Yet Another One About Books

I feel a little guilty writing this post, as I know others have struggled a bit this year with their reading, but I’m feeling the need to express the fact that I seem to be having a particularly good reading year this year. I may have been struggling some in other areas, but books have been bowling me over (and keeping me sane through some of the struggles). I realize that by writing those two sentences, I’ve probably just doomed myself to six months of having everything I pick up to read, instead of filling me with delightful glee, leaving me with a bad taste in my mouth. Oh well, at least I can post about it if that happens.

But really, looking over the books I’ve read since January, I’ve only read one that I decided not to finish, which was My Life So Far by Jane Fonda. We read this book for one of my book discussion groups, and it’s not that I didn’t like it. It just got a little long, and she focused so much on her movies and movie-making when I really wanted to know more about things like her struggles with bulimia, her relationship with her father, and all the really cool philanthropic work she’s doing today.

Only two titles are ones about which I can say “I didn’t really like that much.” One was Little Children and the other was Prep. It isn’t that I didn’t like them at all. Each had its moments, and I did stick with both of them, wanting to know how they ended, but the ultimate experience with both was such that I wouldn’t recommend them to others (and I should pay more attention to Becky who told me she didn’t like Prep, and I still went ahead with it). In fairness, as I mentioned in an earlier post, I was led to believe these books were going to be funny, and I found neither one to be so. Not even one of those great sorts of books like a John Irving or a Pat Conroy which have laugh-out-loud moments amongst extraordinary pain and sadness.

The Kills by Linda Fairstein was a bit disappointing, but only because the other two mysteries of hers I’ve read did more to immerse me in specific parts of New York than this one did, and I liked that about the others and missed it with this one. I most loved Entombed when I read it a few years ago, because of all its details about and allusions to Edgar Alan Poe. I’m beginning to wonder if she’s one of those rare mystery writers who instead of just hacking them out now and resting on her laurels (and buckets of money) is actually honing her skills and improving her craft, since The Kills was written before Entombed.

That’s it, though, as far as my disappointments go. Every other title I see as I skim through my book journal just elicits mostly sighs of contentment. Of course, one thing that helps is that this has been the year of Rose Macaulay. I’ve read three thus far (Crewe Train, They Were Defeated, and Pleasure of Ruins). They Were Defeated was apparently her only historical novel. I don’t know about you, but I could probably be dragged into a novel by even the worst writer when it’s all about goings-on at Cambridge, just as England is on the verge of civil war, and keeps its eyes focused on such things as sexism and religious beliefs, while providing a doomed romance, oh yes, and the likes of John Milton roaming around its pages. But in the hands of a masterful writer, such a thing becomes almost impossible to describe without sounding like a raving lunatic. Crewe Train is completely different, but is a wonderfully scathing look at “societal norms” with a truly remarkable female protagonist.

Linda Fairstein’s not the only one who’s taken me into New York this year. I was in a very disturbing New York with Anzia Yezierska and her Bread Givers. David Rakoff, although he was taking hilarious tours all over the world a good deal of the time, also couldn’t help but bring me back to the city he’s made his home in Fraud. And then I got to see a very poignant New York through the eyes of a mouse in E.B. White’s Stuart Little, not to mention a very topsy-turvy New York through those of a thirteen-year-old girl in her mother’s body in Mary Rodger’s Freaky Friday. All of these books mesmerized me as much as the city does.

I’ve also taken what looks like my annual trip to China (some of you may recall I went last year with June Chang) with Lisa See’s Snowflower and the Magic Fan, a fascinating study in friendship and what it means against the backdrop of the horrors of being a woman in 19th-century China. This book surprised me by being a very interesting companion to Diddie, Dumps, and Tot, which is a fascinating study in friendship and what it means against the backdrop of the horrors of slavery in 19th-century America (although the author of the former intended it as such and the author of the latter didn’t).

I’ve read quite a few other great things, and right now, I’m in the midst of reading six others (as I always seem to be). They’re all so good, it’s becoming increasingly difficult, no matter what my mood (which is usually a key factor), to decide which to pick up when I sit down to read. The Lady and the Panda (you’ll hear more about this one when I finish it, since it’s one of my nonfiction-five challenge books) by Vicki Constantine Croke, is a near-perfect nonfiction read all about Ruth Harkness, the woman who brought the first baby panda from China to America. The Innocent, with its twists and turns and ability to distract you from taking the path with all the answers, by Harlen Coben is the sort of book every book claiming to be a “thriller” should be (Bob and I discovered Coben this spring with his Tell No One, another great thriller). The Gastronomical Me by M.F.K. Fisher is food writing at its best: memories, places, and food all completely inseparable from each other. Gone with the Wind, this year’s long epic, which I expect to be reading for months (and already have been), is everything it’s cracked up to be and more. I’m so surprised by Scarlett and her depth of character, so unapparent in the movie version. Same with Rhett. Then there’s Aeschylus. If you haven’t read him since college, I’d highly recommend you do so. He’s making me want to go back and re-read all the great Greek dramatists. Just be prepared to be depressed over how little we humans have learned since 460 BCE. Finally, I’m reading Old School by Tobias Woolff and am completely hooked. To tell you the truth, I don’t want any of these books to end. But end they must if I’m going to move onto others (and not be reading twenty books at once. Even for me, that might be a bit much).

So, sigh! Sigh! Sigh! And let’s hope these fabulous adventures in reading continue for the rest of the year. Meanwhile, I’ll enjoy them while I have them, because we all know how fleeting they can be.