first impression a cartoon wicked stepmother. She redeems herself later in the story, and as we get to know her better, we discover she isn't all bad (no character in the book is all bad or all good, with the exception of Theo's mother, who attains a quality in death that she could not have possibly maintained in life). Still, Xandra fails Theo when he is in her negligent care.

His next foster mother is actually a man -- Hobie, a furniture restorer who agrees to be Theo's guardian. Hobie is decent and kind, but he is ill-equipped for the job of shepherding a teenager, and some of the bad habits Theo picked up with his dad and Xandra continue under the trusting and distracted Hobie.

The three age-peers most central to the story are Pippa, Boris and Andy. Pippa, who also survives the explosion, becomes for Theo the living embodiment of ideal womanhood in that his mother had been. Boris is larger than life, so full of vitality that he can simultaneously serve as Theo's demon and savior. Andy, alive or dead, keeps Theo in the orbit of the Barbours, which at least loosely tethers him to the world of decency his mother would've wanted for him.

I loved all 780 pages of this novel and I already miss spending time each day with Theo and his friends.

Let's Pretend This Never Happened

A person with 168 books in her "to read" queue shouldn't need to turn to Google to find something to read next, but that's exactly how Jenny Lawson's "mostly true" memoir, Let's Pretend This Never Happened, vaulted ahead of the 168.

[I interrupt this review to disclose that I spent most of the day writing the previous sentence, but not because it's brilliant or I had writer's block. I wanted to have an accurate count of the books in my "to read" queue, so I consolidated most -- not quite all -- of the saved files, post-it notes and even an ancient typewritten list that previously comprised my "to read" list. It is all now in one convenient, accessible from anywhere Goodreads list. Except I know this is not comprehensive because some lists are lodged in my head and can only be retrieved when I see a physical copy of the book, or read a mention of it, and remember, "yes, I planned to read that one day!" And I also didn't include the Utne Reader's "alternative canon" from years ago, mostly because it's in a magazine I saved and I didn't want to root around the closet to find it.]

After reading a depressing book, can't even remember which one, I decided I needed something funny next, so I did various Google searches involving "comedy" or "funny" or "humor" and "book" and Lawson's memoir was among those mentioned and available at the library. Except it was checked out, so I put it on hold, which means I didn't get to start reading it immediately after the depressing book, whatever that was.

Lawson is a blogger, although I've never been to her blog, even after reading her book, and surely my life is poorer for it. She's quite funny. The memoir basically chronicles her journey from an eccentric childhood in west Texas to a relatively "normal" adult life of wife, mother and writer. Some of the outlandish tales, which one might assume to not be included in the "mostly true" part of the memoir, are backed by photographic evidence.

I enjoyed this book, although I think I would have enjoyed it more at half the length. Lawson's writing style eventually started to lose a little of its novelty, and the 20th tale involving bizarre Texas critters isn't nearly as engaging as the first few.

Sisterland

Although I have no data to support this assertion, I'm persuaded by personal experience and anecdotal evidence that the journalist's most common alternative career fantasy is to be a novelist. I didn't get my start in journalism with this goal in mind, hoping newspaper work would be a start for me as it was for Hemingway. But since "retiring" from the news grind, I've harbored an ambition to turn to fiction and made a start on a novel.

Some literary works make me doubt my ability to ever join the ranks of novelists. Hilary Mantel's Wolf Hall, for example, made me want to disavow writing of any sort forever and simply be grateful that I could read hers. But then a novel such as Sisterland comes along and I have hope again: I could do better than that!

I would've probably abandoned this plodding tale of domestic minutiae after about the third description of diaper changing, but it's next month's selection for my book group, so I persevered through all 400 pages. When the main character spends much of her narrative time describing how dull her daily life is (aside from her psychic ability to "sense" the future), the reader has a foreboding that something uncharacteristically exciting will soon happen. This reader was sorely disappointed.

Because I want to move on to something better immediately, and The Goldfinch is beckoning on my coffee table, I'll say no more. Although perhaps I should resume writing my own novel before I read The Goldfinch and risk courting more discouragement.

Winter's Tale

The release of a film based on a popular novel often spurs me to add the book to my reading list; rarely does it prompt me to see the movie. Such was the case with Winter's Tale, by Mark Helprin, which had been on my "to read" list for at least a year, although I can't recall how it got there.

If I were a professor of literature, I might feel qualified to pass judgement on the quality of this novel. In my relative ignorance, however, I can't decide if it is brilliant or horrendous. In some places, it is barely readable, although I don't know whether I should attribute that to the author's fanciful, meandering prose or my poor understanding of it.

Apparently Mr. Helprin believes an incomplete sentence is one without a metaphor. While I certainly admire his ability to construct a vivid phrase, I often wished he would tone it down a little, much as I sometimes wish contestants on televised singing competitions were not so compelled to display their vocal acrobatics.

My primary criticism of the book is that it's simply too long. I'm not one to shrink from reading long novels, but this one had too much prose that did not advance the story in any way. The length could've been reduced by a third simply by removing the near constant descriptions of snow.

Also, the "mysteries" in the novel are never explained, which was annoying after finishing all 750 pages, hoping to find out what was so special about Peter Lake, or Hardesty's plate, or Jackson Mead, or the Lake of the Coheeries, and basically everything else in the story. I sense this is a type of religious allegory and I'm not tuned in enough to recognize the symbols. 

Otherwise, it is a diverting story full of interesting and likeable characters. Although it is described as "magical realism," I would classify it more as fantasy, which is not my favorite genre, so maybe that's why I wasn't enthralled.