Which Witch?

which witchJenny at Reading the End has been recommending Eva Ibbotson for years and years, and particularly as a comfort read. While I recognize that comfort reads work better if you’re re-reading, I thought that since I was in need of something of that sort myself, I’d give it a try. What could it possibly hurt? Our library has half a shelf of her books, so I picked Which Witch? almost at random, and took it home. It begins:

As soon as he was born, Mr. and Mrs. Canker knew that their baby was not like other people’s children.

For one thing, he was born with a full set of teeth and would lie in his pram for hours, chewing huge mutton bones to shreds or snapping at the noses of old ladies fool enough to kiss him. For another, though he screamed with temper when they changed his nappies, his eyes never actually filled with tears. Also — and perhaps this was strangest of all — as soon as they brought him home from the hospital and lit a nice, bright fire in the sitting room, the smoke from their chimney began to blow against the wind.

Of course, the baby is a wizard, and grows up to be Arriman the Awful, smiting and blighting wherever he goes. Eventually, however, all this begins to pall, and he wants to pass on his heritage to a son — which, unfortunately, necessitates a wife. Arriman decides that the best way to find a wife is to have a contest: the witches of Todcaster will vie for his hand by casting their blackest spells. Too bad the witch who is most in love with him is a white witch…

About three chapters into this book, I began to feel a little outraged. Why on earth had I never heard of this author? This is exactly the kind of book I’d have loved as a child. It’s both clever and funny, with references to things children might have heard of but could figure out if they hadn’t, like the Kraken. It’s well-written and well-plotted, with lots of interesting characters (I particularly loved a genie in a bottle called Mr. Chatterjee.) It’s got quite genuinely scary bits in it, but nothing so overwhelming that the target audience would have nightmares (I’m looking at you, John Bellairs.) The ending is so satisfying and lovely that it actually brought a warm glow to my jaded, cinder-blackened heart. So why was this the first book of Eva Ibbotson’s I’d ever read? Ridiculous! I blame, in this order, my parents, Nature, the Will of God, and the Burke Branch Public Library.

Now, however, it’s my job to read more of her work, and I think I’ll do it by reading it aloud to my children before bedtime. They’re just the right age for it (7 and 9) and that way, no one will have to explain to their therapists how I never introduced them to Eva Ibbotson…

Posted in Children's / YA Lit, Fiction, Speculative Fiction | 8 Comments

A Sad Heart at the Supermarket

jarrell.2Over the past few years, I’ve made it a point to read as much of Randall Jarrell’s poetry criticism as I can. He was a very good poet himself (although maybe not absolutely top-tier), and he was, maybe, the most astute critic of his time. His work established or resuscitated the reputations of certain poets: Elizabeth Bishop, William Carlos Williams, Robert Lowell. Try reading some of his essays, like “To the Laodiceans,” his profound appreciation of the greatness of Robert Frost, when all that is Yankee-hokeyness has been wiped away. He is generous and eager, and his criticism always points, not to himself as critic, and not to criticism as an end in itself, but to the work. You always leave Jarrell wanting to read. Perhaps most astonishing of all is the way he was always right. Many critics fit in with the taste of their age. It is one critic in thousands who is still showing us the truth of poetry a couple of generations later.

A Sad Heart at the Supermarket is a collection of Jarrell’s essays on a pretty fair variety of topics, though not quite as diverse as they were in the marvelous Poetry and the Age. The first few (“The Intellectual in America,” “The Taste of the Age,” “The Schools of Yesteryear,” and “A Sad Heart at the Supermarket,”) are wry accounts of how literary matters are going to hell in a handbasket in America today (that would be 1962.) Jarrell points out from different angles that literature, and perhaps particularly the reading of poetry, is now considered “over-intellectual” or “too difficult,” though just a few years ago schoolchildren did it all the time. One of my favorite passages compares our unhappy state to that of Queen Victoria:

If the young Queen Victoria had said the Duke of Wellington: “Sir, the Bureau of Public Relations is in a deplorable state,” he would have answered, “What is a Bureau of Public Relations, ma’am?” When he and his generals wanted to tell lies, they had to tell them themselves; there was no organized institution set up to do it for them….People gossiped about her, but not in gossip columns; she had never heard a commentator, a soap opera, a quiz program. Queen Victoria — think of it! — had never heard a singing commercial, never seen an advertisement beginning: Science says… When Disraeli and Gladstone made speeches for her government, the speeches weren’t written for them by ghost-writers; when Disraeli and Gladstone sent her lovingly or respectfully inscribed copies of their new books, they had written the books themselves. …

Queen Victoria never went to the movies and had an epic costing eight million dollars injected into her veins — she never went to the movies. She never read a drugstore book by Mickey Spillane; even if she had had a moral breakdown and had read a Bad Book, it would just have been Under Two Flags or something by Marie Corelli. She had never been interviewed by, or read the findings of, a Gallup Poll….

And all the other people in the world were just like Queen Victoria.

Jarrell puts a humorous cast on the state of affairs, but he is quite serious about the effects a consumerist society may have on poetry and on literature more generally — on writers, on readers, and on critics.

There are also some blessed critical essays in this book. They are all wonderful, but my favorite is “On Preparing to Read Kipling.” Kipling enjoys much the same reputation today that he did in Jarrell’s time: either people consider him a writer for children (The Jungle Book, Kim) or they veer away from the straw man they’ve made of his colonialist opinions. He’s one of the people We Are Too Virtuous to Read.

Randall Jarrell wants to change your mind. In fact, he wants to stoppeth one of three, and take you by the lapels, and explain to you at great length, while you miss the wedding, why you ought to love Kipling: because Kipling is one of the world’s great story-writers, that’s why. Henry James thought Kipling was a genius, he says, by way of support, but most of the essay is dissection: look at the piles of proof that show what a master storyteller he was. I grew up on Kipling, from the children’s books to Stalky & Co. to the poetry to the many astonishing short stories. I couldn’t agree more with Jarrell. But his essay left me wanting to go straight back and begin again, the morrow morn.

And now, sadly, I’ve reached the end of Jarrell’s criticism: I’ve read all the essays that good-humored, passionate, fascinating, accurate essayist had to write. What critic should I try now? Who will give me sharp insight on literature, and make me want to read more? All suggestions welcome.

Posted in Nonfiction, Short Stories/Essays | 10 Comments

Elsewhere

TheRavenCyclebyMaggieStiefvater_zpsc4df7303Some of you may remember that last year I read and enjoyed the first of Maggie Stiefvater’s Raven Cycle novels, The Raven Boys and The Dream Thieves. The fourth book in the quartet, Blue Lily, Lily Blue is being published in the U.S. tomorrow, and in anticipation, Ana, Aarti, Memory, Jenny, and I swapped theories (and hopes) about where the story might go. Check out our conversation at Lady Business.

And Jenny has a review of the new book up at Reading the End. I hope to get my own copy this weekend, when Maggie Stiefvater is in town for a signing at One More Page Books.

If you’re a fan of Susan Cooper’s Dark Is Rising sequence, you should check these out. They’re more mature books (Young Adult rather than Middle Grade), but they draw from the same Welsh mythology.

Posted in Uncategorized | 9 Comments

The Secret History

secret historyOne of the great mysteries of the book world (to me, anyway) is how books get sorted into categories. Margaret Atwood’s futuristic novels are general fiction, but Octavia Butler’s are science fiction. Emily St. John Mandel’s zombie and contagion novel gets nominated for a National Book Award, but Stephen King still gets dismissed as just a horror novelist. And Donna Tartt’s The Secret History is a literary darling, while Ruth Rendell’s novels are often noticed only by readers of crime fiction.

I read Donna Tartt’s The Little Friend when it first came out and liked it more than most seemed to (although I didn’t love it). People kept telling me that her debut, The Secret History, is so much better, and it certainly seemed like the kind of book I liked. It’s a crime novel in which the murderer confesses right up front and the book shows why and how the murder was done. This is one of my favorite kinds of crime novel. And that’s what The Secret History is, a very good crime novel.

I say this not to cast aspersions on crime novels (I love them!) or on The Secret History  (which I enjoyed) but to express my puzzlement at why this book got so much widespread praise when really excellent taut psychological thrillers get tucked away in crime fiction, read only by fans of the genre. This plot could come straight out of a Barbara Vine (Ruth Rendell) novel. (Rendell, in fact, provided a blurb for The Secret History.) If Rendell wrote it, the book would be at least 100 pages shorter, which would probably improve it. (Read A Fatal Inversion, which she wrote as Barbara Vine. You’ll see what I mean.)

The Secret History is the story of a tight-knit group of classics students at a small New England college. Our narrator, Richard Papen, has transferred into the college and managed to wheedle his way into the exclusive classics program, which includes only five students and the professor Julian Morrow. We know from the beginning that somehow Richard and his classmates will end up killing another classmate, Bunny, but it takes a few hundred pages to learn why or how. As we journey to the conclusion we know is coming,  we’re immersed in a world of alcohol, drugs, class consciousness, and 20-somethings’ quests for identity, put in a pressure cooker and set on high.

One of the things I enjoyed about the book was the angle on class and how much the characters’ desire to belong affected their actions. These people egg each other on toward actions that become increasingly destructive. The specific actions that lead to their first fatal error are presented as part of a pursuit of knowledge, but that’s just how they set their violence apart from what might arise at the less academically inclined bacchanals going on all over campus. When Richard breaks off from the group and goes to more typical university parties, what happens seems somehow healthier and less sordid, perhaps because it’s more honest. They’re kids, goofing around—irresponsibly but less destructively than the toxic classics coterie.

I read the book in a day and enjoyed it, but the plot did get preposterous at times. There were times when the characters’ secrecy (and lack of it) seemed not just over the top, but implausible. Some of their actions could be chalked up to being young and arrogant and under stress, but I wonder if I read more slowly and took time to think about it whether the plot might fall apart. But as I was reading, I was having too much fun watching the story come together to do anything other than shake off my reservations and just let myself be entertained.

Posted in Fiction, Mysteries | 22 Comments

The Readathon Approacheth

deweys-readathonbuttonAs I write this on Friday night, the fall edition of Dewey’s 24-Hour Read-a-Thon is just a few hours (or “one sleep”) away. I’ve been lucky enough to have been able to participate in all but a few Read-a-Thons since my first in Fall 2009, just two years after Dewey began the event. Today, a team of bloggers have carried on the event in her memory, and it’s been exciting to see it evolve and grow.

I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to join in this time because I had several things going on, and I find I don’t enjoy participating much when I’m squeezing reading in between multiple other commitments. But most of my plans got shifted, and I’m left with almost a full day. Hooray!

Whenever I can, I like to take a day off before the Read-a-Thon to clean, prepare or purchase some snacks, gather my books, and generally take care of responsibilities and distractions. For some reason my Friday cleaning turned into a thorough going over of the house, including picking stuff up and wiping underneath! So my house feels like the orderly oasis I want for a day of reading.

2014-10-17 21.31.46Lots of folks build tall stacks of books to read on Read-a-Thon day, but many of you know that I like to use the Read-a-Thon to tackle a long, but absorbing book–what I call the “one-book Read-a-Thon stack.” I was stewing all week over whether to read The Quick by Lauren Owen or The Secret History by Donna Tartt. The Tartt has come more highly recommended (The Quick has the potential to be terrible), but the little type in my mass market paperback of The Secret History was giving me pause. Well, it turns out that The Quick was due at the library today, and I couldn’t renew it, so I took that as a sign. I also have Claire Tomalin’s Thomas Hardy bio on hand if I want some larger type for a while, and I’ve not gotten around to the latest issues of Ms Marvel and Fables. Plus, of course, I have about a million books in the house. So I’m not lacking in choices if I finish the Tartt—or if it just doesn’t pan out.

As usual, I plan to read for charity, giving 10 cents per page read to a literacy project at Donors Choose. The option to do this is something that makes the Read-a-Thon really special for me.

Aside from a break for a yoga class, I expect to spend all day reading, with cooking and eating and internetting and moving around breaks as needed. I’ve got the supplies on hand for a Crock Pot Apple Crumble, so I can enjoy the scent of that cooking as I read. And I’m expecting a Blue Apron box tomorrow with the materials to make calzones, which seems like an ideal Read-a-Thon dinner.

I may pop in and add some updates on this post during the day, but in the past I’ve found that posts are too time-consuming and feel less like fun and more like work. So most of my updates are likely to be on Twitter and/or Instagram. I don’t ever stay up all night—that leads nowhere good, but I’ll stay up until I’m sleepy and maybe read a little more when I wake up.

I’m looking forward to a fun day of geeky bookishness. How about you? Are you Read-a-Thonning? Or doing something equally fun? What would you read if you had a whole day for reading?

Opening Meme

1) What fine part of the world are you reading from today? Alexandria, Virginia, just outside Washington, DC.
2) Which book in your stack are you most looking forward to? The Secret History by Donna Tartt.
3) Which snack are you most looking forward to? Crock Pot Apple Pumpkin Pudding
4) Tell us a little something about yourself! I’ve been blogging for more than 6 years, which I guess makes me an old-timer. I’m a magazine editor in my day job, I volunteer at a couple of DC theatres so I get to see lots of plays for free, I’m active in my church, and I recently took up yoga.
5) If you participated in the last read-a-thon, what’s one thing you’ll do different today? If this is your first read-a-thon, what are you most looking forward to? No big changes for me. I’ve worked out a pretty good system for myself. I going to try to eat healthier snacks than usual–I tend to load up on junk and order pizza, which is great, but I end up feeling more tired than if I ate better food.

Post Read-a-Thon Update

The Read-a-Thon came to its official end just over half an hour ago. I read most of the day yesterday, with a long break to go to yoga class and shorter breaks for online chat, cooking dinner, and such. And I went to bed just a little later than my usual hour. It was a good day.

2014-10-18 19.33.31I read a couple of chapters of Claire Tomalin’s Thomas Hardy biography and all of The Secret History by Donna Tartt. I should have a review for The Secret History up later today, but I’ll say now that it was a good choice for the Read-a-Thon. There was plenty of suspense to keep me interested, and it wasn’t particularly challenging. (It was not, however, not a ridiculously amazing book. Just a solid crime thriller, which is no small thing.) My page count was 536 pages, which means I’ll be giving $53.60 to a classroom library project on Donors Choose.

All in all, it was a good day.

Posted in Uncategorized | 22 Comments

One Art: Letters

one artYears ago, I bought a copy of One Art: Letters for my husband. How many years? I’m not sure: it came out in 1994, but it was probably not quite so long ago as that. Ten years ago? Twelve? Anyway, he never read it, and it sat there, looking imposing, on our shelf. Last month, I took it down, all 650 pages of it, and started reading.

Elizabeth Bishop is one of the truly great American poets. She is an undisputed master of form (see “One Art” or “Sestina”) and lived by advice she got early from her friend Marianne Moore: no matter how long it took her, she never published a poem until she felt she had perfected it. (Her long poem about Nova Scotia, “The Moose,” was begun when she was in her early twenties and completed when she was in her sixties.) Her brilliant, subtle impressions of the physical world are not confessional or autobiographical, yet as Randall Jarrell says in one of his astute reviews of her work, they could all say under them: I saw it.

Bishop’s letters are her second great art. This book, edited by Robert Giroux, is far from being a complete collection, even at this length: not only was she prolific, not only did she have many friends and a passion and talent for correspondence, but she lived in Brazil for fifteen years with her partner Lota Soares, and could keep in touch with the poetry world only by letter. She had a talent for long, deep friendships with other poets, with whom she could be completely frank about her own work and about theirs. (To be honest, she talks smack about other poets, too — what fun that is to read!) Some of her closest friends were Robert Lowell, Marianne Moore, Randall Jarrell, and May Swenson. She knew dozens of other poets, musicians, and literary people, along with less rarefied friends; she was private and shy, but with a strong sense of connection.

Bishop’s voice is lively and engaging, even when — maybe especially when — she’s not talking about much. I loved the years when she was writing in Brazil, dealing with day-to-day events, restoring the house she lived in with Lota, worrying about the servants’ babies, enjoying the scenery. She struggled with her health her entire life, from allergies and asthma to debilitating alcoholism, and this crops up in many of her letters to friends and doctors. Her eye for brilliant bits of detail is unerring: the color of a fruit, or a snatch of dialogue, or exactly what a toucan said. Not a surprise for someone who’s read much of her poetry.

Every once in a while come letters that are purely about poetry: explaining her own poems, very rarely, or more often appreciating someone else’s. There are long letters going through a new book of Robert Lowell’s, for instance, criticizing a word here or there, or confessing confusion about a line; saying what’s done well. There are letters talking about poetry as an art, too: what sacrifices is it worth? What can, and can’t, an artist do with poetry? What is e.e. cummings, or Frost, or Eliot, doing these days? These letters show Bishop as absolutely uncompromising. She wants her poetry taken on its merits, with exactitude, with no admixture of personality or pity or malice, as if the poems are carved from quartz. Yet she herself is generous, loyal, hungry, funny, sad and difficult. It’s revealing and lovely.

I’d never read a book of letters like this before. The oddest thing about it was reading only half of the conversation: hearing what Bishop says to Marianne Moore, for instance, but not hearing what she says back. The best thing about it was reading Bishop’s poems as she wrote them. When she mentioned publishing a poem, I went and read it, or if she mentioned publishing a book, I read the book. Questions of Travel was particularly good along those lines, with all the references to Brazil — I could almost see it before my eyes. I loved exploring this, and all the poetry, and the brilliance. I’d like to do it again, with someone else.

Posted in Biography, Poetry | 17 Comments

Unwritten Reviews

I mentioned in my post on Home Cooking that I had read quite a few books that had gone unreviewed. In the comments, a couple of people suggested I put up a list of the books I’ve read that I would really have liked to write something about. If there’s anything you would particularly like me to get to if I have time, leave me a note — I’ll put it to the front of the queue, and if I have time, I’ll take that into account!

  • Between the Woods and the Water, Patrick Leigh Fermor. The sequel to A Time of Gifts. Fermor’s description of his travel, on foot, in the 1930s, from the Hook of Holland towards Constantinople.
  • The Radetzky March, Joseph Roth. Novel that chronicles the decline and fall of the Austro-Hungarian Empire through three generations of the Army-going Trotta family, from the height of empire through the first World War.
  • My Bright Abyss, Christian Wiman. Short volume by a former editor of Poetry magazine, reflecting on his diagnosis with terminal cancer, poetry, and what it means to have faith as a postmodern person. Absolutely, even brutally, unsentimental.
  • The Bingo Palace, Louise Erdrich. Lipsha Morrissey seeks help from the spirits in order to gain the love of Shawnee Ray, who is considering a much more eligible proposal. Bingo is involved. This is the fourth in her series about the fictional Turtle Mountain reservation in North Dakota.
  • Engine Summer, John Crowley. Any summary I tried to give would be hopelessly inadequate, but it’s near-future science-fiction, sort of.
  • Angelmaker, Nick Harkaway. There’s a doomsday device involving killer bees, and Joe Spork must save the world. It’s way, way, way, way better than that sounds at face value.
  • Findings, Kathleen Jamie. Nature writing and close observation from Scotland.
  • On Beauty, Zadie Smith. Novel about race, academics, women, sex, theories about beauty, and a lot of extremely unpleasant people.

There we are. My goodness, what a motley crew. All of them are more than worth reading, and if I get some requests, maybe I’ll write about a few of them. I hope to catch up on what you have been reading, as well!

Posted in Uncategorized | 13 Comments

Checkmate

CheckmateThe sixth and final book in Dorothy Dunnett’s Lymond Chronicles finds Lymond and Philippa in France. Their relationship remains unchanged since The Ringed Castle, but they plan to dissolve the relationship after the wedding of Mary, Queen of Scotland, to the French Dauphin. All signs point to Philippa marrying Austin Grey, the Marquis of Allendale, the man Lymond mockingly referred to as Tristram Trusty in The Ringed Castle. Philippa also hopes that Lymond will be able to find happiness in a marriage to Catherine d’Albon. And she hasn’t let go of her desire to find out the truth behind Lymond’s birth.

For his part, Lymond keeps his intentions and desires to himself, with only those closest to him, such as Archie Abernathy, knowing just how much physical and emotional pain he is in. As the royal wedding approaches, the characters from previous books begin arriving in France, making it more difficult for Lymond to keep his distance as family and friends (and a few enemies) crowd around.

Teresa: In our discussion of The Ringed Castle,  we talked a bit about the interplay of political and personal life in this series. I was struck by how crucial that interplay was to this book. Everyone seemed to have an opinion on who Lymond and Philippa should be married to, and often, those opinions came down to politics. It’s something I’d expect when it comes to royal marriages, but the marriage of anyone with power or influence seems to be a matter of public opinion.

Jenny: True, and it does mirror, in a small way, the secrets and conspiracies behind the great royal marriage that takes place in this book. In the course of this series, we’ve seen so many great people brought down by mistakes, ranging from adultery to warfare to Protestantism. For the wealthy, the personal is all too political.

The same is true of Lymond, who is too important to be permitted to make his own decisions about where he will live (Russia? France? England? Scotland?), whom he will marry, or where he will serve. But who is making the decisions? Is it the King of France, or the men of St. Mary’s, or Philippa? We’re also led to believe that the Dame de Doubtance (now dead) plays a role, but even on this third read-through, I don’t know what it’s supposed to be, or why.

Teresa: I think the Dame de Doubtance just wants power, but her plans seem too far-reaching to be believed, especially so many years in advance. I can only figure she stored up all her secrets hoping she’d get a chance to use them.

That leads right into my one big complaint about this book, which is that major developments hinged too much on coincidence. This was especially noticeable near the end, when one convenient death and then another end up preserving Lymond’s life. I don’t know if Dunnett was intentionally trying to show that all the plots and plans in the world are subject to outside forces of chance or if she just couldn’t figure out another way to get to the ending she wanted. I want to think it’s the former, but I can’t be sure.

Jenny: I agree that she’s playing with these ideas. We’ve seen all the lines that lead to those deaths laid in train — all the emotional consequences of each action that lead to the final, fatal trigger — but in fact, they aren’t fate, they’re choice (right?), and could have been changed. It’s one of the main themes of the series, isn’t it? Is Lymond ever once free to do as he likes? He claims total independence, even arrogance, but he wants to serve Russia. Is he ever free to return and do so? Is it because of his stars, or because of his (and others’) choices? All these ideas are explored even more thoroughly in the Niccolo books, which are even named after constellations. I think this free will/ fate question is one of the most important Dunnett is juggling. Do you think, in light of that, the ending is earned?

Teresa: It’s clear to me that no one is as free as they claim to be in this series, even if it’s only other people’s actions that pin them in place. But I’m uncertain how much the characters’ fates are down to chance and how much to choice. Characters like Marthe make choices that turn out to be fatal—but only by chance. And others avoid the consequences of their choices—by chance. But the twists of chance seem less like fate and more like the outcome of the many ways these characters are bound together, and that goes right down to the reason Austin Grey could make his final mistake.

As for whether the ending is earned, I of course wanted to see the central characters find some sort of happiness and peace. And I appreciated the way Dunnett took Phillipa’s trauma seriously instead of having her immediately shake off what happened in The Ringed Castle and fall into Lymond’s arms. Yet when it comes down to it, the ending seemed to come too swiftly. Maybe it’s that I was frustrated at Lymond’s easy escapes toward the end. Maybe I needed to see Lymond and Phillipa really grapple together with what happened. And maybe I just didn’t want the series to end just yet.

Jenny: As I’ve said, this is my third read-through. My first was all for plot and action, my second more for character, and my third for politics. But my biggest criticism this time was of the ending. I’m not sure it happened too fast, exactly, since it took us multiple volumes to get here, but I had major reservations about Sybilla’s justifications for her behavior (no, dear, Grand Passion does not excuse everything) and about the whole “double trauma means no trauma” thing for Philippa. I’m not sure that’s actually how it works. After so much wonderful plotting, it got a little overheated there at the end for me.

Still, the fact that it stands up to such close examination only proves that these books are some of the very best historical fiction I’ve ever read. Unless you count Dunnett’s Niccolo books — or her King Hereafter! The detail, the pageantry and swashbuckling, the humor and poetry, the scenery and action, the history, the characters — it all makes for a powerful, beautiful series that shows an age and those who moved within it. What a fantastic read. I hope you have all been convinced that these books should go on your TBR, if they’re not there already!

Posted in Fiction, Historical Fiction | 4 Comments

Home Cooking (and a little brief introspection)

home cookingShelf Love has been around since 2008, and until this year it was never difficult for me to post whatever I wanted to about what I was reading. Teresa and I have both always taken the view that we do this because it’s fun, so if it stops being fun, we don’t do it. In many ways our delightful laziness aligns, and we are in agreement on this score. No challenges, no pressures, no stacks of books looming over us, no certain number of words a day, nothing we must read in order to please our hordes of fans. (Er… hello, is this thing on?) We just… read what we want to read, and then we write about it.

This year has been a little different for me. My book count is way down this year, and I’ve been faux-destressing with television instead. The books I’ve read, I haven’t written about. I’ve got at least ten or twelve wonderful books I’d genuinely like to write reviews of — I’m totally convinced you’d love them as much as I did — but I can’t seem to muster the energy to talk about them, even briefly. For some reason, this year is swallowing my reading.

So I’m going to let that go. I’m going to start fresh, and write about the books I’m reading now, and get to the ones I get to. Something is better than nothing. If I have some kind of miraculous infusion of extra time, I might even get to the books I read earlier! (Whew. I feel better already.)

Some of you may already know that Laurie Colwin is one of my favorite authors. Her novels are perfect: funny without being farces, serious without being heavy. Besides her novels and short stories, she also wrote a column for Gourmet magazine. Home Cooking (and its sequel, More Home Cooking) is a collection of these columns, and it, too, is exactly right: funny, touching, practical, wise. She has chapters on many of the food situations we all find ourselves in, whether we like it or not: food disasters, finding ourselves alone in the kitchen with an eggplant, cooking for a crowd, making our own version of comfort food. The book is half memoir and half practical application, and Colwin talks about her days in a tiny kitchen in Manhattan, draining her pasta in her bathtub because her kitchen sink was too small, or making hundreds of tuna fish sandwiches at a protest for the SDS in the sixties. Most of the chapters contain a recipe for something you might not expect: toasted cheese, beef tea, rosti, shepherd’s pie for 150 people. By the time you read the recipe, you’ll be expecting the unexpected, though. In fact, you’ll wonder how you did without it.

This was a re-read for me, and as many re-reads can be, it was deeply comforting and pleasurable. Not only is Laurie Colwin a wonderful writer, she reassured me that I’m still capable of deriving pleasure from the books I love, and that I still belong here on the blog.

Posted in Food, Memoir, Nonfiction, Short Stories/Essays | 30 Comments

Shelf Discovery: The Teen Classics We Never Stopped Reading

shelfdiscoverySomehow in my recent Internet wanderings I stumbled on a blog (the link now lost to me) that was devoted to old-school young adult and middle grade books, the kinds of books I found in the small young adult section at the B. Dalton and Waldenbooks at the mall in the early 1980s and the ones featured in the Scholastic book catalog—the books I read when I wasn’t quite a teenager but wildly curious about what being a teenager would be like. Books by Ellen Conford, Lois Duncan, Beverly Cleary, Judy Blume, and Willo Davis Roberts in her Sunfire-writing days. From what I remember, these weren’t books that adults typically read, unless they were librarians, teachers, or curious parents. And although I continued to reread this books throughout high school, I too stopped reading these books when I became an adult. I might pick up a highly recommended new YA book by the likes of Maggie Stiefvater or Diane Wynne Jones or an esteemed classic by Susan Cooper but those particular books that got me through my preteen years have remained in my past.

Yet even though I can’t quite cop to the “we never stopped reading” part of the title of this book by Lizzie Skurnick, those books I read over and over at age 11 or so are imprinted in my brain. And seeing those covers again on that blog I’ve already lost track off brought back all those intense preteen feelings. I decided it might be fun to indulge that nostalgia by reading this collection of essays, many of them originally featured in the Fine Lines column at Jezebel.

Skurnick describes her own memory of these books in the introduction:

It might have begun with the covers. Most were either snapshots or looked like soft paintings of snapshots (whither, whither the painted cover?), with girls who were neither good-looking nor not-good-looking, girls in glasses, with braces, standing in front of the mirror or smiling happily in the arms of a boy, glowering in front of a locker, standing with bonnet and hoop skirt on a lonely plane, girls with head, feet, and body miraculously intact. There they were, waiting for the tug on the string that would start them moving and speaking.

In them, I found a window, a scrying glass, into a complex consciousness, a life like my own, but writ large in all of its messy ambiguity. Nothing, as of yet, had happened to me. But there was the world, and everything happening in it, right in the bright row of spines. It was waiting for me to pull out the next chapter, to turn the book over, to open the first page and read.

Skurnick—and a few notable authors like Jennifer Weiner, Meg Cabot, and Tayari Jones—revisit books that meant something to them when they were young. The essays largely look at the books from both the adult and young adult perspective, as Skurnick considers why the book appealed to her back then and what she sees in it now. She gushes about the kinds of things that seemed gushy-worthy to her younger self—roasting a pig’s tail in Little House in the Big Woods—and comments on the mature themes she missed as a child (and the mature content she pored over in wonder). There are exclamation marks and ALL CAPS!!! when the situation warrants, but the book is more than a squee-fest. Skurnick is thoughtful in her approach to these books.

So many of my favorites came up, and I enjoyed the essays on all of them, if only for the pleasing shiver of recognition when Skurnick mentions incidents like Davey’s searching for a rock when she first encounters Wolf in the canyon in Judy Blume’s Tiger Eyes. (Tiger Eyes was my favorite Judy Blume book.) Blume makes frequent appearances here, and reading Skurnick’s essays helped me remember why I loved her books so much. I needed It’s Not the End of the World, for example, when my parents got divorced. Her books consistently let kids know they’re not alone in their worries and fears, and they take those worries seriously without offering pat answers or pretending that everything will be fine while also sending a clear message that even if life isn’t what you want, you’ll find a way through. It hadn’t even occurred to me until reading this how few of Blume’s book have a proper happy ending—they tend to end with the main characters moving on to a new phase, having found some new strength.

Other beloved books I revisited through Skurnick were Caroline by Willo Davis Roberts, Fifteen by Beverly Cleary, Go Ask Alice by Anonymous (one of the few books Skurnick acknowledges is terrible in hindsight), Homecoming by Cynthia Voigt, Stranger with My Face by Lois Duncan, and Little House in the Big Woods by Laura Ingalls Wilder. These are the books that are seared into my brain. There were lots of others that I remember reading and enjoying: Bridge of Terabithia by Katherine Paterson, Island of the Blue Dolphins by Scott O’Dell, From the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler by E. L. Konigsburg, The Witch of Blackbird Pond by Elizabeth George Speare, Jacob Have I Loved by Katherine Paterson, and Summer of Fear by Lois Duncan.

I thought I had read  Ghosts I Have Been by Richard Peck, My Darling, My Hamburger by Paul Zindel, The Cat Ate My Gymsuit by Paula Danziger, and The Grounding of Group Six by Julian F. Thompson, but those plots didn’t sound even a little bit familiar. And a quote involving six yellow pencils and three stenographic pads convinced me that I read The Summer of My German Soldier by Bette Greene even though I have no other memory of it. (That image, though! Seared into my brain!)

I enjoyed many of the pieces about books I hadn’t read, many of them well-known classics I should have read (there’s Harriet the Spy by Louise Fitzhugh and The Secret Garden and The Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett). But a few of the essays were well-nigh incomprehensible. For some reason, the books by Madeleine L’Engle seemed completely nuts. (There are pieces on A Wrinkle in Time, which I’ve read, and The Arm of the Starfish, The Moon by Night, and A Ring of Endless Night, which I have not.) There was something about talking to dolphins in one and a whole bunch of overlapping relationships—I couldn’t make heads or tails of it, but it sounded weirdly good.

Anyway, I’ve gone on long enough, but I couldn’t resist letting this go without leaving you a collage of some of the covers that I remember so vividly from my preteen and early teen reading. What are some of the books you can’t forget? Do any of these ring a bell?

Incidentally, Lizzie Skurnick has her own imprint now, dedicated to putting classic young adult books back in print. I don’t see any of my particular favorite books there, but I do see some beloved authors. Part of me would really enjoy revisiting some of them to see if they hold up to my adult sensibilities, and another part would rather bask in my memories.

Posted in Children's / YA Lit, Nonfiction | 26 Comments