About Time by Simona Sparaco

Sparaco, Simona. Howard Curtis, tr. About Time. London: Pushkin Press, 2011.

One of the wonderful things about blogging is that, every so often, some terrific independent publisher stumbles across your nearly dead blog, decides that you write reasonably well about books, and offers to send you a book to review so that you can breathe some life back into the blog. Such is the case with Pushkin Press, and, man, what a way to breathe life back into this blog! Pushkin Press is a terrific publisher that is putting international material into the hands of the likes of me. This is the second book they've sent me, and all I can say is, "I am certainly one lucky gal!"

I'm tempted to write a one word review of this book: "Wow!" But I won't because I'm too enthusiastic about it, and when I'm enthusiastic about something, I'm not a woman of few words.

Let me start by saying that I closed the book, turned to Bob, who was reading some minor work that couldn't possibly compare  and said just that, "Wow!" I then went on to say that this book is a masterpiece, the sort of book that rarely gets published today (at least, not by The Big Six publishers). I loved it for being one of those books that I can't believe is only 183 pages long. By the time I'd finished it -- which didn't take long, so riveting it was -- I was convinced I'd read some chunkster. The book is so much: parable, romance, father-son domestic tale, dark fantasy, odd sci-fi time travel, comedy, tragedy. Really. I'm not kidding.

I don't blame you if you're thinking, "All that can't possibly work in such a short book." I'd be thinking the same thing if I hadn't read it, but I have, so instead I'm thinking, "My God, how did Sparaco manage to pull all that off without my wanting to throw the book across the room in disgust, upset that I've wasted time with an author who was trying too hard to do too much while being terribly clever?" The only answer to that question is that Sparaco is a genius. I want to eat dinner with her -- actually, no I don't. I'd be too intimidated.

So, what's the book about? It's about Svevo Romano, the kind of man I hate. Maybe he's too much of a stereotype, but that's okay (after all, male writers have been stereotyping female characters for centuries. Why shouldn't female writers retaliate with a little stereotyping of their own?). He's Mr. On Top of His Game at Big Corporation. He uses and abuses women, women who are much younger than he is. Booze and cocaine are a way of life for him but not so much so that they interfere with his ability to work. He's got tons of money, which is why he lives in a fabulous, meticulously decorated apartment that has a glorious view of Rome.

Romano is a house of cards. Blow on him, and he'd scatter, but no one seems to know that. In case my description doesn't do enough to help you picture a cocky, middle-aged egoist, listen to how he talks to Father Time (with whom this whole book is a one-sided conversation):

And what about the expression on my face when I sit down at the table to negotiate? That gleam in my eye is pure competitiveness, our daily bread. My rapid way of speaking, my thoughts constantly pursuing new strategies, and at the end of the meeting the mobile phone that starts ringing again bringing more appointments I can't be late for. Distances have been wiped out, dear Father Time, and You can't do anything about it. Technology allows us to do everything in an instant, we're always ready to receive information from anywhere in the world. (p. 26)

Luckily, good old Father Time doesn't take too kindly to such talk. He's the one who takes a deep breath and blows on the house of cards. He does a clever thing to this cocky little bastard. He speeds up, but he speeds up only for Svevo. For everyone else, he moves at his normal pace. Svevo, however, shuts his eyes to fall asleep, and the next thing he knows, he's missed a 9:00 a.m. meeting without ever having fallen asleep.

Time begins to play this trick on Svevo while he is on an airplane, flying from Rome to France to play with one of his girlfriends. Once he realizes that time is speeding up for him and not for others, some of his descriptions are hilarious:

I'd like to scream to everyone to stop. Slow down. Why are you rushing like that? When did the porter take our luggage? And now where's he going so quickly? The concierge didn't even welcome us, he's like a broker spewing out numbers in the middle of the afternoon. The lift zooms up to the top floor, the doors open wide, am I the only one who feels as if they're throwing us out into the corridor? (p. 40)

Funny, yes, but it's also extremely spooky and disconcerting. Part of Sparaco's genius is that you're never (and neither is Svevo) quite sure if time has speeded up for him, or if he's just slowed way down. In other words, is everyone else moving really, really quickly, and he's become a tortoise, or are they all moving at their normal pace while he's on some sort of perpetual time machine that keeps zooming him a few hours into the future? It doesn't matter which it is.

What matters is how effective it is and how I came out of it convinced that Svevo had written a very clever book about how we worship time and how empty our lives are when we do -- as empty as that other object of worship so many authors have tackled: money. Svevo speaks to Father Time and even respects him to the extent that he capitalizes the pronoun "You" when doing so, the same way so many capitalize "He" or "You" when referring to God. He's convinced he has complete control over time. Sort of reminds you of the multimillionaire trader shortly before the 1929 crash, who thought he had complete control over his money, huh?

What's different about worshiping time rather than money is that we can't bank time. People can die with plenty of money left to spend, but we all reach a certain age at some point, the age at which we begin to realize that time will eventually run out on us. It will run out even on those who think they have perfect control over it, those who think they've not only controlled it but have also beaten it, somehow, with all our 21st-century technology. Svevo has reached the age at which he's begun to realize this, but he doesn't want to admit it until time forces him to do so.

This novel's not so different from Mary Shelly's 19th-century take on a similar theme, Frankenstein. Science and technology were running away with her peers, and she could imagine the devastating effects. Science and technology are more than running away with Sparaco's peers. Svevo slowly comes to realize this, once he's been living in his new speeded-up world:

What I see is a grim view of a city driven mad by the frenzied pace of its inhabitants. A poisonous curtain of smog lies over the streets, the parks, the buildings. I feel I can almost hear them, all those impatient car horns, like flocks of birds in a poisoned jungle, I can see the pale, exasperated faces of the drivers trapped behind their wheels. They're all running, thinking they can't afford to waste a single second of their lives, when in fact, they're already wasting most of them. (p. 83)

I just love that last sentence. Sparaco has created a monster who is able to see all this -- with Father Time's help -- and he, unlike Shelley's monster, is able to change. He changes in a Scrooge-like way, a very satisfying way to those of us who like Dickens. Not only does he change, but it takes a woman, and real love, to help him do so. I love the fact that he discovers what so many who are stuck in the midst of the workforce rat race have such a hard time understanding, which is that, "You just have to remove yourself from the flow to realize you're not indispensable, quite the contrary." (p. 151)

Of course, when he says that, he still doesn't quite get it. He still thinks he needs to pull himself out of the abyss into which he's been thrown, prove that he is indispensable. Still, think of it: how would any corporation survive if it didn't depend on its employees' assumptions that each and every one of them is indispensable, or, at the very least, that it's possible to make one so? The first word of advice given to anyone who's worried about layoffs is "Make yourself indispensable." Nobody stops to think that doing so is all but impossible.

That's only one small bite from the huge plate of food for thought Sparaco provides. This short book could probably keep Thought stuffed enough for an entire winter's hibernation, maybe even longer. Do me a favor, please. Buy this book. Read it. Tell me what you think.

Economic Use of Time?

(The Economist. Dec. 2008.)

We subscribe to both The New Yorker and The Economist (you know, so I can contrast British conservatism with American liberalism, which is often a futile endeavor, considering that mainstream American liberalism -- as reflected by our mainstream "liberal" publications -- is maybe positioned about a quarter of an inch to the left of Margaret Thatcher, and British conservatism -- at least as reflected in this one publication -- is maybe about half an inch to the right of Franklin Roosevelt). In theory, I'd like to be on top of these two magazines for which we pay good money. In practice, I suffer from what a former colleague of mine once explained to me is "New Yorker guilt" (and its equivalent The Economist guilt). This guilt involves staring at piles of magazines, week after week, always meaning to get around to reading them, but somehow, never quite managing to do so.

Luckily, I'm married to Bob. He's not quite as compulsive about wanting to read at least 60 books a year as I am. He has no problem spending 2 hours reading nothing but magazines and newspapers, even if two hours is all the free time he has that day. Me? If I've only got two hours to read, I'm spending that time with a book. Thus, one could argue, magazine subscriptions are a total waste of money on me. Bob is the one who keeps us from throwing money down the drain on "good intentions."

I really do mean to read those magazines. Whenever we renew a subscription, I always think it's a great idea. You see, I sometimes have more than two hours a day to read. I sometimes don't really feel like reading a book. I realize that, because we don't have television, it's a good idea for me to get my news from sources other than our lousy local newspaper, and I don't always want to curl up in a chair with my laptop in order to do so. Sometimes, I want a magazine. (I don't know what I'm going to do the day all magazines finally convert to online versions only. I'm praying for some sort of perfect "reader.")

Enter New Year's 2009. Time to make some resolutions. What better resolution than to decide to read more than just the cover of The Economist each week? What better corollary to that resolution than also to read more of The New Yorker than the movie reviews, the cartoons, and the table of contents to see if David Sedaris is a contributor this week? What better place to start than while on vacation in Maine for a week, especially since Bob has had the foresight to bring both magazines with him?

Enter also the fact that I happened to have been reading Ayaan Hirsi Ali's Infidel for one of my book discussion groups. I was struck by the realization I'd never heard of Ali before reading this book. How ignorant I am, really, about the rest of the world and what happens there. Here we have a major story, even a murder that's a part of it, about a member of Dutch Parliament, and I didn't have a clue before reading this book. Meanwhile, the minute this book was suggested, Bob was like, "Oh yeah, Ali and that Dutch filmmaker who was murdered." You can tell who's reading The Economist in this household, can't you?

So, I sat down with the special holiday double issue, hoping that I can be as informed about the rest of the world. Halfway through it, I realized why these magazines go unread, and, really, why I will never be informed when it comes to politics and world issues. You see, I have an uncanny ability to skip right over articles entitled "The Madoff Affair: Dumb Money and Due Diligence" and "Israel and the Palestinians: Lift the Siege of Gaza." "Venezuela's Alternative Currencies" and "Latvia's Troubled Evening: Baltic on the Brink" are articles I might read if I had nothing better to do (like cleaning toilets). Meanwhile, I admit with shame that, yes, I'd make a good little isolationist, as I found myself interested, Madoff article notwithstanding, in almost all the articles in the "America" section, most especially the one about Barak Obama's choice for Secretary of Education.

However, during my reading of the first half of the magazine, to which articles did I devote most of my time? One of them was "Angels: Messengers in the Modern World." Yes, I wasted a good fifteen minutes or so of my time (guesstimate here. I don't time myself while reading) on the demise of other mythical beings but not angels. I read about people who are sure they've been "touched by an angel." And it isn't really like the article gave me that much. Did the writer give me proof of their existence? No. Did he give me proof that they don't exist? No. Did he even give me a good history? No (I got a better history during a tour I once took at St. John the Divine in NYC). Here's something interesting, though: I expected that a significant number of Americans might believe in angels, given the number of "church-going" and "religious" Americans who show up in surveys all the time, and I was right: 45%. What surprised me were the significant numbers of Britons, Canadians, and Australians who did so: "in the 30s." (Why weren't they more specific? Why all lumped together? My guess is that the number was 38 or 39 for Britain, and The Economist was uncomfortable with its own countrymen being so closely aligned with crazy Americans.)

All right, I'm married to a minister. On some levels it makes sense that an article on angels might capture my attention. But really. I'm passing up the opportunity to read In the Fall, the book I set aside earlier this afternoon, in order to read about angels? The next one is going to really kill you, though. How about an article on oysters? And we're not talking here about some rare oyster found in some country halfway around the world (like Latvia), an oyster whose discovery just might improve the country's economy but that also might cause WWIII. No, there's nothing "world issue-y" about this at all. We're talking about oysters right out of the Chesapeake Bay, which is practically at my back door in PA. Oh, and also about the history of oysters in New York.

I love oysters, though. The quote at the end of this article by the symbolist poet Leon-Paul Fargue about eating an oyster is priceless, "like kissing the sea on the lips." (p. 48) Here's something I bet you didn't know "...it is not so much that oysters live in clean water, as that water with an abundance of oysters in it will be clean." (p. 48) Needless to say, our waters don't have anywhere near the numbers of oysters they used to have. Well, it was certainly worth the fifteen minutes (or so) of time it took me to read that article to have more proof of the damage human greed (this time in the guise of over-fishing) is doing to the environment, as well as to find out what we're doing to combat this problem.

Next, it was onto the article about chile peppers. (I promise you, I'm not making this up. Go check out this issue at your local library.) And that's just the tip of the ice berg. What about the article on evolutionary arguments pertaining to the human need and reactions to music? I'd like to question some of the researchers on their methods and techniques, but that didn't keep me from being riveted to the article. That one wasn't nearly as bad as the other article on Darwinism, though (so eloquently discussed by Litlove), whose arrogance and sexism infuriated me (still, I read the whole thing through). There was "William Tyndale: Hero of the Information Age" (huh? How could I possibly skip that article? For those of you who didn't attend seminary vicariously, Tyndale is the man who is basically responsible for what we call the King James version of The Bible). Some editor wasn't thinking clearly when that title was chosen, but the article was still an interesting synopsis of Tyndale's influence. And what about "Tin Tin: A Very European Character?" (I had no idea that my childhood love of Tin Tin was classist. Nor do I believe what the article proclaims, which is that most Americans don't know Tin Tin. That's not true, is it? After all, I've seen reprints at Restoration Hardware. Another claim about Americans I found hard to believe was in the article about the history of cookbooks -- "Cookbooks: Pluck a Flamingo" -- and that is that most Americans don't know Nigella Lawson. Tin Tin, maybe. But Nigella Lawson? Which Americans are these writers polling?)

There's more, but I'll stop here. I will tell you, in fairness to me, that last month (before I'd read Indfidel), "Somali's Islamists: the Rise of the Shabab" would have been glossed over in my hurry to get to Tin Tin. This month, however, I read every word. I also read every word in the article on the Sufi. So maybe I'm broadening my world issues horizons after all.

And what about The New Yorker? Well, I never quite got around to it. Too busy reading about oysters and angels. However, I got home and began to read the issue that arrived while we were away: anyone for examining kosher food techniques in Chinese factories? How about Will Oldham ("who?" you may very well be asking. So was I. A few pages later, and I'm eager to go out and buy all his CDs)? Or perhaps you're desperate for all you ever wanted to know about The Village Voice?

Still, I am determined to keep to my resolution of reading these magazines more in 2009. I suppose, maybe, I'll get about five books read this year.

Panic at the Airport

It finally happened to me. I ran out of books to read while traveling. Typically, when I go on a business trip of more than two days, I take about five books to read with me. If I’m very lucky, I may manage to get through one. My business trips normally consist of days that start at 8:00 a.m. and don’t end until 10:30 p.m., after late-night dinners, and I’m usually a zombie, unable to read my own name, let alone 200 pages of a book by then. In other words, not much time for reading except on the airplane.

As I packed for my trip to San Antonio last week, I thought to myself, “Let’s be smart for a change and only bring one book.” (Someone please come to my house and slap me silly next time I have such very “un-smart” thoughts.) I’d read about 40 pages of Armistead Maupin’s Tales of the City at that point, thus qualifying it as a book I planned to finish (I give every book 30 pages, and if it hasn’t grabbed me by then, I don’t finish it). But I knew I more than just planned to finish it. I was enjoying it immensely. It seemed like a good choice.

I’m a math editor, though. I can’t look at books without thinking in terms of page numbers and average reading speeds. I quickly deduced that despite my glacially-slow reading pace, even I would be able to read 332 pages well before completing my combined flying time of 8 hours to-and-from Texas. And then there’s all that time in the airport, because I pay attention when the document says, “Make sure you arrive an hour before departure,” tacking on at least half an hour. You learn to do this when you've had some pretty horrific flying experiences in your lifetime. I decided to throw in The Lady and the Panda, because I had about 60 pages of it left to read, and the Aeschylus collection I had was nice and small, so in it went as well.

Well, the first mistake I made was not bothering to find out that traveling to Texas in June is tantamount to traveling to Buffalo in January (I did find out, but not until I was having a discussion with the cabbie, a native Texan, on the way to my hotel, after spending thirteen hours in airports and on airplanes waiting for weather patterns to change). If you’re very, very lucky, you just might board a plane that manages to land during the 2-hour window of opportunity in which massive thunderstorms (and I mean MASSIVE. It’s true everything is bigger in Texas) have subsided before rolling back through again. But we all know, “very, very lucky” I am not. Maybe I’m “very lucky,” because my flight to St. Louis was only delayed about an hour, and we managed to land just as the heavens opened up there, shutting down all departures and arrivals for about an hour, but that’s about as much luck as I’m allowed (and it’s probably meant to last me the rest of the year). At least in St. Louis, this sort of weather seemed to follow a pattern with which I’m familiar, rolling in and out relatively quickly. No such luck in Texas. Thus I sat, long after flights leaving St. Louis had resumed, reading, looking up every so often at the board above my gate to discover my connecting flight was leaving later still.

This is when I realized I’d made a miscalculation in my reading needs for this trip. I’d already managed to read through the four professional magazines I’d brought for the trip, since my flight had been delayed to St. Louis. I’m not one who likes to deal with laptops in airports or on airplanes, so that was it as far as getting work done was concerned. On the flight to St. Louis, I’d begun to read Tales of the City.

After about half an hour of reading this book, I suddenly realized I was reading it at an alarmingly fast rate. It was as though I’d attended some sort of speed-reading class without my knowing it. By the time I’d stepped off the airplane and into the St. Louis airport, I was over halfway through the book.

I began to panic. I put the book away, made my way to my departure gate, and once there, pulled out The Lady and the Panda. I’ve been reading this book very slowly, savoring it, writing notes in the margins, etc. This one would have to take a long time to finish. But then my flight was delayed an hour, and I’d already been reading for an hour. And then my flight was delayed another hour.

Now, you can tell me all you want that being stuck in an airplane with nothing but the fluffy airline magazine and its easy-answers-already-filled-in-by-somebody-else crossword is not the same as being sent to Guantanamo Bay. When I’m sitting at home, surrounded by more books than anyone could possibly read in a lifetime, I will heart-heartedly agree with an “Of course not!” However, strand me in an airport for a few hours, with a 2-hour-long flight ahead of me and rapidly-receding reading material, and I will vehemently disagree with “Of course it is!”

Thus, a trip to the airport bookstore was in order. Here, I was met with a wall of shelf-to-shelf third-rate mysteries, thrillers, and chick lit. Sometimes, I like a good third-rate mystery or thriller, but I wasn’t in the mood. And when you’ve been reading Armistead Maupin, I’m sorry, but third-rate chick lit just won’t do. First-rate, like a good Marian Keyes, maybe, but certainly not third-rate. What I really wanted was the next Armistead Maupin, but that, of course, was sitting at home where I’d blithely informed it I’d never get to it while I was away, and besides, it’s a very rare author whose first book in a series I will read and immediately want to pick up the next one with nothing in between. What a time to discover such an author.

Eventually, I turned around to find the tiny little “literature” section. I’ll quibble a little with some of the choices in this section (Tim LaHaye?), but they did manage to have the likes of Jasper Fforde and Julian Barnes. I found myself longing for my TBR list, which was also back at home, because why would I have needed that? I don’t read a whole lot of contemporary literature unless it’s recommended to me (which is happening at an alarming rate now that I blog), and I don’t tend to remember what’s been recommended without referring to my list. Stuck without it, I had to see if anything seemed familiar.

I was slightly tempted by Beverly Lewis, because she writes about the Amish, and I’ll be living amongst them soon. But I don’t know anything about her, and I was a bit concerned she might be Tim LeHaye Goes to Amish Country or something. I looked for Jacqueline Winspear, because I just read Maisie Dobbs and loved it, but no such luck.

Finally, it boiled down to two titles I recognized: The Red Tent and The Time Traveler’s Wife. What a tough choice! I toyed with the idea of buying both (just in case the one I chose wasn’t as good as everyone says it is), but my luggage was heavy enough. I ended up with The Time Traveler’s Wife.

There are probably those of you out there who are disappointed I didn’t choose The Red Tent, but I’m feeling right now I couldn’t possibly have made a better choice. I haven’t read a contemporary novel that I’ve felt was so perfect since I read The Thirteenth Tale last year (a book, by the way, I can happily say Bob is currently reading and loving as much as I did). I’m funny about time travel. I love nothing better, but I’m highly skeptical and demanding of anyone who takes on the task of writing novels about it. The editor in me is always ready to leap at the slightest inaccuracy or inconsistency. Niffenegger has done such a good job with the topic (much like Connie Willis did in To Say Nothing of the Dog, another one of my favorites) that I’ve readily suspended all disbelief and have forgotten to look for errors.

All I can say is, if I’m not the last person in the world to have read this book, and you’re reading this post and would describe yourself as someone who would like a really good, complicated love story paired with the magnificence of time travel, pick up this book. You won’t be disappointed. (Oh yes, and the speed reader has gone back from whence she came. I’ve been reading this one at my normal pace. I did, however, finish reading all three of the other books before I’d stepped on the plane to come back from Texas.)

Things I've Learned Since Losing My Job

The first week after I lost my job, being the good little Puritan that I am, I was busy updating my resume, asking people for recommendations, thinking about who to contact to tell them I was looking, mapping out different ideas for starting my own business, and reading want ads. One of my authors, upon finding out what had happened to me, emailed me to say, "I've been around long enough to know that people like you don't sit idle for long." It was as if I had to prove her right or something.

Bob (before he came down with a kidney stone and staph infection) noticed what I was doing and basically said, "Stop." He told me not to apply for anything, to take time off. His idea was to take at least two months if not longer to "get to know myself" without any distractions, to figure out what I really wanted to do. After all, I'm 45. Whatever move I make now is probably going to be the last one I make career-wise. I, not being a good, obedient wife, didn't immediately follow his advice. I needed to do something to keep myself from wallowing in depression and self-pity. But then he got horribly, horribly sick, and I was forced to abandon everything while I took care of/worried about him. Talk about putting life into perspective. I decided heeding his advice might be a wise move after all, and I quit doing anything to try to get another job (you know me well enough that this does not mean I quit thinking about it, but I didn't actively do a damn thing).

It's now been three months since I lost my job, and I thought I'd share with all of you what I've learned during this time:

1. I used to think (and regret that I hadn't done so) that everyone should take a year off either before or during college to do something completely different (work, volunteer, travel, etc.). Everyone I've known in life who did that (including my own husband) grew by leaps and bounds compared to those of us who didn't. I now believe that everyone (especially those of us who have either had a part-time job and full-time school or full-time jobs since the age of sixteen and have never taken more than two weeks off at a time) ought to take at least two months off at some point during his or her career to figure out what really matters in life.

2. As much as I might want to deny it, I am more interested in publishing than any other industry. I still eagerly read Publisher's Weekly. I am like a moth to light when it comes to articles in the NYT that have to do with publishing. I am extremely excited about the fact that I think the publishing industry is standing on the brink of a very significant time in history, one that rivals the invention of the printing press, and am happy when I read about companies that seem to have a vision for the future instead of clinging to the past. I love to read about "the good old days of publishing" and imagine what the big names of those times would be doing now.

3. That being said, I have come to the conclusion that I have 3 big passions in life: writing, cooking, and keeping progressive Christianity (of the "Jesus was the world's best psychologist, and this is an extraordinarily radical religion formed by extraordinarily radical people who would be no more accepted in American society today than they were in Roman society" sort) alive and well.

4. None of my passions is the sort from which one can easily make a living. Being intimately familiar with the publishing industry, I know how absurd it is to think a decent living can be made as a writer. Even if one decides, "Oh, I'll just sell out and become another Danielle Steele." It isn't as though no one else has ever had that thought. I am also (through family members) intimately familiar with the restaurant business and know that, despite the fact I am an insomniac who is constantly described by others as "energetic" and who'd probably do well with a 95-hour work week, it is not the life for me. And, well, when it comes to progressive churches, they're dying all around us, while those who would be the first to crucify Christ all over again were he to show up in Dallas, TX tomorrow are thriving.

5. No matter how stunningly beautiful that board of round holes at Company with Next Great Job Opportunity is, and no matter how drawn I am to the challenge of getting a square peg to fit into one of those holes, unless I see evidence of tremendous progress being made on the new board of equally stunning beauty that is full of square holes, and that will be finished shortly after I arrive, I am better off walking away from that company. I do not have what it takes to keep fighting for something that nobody else cares about.

6. A job does not have to be all about one's passion. A job can be a way to earn money in order to be able to pursue one's passions. (I know, that seems obvious, but for the longest time I've been confused, because I thought publishing was a passion. Now, I realize, it's an interest, not a passion.)

7. I need these things in order to be as sane as possible:
a. Time to write every single day
b. Sleep
c. Exercise
d. A healthy diet

8. Even though I have much more time for it now, I still despise housekeeping, but I want a tidy and clean house. I just want someone else to get it that way for me (to my standards).

It's been quite a learning experience thus far.

Help! I'm Turning into an Old Lady

The day was an extraordinarily busy one. Can I use that as an excuse? I hope so. Anyway, it was January, which means, at work, self evaluation, annual review, and goal-setting time on top of all the other normal work that eight hours every day never seems to be enough time to get done. After work, at 6:00, we had Clare's first puppy obedience class, and after that, we were going to arrive (a bit late) for the deacons' meeting at church (which started at 7:00). I'm not a deacon, but I was attending to propose an idea I had that would involve both elders (I am one of those) and deacons. Bob was attending...well, because he's the minister.

5:00 rolled around, and I was still finishing up responding to emails I'd been putting off responding to all day in favor of other stuff that needed to get done. Somehow, I managed to get them done and breathed a huge sigh of relief to think I still had plenty of time. Then, I remembered that, being a woman, I was married to a man (at least, right now, that's how "marriage" is defined in the state of Pennsylvania). This meant that Bob, being said man, would (sorry, other men who read my blog) work up until the very last minute, make sure he was ready to go, and then expect to leave. It would be up to me to think of such things as feeding the puppy and making sure she'd gone out before we left.

Skip ahead to 5:45. I'm standing outside, still trying to get Clare to "do her business" before we leave. She's busy sniffing around, digging up twigs to eat. Bob comes racing out the door saying, "We must leave now." I'm so flustered -- admittedly, I hadn't realized it was quite so late -- that I rush Clare back into the house to grab my purse and meet Bob at the car.

We've decided, since this is such a short trip, not to bother with Clare's dog carrier, so the 14-minute ride is spent trying to keep her from climbing onto Bob's lap, where she desperately wants to be. Bob's worrying about how late we're going to be (we weren't. We were actually right on time, but we live in Lancaster County, PA, which has its own ideas about time -- Bob and I joke about "real time" and "Lancaster County time". We were there on the dot of six, but everyone else had been sitting around for ten minutes by the time we got there). I was worried about how, since we obviously have very little control over her, Clare was going to be one of those dogs you hear about who flunks obedience school.

Finally, we arrive in the parking lot. With great relief, I open the door, carefully deposit Clare on the pavement, and climb out myself. As we walk towards PetSmart, Bob happens to look down at my feet.

"Oh my God. You're wearing your slippers!" he informs me.

Oh. My. God. I was. And these weren't like those cute Ugg-type slippers that it was very cool for teenagers to wear around town a few years back. No. These are Acorns, with a bright, embarrassing design that brings Spirograph to mind (for those of you old enough to remember Spirograph). I'd worked out and showered at lunch, and slipped into them, planning to change into my boots just before we left. But, obviously, I'd never changed into the boots.

I can't believe it. I've become one of those little old ladies who leaves the house in her slippers. What will be next? A bathrobe and hair curlers? Tell me: should I just shoot myself now?

Lying about Books

So I read on Cam's Commentary that Susan Hill had posted about the Museum and Library Authority’s study whose results seem to prove we all lie about the books we've read. Well, duh. I just love these organizations that spend lots of time and money doing research in order to tell us such things as all humans giving birth these days are female.

I mean, didn’t we all lie out of desperation at some point during high school or college? If we weren’t lying to our teachers and professors (I was bored to tears by some of the assignments, either being too young or too unsophisticated to understand them, or else just because they really were boring. I definitely wasn’t one to continue reading anything that didn't grab my attention, but not once did I ever say, “This bored me senseless, and I didn’t get past page 10” to any of my teachers), sometimes we were lying to impress a potential significant other (the study says this is still the case, with men being the main culprits. However, this female was guilty of that one once, only because I knew he wasn’t a big reader -- why on earth did I want to impress a non-reader? The mysteries of youth -- and would never catch me out in such a lie). We all grow up, though, and, I hope, eventually come to realize there are just way too many books in the world to read everything. Some of us even become bold enough to say, “Why would I waste my time on that?”

The list of the ten most-lied-about titles (apparently those books people most often say they've read when they haven't) really intrigued me, though. It’s all over the place, and as Cam noted, is missing The Bible. I agree with her that this (ironically, huh?) has got to be one of the most lied-about texts out there, especially since it’s been translated into just about every known language and forced on people throughout its history. Anyway, here’s how I stand up to the list.

Lord of the Rings – nope. My fourth-grade teacher read aloud The Hobbit to our whole class. Never read it myself, despite trying, and could never get into the others. My brother (who’s had the same problems not being able to get into Tolkein as I have) and I have a theory that Tolkein is just too earnest for the likes of us. Strangely enough, though, I adored all three of the movies (I think that had a lot to do with the cinematography).

War and Peace – it was a gift from Bob, and I read it on our honeymoon. I’m going to be annoying here and say it’s one of the best books ever written, without going into details as to why. I often wonder why it’s become the quintessential lengthy novel, though. There are plenty of longer classics out there (A Dream of Red Mansions, for instance. The version I have of this is three volumes long).

Wuthering Heights – not until I was in my thirties. And I have to admit I wasn’t all that impressed. It was a compelling read, but I found myself thinking: this was what all the fuss was about? I was expecting something much more of Heathcliffe, to fall madly in love with him. Instead, I found him to be a cruel, petty baby. My mother’s response to my reaction? “You were too old to be reading it for the first time.” She was right. I should have read it when I was a teenager, like most girls do, you know, the age at which we’re so easily enamored of cruel, petty, babies just because they’re wrapped up in “hot” bodies.

Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus – whatever can be the reason to lie here? Do you think the surveyors got confused and didn't realize this was really a People-magazine lie (everyone reads it, but no one wants to admit it)? Or am I missing something? People actually want others to think they’ve read this book? Really. This one usurping The Bible, as well as such things as Roots (nope. Never read that one, either) or Plato’s Republic (only excerpts for school and can’t begin to tell you what they might have been) is truly mysterious. Anyway, I’ve picked it up and read bits and pieces of it, basically unimpressed.

1984 – this is embarrassing, but I honestly can’t remember (I'd be a truly impressive date, huh? Gee, the woman's already got Alzheimers). I know it was assigned for a course I took in college, but I often skimmed books when I was taking multiple lit courses and knew I could get away with it. I’m pretty sure I only skimmed this one, but I seem to know so much about it, that seems odd. Maybe it’s just such a part of mainstream culture at this point, I didn’t need to read it. It doesn’t matter, though, because I plan to read it soon. Bob has convinced me it would be a good idea to read three of the big modern dystopias in sequence: We (a book I’d never heard of till I met him), Brave New World, and 1984.

Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone – yes, but I’m way, way behind in my Harry Potter reading (mainly because, as I’ve mentioned before, I think, reading Rowling sends me back to re-reading favorites from my childhood. And then, last year, I discovered Alan Garner, who is much, much better, although darker). I’m very grateful, though, to all those of you who are huge fans and who keep the plots secret for those of us like me.

Great Expectations – nope. Despite loving what I have read of Dickens, I haven’t really read much of his stuff. Bob’s been urging me for years to read both this and A Tale of Two Cities.

Jane Eyre – twice. Love it. Love it. Love it. (Again, she annoyingly says without telling you why, but this isn't the time for "why." Come over for a pot of tea, and we can spend the whole evening talking about "why.") Maybe because I read it for the first time at the right age (19)? But I don’t think that’s so, because I still loved it the second-go-around nearly ten years later.

The Da Vinci Code – “Why would I waste my time on that?”

The Diary of Anne Frank – they really meant Anne Frank: Diary of a Young Girl, right? Which makes me wonder even more about this survey. Did they mean the script for the play or the book? I don’t know many people who read scripts, so why would anyone lie about that? If we’re talking about the book, I read about a fourth of it when I was a teenager, thinking it was going to be right up my alley, but it apparently wasn’t, as I didn’t stick with it. I don’t remember why. It’s yet another one I’ve been meaning to try again for years now. If we’re talking about the play, nope and probably never will.

There you have it: four out of the ten that I’ve knowingly read cover-to-cover, one I’ve earnestly tried and have just as earnestly given up on, two I couldn’t care less about, and the others are on my TBR list. So, would you ask me out on a second date, or do you think I'm a liar?

Chasing David Sedaris II

This time, unlike last time, I actually had a ticket for April 3 at the Keswick Theater in Glenside, PA that said "David Sedaris" on it. I'd had it, in fact, since Christmas, thanks to the Best Husband Ever, who had somehow managed to pick up on my extraordinarily subtle hints that a date with him to see David Sedaris rivals diamonds when it comes to this girl's best friends. To those who aren't married to ministers, it might seem highly unlikely that possessing such a ticket would keep me from seeing my idol in the flesh, but I was worried nonetheless that the ticket was no guarantee. You have to understand that one of the Pillars of the Church could have died on April 3. Or a child in our congregation could have decided to run out in front of a horse and buggy and be in the hospital in a coma. Barring those sorts of catastrophes, something more mundane (say a car catching on fire due to an overheated clutch, like mine recently did on the New Jersey Turnpike) could have kept us from getting to Glenside, an hour's drive from our home.

Happily, I was able to check off the "none of the above" box and found myself sitting in a seat, staring at a stage, where I was going to have a great view of Sedaris when he walked onto it. I'd meant to bring along my copy of Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk for Sedaris to sign, but in my excitement, I'd forgotten it. Not to worry. The Best Husband, after we'd taken our seats, turned to me and asked, "Which of his books do you want me to buy for him to sign? Which don't you have?" Like the star-struck idiot I am, I answered, "I've got all of them. But you could get a copy of Me Talk Pretty One Day, because that's the first one I ever read."

He went off to buy it, and I sat in my seat thinking, "What's the matter with me?" Once the glory of staring at the stage and the podium and seat where He would soon be sitting had worn off, I realized -- uh-duh! -- that, although I've read them all, I don't happen to have all of Sedaris's books. My collection lacked both Barrel Fever and Naked. I contemplated racing out and intercepting Bob to tell him to get me Naked instead. I love that one for, among other things, the vivid picture it gives us of Sedaris's mother. While I sat undecided about what to do, Bob returned with a hard cover (which I didn't have) of Me Talk Pretty One Day. I was glad some part of me had leaped to suggest he buy it, since it now seemed appropriate that I have a signed hard cover copy of the first book of his I ever read.

Shortly thereafter, Sedaris took the stage. He read two original pieces, which I assume will one day wind up somewhere in print. One was about a recent trip to China and eating while there. The other was about being on the swim team as a kid (but was really about his father and his relationship). Then he read a bunch of entries from his diary (the writer in me despairs when she hears/reads entries from Sedaris's diary. All diaries and journals I've ever kept would seem like nothing but scruffy, worn-out, ready-for-the-Goodwill articles next to Sedaris's polished pieces) and followed that by highly recommending a book, Tobias Wolff's The Barracks Thief, which I haven't read (judging from Wolff's Old School, however, I'm inclined to agree with Sedaris that Wolff is a Great American Writer, and that we're lucky to be living while he is alive and writing. I'm not sure I would agree, though -- will have to read it -- that Wolff's book is far better than anything Sedaris has written). He described himself as a "scary fan" of Wolff's, and all I could think was that I'm a "scary fan" of Sedaris's. Finally, he opened up the floor to questions.

What I liked most about seeing Sedaris live was finding out how much he laughs. Not so much while he was reading the two pieces on China and the swim team that he's probably reworked and read to the point of being sick of them, but rather when he was reading jokes others had told him or reading about bizarre events/articles he'd recorded in his diary, and he laughed a lot while answering the questions people asked him. In other words, he wasn't really laughing at his own hilarious genius, but rather, he was proving to us that he focuses on what's funny in life. By the time I left the theater, he'd verified for me that he just plain chooses to find life, no matter how painful it might really be, funny.

He'd also verified something else: he's extremely kind. I think I'd always suspected he might be. He's brave enough to write all those often unkind thoughts we all have, but his writing reflects the sort of sensitivity underneath it all that causes people to feel pulled in two directions, "God, I hate people," and "God, I'm so horrible to hate people." He compensates for the latter by being extremely kind and generous to his idolizing fans like me.

How do I know that? Well, first of all, his schedule for this tour (33 venues in 34 days) is pure hell. It's the sort of tour one only does if desperate for money (which we all know he's not. He informed us that he and Hugh have just bought another home, this time in Sussex) or very appreciative of his fans and wants to accommodate them (visit his Facebook page. His fans are constantly begging him to come to their hometowns). I also know because he signs books for his fans, and he takes the time to chat with each and every one of them. Believe me, I've been to plenty of author signings in which the author barely acknowledges the person in front of him or her and whose goal seems to be just to get through the line of people. Sedaris arranges it so that each person (or couple, as the case may be) goes up to his table alone, and gets one-on-one time with him. This is why he can be done with his reading at 8:30 and still be signing books past midnight.

But the most convincing evidence of his kindness of all? Just as Bob and I were approaching the table to have him sign both Me Talk Pretty One Day and Naked (which we'd also bought while waiting in line), he asked the person in charge of monitoring the line to go see if anyone was waiting in line with children. It was getting close to 10:00 by then, and he was worried about kids who had to be up for school the next day. Granted, I doubt that many parents with elementary-aged children take them to see David Sedaris, but for those with older kids, that was very generous of him to be concerned.

We waited in line for over an hour. The whole time, I was observing how others interacted with him. They bantered with him. They laughed. He laughed. All I could think was, "Why do I have to be this extremely shy, pathetic person who could never manage to banter with the likes of him?" I so longed to be someone who had impressive, stand up comedian genes in her body, instead of throw up on your idol when you finally come face to face with him genes. Do any of you recall the feelings you had as a kid when the brand new, scariest ride opened at the amusement park, and you were waiting in line? I was always torn between, "I can't wait to get there" and "I hope this line never ends." That's how I felt.

Bob and I quietly rehearsed what we'd say and do when our time came. He never wants to look like the domineering male who doesn't let his wife talk. That's sort of hard to do when his wife wants him to do all the talking. We decided that Bob would explain that I was the huge fan but that I was too shy to talk (hoping he'd understand). Then, we basically agreed on three things. Bob wanted to know if he finds it hard to write about his family. He also wanted to tell him about some of the more amusing names of the towns in Lancaster County. Finally, I wanted to tell him to keep in a joke that had fallen somewhat flat when he read his China piece. The brilliance of David Sedaris is that you have to reread him. The first time, you're laughing yourself silly at the obvious humor. The second and third time, you pick up on the more subtle, and often even funnier, parts. I hadn't caught his joke myself, at first, but I know I would have on the second go-round and I wanted him to know that. We focused on what we wanted to say and didn't really discuss what we didn't want to say, except that the one thing I didn't want to do was tell him I'd grown up in North Carolina, like he had. I don't know why, but to me, that just sounds so sycophantic (and, you know, I was so un-sycophantic otherwise).

Eventually, the line did end with us, and we were standing before Sedaris, and he was busy signing our books (he drew a bird in Naked, and wrote, "I'm so happy you can walk" in Me Talk Pretty One Day), and Bob was asking if it was hard to write about his family. Sedaris didn't really answer the question (he assured us his father really is a mean man, while also seeming to be surprised that he comes off as such. I think he honestly makes an effort to be fair to his family members and may not always be aware at how often he calls a spade a spade), but it was obvious that the answer was "yes." He seemed genuinely appreciative to be told about such Pennsylvania towns as Intercourse, Blue Ball, and Paradise. What probably confused him was Bob telling him I was shy.

You see, I proved not to be the least bit shy. I told him I was a "scary fan," and when he chatted with me about that, I opened up more and, much to my disgust, found myself telling him I'd grown up in North Carolina, asking him, "Could you not wait to get out of North Carolina?" to which he replied, "No, I couldn't wait to get out of North Carolina," and then, laughing, added "but it took me 27 years." Then we chatted a minute about how people will visit and say, "It's so beautiful," and there I was, exchanging that knowing look with him, I've exchanged with many a former or current resident, while saying, "But they haven't lived there." Bob piped up that I do like places like Asheville and Boone, and I had to agree I do, which led to Sedaris making a comparison between North Carolina and Oregon (not politically, he made it clear) and my making my comparison between Maine and Oregon.

Finally, acting as though we were the oldest of friends, I advised him to keep that joke in the China piece. But then, the star-struck, babbling idiot of a crazy fan resurfaced, and went on about the beauty of his writing and how it needs to be reread. Somehow, though, being the genius that he is, he was able to wade through all the babble and focus on the nugget within,

"You really think I should keep it? No one got it. I had to explain it."

"Definitely." I said.

Believe me, I'll be checking to see if he took my advice when the piece makes it into print. If he does, don't be surprised if you one day hear me say, "I helped David Sedaris edit that piece, you know."

Breaking My Heart with Armistead Maupin

I hate endings and saying "goodbye." For some reason, I've only just begun to acknowledge this fact, despite knowing perfectly well that one of the many reasons I don't read one book at a time is that I then don't reach the end of any particular book as quickly as I would if I did. I was the child who if taken to a movie or musical would (I'm sure) annoy fellow audience members around me with the loud question, "It's not almost over yet, is it?"

However, this fact seems to have done nothing but surprise me time and again throughout my life. I was the kid who had not one but one-and-a-half feet out my high school's door the whole time I was there, bored to tears and more eager than any of my friends to get off to college. Nonetheless, I found myself getting terribly choked up at my graduation ceremony. At the end of my first year in college, I had all my final exams on the last two days of exams with something like 5 days between the end of classes and my first exam (what with reading days and all). I chose to go home for 5 days and come back, thus missing most of my friends' departures. When I got back, my roommate and I were practically the only ones left in the dorm. You would have thought all our friends had been banished to Siberia the way I reacted.

My professional life hasn't been much better. I have been shocked, dismayed, and saddened every. single. time. some colleague of whom I am awfully fond has announced he or she is leaving for greener pastures. In fact, at my first job in the corporate world, where turnover was incredibly high, after a year, I decided I'd better hurry up and get another job so I could be the one leaving instead of watching someone else I loved walk out that door one afternoon for the last time. What I always hated the most were early retirees. I mean, when you're twenty-or-thirtysomething, you think they're a "done deal." Surely, you will be leaving before the champagne corks are flying in honor of this person who has been your great mentor. Then they go and announce at age 59 or something that they're retiring (this happened a lot in the library world, for some reason).

I'm obviously not someone who is extremely fond of visiting old stomping grounds. I'm someone who cried every time she moved out of an old apartment, no matter how wonderful and exciting my new apartment was. Hell, I cried when boyfriends moved out of their old apartments. Many of you know that I broke down in tears on my first few trips back to Connecticut after moving to Pennsylvania.

All right. This probably all makes at least some sense in the real world, even to those who are busy labeling me "emotional freak". However, does it make any sense at all when we're not in the real world? When we're talking about books? Books should not bring waves of nostalgia over someone the way visiting her first apartment does, should they? Yet, waves of nostalgia are what I was recently feeling. That's because I picked up Armistead Maupin.

The novel I am writing is one I hope will be the first in a series of novels that I have carelessly been describing as a cross between Jan Karon and Armistead Maupin. I use the word "carelessly," because I would never advise a marketing campaign based on this description. The series would die before the first manuscript was even typeset. How absurd to suggest combining a "cozy read," gently humorous writer with a caustically witty writer who was the first to deal with such things as AIDS in his farcical fiction. For those of you who have never read either of these authors, think "James Herriot meets Dorothy Parker." Good writers, all, in their own rights, but you don't mix hot chocolate with martinis (at least, not if you want something palatable).

Anyway, it's not easy, since the series exists mostly in my head at this point, to explain why I describe it thus. It's much easier to talk about being on the other side of halfway through the first draft of the first novel (which feels so good) and deciding I'd better go back to both these authors (while I'm at it, maybe I ought to go back to Herriot and Parker, too) for a little inspiration and a lot of "how-to." I haven't (you know, hating endings and all) finished either Karon's Mitford series nor Maupin's Barbary Lane (Tales of the City) series. I decided I ought to read what I haven't read and then go back and reread what I have.

And here's where nostalgia crept its way into the forefront of my brain. I picked up Maupin's Sure of You (the final volume in the series until the recently-published Michael Tolliver Lives). All the key Maupin ingredients are here: eccentric, mistake-making, lovable characters; a setting (San Francisco) that is as much a character as the characters themselves; bizarre circumstances; laugh-out-loud moments; etc. However, they are the same characters now more than a decade older than they were when we first met them (so young and looking towards the future) in Tales of the City. They've been through so much together (moves from the bungalow on Barbary Lane where they all first met, lost loves, marriages, deaths...). In real life, when I talk with friends I've known for ten or twenty years, I don't even feel the pangs I felt while reading this book. I do, however, when I find real-life friends seemingly headed towards making the same mistakes they made a decade earlier, as my Maupin friends do, want to ask them, "Didn't you learn the first time?" I never do, though, and I wouldn't if I'd known and loved any of Maupin's characters twenty years ago, either. When I was about halfway through the book, I decided I was going to have to pretend I'd never met any of these characters, that I hadn't read all the history, hadn't carried all that baggage with them. It was the only way I managed to make it through the book without doing more damage to my heart, which is already over-patched and super-glued to its limit.

That's Maupin's brilliance, of course. He knows exactly how to trace the passage of time (both on a personal and a societal level) through his characters. However, these are books. They are not real life. I can go back and reread Tales of the City anytime I want. It isn't like that first corporate job of mine, a company that was sold, located in a building that has probably long-since been renovated and occupied by unfamiliar companies. Many of those former colleagues are completely lost to me; others don't remember the specifics of that time that I do. It all exists only in my imagination at this point. Wait a minute. Isn't that where Maupin's characters and setting exist as well?

Perhaps my nostalgia over books is not so odd after all. Besides, when we're talking about books, we're not only talking about the characters and settings and plots within the books themselves; we're also talking about the time and the place in which we read them. Sometimes we're talking about the people who introduced them to us. I first read Maupin only 2 years ago, but my sister suggested I read him about twenty years ago, a suggestion I never forgot. A lot has happened in those two years, though. We were still living in Connecticut at the time, and I remember reading them in my favorite chair in my favorite room in that house when I wasn't reading them on airplanes while traveling for business. I was in the midst of my "perfect job" at "the perfect company" with "the perfect boss." We were anticipating a move that had me both excited and terrified. The friend who lent me the books was someone I saw all the time. We still made frequent visits into NY and saw many of our dear friends from seminary. Little did I know that within a year, my "perfect boss" would be announcing that she was leaving the company. I'd still be having trouble establishing a "favorite reading room" in my new home, a place that still felt quite alien to me. Within two years, I'd be laid off from "the perfect company." My friend who lent me the books would become someone I see maybe once a year. Our friends from seminary would be dispersed all over the world.

Maybe it's no wonder I feel these pangs of nostalgia. But my God, what's going to happen when I return to Jan Karon, someone I first read over ten years ago? I guess I just need to brace myself for the moment, the way I do when I pretend not to be saying goodbye to someone who is going off to live in Texas or South Africa or Ireland, someone it's highly likely I may never see again. Meanwhile, I can take comfort in the fact that these are books. They still exist as they did when I first "met" them, and I can relive moments with them over and over again. My interpretation of them may change, but the same words I first read are still there, no matter how many years it's been, which is what makes them oh-so-different from my "real-life" friends, like the one with whom I dreamed about moving to San Francisco, back when we were both living in North Carolina. He made it. I never did, and San Francisco wouldn't be San Francisco to me without his presence there, nor would it be without Maupin's.

The Books for the TBR Challenge

First of all, I have to let you know that there is a difference between my TBR tome, which has countless numbers of unread books written down in both electronic and non-electronic formats (an interesting "tome" indeed) and the shelves in our home, which contain countless numbers of unread books. My goal when I came up with this challenge was not to worry about the books on shelves, just to pore through everything and choose 20 books that I've been meaning to read and have yet to get around to reading. I planned to check those I didn't have out of the library. Nevertheless, it turns out that in browsing my lists and shelves, I ended up with 20 books that we do own. That means I will not be dependent on the library, which is nice (not that there is anything wrong with being dependent on a library).

Anyway, here is my list. I, like Dorr, am choosing these for now with the idea that, if I feel like it, I can make substitutions later. We'll see how it goes. If I manage to get through twenty books and enjoy the process, this might turn out to be a yearly event for me.

1. The Zookeeper's Wife by Diane Ackerman
I actually have two Diane Ackerman's I've been meaning to read forever. The other one is The Moon By Whale Light. I chose this one, for now, because I'm more in the mood for it. That might change, however, so don't be surprised if I end up reading The Moon By Whale Light instead.

2. Brookland by Emily Barton
Should be pretty obvious why this one is on the list, especially for those of you who have been following me for three years and were there when I wrote one of those early posts about how I really do need to read one of her books.

3. The Death of the Heart by Elizabeth Bowen
Despite the fact I did not like Friends and Relations when I read it, I did promise myself I would give Elizabeth Bowen another go. A long-time friend of mine discovered Bowen this year and has been raving about her, so I decided this would be a good time for that "another go." But that's it. If I don't like this one, sorry, but I'm not trying anymore of hers.

4. A Window Over the Sink by Peg Bracken
I love Peg Bracken whose mid-twentieth-century books have such sensible titles as The I Hate to Cook Book and The I Hate to Housekeep Book (and are full of the sorts of recipes that people in that era ate). I bought this memoir a number of years ago, sure it would be delightful. So sure, I guess, that I decided I didn't need to read it to prove it so. Time for some proof…

5. Passion and Affect by Laurie Colwin
I loved both of Colwin's books about cooking, but I've never read any of her fiction. This one is killing two birds with one stone: not only is it in this challenge, but it is also helping me keep up my goal of reading more short story collections.

6. The King of Elfland's Daughter by Lord Dunsany
A friend of mine has been pushing this book on me practically since the year we met, which was 2001, and Ms. Musings has recommended it to me, too. I finally found a copy at our library book sale last year, which was my first step towards reading it, but I keep choosing others over it, for some reason.

7. The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver
I know, I know. Can you believe I haven't read it yet? And now everyone is raving about her newest one…

8. Bel Canto by Ann Patchett
I have yet to read a blog post that does not rave about this book. I picked it up at the 2009 library book sale, so it's a relatively recent purchase. It does sound like it's going to be brilliant, so I hope my expectations aren't so high that it can't deliver.

9. Gilead by Marilynne Robinson
You can't attend seminary vicariously and not be aware of this book. People raved about this one while Bob was at Union. I think the first blog post I read about it was Dorr's. Bob read it in the fall of 2008, and I've been promising him ever since that I'd read it.


10. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce
I am quite sure that this one has been in the TBR tome since before I even began to write the tome's first chapter. I think it was in the prequel. Anyway, that should be explanation enough as to why it's in the challenge.

11. Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith by Anne Lamott
I love Anne Lamott. It's been a while since I read anything by her. So this one is on the list as a "guaranteed to like" choice.

12. The Giant O'Brien by Hilary Mantel
Yet another author I've been promising a "second chance," because the first one was pretty disastrous. So many bloggers rave about her, though, that I can't help feel I must have missed something. We'll see. This one is short, so if it's really dreadful, I'll practically be done with it by the time I hit page 30 and might find myself finishing it, regardless.

13. On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan
McEwan had already had his two chances (Enduring Love, which was okay enough, despite its slapped-together ending, to lead me to Atonement, which I pretty much hated, although he did manage to drag me in enough that I wanted to find out what happened and so finished it). I'd decided he'd get no more of my time. I'd written him off as one of those "darlings of the literati" who shouldn't be. Then Hobs read this one, wrote about it, and I changed my tune. So, I'm giving McEwan one more go, but that's it. Really.

14. Cakes and Ale by Somerset Maugham
This might be a re-read. I went through a Maugham phase in my late teens, and I can't remember what I have and haven't read. I love Maugham. I have no doubt I will love this one (especially since it comes highly recommended by Litlove as a comfort read). I think a dreary day in February, when it should be snowing and is raining instead, after making a pot of tea and some brownies (or maybe it should just be ale and cake, although I prefer sherry with my cake, if we're choosing something alcoholic) might be perfect for this one. Okay, I've just made myself want to race off to the Amish bakery for some cake and to the liquor store for some sherry.

15. Still Life by Louise Penny
This one is in the most recent chapter of the TBR tome. I found out about Louise Penny from Susan over at You Can Never Have Too Many Books and decided I need to give her a read.

16. The Yellow Room by Mary Roberts Rinehart
I took this one from my parents' collections a number of years ago. It's the one on this list that I know I will absolutely read, because after deciding it ought to be a part of the challenge, I was asked to choose the next book for the CT mystery book discussion and chose this one.

17. American Pastoral by Philip Roth
I've never read any Roth. My friend Bob piqued my interest more than any reviewers have ever been able to pique it when it comes to reading him, so I put this one on my list, then bought it, but have yet to read it.

18. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J.K. Rowling
Because, although I'm not as ga-ga over him as some, I do like Harry Potter, and really, I ought to get through the series sometime before he turns 50, oughtn't I? A lot of people I know say this is their favorite, so I'm looking forward to it.

19. In the Beauty of the Lilies by John Updike
2009 was supposed to be my year of John Updike (another author I'd never read and also highly recommended by the likes of the-friend-not-husband Bob and Hobs). I read exactly one book of poetry and one short story. However, I did buy three of his books. This is the one that is most striking my fancy at the moment, but again, might be exchanged for either Roger's Version or Marry Me.

20. The Story of Edgar Sawtelle by David Wroblewski
This is another one Hobs (boy, he seems to have a lot of influence over me) raved about, so it tentatively went into the TBR tome. Then Ms. Musings also raved about it, and it made it permanently into the TBR tome. Bob bought it for me last Christmas. Really, it's about time I read it.

There you have it. I have anal-retentively arranged this list alphabetically by author's last name. However, I can tell you that the reader in me is saying, "Screw the anal-retentive nature. I am going to read these in any order I please, as the mood strikes me."

I hope others of you are planning on sharing your lists today (or this week, or whenever). Oh, and yes, yesterday, my last day of getting to purchase books before these are all read, I visited One World Classics and purchased three books (I'll let you know what they are if I ever read them).

A Night with the ADHD Insomniac

(The Attention-Deficit-Hyperactivity-Disordered Insmoniac -- from here on out referred to as ADHD-I --went to bed at 10:30 and fell fast asleep. She’s not sure exactly what it was that woke her up, heart pounding at 12:30, because all she remembers dreaming about is a dog with a red bandanna playing with a soccer ball, but she’s been awake, fretting about work and other life issues ever since. Ages ago, she slipped away into the guest bedroom, so her husband wouldn't be bothered by her restlessness.)

What time is it? 2:00 a.m.? Already? S**t! I’ve got to get some sleep. Come on, sleep…Okay, not a good idea to think about sleep. Don’t think about sleep. Visualize. Take a deep breath. Count sheep. There’s a big fat sheep happily jumping over a fence. Looks like something that could outsmart Wile E. Coyote. One. One big fat sheep. Two. Two big fat sheep. Three…four…five…six. Did I remember to turn the laundry room light off before coming to bed? What about the deck light? Yeah, I think I did. Stop it. Focus on the sheep. Here comes another one. What is that six? Seven? Seven, I guess. Eight. Nine… Oh f**k! Who am I kidding? The only way I’m going to conjure up a sheep right now is if one comes through the ceiling and lands on top of me. I’d like to strangle the idiot who came up with the notion that counting sheep is a way to get to sleep.

(ADHD-I throws off the covers, because it’s too hot. She tosses and turns for a few minutes. She flips upside down with her head at the foot of the bed – that used to work when she was a kid and couldn’t sleep. She lies there for who knows how long. Feels like sleep is just on the horizon. Her back starts itching. Her legs start itching. No amount of scratching seems to help. It’s a deep-down, way-below-the-surface-of-the-skin sort of itch).

Damn! What’s the matter with me? Why am I so itchy? What’s that a symptom of? AIDS? The Ebola virus? I can’t remember. Ought to get up and look it up online. No. I am not going online. I’m going to sleep. I have to sleep.

(ADHD-I now starts to get cold. She flips back around and gets back under the covers. She lies there for what seems like a very long time, but is only five minutes.) That’s better. I can just feel my eyelids getting droopy. Look into them. Look into the darkness of them. Pretend you’re in a dark tunnel. Don’t think about anything. Remember that time in first grade when you got in trouble for talking, and Ralph was the one who was talking? That was so unfair. And don’t forget that time in junior high when nobody would let you sit with them on the school bus. And then there was the time you tripped on the stairs in high school…God.

What time is it now? 3:00!? Okay, if I get to sleep within the next ten minutes, I can skip breakfast, get up at 6:30, and that will still be a little over three hours, plus the two I got earlier, which means I'll be getting really close to six hours of sleep. Six hours of sleep isn't bad. Lots of people only get six hours of sleep a night. Hell, lots of people seem to thrive on only four hours of sleep a night. They brag about it. Wish I were one of them. If I were, I wouldn't brag. Oh, s**t, I forgot to give Lisa her book back last time I was in the office. Uh-oh, did I leave that book at the office? What did I do with it? I hope I didn’t lose it. Dammit, I’m hungry. I’m going to ignore that growling stomach. If I were asleep, it wouldn’t be bothering me. (Stomach growls a few more times.) Wait a minute. I think I read that hunger keeps you awake. Cheese and milk have that stuff in them that makes you sleepy. Better go get some cheese and milk.

(ADHD-I makes her way downstairs to the kitchen to get some cheese and milk, making sure not to look out any windows on the way, lest she sees some scary-looking face looking back in at her. She cuts herself a chunk of cheese and pours a glass of milk, spots a Cooking Light magazine on the kitchen table and takes it back up to bed with her anything-but-light, wee-hours-of-the-morning snack. She props herself up in bed, eats, drinks, and reads recipes until she’s sure she can’t keep her eyes open any longer. The magazine is slipping from her hand. She turns off the light and curls up under the covers. She’s beginning to dream. Suddenly, there’s an unidentified thump from downstairs.)

What was that?! (Heart pounding again, she sits up in bed and listens.) Is it someone in the house? If someone’s in the house, do I have time to slip into the closet and hide? No, wait a minute. The closet was a terrible hiding place in Halloween. I wonder if I’d hurt myself if I jumped off the second-floor deck? Is that someone coming up the stairs? (Listens intently, but all she hears is the sound of the morning newspaper being delivered.)

S**t! The paper’s already being delivered. I’m never going to sleep now. I’ve got an hour at best. Should I just get up? Nah. Might as well just lie here and make the best of it. Lying still is almost as good as sleeping according to that one article...

(Twenty minutes before the alarm goes off, she slips into a near-comatose state.)

"May I Suggest a Book You Just Have to Read?"

Every so often, I get nostalgic for my former profession. I really have no idea why, since I was a librarian in the public library world, which means working some nights, some Sundays, and lots of Saturdays (always the Saturdays you’re invited to big events, like relatives’ weddings, and have to swap days with someone else). Most of the time, instead of researching interesting reference questions, you’re fixing the jammed printer for the 100th time in two hours. Meanwhile you're mustering all your strength to ignore the patron whose comments in the business world would allow you to buy that ocean-view mansion in the Caribbean, since you’d be able to file a big fat sexual harassment law suit against him, but against whom you can do nothing here. Nonetheless, one of the libraries in a town near mine is looking for a teen services coordinator, and I found myself fantasizing about the position. This job would pay much less than I’m making now, would involve a forty-five minute commute, would definitely mean working nights (the only time teens are awake), and I certainly wouldn’t be able to do it from the comfort of my own home. So what could my fantasy possibly have entailed? Why becoming the only adult in these teens’ lives who understands them! We’d discuss books, movies, music, computers, T.V. shows… I’d rescue them from their teenage misery; I’d inspire them to become caring citizens of the world; I’d change their lives.

Yeah, right. That’s what I thought I was going to do when I made the decision to become a librarian for adults. It was such a noble profession. People were going to walk through the doors of that library, and we were going to do nothing but talk about books. I would stretch their imaginations, encourage them to read things they might never have read otherwise, provide them with just the right materials to help them make major decisions in their lives. I’d change the way they felt about The Librarian. (I’ve just realized I forgot to mention delusions of grandeur when I was discussing my psychological disorders in my June 2nd post.) I’m not quite sure how long it took me to realize that the most frequently asked question wasn’t, “Could you recommend a good book?” but rather “Where’s the bathroom?”

I've recently become wise enough to realize my fantasies are just that: fantasies. I don’t really want to go back to working in the library world, well, not unless it means being able to set myself up in a big, comfy chair, feet propped on an ottoman and read (when no one is engaged in an animated discussion about books with me) for eight hours under a sign that says, “Reader’s Advisory: let’s talk about what you should be reading,” while being paid my current salary. Better yet, let’s make that a sign over my front door, so I don’t have to leave my house. Wouldn’t that be a fun job? Basically, a never-ending book discussion group. Sounds terrific, but the realist in me who is constantly trying secretly to poison the dreamer, is already shouting about the downside, which she can’t believe I seem to have forgotten: reader’s advisory is a damn difficult proposition.

When I did work in the library world, I once attended a reader’s advisory workshop. We were encouraged to read books we normally wouldn’t, which was one of those many, many “uh-duh” moments I've encountered in my life. Why I’d never figured out, without being told, that I’d have an easier time helping the person who loved a particular fantasy writer find similar authors and titles if I’d actually read that writer and others of her ilk, is one of those unsolved mysteries best left unexplored. I love to read, and I don’t tend to think of myself as an extraordinarily picky reader (I mean, does a raving alcoholic really distinguish between Bombay Sapphire gin and cough syrup?), so I didn’t think it would be such a hardship to read even the books that got the worst reviews in all my favorite journals. After all, some of my favorite movies have received rotten reviews. I’d broaden my horizons and check out some of the most-often-requested authors at our library, so I could be The Best Reader’s Advisor Ever. I went back to the library and happily pulled off the shelves books by the #1-bestselling authors of the day.

I tried. I really did. However, not only did I find I was reevaluating my previous thoughts about hardship as they pertained to reading the books, but I also discovered a new unbearable hardship: keeping my arm from tossing them into the nearest trashcan. And this is when I began to discover that being a librarian maybe wasn’t the best job for me. I mean, how can you smile and treat kindly the person who comes in and requests such books, when, you discover (much to your “open-minded-and-tolerant” persona’s horror) all you can think is, “The townspeople’s tax dollars really shouldn’t be wasted on you and your pathetic reading habits?”

But, let’s be fair and put aside this horrible, judgmental, snobbish side of me. Reading books is just such a personal endeavor, how successful is anyone, really, at advising others on what they should read? I have a few reliable sources in my life. Bob is a fantastic advisor, but every once in a while, he hits something (like one extremely brutal spy adventure whose gratuitous torture scenes were just a little too graphic for my imagination) that just doesn’t cut it. My oldest sister is great when it comes to recommending fun “chick lit” written by authors who actually know a little something about stringing words together to form sentences, but she’s not a big fan of the supernatural, and I am. My other sister inspires me to read classics I’ve never read, but she can’t tell me much about anything written after 1940. My brother and I, since we were teenagers, have shared a love of such contemporary writers as Tom Robbins and John Irving, but he also loves to read the sort of huge history tomes that convince me I have the world's worst case of ADD by the time I hit page 2. And I have plenty of friends who’ve been pretty consistent in inspiring me over the years to pick up great books I've loved. Oddly enough, two of the best recommenders of books I’ve known have been former bosses. I’m still waiting for the day one of them shares a book with me I can honestly say I don’t like, but it has yet to happen.

I think I've been pretty good at recommending books in return to all these people, from time to time at least. Still, getting it right, all the time, for everyone who walks into the library looking for a good read, is a tall order and one best left to those who don’t begin to doubt their very existence when someone walks in and says, “That was the worst book I’ve ever read. How could you possibly have recommended it?” So, I’ll stick with editing books and leave the tough/life-altering decisions up to others. I mean, could you imagine my having to deal with a teenager who walks up and tells me she idolizes Jessica Simpson while informing me she found it impossible not to throw my latest book recommendation into the nearest trashcan?

Cooking, Composing, and Reeling from Disbelief

Cooking for me is a truly enjoyable and creative pastime. When I’m not tuned into my iPod, either listening to a book, or trying to keep from chopping off my fingers while dancing to Van Morrison, I often find myself separating eggs or stirring white sauce while composing bits and pieces of stories and blog posts in my head. I did a lot of cooking over Christmas, and two separate, but similarly-themed posts took root during this period. They both centered around blogging.

The first post was one in which I was embracing the reader in me. My reader, who is really nothing more than a sneaky, voyeuristic writer in disguise, is one who can’t seem to read anything without having one of three thoughts: a. that was absolutely horrible. Why did I waste my time with it? Certainly, I could easily have taken that [story, point, theme, etc.] and written something so much better. b. This is a good thing to read, because there’s absolutely no way on earth I’d ever attempt to write something like this, and it’s so awe-inspiring. and c. I think I’ll go kill myself now. This is exactly the sort of thing I’d like to write, but this author is so far superior in every way that my measly little attempts ought to be used for nothing more than lining the bottom of the litter box. Here are some prime examples to help you understand what I mean: a. Jackie Collins and Michael Crichton b. Leo Tolstoy and Margaret Atwood. c. David Sedaris and Susan Jane Gilman.

I don’t really like being this sort of a reader. Besides being extremely narcissistic, it can somewhat dampen the enjoyment of reading. However, if I can embrace it, perhaps I can rein it in and move past it, or at least stick it in some fenced-in area somewhere that it isn’t so likely to go galloping wildly about, leaving hoof prints and ripped pages between the covers of my books.

I’m not doing a very good job of reining it in, though. As a matter of fact, it’s found a new field in which to run and muck about: the blogosphere. If you take a look at the links on my blog, each and every one that is another blog, falls into one of these reading categories. Those that fall into the “a” category are the ones that are noticeably absent. These would be things like celebrity blogs, certain political blogs, and certainly many religious blogs. I waste enough time blogging. No need to waste my time with these.

So, now we get to the Tolstoys and the Atwoods of my links. I can happily read blogs like Book World, The Hobgoblin of Little Minds, Loose Baggy Monster, Tales from the Reading Room, Cam’s Commentary, Striped Armchair, The Library Ladder, Of Books and Bicycles, and So Many Books, because all of those authors are extraordinarily well-read and are doing things that I’m not attempting to do: writing extremely eloquently about books (or books and bicycling). Sometimes they write about other things (and sometimes I write about books), but for the most part they are literary critics and book reviewers, and I am not. Charlotte’s Web and Bloglily both fall into a sort of “iffy” category, but I will pretend I can happily read them, because they write about cooking (well, with the exception of today) and baking and being a mother, as well as their own eloquent thoughts on books, and I’m not writing about those things, either. Jew Eat Yet is what I would want to write if I knew half as much about the Jewish faith and culture or about film and other areas of pop culture, but I don’t, so it’s another one that can be happily read and enjoyed, knowing I’d never attempt to create such a blog. The Havens is mostly about gardening, and I’m a complete brown thumb, so I can enjoy reading her and sometimes wish she would come create a beautiful garden for me, but again, I would never try to write about gardening, not even my own disastrous attempts at it. She says to “come in and rest a while,” and I most certainly do. Mandarine is also in a category of his own, a scientist and (as I once noted) 21st-century Renaissance man, and reading his blog is very much like browsing through some of my favorite nonfiction sections of the library where I would never dream of trying to have a book of my own. Marissa’s blog is something different, as well: it’s more a reflection of her as a photographer, marking significant events in her life and enjoying her family and friends, not as a writer.

But now we come to the David Sedarises and the Susan Jane Gilmans, those who are doing exactly what I want to do and who make me feel, on a regular basis, that I ought just to close down this little blog and do nothing but spend time with them. These would be, Everything Inbetween (which is really The Public, The Private, and Everything Inbetween), Ian’s Blog, Make Tea Not War, Feminine Feminist, Froshty Mugs (well, when those two actually write), Musings from the Sofa, QC Report, and the Alternate Side Parking Reader. They’re funny. They’re ironic. They see the world the way I do (especially, for some reason, Ian and Froshty), and they are so damn talented at putting words together to describe that world.

The second post I composed while mashing potatoes, making gravy, and checking on the Yorkshire pudding was one in which I was thinking about my part in the blogosphere. It was all about my feeling so lucky to be hanging out with all these talented writers out here, wondering how I’ve managed to fall into this world and have been so accepted. I was comparing myself to someone who might have sat at places like the Algonquin Round Table as just some welcomed non-writer, someone’s little sister, maybe, living vicariously through all that talent. Or maybe I’m like Mrs. Strickland in Somerset Maugham’s The Moon and Sixpence, which I’ve been reading. When asked by one novelist (worried he ought to know and doesn’t) of another novelist who Mrs. Strickland is, the other novelist says, “She gives luncheon parties. You only have to roar a little, and she’ll ask you.” (Maugham, W. S., The Moon and Sixpence, New York: The Modern Library, 1919, p. 22). Am I the one “giving luncheon parties to a bunch of artists?”

This was all before New Year’s Day. Then New Year’s Day arrived, and what did I do? I checked Cam’s Commentary to discover that not only did someone list my blog as a daily read in her survey of favorites but actually included me in the same sentence as QC Report. Well, to tell you that this alone would have convinced me that 2008 is going to be a much better year than 2007 would be the absolute truth. But then, later in the day, I happened to wander over to Litlove’s new blog The Best of New Writing on the Web and was completely awed to discover I’d made it into this very first issue. I’d say 2008 is going to be a banner year with this sort of a start! So, maybe I’m the one everyone’s coming to sit with at the round table, and maybe my luncheons are so popular because people just can’t get enough of me? I find that hard to believe, but I do want to say thank you so very much to whomever it was who nominated and voted for me for these two humbling spots.

For Litlove

Dear Litlove recently posted a question about best book club books, and I decided rather than clog up her comments with a huge, long answer, I’d answer her question in a post of my own. I find it hard to believe, but I have belonged to six different book discussion groups over the past 20 or so years. I also happen to have been responsible for organizing all but one of them (which shows how desperate I’ve always been to read and discuss books with others). These are some of the books I remember inspiring the best conversations. Many of the books on Litlove’s list are ones I would have chosen myself, but I’ve decided only to include ones she didn’t already mention.

Family Stories

Wallace Stegner – Crossing to Safety
This one could also go under “books about education,” since it’s about professors, but I think, ultimately, it’s more of a family story, as well as a story about friendship and what that means. I read it for two different book discussion groups, and both times we had fascinating discussions about family roles and friendships and the American class system.

John Irving – The Cider House Rules
Many different types of families are explored in this one, from the lack of family, to the makeshift family of an orphanage, to wealthy families shocked by unwanted pregnancies, to the families of those who work in places like cider houses. It’s also, of course, about family planning. It makes for a very lively discussion, especially given that the “abortion issue” just never goes away in this country.

Cultural and Political Stories

Malcolm X and Alex Hailey – The Autobiography of Malcolm X
I have to admit that I had absolutely no desire to read this one when it was chosen. It turns out I was riveted from page one. (That’s a theme in my life, isn’t it?) Our discussion was made all the more interesting by the fact that we had a wide range of ages in our book group, so some remembered Malcolm X and his assassination and could give first-hand accounts of impressions and how reading the book did and didn’t affect their opinions, while others of us (hand raised here) basically knew nothing about him until we read the book.

Ayann Hirsi Ali – Infidel
I just read this one for one of my book discussion groups. What an eye-opener it was for a bunch of “do-good,” “accept-everyone-and-his/her-religion-as-is” liberals. Ali is only one person, and she has her biases, but her story is harrowing, and she raises some excellent questions about Islam and women’s rights and how much we should accept when it comes to letting people practice their faiths as they see fit, no questions asked.

Historical stories

J.L. Carr – A Month in the Country
A fascinating look at one man’s “recovery” from his experience in WWI, spending a month in the country restoring a medieval mural in a church. It’s a great starting point for those interested in the era and the effects of that war, which have been somewhat overshadowed by all the attention lavished on WWII, and interesting for what the reader learns not only about that era but also about the era in which the mural was painted. A very short book that inspired a VERY lengthy conversation (but maybe that's just because I didn't want to shut up about it).

Anzia Yezierska – Bread Givers
If you want to get a brutal glimpse of tenement living and family life and relations on New York’s Lower East Side in the 1920s, you can’t do much better than this. You’ve got plenty to discuss for hours, from the American class system, to different forms of racism and prejudice, to women’s and children’s roles, etc. Oh, and if you can manage to take your book group on a field trip to the Tenement Museum, all the better.

Classics

Charlotte Bronte – Jane Eyre
For many in my book group, it had been a long time since any of us had read this one, and most of us had read it as teenagers or when in college. I loved it as much the second time around as I had in college, and we had a great time discussing all the different levels to the book and the fact that it’s really two or three different books in one. (I’m making myself want to read it again as I type this.)

Willa Cather – My Antonia
Little House on the Prairie-for-grownups. I was convinced I was going to hate it and ended up loving it. (See? There’s that theme again.) It made for a great discussion about women’s roles and the often extremely difficult circumstances under which they have been expected to conform to them. And I’m still haunted by some of the images Cather painted so beautifully.

Personal Histories

Jung Chang – Wild Swans
The book that made me realize I knew absolutely nothing about China and that I wanted to learn more. It traces three generations of Chinese women through a grandmother, mother, and daughter (who writes the book) and their incredibly different lives (from concubine to woman living in Great Britain). The book was so good that, despite suffering from a horrible hangover the day we met to discuss it, I was still eager to talk about it for hours. If your book group is trying to decide between Lisa See’s fiction (which I also read for a different group) or this, choose this.

Lillian Schlissel – Women’s Diaries of the Westward Journeys
More-Little-House-on-the-Prairie-for-grownups. This one’s great, because it’s actual diary pages from different women, so you get different “personal” stories and different sorts of details. I was amazed by how much we all learned from reading this book and how most of us had not put much thought into the American westward movement from a female perspective until we read it.

In Translation

Gustav Flaubert – Madame Bovary
Despite the fact that I’ve never liked this book, I have to admit that it made for a great discussion (maybe because some of us disliked it so much, while others loved it, which often makes for great discussions). We had quite a lot to discuss, from why this book was such a “shocker” at the time, to what Emma Bovary was seeking, to female roles, to whether or not she was a believable character, etc., etc. I have to admit that after the discussion, I found myself thinking, “Well, maybe it’s not as bad as I think it is.” (That's what a good discussion will do to an impressionable mind such as mine.)

Isabelle Allende – The House of the Spirits
Proof that others can do magic realism as well as Garcia-Marquez can. A fabulous book that will immerse you in the culture, make you believe in the mystical, and remind you that families are the same the world over, all of which makes for great discussion. Just don’t suggest that your book group rent and watch the absolutely horrific movie version (despite the fact Antonio Banderas is in it. Even his good looks can’t save an interminably boring movie. However, you do have to admire the skill it must have taken to turn such a riveting book into such a yawn-inducing film).

Crime and Thrillers

Dashiell Hammett – The Glass Key
This one could go in the classic category, too. There are so many wonderfully mysterious aspects to this book itself, besides the mystery, that it makes for great discussion. As a matter of fact, the actual mystery is sort of incidental, and that's a good jumping-off point for discussion.

David Guterson – Snow Falling on Cedars
It is a mystery, of course, but it’s so much more than a mystery. It’s not necessarily one of the best-written books (Guterson has a tendency to over-write when it's not necessary), possibly was hyped a bit too much, but plenty of fodder for discussion is provided. For when your group is in the mood for a page-turner.

Novels of Ideas

Kazuo Ishiguro – The Remains of the Day
I'm not usually one to embrace the literary darling of the day (and Ishiguro most certainly was when this book was published and has continued to be), but this mesmerizing novel is about so much more than WWII and appeasement and being a butler. It’s yet another book that can be read on so many different levels. I remember our book discussion group reading more passages out loud from this one than we generally tended to do, asking ourselves questions about specific aspects of it.

Sinclair Lewis – Babbitt
Start with how little we’ve actually changed in America since this book was written and go from there. Sinclair Lewis focuses one of the sharpest (and most painful) lenses on American culture through which I've ever stared. And he’ll make you laugh to keep you from crying.

Love Stories

Louis de Beniers – Corelli’s Mandolin
More proof that others can do magic realism as well as Garcia-Marquez. It’s a great love story, and it inspired us to talk about culture clashes, the human elements of war, and yes, love.

Gabriel Garcia-Marquez – Love in the Time of Cholera
And proof that Garcia-Marquez can do magic realism as well as Garcia-Marquez. This one isn’t a mere love story. You’ll find yourselves discussing love on every single level and trying to define what it really is. A warning, though: this is not one to be read if you belong to a very polite, nice-nice book group, and you’re afraid of arguing with your friends.

About Education

Robertson Davies – Rebel Angels
(If my memory serves me correctly. This was one of the first books I ever read for a book discussion.) It’s a great book to discuss if you’ve got a mix of academics (or someone who grew up surrounded by academics as I did) and non-academics, as well as a good one for the “can all male writers really write believable female characters?” debate. Oh, and you’ll laugh (always a good thing).

Again, Crossing to Safety could also go in this category.