Sunday, August 27, 2017

A Day in the Life of a Smiling Woman: The Complete Stories by Margaret Drabble

My first encounter with Margaret Drabble occurred in a British Women Writer’s class at Rowan University and again in graduate school.  We read a few of her novels as well as several by her sister, A.S. Byatt.  A rift developed between the two sisters, because of biographical elements in their books.  They do not read each other’s novels.  Drabble describes the situation as “normal sibling rivalry,” Byatt says the rift has been exaggerated by gossip.  She claims the sisters have always liked each other (Wikipedia).  Drabble has written 19 novels, and Byatt has authored 11 novels, 5 short story collections, and 7 miscellaneous works of non-fiction.  Working through all these books will eat up a lot of my retirement.  Drabble has also written a number of short stories.  I never knew she wrote short fiction until now.  

A Day in the Life of a Smiling Woman claims to include her complete short stories.  An introduction to the collection by José Francisco Fernández says, these “are fine examples of well-made stories: neatly constructed, carefully contextualized, focused, unified in tone, elegantly climactic, at times tinged with the seriousness of a moral dilemma” (ix).  I loved these stories, and it is one of those exceedingly rare books that provoked me into a second reading beginning the moment I finished the first read.  Four of the stories are, writes Fernández, “representative cases of the woman who has to divide her time between her duties at home and the demands of a job […] a husband and children” (xii).

The later stories, “The Merry Widow,” “The Dower House at Kellynch: A Somerset Romance,” The Caves of God,” and “Stepping Westward: A Topographical Tale” all describe woman later in their lives when they are free of a husband, family, and work.  As I said, I loved them all, but these four were undoubtedly my favorites—a “best of the best” if you will.  I also credit these four stories as my impetus for an immediate rereading. 

In the first of this “final four,” stories, “Merry Widow,” Drabble writes, “When Philip died, his friends and colleagues assumed that Elsa would cancel the holiday.  Elsa knew this would be their assumption.  But she had no intention of canceling.  She was determined upon the holiday.  During Philip’s unexpectedly sudden last hours, and in the succeeding weeks of funeral and condolence and letters from banks and solicitors, it began to take an increasingly powerful hold upon her imagination.  If she were honest with herself, which she tried to be, she had not been looking forward to the holiday while Philip was alive: it would have been yet another dutifully endured, frustrating, saddening attempt at reviving past pleasures, overshadowed by Philip’s increasing ill-health and ill-temper.  But without Philip, the prospect brightened” (151).  I hope this tidbit will draw you to either--or both--of these exceptionally talented women.

All of the works of these two amazing women writers are interesting and powerful stories.  I have read a few of the novels by each woman, and finishing them off will be a large part of my sunset days.  If you want to lose yourself in reading of the lives of these women in the late 20th and early 21st century, you could not find a better start than Margaret Drabbles A Day in the Life of a Smiling Woman.   5 Stars

--Chiron, 8/15/17

The Little French Bistro by Nina George

Last year I read Nina George’s wonderful novel, The Little Paris Bookshop, which was her first novel translated into English.  She had written some 40 books, and was considered an international sensation—except in the US where she was virtually unknown.  Now she has released her second novel, The Little French Bistro.  This novel is quite different from Bookshop, but I thoroughly enjoyed it.  I can’t wait for another.

Based on Paris Bookshop, I made several assumptions which proved to be false.  First, Nina George is not French; she is German.  I met her at a book reading in Book People in Austin Texas recently and learned she was born in Germany and still lives there with her husband.  Bookshop was not her first novel, but rather somewhere in an oeuvre of over 40 books.  She proved to be gracious and funny as she slipped back and forth among German, French, and English.  After the reading, she signed my books, and hugged every reader who wanted one.

Marianne Messmann is married to Lothar, a man with no sense of romance and a thoroughly unpleasant personality.  They have been married for about forty years, and Marianne has reached a breaking point.  George opens the novel with a chilling scene.  She writes, “It was the first decision she had ever made on her own, the very first time she was able to determine the course of her life. // Marianne decided to die.  Here and now, down below in the waters of the Seine, late on this grey day.  On her trip to Paris. […] The water was cool, black and silky.  The Seine would carry her on a quiet bed of freedom to the sea.  Tears ran down her cheeks; strings of salty tears.  Marianne was smiling and weeping at the same time.  Never before had she felt so light, so free, so happy” (1).  A homeless man rescues her, and she is taken to a hospital to contact her husband.  She then dresses and escapes on a train headed to a remote corner of northwestern France.  All the while on this trip, she plans to reattempt her suicide off the coast of Brittany.

A group of nuns give her a ride to the little fishing village of Kerdruc.  She meets a number of the residents, who welcome her with open hearts.  Each day she resolves to jump into the sea, but she delays a day, then another, and another.  She gets a job working at a bistro then gradually she is absorbed into the community.  Marianne begins to devise an entirely new life for herself.  Then Lothar shows up, and everything is threatened.  I won’t spoil the ending, but it is worth following Marianne to one of three possible conclusions.

Marianne is an empathetic woman.  George writes, “She took a deep breath, carefully picked up the crab and set it down on the polished steel table.  It scrambled around a bit as she searched among the bottles on the sideboard before reaching for the cider vinegar and pouring a few drops into the creature’s mouth.  The clatter of its pincers on the steel surface grew fainter before suddenly ceasing altogether. // ‘This may sound odd, but you can kill humanely too,’ […] ‘Vinegar sends them to sleep, you know.’  She cupped her hands to her cheeks, cocked her head and closed her eyes, then lowered the crab into the boiling water.’  ‘It’s bath time.  See, it doesn’t hurt so much’” (85-86).

Nina George has written a love story like few others in The Little French Bistro.  Kerdruc is a mythical place like no others.  I can only hope another novel will soon appear by this talented, funny, and interesting writer.  5 Stars.

--Chiron, 8/5/17

We Are All Completely besides Ourselves by Karen Joy Fowler

Karen Joy Fowler has authored six novels and three short story collections.  She has won a Pen/Faulkner award among numerous other prizes.  Fowler has two children, and seven grandchildren.  She lives in Santa Cruz, California.  In We are All Completely Beside Our Selves, she has penned a book at once curious, frightening, sad, and comical.  The is the tale of the Cooke family: the father, Vincent, is a psychiatrist, and his wife, and the children Lowell, Rosemary, and Fern.  The last two were raised together, until Fern was “sent away.” 

The novel is narrated by Rosemary, “sister” to Fern.  She begins the story “in medias res,” so I will do likewise.  Fowler writes, “So the middle of my story comes in the winter of 1996.  By then, we’d long since dwindled to the family that old home movie foreshadowed—me, my mother, and unseen but evident behind the camera, my father.  In 1996, ten years had passed since I’d last seen my brother, seventeen since my sister disappeared.  The middle of my story is all about their absence, though if I hadn’t told you that, you might not have known.  By 1996, whole days went by in which I hardly thought of either one. […] I was twenty-two years old, meandering through my fifth year at the University of California, Davis, and still maybe only a junior or maybe a senior, but so thoroughly uninterested in the niceties of units or requirements or degrees that I wouldn’t be graduating anytime soon.  My education, my father liked to point out, was wider than it was deep.  He said this often” (5-6).

Rosemary’s education seems to be a persistent topic for family discussion.  Karen writes, “Mom had a theory I heard through the bedroom wall.  You didn’t need a lot of friends to get through school, she told Dad, but you had to have one.  For a brief period  in the third grade, I pretended that Dae-jung and I were friends.  He didn’t talk, but I was well able to supply both sides of the conversation.  I returned a mitten he’d dropped.  We ate lunch together, or at least we ate at the same table, and in the classroom he’d been given the desk next to mine on the theory that when I talked out of turn, it might help his language acquisition.  The irony was that his English improved due in no small part to my constant yakking at him, but as soon as he could speak, he made other friends.  Our connection was beautiful, but brief” (113).

Fowler has laid a series of less than obvious clues regarding an ending which will offer the reader something between shock and amusement.  How a reader places the clues determines where a reader begins to assemble these clues.  One peculiar item is the lack of a name for the mother.  I usually note names of important characters, and in beginning this review, I realized I had none for her.  I sped through the book from page one to the end, and never saw her referred to as anything except Mom or mother.  Very annoying!  I hereby give her the daughter’s name, Rosemary.

We Are All Completely Besides Ourselves by Karen Joy Fowler is a tragic story difficult for animal lovers to read.  The only saving grace is the end of most chimpanzee experiments, and serious curtailing of test on other mammals.  5 star

--Chiron, 7/17/17

The Accomplished Guest by Ann Beattie

First: a confession.  Back in 1986, or thereabouts. I learned of a lecture by Ann Beattie—at the time my number two most favorite writer—at Rutgers-Camden.  I tried to get a ticket, but found it was sold out.  So I devised a plan to see her before the lecture.  I convinced a guard I was a stringer for a local paper in Philly who wanted to snag a few comments before her talk.  I had three of Beattie’s books with me, and after asking a few questions, I took the books out of a bag and asked her to inscribe them.  She graciously signed all three.  I did write a brief article, and I did send it to the paper, but it was never printed.  I resolved to tell her in person if I ever met up with her.  This might be as close as I get.

Ann Beattie has been included in four O. Henry Award collections, John Updike’s Best American Short Stories of the Century and Jennifer Egan’s Best Short Stories of 2014.  She has also captured numerous other awards.  Her latest book, The Accomplished Guest is a collection of short stories with a variety of themes, voices, and situations.

Some of these visitors had interesting experiences getting to their destination.  In “The Indian Uprising,” Beattie wrote, “I took the train.  It wasn’t difficult.  I got a ride with a friend to some branch of the Metro going into Washington and rode into Union Station.  Then I walked forever down the train track to a car someone finally let me on.  I felt like an ant that had walked the length of a caterpillar’s body and ended up at its anus.  I sat across from a mother with a small son whose head she abused any time she got bored looking out the window: swatting it with plush toys; rearranging his curls; inspecting him for nits” (4-5).  One of the most appealing traits of a Beattie story is the attention to details.  Readers can easily place themselves in the train.

In “The Astonished Woodchopper,” Beattie explores those ubiquitous “little white lies” we all tell.  She writes, “John had asked Jen not to tell Bee the details of his surgery, but of course she had—no doubt also cautioning Bee to lie if he asked her directly what she knew.  White lies: as prevalent in this family as white noise on the highway that drifted across the meadow toward their house.  He had wanted a more secluded house; Jen had said she like to be nearer to what she called ‘civilization’—the same environment she now damned as being filled with ‘idiot tourists and Maine-iacs in their tortoise shell SUVs, driving lunatics because they can imagine because they can’t imagine they go belly-up.’  Just the week before, a man had died, not at all protected by his SUV as it rolled” (51). 

These stories have lots of fun and page upon page of humor.  I really think Ann Beattie is an author who deserves much more attention.  The Accomplished Guest is a grand beginning for many years of reading pleasure.  5 Stars

--Chiron, 07/11/14

Tuesday, July 11, 2017

Too Much and Not the Mood by Durga Chew-Bose

Because I have to read so many subpar college essays, I enjoy an occasional collection to restore my faith in young writers.  I leaned of an interesting collection by Durga Chew-Bose with an even more intriguing title, Too Much and Not the Mood.  I learned of this book on a frequent segment of the PBS News Hour.  I almost ditched Durga while trying to plow through the first essay of 95 pages.  As I read, I kept glancing at the page number while trying to decide thumb up or down.  But as I read, I decided to keep going.  When I began to read the second essay, I was immediately determined to go all the way. 

The first essay, “Heart Museum” turned out to be an interesting stream of consciousness memoir of her life so far.  Durga writes, “I’m certain, if I wanted, I could walk home from West Forty-seventh, across the bridge and back to Brooklyn.  That spiked measure of awe—of oof—feels like a general a general slowing, even though what’s really taking place is nothing short of a general quickening.  The sheer ensconcelled panic of feeling moved.  Infirmed by what switches me on but also awake and unexpectedly cured.  Similar to how sniffing a lemon when I am carsick heals” (11-12).  This essay requires a bit of extra attention, but well worth the thoughts she loaded into my consciousness. 

Further into “Heart Museum,” she writes, “My quick-summoned first life—how everything was enough because I knew so little but felt cramped with certainty—is, I’m afraid, just like writing.  That is to say, what can transpire if writing becomes a reason for living outside the real without prying it open.  How, like first love writing can be foiling, agitated, totally addictive.  Sweet, insistent, jeweled.  Consuming though rarely nourishing.  A new tactility” (19-20).  This passage led me to continue.  Was I becoming accustomed to her style?  

Several of the essays are a bit more conventional and down-right interesting.  In “Since Living Alone, Durga writes, “I learned last summer that if you place a banana and an unripe avocado inside a paper bag, the avocado will—as if spooned to sleep by the crescent-laid banana—ripen overnight.  By morning, that sickly shade of green had turned near-neon and velvety, and I, having done nothing but paired the two fruits, experienced a false sense of accomplishment similar to returning a library book or listening to voice mail” (167).  As an avid eater of bananas—with almost no ability to tell a ripe avocado from all the others—I look forward to my next shopping trip.  

And finally, “Summer Pictures” touched a corner of my memory of summer days.  She writes, “Because going to the movies still feels like playing hooky, or what I imagine playing hooky felt like: the unburdened act of avoiding my many orbits of responsibility.  Of pretending that adulthood is no match for summer’s precedent, set years ago when we were kids and teenagers governed only by the autonomy of no-school, the distance our bikes could take us, an unlit park or basketball court at night, the weekend my crush returned from camp.  Going to the movies is the most public way to experience a secret.  Or, the most secretive way to experience the public” (191).

My “Rule of 50” is not infallible, and in the case of Too Much and Not the Mood by Durga Chew-Bose, I am glad I stuck to it.  It is a wonderful collection to stimulate the mind, the memory, and all the while tickling the fancy.  5 stars

--Chiron, 7/11/17

Razor Girl by Carl Hiaasen

I have always had a fascination with reporters who turn to novel writing.  Pete Dexter, Christopher Morley, and Carl Hiaasen top the list.  I have read eight of his novels, including his most recent, Razor Girl.  Unfortunately, I experienced several episodes of déjà vu during my reading.  So, there might be a hiatus from Hiaasen until I can sweep up the cobwebs.

Andrew Yancy was a talented detective, but a public rampage resulted in an assault and battery charge and led to his demotion to the “Roach Patrol,” i.e. inspector of eating establishments in Florida.  Somehow, Yancy always ends up with three things: a stunning woman in his bed, a mobster chasing him, and his solving of a difficult case--which the reader might think would lead him to reinstatement, but Sheriff Sommers always steps in and berates him for exceeding his authority.  So back to the roach patrol.

This particular adventures involves a group of brothers loosely similar to the “Duck Dynasty Gang” of TV fame, a $200,000 diamond ring, and a continuation of blocking any construction which might interfere with his view of the ocean.  As a teaser, the book opens with a beautiful woman who abandons Andrew for a new life in Norway.  This little teaser will keep you wondering to the end.

While the novel does have some comic moments, I would not—as some reviewers have claimed—count this as “rip roaring funny.”  However, those funny spots do keep me turning a few more pages.  here is one of the funny moments.  Carl writes, “Merry Mansfield told Yancy a version of her life so far-fetched that he bit his lower lip, trying not to laugh. […] ‘You’ve got a charming imagination.  I could listen to you go on all day.’ // ‘What did I say that you don’t believe?’ // ‘Basically every word.’ […] ‘Technically, I’m not a maritime artifacts appraiser,’ Merry admitted.  ‘Also, I didn’t really go to boarding school in Switzerland.  My mom wasn’t a consular attaché in Morocco.  My dad never had a thing with Sigourney Weaver.  I wasn’t the youngest of six sisters, all master equestrians.  I did get married when I was eighteen, except my husband wasn’t  pulped to death in an orange-juice factory.  What really happened, he went to prison for counterfeiting food stamps and I divorced his ass.  No kinds from the marriage, thank God—that parts true.  What else?  Oh yeah, I didn’t lose a three-million dollar bauxite inheritance to Bernie Madoff.  My folks are still alive, and they’re not leaving me a nickel” (134-135).  Really?  Not one of six kids?

Aside from an improbable escape from some mobsters trying to recover the lost diamond ring, the story is a fun read, and certainly worth the effort.  I guess, if I was forced at gunpoint, I would admit it is entertaining.  Hiaasen does have six novels previous to the eight I own, so, I can see myself lingering near the “H” section of novels and having one more go at Andrew Yancy.  However, by the time I come around to one of his earlier novels, I might just discover a whole new world in Florida.  I you are not familiar with Carl Hiaasen, I am sure, you will get more than an ample reward for a pleasant read of Razor Girl.  4 Stars

Tuesday, July 4, 2017

Astrophysics for People in a Hurry by Neil deGrasse Tyson

First a disclaimer: I do not understand much of the intricacies of physics, let alone any algebra or math higher than the most basic of mathematics.  But for most of m reading life I have been fascinated with outer space, which is increased every time new pictures from Hubble appear or photos from the far reaches of our tiny blue dot.  My first look at Carl Sagan and his series, Cosmos, is the centerpiece of what I do know.  Recently, Neil deGrasse Tyson became a source of amazement and wonder.  Neil has written a marvelous book titled Astrophysics for People in a Hurry.  I actually read this 208 page book in a single sitting. 

Tyson is a most worthy successor to Carl Sagan.  He explains difficult aspects of physics accessible to all readers who share my fascination.  He begins by breaking down the steps of the Big Bang, beginning with one trillionth of a second after the event up to 1,000,000,000 years ago.  My favorite chapter is “Between the Galaxies.”  He writes, “In the grand tally of cosmic constituents, galaxies are what typically counted.  The latest estimates show that the observable universe may contain a hundred billion of them.  Bright and beautiful and packed with stars, galaxies decorate the dark voids of space like cities across a country at night.  But just how voidy is the void of space?  (How empty is the countryside between cities?)  Just because galaxies are in your face, and just because they would have us believe that nothing else matters, the universe may nonetheless contain hard-to-detect things between the galaxies.  Maybe those things are more interesting, or more important to the evolution of the universe, than the galaxies themselves” (62).  This takes me back to the first time I peered through a department store telescope a looked at a blurry smudge that is the Andromeda Galaxy.

I flirted for a while with considering a degree in astronomy or physics, but the reality of my math skills slammed on the breaks.  I have a weird inability to add, divide, multiply, or subtract more than two figures at a time.  A hand calculator is now my necessary companion.

A hot topic in physics today is the mysterious “dark matter.”  It appears as though the largest amount of matter in our universe is not made up of planets, asteroids, and stars, but rather it is composed of this invisible powerful force.  Tyson says it took geniuses like Newton and Einstein to get us to where we are today.  He wonders who will be the next Sheldon Cooper.  Tyson writes, “We don’t know who’s next in the genius sequence, but we’ve now been waiting nearly a century for somebody to tell us why the bulk of all the gravitational force that we’ve measured is in the universe—about eight-five percent of it—arises from substances that do not otherwise interact with ‘our’ matter or energy.  Or maybe the excess gravity doesn’t come from matter and energy at all, but emanates from some other conceptual thing.  In any case, we are essential clueless.  We find ourselves no closer to an answer today than we were when this ‘missing mass’ problem was first fully analyzed in 1937 by the Swiss-American astrophysicist Fritz Zwicky.  He taught at the California Institute of Technology for more than forty years, combining his far ranging insights into the cosmos with a colorful means of expression and an impressive ability to antagonize his colleagues” (77).  I enjoy the popular comedy, ‘The Big Bang Theory,’ immensely, and I wonder if a real Sheldon Cooper might be in school somewhere, and that I will hear of his discoveries in my lifetime.

If you have an interest in all things scientific—as I do—Neil deGrasse Tyson’s book, Astrophysics for People in a Hurry will have you gazing up into the night sky and wondering.  5 stars.

--Chiron, 6/21/17

New and Selected Poems: Volume Two by Mary Oliver

I recently found Mary Oliver’s collection New and Selected Poems: Volume Two.  The connection I have to her poems is ethereal and pleasing in every sense of the word.  If I have a model to follow, it would most certainly be Mary Oliver.  I have talked about her in several reviews, so this one will only include selections from volume two.

“Work, Sometimes.”  “I was sad all day, and why not.  There I was, books piled on both sides of the table, paper stacked up, words falling off my tongue. // The robins had a long time singing, and now it was beginning to rain. // What are we sure of?  Happiness isn’t a town on a map, or an early arrival, or a job well done, but good work ongoing.  Which is not likely to be the trifling around with a poem. // Then it began raining hard, and the flowers in the yard were full of lively fragrance. // You have had days like this, no doubt.  And wasn’t it wonderful, finally, to leave the room?  Ah, what a moment! // As for myself, I swung the door open.  And there was the wordless, singing world.  And I ran for my life.” (6).

“Of What Surrounds Me.”  Whatever it is I am saying, I always / need a leaf or a flower, if not an / entire field.  As for the sky, I am so wildly / in love with each day’s inventions, cool blue / or cat gray or full / of the ships of clouds, I simply can’t / say whatever it is I am saying without / a least one skyful.  That leaves water, a / creek or a well, river or ocean, it has to be / there.  For the heart to be there.  For the pen / to be poised.  For the idea to come.”  (32).

“The Faces of Deer.”  When for too long I don’t go deep enough into the woods to see them, they begin to enter my dreams.  Yes, there they are, in the pinewoods of my inner life.  I want to live a life full of modesty and praise.  Each hoof of each animal makes the sign of a heart as it touches then lifts away from the ground.  Unless you believe that heaven is very near, how will you find it?  Their eyes are pools in which one would be content, on any summer afternoon, to swim away through the door of the world.  Then, love and its blessing.  Then: heaven.” (33).

“The Owl Who Comes.”  “The owl who comes / through the dark / to sit / in the black boughs of the apple tree // and stare down / the hook of his beak, / dead silent, / and his eyes, // like two moons / in the distance, / soft and shining / under their heavy lashes-- // like the most beautiful lie-- / is thinking / of nothing / as he watches // and waits to see / what might appear, / briskly, out of the seamless, // deep winter-- / out of the teeming / world below-- / and if I wish the owl luck, / and I do, / what am I wishing for that other / soft life, / climbing through the snow? // What we must do, / I suppose,/is to hope the world keeps its balance; // what we are to do, however, / with our hearts / waiting and watching—truly / I do not know.” (52-53).

Like so many of her poems, I felt a deep connection. Sometime back, I was out for a pre-dawn walk, when two birds flashed across my eyes—only a foot or two away—and I scared the owl, which flew up into a tree, not more than 10 feet away.  I stood there in a staring contest as we sized each other up.  Then she took off and flew away.

Mary Oliver’s collection, New and Selected Poems: Volume Two, will take you places to see things in a new light.  5 stars.

--Chiron, 6/10/17

Into the Water by Paula Hawkins

I am always a tiny bit nervous when I sit down to read a second novel when the first was terrific.  I have been burned more than once in buying the “sophomore jinx” story.  But this time, my fears were quickly washed away by Paula Hawkins and her new novel, Into the Water.  Her first novel, The Girl on the Train, has been published in 40 countries with 20 million copies sold.

Into the Water seems to me a better novel than Girl.  The only flaw was a confusing number of characters which took me quite a while to sort out with the help of several family trees.  Once I had a clear picture of them—at about page 60 and yes, I did violate my rule of 50—the state of affairs became clear.  She also provided a handy set of epilogues for the surviving main characters. 

As the story begins, Nell Abbot, a single-mother has drowned in a river a short time after a teenager has done the same.  Nell leaves behind her teenage daughter in the care of her sister, Julia “Jules” Abbott.  A popular teen, Katie Whitaker preceded Nell in the river.  The twists and turns had me guessing all the way to the end.  A discerning reader needs to get a handle on the list of suspects as early as possible.  Think three or four family trees.

Each chapter shares thoughts and ideas with the reader.  In this instance, Jules, Nel’s Sister, thinks about her own death.  Hawkins writes, “I pulled over to the side of the road and turned off the engine.  I looked up.  There were the trees and the stone steps, green with moss and treacherous after the rain.  My entire body goosefleshed.  I remembered this: freezing rain beating the tarmac, flashing blue lights vying with lightening to illuminate the river and the sky, clouds of breath in front of panicked faces, and a little boy, ghost-white and shaking, led up the steps to the road by a policewoman.  She was clutching his hand and her eyes were wide and wild, her head twisting this way and that as she called out to someone.  I can still feel what it felt like that night, the terror and the fascination.  I can still hear your words in my head: What would it be like?  Can you imagine?  To watch your mother die?”

Another interesting character is Nickie.  Some see her as a nuisance, the children as a witch.  Hawkins writes, “Nicki had a flat above the grocery shop, just one room really, with a galley kitchen and a bathroom so tiny it barely warranted the name.  Not much to speak of, not much to show for a whole life, but she had a comfortable armchair by the window that looked out on the town, and that’s where she sat and ate even slept sometimes, because she hardly slept at all these days, so there didn’t seem much point in going to bed: 16).

One good thing about some English mysteries is the lack of guns and shooting.  I quickly found myself trying to untie some of those knots with nothing but the same clues, rumors, and innuendo the police and the family.  Into the Water by Paula Hawkins has about as much suspense as anyone could hope for.  5 stars.

--Chiron, 6/20/17

Saturday, June 10, 2017

Nora Webster by Colm Tóibín

Colm Tóibín has been a favorite of mine since the inception of Likely Stories in the fall of 2009.  He was born May 30, 1955.  He is an Irish novelist, short story writer, essayist, playwright, journalist, critic, and poet.  He has won dozens of awards—far too many to list here.  He is currently a professor of the Humanities at Columbia University in New York, and he is a professor of creative writing at the University of Manchester.  In 2017, he was appointed Chancellor of Liverpool University in 2017.  Colm has written elevan novels along with scads of non-fiction (Wikipedia).  Nora Webster is his tenth novel.  He has a dream career for any aspiring creative writer.  Ever since I immersed myself in the works of James Joyce, I have developed a fascination for Irish writers.  Colm Tóibín is at the undisputed head of that list.

Nora Webster is the story of a woman with four children—two young ladies away at school, Fiona and Aine, and two boys still in high school, Conor and Donal.  As the story opens, Nora has been widowed in her early 40s.  Maurice was the love of her life, and despite this devastating event, she organizes her finances to take care of her children through college.  At first, lots of her neighbors come bearing food and offering help to the point she becomes reclusive.  Tóibín writes, “Once more she noted the hectoring tone, as though she were a child, unable to make proper decisions.  She had tried since the funeral to ignore this tone, or tolerate it.  She had tried to understand that it was shorthand for kindness” (12).  

One day, she gets in the car and drives to a seaside vacation village to visit a house she and Maurice owned.  Everyone tells Nora she should not make any rash decisions.  When she enters the house, she realizes it has no value to her without Maurice.  On a spur of the moment, she sells it to a friend, who gives her the fair market price.  No one takes advantage of Nora.  Tóibín writes, “‘Well, there are a lot of people who are very fond of you” (13).  The children are disappointed, but they accept Nora’s decision.

Nora pays a visit to Fiona at school, and they walk to the train.  Colm writes, “As they looked at one another, Nora felt Fiona was hostile, and forced herself to remember how upset she must be, and how lonely she might be too.  She smiled as she said that they would have to go and in return Fiona smiled at her and the boys.  As soon as Nora walked away, however, she felt helpless and regretted not having said something kind or special, or consoling to Fiona before they left her; maybe even something as simple as asking her when she was coming down next, or emphasizing how much they looked forward to seeing her soon.  She wished she had a phone in the house so she could keep in more regular touch with her.  She thought that she might write Fiona a note in the morning thanking her for coming to meet them” (29).  Nora is as empathetic and kind as anyone could be.  

The biggest problem Nora faces is dealing with her oldest son, Donal.  He stutters and slowly bonds with one of Nora’s sisters.  Margaret is fond of the boy, and when he develops a fascination for photography, she builds a darkroom in her home. Tóibín’s Nora Webster is the story of a wise, warm, empathetic, strong woman, who, when forced to take the reins of the family, does so with determination.  This story can be enjoyed by all ages.  5 stars

--Chiron, 6/10/17

Friday, June 9, 2017

Benediction by Kent Haruf

After his stunning novel, Our Souls at Night blew me away, I am on the verge of completing my reading Kent Haruf’s entire collection.  My latest read, Benediction tells the story of the residents of Holt Colorado in a series of vignettes.  The Johnson women—Willa and Alene--and Berta May and her granddaughter, Alice, and the main characters, Dad Lewis, his wife Mary, and their daughter Lorraine, are all interesting, thoughtful, kind, and generous people.  The only missing person is Frank, the son of Dad and Mary.  He disappeared years ago after a conflict with Dad.  Frank contacts them from time to time, but eventually, he disappears for good. 

After the bad news from a doctor, Haruf writes, ‘They drove out from Denver away from the mountains, back onto the high plains: sagebrush and soapweed and blue grama and buffalo grass in the pastures, wheat and corn in the planted fields.  On both sides of the highway were the gravel country roads going out away under the pure blue sky, all the roads straight as the lines ruled in a book, with only a few small isolated towns spread across the flat open country” (3).

After the visit to the doctor, Mary collapsed in her living room and was rushed to the hospital.  They called their daughter, Lorraine, to come and help out.  Haruf writes, “The next day, Lorraine drove into Holt on Highway 34 after the sun had already gone down and the blue street lamps had come on at the corners.  It was all familiar to her.  She turned north off the highway and drove along past the quiet night-lighted houses set back behind the front yards, some of the yards bare of trees or bushes next to vacant lots filled with weeds—tall sunflowers and redroot and pigweed—and then there was Berta May’s house which had been there when she was a child, and then their own white house.  She got out and went up to the porch, a pretty woman in her mid fifties with dark hair.  The air was cool and smelled fresh of the country in the evenings out on the high plains” (15).  I have only been to Colorado twice, but this description recalls all the details of those brief visits.

Haruf describes Willa and Alene.  He writes, “It was her way, Willa’s manner and her character to keep the house clean and in good repair out in the country east of Holy though few people drove by to see it and almost no one ever visited and entered it.  A white house with blue shutters and a blue shingled roof.  The outbuildings were all painted a deep barn red with white trim snd they were in good condition too though they had not been used for thirty years, since her husband had died. // She still drove her car.  Her eyes were failing but not so much nor so fast she was ready to give up driving” (46).  There seems to be a favorite color of Haruf’s, blue, and I will look for this in the last two novels I have.

This story is—like all of Haruf’s novels—spell-binding and comforting in the goodness of these people.  I will be sad to complete my reading of Haruf; however, this is a collection I will go back to someday.  Kent Haruf’s prose is so soft and smooth, I can hear their gentle voices.  Even the weather receives as much attention as larger details, and I found myself immersed in the author’s world.  Benediction is a novel I found hardest to put down.  Mesmerized is a word I do not often use, but it aptly applies here.  5 stars

--Chiron, 6/3/17

Tuesday, May 30, 2017

Metropolitan Life by Fran Lebowitz

My favorite comedian is the curmudgeonly Fran Leibowitz.  Her humor is dry but very funny.  I recently saw a documentary about her, and they mentioned two books she had written back in the late 70s.  Metropolitan Life was easy to find, and I gleefully spent a day enjoying this novel.  Fran is an author, public speaker, and the definitive New Yorker.  She grew up in Morristown, NJ.  I recently saw her on Jimmie Fallon’s late night TV show, and I was happy to see she is her still her crabby, funny self.

Metropolitan Life is a collection of essays covering all sorts of annoyances.  Here are some samples.  In “Vocational Guidance for the Truly Ambitious,” she offers a check list to help sort out a career path.  “If my house or apartment was on fire the first thing I would save would be … a. My son, b. My cat, c. My boyfriend, d. My mention in Women’s Wear Daily; […] My idea of a good party is … a. A big, noisy bash, with lots of liquor and lots of action, b. Good talk, good food, good wine, c. A few close friends for dinner and bridge, d. One to which I cannot get invited; […] My pet peeve about my husband is his …a. Snoring, b. Habit of leaving the cap off the toothpaste, c. Drinking buddies, d. Stubbornness, e. Imperial Concubines” (12-13).

Fran has somewhat of an aversion to children, and she has a list of cons.  For instance, “Even when freshly washed and relieved of all obvious confections, children tend to be sticky.  One can only assume that this has something to do with not smoking enough.”  Also, “Children respond inadequately to sardonic humor and veiled threats” (34). 

Fran also has an aversion to scientists.  She writes, “It is only to be expected that people of this sort are not often invited out.  After all, a person who might well spend an entire evening staring at a kitchen utensil has little to recommend him as a dinner companion.  It is far too risky—particularly if the person in question is moved to share his thoughts with others.  Physical laws are not amusing.  Mathematical symbols do not readily lend themselves to double entendre.  Chemical properties are seldom cause for levity.  These facts make it intolerable for a gathering ever to include more than one scientist.  More than one scientist at a table is bad luck—not mention bad taste.” (78). 

In regard to food, she muses, “If there was no such thing as food, Oyster Bay would be called just Bay, and for the title of The Cherry Orchard Chekhov would have chosen A Group of Empty Trees, Regularly Spaced” (111).  I did say she had a dry sense of humor?  An epithet ascribed to her is “I can assure you, in real life, there is no such thing as algebra.”  Fran Leibowitz is an acquired taste to be sure, and she is not above sprinkling a few dated non-politically correct comments in her writings.  But I find her hilarious, and you might too, so give Metropolitan Life by Fran Lebowitz a try.  You could become a fan.  

--Chiron, 5/30/17

Monday, May 29, 2017

Between You & Me by Mary Norris

Believe it or not, I have a collection of The New Yorker magazine dating back to the early 1970s.  An English teacher I had in high school, recommended that I read the magazine to learn about all sorts of writing, and when I bought my first copy, it had a story by John Updike.  This worm on a hook captured me, and I began my first “author obsession.”  John Updike is gone, but I still read every issue nearly cover to cover.  When I heard of a book by a copy editor at the magazine, I could not resist adding to the lore of the fabled magazine now in its 92nd year.  

Mary Norris—aka the Comma Queen—has written a thoroughly enjoyable tale of her adventures working for the pre-eminent magazine published today.  In a chapter titled “Spelling is for Weirdos,” she writes, “The English language is full of words that are just waiting to be misspelled, and the world is full of sticklers, ready to pounce.  Ours is not a phonetic language, like Italian and Spanish and Modern Greek, where certain letters and combinations of letter can be relied on to produce consistent sounds.  English has many silent letters.  And its motley origins make it fiendishly difficult to untangle.  Besides the Germanic roots of our Anglo-Saxon tongue and the influence of Latin (Emperor Hadrian) and French (the Norman Invasion), and borrowings from Greek and Italian and Portuguese and even a soupçon of Basque, American English has a lot of Dutch from early settlers in the East; plenty of Spanish, from the conquistadores and missionaries who explored the West; and a huge vocabulary of place-names from Native American languages, often blended with French, for added confusion” (17).  We native speakers of English treat our language as though it was a simple matter, but even good students can get tangled in is many webs vines.

But my favorite chapter is “Ballad of a Pencil Junkie.”  I love writing with pencils much more than pens.  Every room has a discarded mug filled with pencils, which outnumber pens by at least 4-to-1.  Norris writes, “In the old days, at The New Yorker, when your pencil point got dull, you just tossed it aside and picked up a new one.  There was an office boy who came around in the morning with a tray of freshly sharpened wooden pencils.  And they were nice long ones—no stubs.  The boy held out his tray of pencils, and you scooped up a quiver of them.  It sounds like something out of a dream!  Even then I think I knew that the office boy and his tray would go the way of the ivory-billed woodpecker” (171).  Oh how warm and fuzzy it is to know there are others who share this innocuous obsession.

Norris has a preference for No. 1 pencils.  I have never used one—I prefer a sturdy German mechanical pencil for my pocket.  No. 2s are for all other tasks.  Norris writes, “Writing with a No. 2 pencil made me feel as if I had a hangover.  It created a distance between my hand and my brain, put me at a remove from the surface of the paper I was writing on.  I would throw it into a drawer” (172).

Mary also made an excursion to The Paul A. Johnson Pencil Sharpener Museum in Ohio.  The museum boasts 3,441 pencil sharpeners.  The rules for admission to this august temple of pencildom were set down by the founder. “each pencil sharpener had to be unique—no duplicates” however, “it could mean a sharpener was the same shape but a different color, or highly polished instead of dull” (180).  After completing her visit, Mary “went back to my car, found the pencil sharpener just where I had packed it, in a pocket of the zippered compartment on my backpack, and photographed it on the back of my car before shaking out all the shavings in the parking lot.  I did not want the fact that my sharpener was not a virgin to make it ineligible for display in the museum” (191).

Mary Norris’s delightful story, Between You  Me, is an antidote to all the other dark things we read, hear on the news, or read in the papers, I am not a serious punctuation freak—outside of an English Composition class—but I do enjoy catching an errant apostrophe here and there.  5 No. 2 Pencils!

--Chiron, 5/29/17

Sunday, May 28, 2017

Little Bee by Chris Cleave

My wife has been reminding me – on about a bi-weekly basis – that I needed to read Chris Cleave’s novel, Little Bee.  My hand was forced when it was selected for my book club.  I got to the novel only a few days before our meeting, and I had no trouble finishing it quickly.  It is a heart-rending tale of a young girl orphaned by a corrupt government, which places oil production above any of its citizens.  Cleave was born in London in 1973.  He attended Balliol College.  Little Bee is his second of four novels, and yes, those three are on the way.  The writing was marvelous – except for a few pages of annoying dialect.

Little Bee lived in a village targeted by the government for clearing open lands for oil drilling.  She escaped the slaughter of her family by hiding in the jungle.  As the novel opens, Bee has been released from a detention center in the UK after a bribe to a guard willing to look the other way.  Bee speaks “the Queen’s English,” so she can maneuver more easily than the three others released with her, all of whom have heavy accents.

Cleave’s prose is magnificent throughout the novel.  When the four women separate, Bee heads to an address on a driver’s license she found on the beach.  The reader does not know the circumstances of this detail until much later.  Bee has formed a relationship with Yevette in the detention center.  Cleave writes, “Leaving Yevette, that was the hardest thing I had to do since I left my village.  But if you are a refugee, when death comes you do not stay for one minute in the place it has visited.  Many things arrive after death – sadness, questions, and policemen – and none of these can be answered when your papers are not in order. // Truly there is no flag for us floating people.  We are millions, but we are not a nation.  We cannot stay together.  Maybe we get together in ones and twos, for a day or a month or even a year, but then the wind changes and carries the hope away.  Death came and I left in fear.  Now all I have is my shame and the memory of bright colors and the echo of Yevette’s laugh.  Sometimes I feel as lonely as the Queen of England” (80).

Little Bee finds her way to the address on the license.  She hides for a few days in bushes behind Sarah’s garden.  Finally, Bee knocks on the door, and Sarah recognizes her from the beach in Nigeria.  She lets her into the house, and tells Bee her husband Andrew has committed suicide, and he would be buried later that day.  Bee instantly comforts Sarah’s son, Charlie, and they quickly develop a bond.  Charlie does not understand the absence of his father, and he begins acting out in day care.  Sarah and Bee come for Charlie, who was angry and hiding in a corner.  Cleave writes, “I went into the corner with Charlie.  I stood next to him and I turned my face into the corner, too.  I did not look at him, I looked at the bricks and I did not say anything.  I am good at looking at bricks and not saying anything.  In the immigration detention center I did it for two years, and that is my record” (143).  Bee always fears someone was coming to take her away.  “I was thinking what I would do in that nursery room, if the men came suddenly,  It was not an easy room, I am telling you.  For example, there was nothing to cut yourself with.  All the scissors were made of plastic and their ends were round and soft.  If I suddenly needed to kill myself in that room, I did not know how I was going to do it” (143).  Be is always looking over her shoulder, always fearing when a stranger makes eye contact.

This story has an open ending, and for that I am fortunate.  Had the worst happened, it would have affected me deeply.  If you have never encountered an undocumented person, read Little Bee by Chris Cleave and walk a mile in their shoes.  

--Chiron, 5/27/17

Saturday, May 27, 2017

Soul at the White Heat: Inspiration, Obsession, and the Writing Life (Part Two) by Joyce Carol Oates

Finally, we arrive at the second installment of Joyce Carol Oates’ wonderful work, Soul at the White Heat: Obsession, Inspiration, and the Writing Life.  This section deals with a number of reviews written by Oates.  I carefully avoid reading reviews of books on my TBR piles.  I want my opinion completely unadulterated by other writers.  However, I really enjoy reading reviews, so I clip those of interest, file them away until I can read the book.  While a handful of reviewers attract my attention, none do more so than Joyce Carol Oates.

In Other Worlds: Margaret Atwood, Oates writes of her “eclectic and engaging miscellany of essays, reviews, introductions, and ‘tributes’ is a literary memoir tracing the myriad links between science fiction and literature” (210).  Embedded in this essay is a quote from Ursula K. Le Guin, another writer I admire.  Le Guin writes, “To my mind, The Handmaid’s Tale, Oryyx and Crake, and now The Year of the Flood all exemplify one of the things that science fiction does, which is to extrapolate imaginatively from current trends and events to a near-future that’s half prediction, half satire.  But Margaret Atwood doesn’t want any of her books to be called science fiction […] She doesn’t want the literary bigots to shove her into the literary ghetto” (211).  When I was in middle school, I discovered science fiction, and read as much as I could find.  My favorite was, and still is, A Fall of Moondust by Arthur C. Clarke.  I passed through that phase to another: archaeology, but I still do read the occasional SciFi novel.

Oates continues, “Both writers would describe their fictions as ‘thought-experiments’ – ways of describing ‘reality, the present world’ by way of original metaphors.  Both writers would argue that ‘a novelist’s business is lying’ – as a ‘devious method of truth-telling.’ // With the good-natured patience of a teacher who has made a point repeatedly, yet is still being misunderstood in some quarters” (211).

This is my favorite review in this section, and perhaps one of my favorites of all time.  This piece gives me the feeling I was at dinner with these three powerful women writers, and I sat there with a huge grin taking it all in.  I think it is important for readers – and reviewers – to read the work of other writers.  John Updike is another writer who has written hundreds of reviews.  He published no less than seven hefty volumes of essays, reviews, and criticism.  Lots can be learned from these volumes.

As a final sample from this collection, Oates writes in “Diminished Things: Anne Tyler,” another of my favorites to add to my obsessions.  She first quotes a poem by Robert Frost, “The Ovenbird.”  Oates then picks up the thread of the last line when she wrote, “’what to make of a diminished thing’ is a proposition that becomes ever more crucial with the passage of time in our lives, and particularly in the lives of writers who began young, with early successes and early fame.  Like her older contemporaries John Updike and Philip Roth, Anne Tyler has addressed this painful subject in recent novels, notably Noah’s Compass, Ladder of Years, and [The Beginner’s Goodbye]; but she addressed it in her characteristically minimalist, understated and modest way” (240).  Ah, another wonderful dinner conversation that would make.

So, we close this piece on a really important work for all readers and writers, Soul at the White Heat: Obsession, Inspiration, and the Writing Life by Joyce carol Oates.  I highly recommend this work.  Stay tuned for part three!  5 stars

--Chiron 3/22/17

Miss Jane by Brad Watson

On a visit to Inkwood Books in Tampa Florida, the proprietor recommended a novel she thought I would like – based on my stack of purchases awaiting payment.  She correctly introduced me to Miss Jane by Brad Watson.  The novel has no conmen, no evildoers, but only farmers and sharecroppers desperately working the land to scrape out an existence for their families.  True, they do have some individuals who drink a little too much, but they care for their families and their children.  The story will warm your heart and make you want to bundle up for cold weather right alongside the Chisolms.

Brad Watson teaches at the University of Wyoming, Laramie.  He has written two collections of stories and a novel, Heaven of Mercury, which was a finalist for the 2002 National Book Award.  His short stories have been published widely.  Miss Jane tells the story of the Chisolm Family – Ida, his wife, Grace the eldest daughter, and Jane.  A male baby had died soon after childbirth.  Jane was born with a complicated birth defect.  Back in 1915, nothing could be done for the unfortunate child.  Today, her condition could be easily fixed by surgery.  Watson describes the little girl, “She had been a spritely young girl, slim and a bit lank-haired but with a sweet face and good humor, but by now had grown taller and begun to take on a gaunt, dark-eyed beauty, and moved with a kind of natural grace, as a leak will fall gracefully from a tree in barely a breeze” (173).  Dr. Thompson admired the Chisolms for their work-ethic and, after delivering Jane, he stayed in close touch in hopes of some sort of surgical miracle to correct her condition.

The lovely prose in this novel reminded me of Cold Mountain by Charles Frazier.  Watson writes, “Leaving the child’s care to her older daughter had made it a little easier for Ida Chisolm to avoid her dark thoughts, though not entirely.  When she had a little break, she sat on the front porch, dipped a bit of snuff – which she knew was smallish sinful but did it anyway, a soul was corrupt at birth and adding a little vice wouldn’t change the equation much – and spat into the bare dirt of the yard doing the best she could to empty her clamorous mind.  Crows banked about the grove of the pine and hardwood by the cow pond and flew back up on fluff-cranked winds into the pecans near the barn, settling in their gnarly limbs like black fluttering shadows into the foliage of clouded thoughts she could not and did not bother to plumb.  Late fall blackbirds swept in waves to the oaks at the yard’s edge, and their deafening, squawking, creaking calls, the cacophonous tuning of a mad avian symphony, drew the grief-born anger from her heart, into the air, and swept it away in long, almost soothing moments of something like peace.  The occasional fluid mumuration of migrating starlings, a wondrous sight when she was a child, could evoke in her all over again in a strange sense of foreboding” (51-52).  The story continues all the way to the disappearance of Grace, the death of Sylvester, Ida, and finally the last days of Jane Chisolm.

Some might view this last sentence as a “spoiler,” but this is one of those rare books, seeps into the mind of the reader, spreads warmth and sorrow, and ends on a satisfying note.  Do not let that stop anyone from reading this novel.  There are few things I enjoy more than a great independent bookstore and a proprietor who can read her customers.  A trip to Florida is in my future, and after reading Miss Jane by Brad Watson, I will surely seek out Inkwood Books.  5 Stars.

--Chiron, 5/15/17

The Dinner by Herman Koch

The Dinner by Herman Koch has recently been made into a movie.  The information on the dust jacket intrigued me, so I decided to move it up a few notches.  This is the seventh novel, along with three collections of short stories. of this internationally known writer from Amsterdam.  The story is thrilling, and his prose will push the reader to the end.  I could hardly put it down.

Paul and Serge Lohman are brothers, both are married and both have a fifteen-year-old son.  Serge also has an autistic daughter and an adopted child.  Serge is also a politician, and he is headed to the office of speaker of Parliament in The Netherlands.  Paul has major anger issues, and he frequently fantasizes about beating someone to death.  The dust jack mentions the brothers are entangled in a horrific event brought on by the two boys, or is it?

Paul is misanthropic to say the list.  The couples meet for dinner at a ritzy restaurant.  Paul harbors lots of resentment over his brother’s success.  Koch writes, “What I was in fact planning to do was look at the prices of the entrées: the prices in restaurants like this always fascinate me.  Let me make it clear right away that I’m not stingy by nature; that has nothing to do with it.  I’m also not going to claim money is no object, but I’m light years removed from people who say it’s a ‘waste of money’ to eat in a restaurant while ‘at home you can make things that are so much nicer.’  No, people like that don’t understand anything, not about food and not about restaurants” (25).  The novel drips with sarcasm, snarky remarks, and hidden grudges.

All four of the adults know about the horrific event, but none of the four knows what the others know.  Clair, Paul’s, wife, knows more than the others.  Michel, Paul’s son, writes a disturbing essay, and the principal calls Paul in for a conference.  The principal mentions an incident at the school Paul recently left.  He becomes so angry he attacks the principal and severely beats him.  Oddly enough, there is no further mention of this attack.  In another scene, Paul recalls his son kicking a ball through a glass window.  He takes the boy to apologize and pay for the window, but the bike shop owner is not satisfied.  Paul loses his temper, and picks up a bicycle pump to hit the man.  Later, Michel asks if he was really going to hit the man.  Koch writes, “I had already put the key in the lock, but now I squatted down in front of him again.  ‘Listen,’ I said.  ‘That man is not a good man.  That man is just a piece of trash who hates kids who are playing.  It doesn’t matter whether I would have hit him over the head with that pump.  Besides, if I had, he would only have had himself to blame.  No, what matters is that he thought I was going to hit him, and that was enough’” (139).  The significance of this memory will will become apparent at the end of the story.

The purpose of the dinner was for the adults to discuss the “incident” concerning their sons.  Serge offers to withdraw from the election, despite the fact he is way ahead in the polls and almost certain to win.  Serge’s wife, Babbette, does not want her husband to withdraw.  He has planned a press conference for the next day.  Clair and Babbette plot to stop the announcement.  The ending is surreal, almost dreamlike.  One body leaves the scene on a stretcher.

The Dinner by Herman Koch is a thrilling and suspenseful novel.  A perfect read for a sunny day, or a rainy day, or any day.  5 stars.

--Chiron, 5/12/17

Summer Reading for Bibliophiles

Summer is prime reading time in my life.  An old rhyme from my elementary school days – with a minor alteration – went something like this, “No more papers, no more books, no more student’s dirty looks.”  Following is a list of titles on my TBR pile.

The Little French Bistro by Nina George.  George was a recent discovery of mine, and this is the second of her novels translated into English.  I thoroughly enjoyed The Little Paris Bookshop, and I am sure this one will please.  While we are on the subject of French Literature, Lydia Davis has produced a new translation of one of the greatest novels of the 19th century, Madame Bovary.  And, before we leave Europe, consider Skylight by Jose Saramago.  He always delights with his peculiar characters and wonderful situations.  If you haven’t read him yet, Stone Raft, in which the Iberian Peninsula breaks away from France and floats into the Atlantic is another worthwhile read along with All the Names

For some fun reads, Carl Hiaasen has a recent novel, Razor Girl, the story of a reporter/detective in Miami dodging his editor and the police.  The tremendously funny Tina Fey has Bossy Pants on my TBR.

Colm Tóibín is among the masters of literary fiction today.  His latest novel is Nora Webster, the story of a woman widowed in her 40s with four children.  Richard Ford has a new novel, Let Me Be Frank with You.  His novels are always interesting and well-written.  For an interesting collection of letters, Living on Paper: Letters from Iris Murdoch, 1934-1995, has been squealing for my attention in what I am sure will be a fascinating look at one of the best writers of the 20th century.

On the more serious side is Buddhism without Beliefs: A Contemporary Guide to Awakening.  This has been around for quite a few years, and I have read it a couple of times, but this is one relaxing read even on a second or third read.  Laurence M. Krauss, the noted physicist and author of A Universe from Nothing: Why There Is Something Rather Than Nothing is a great read for the amateur scientists in us.

When I spent a year at a boarding school back in 1962-63, I was severely limited in the range of available reading material.  So I thought I would time-travel back, and reconnect with G.K. Chesterton in The Flying Inn.  My next foray into the work of the outstanding writer, Kent Haruf, is Benediction.  Underestimated, un-hyped, all of his books are wonderful reads.  Plainsong and Our Souls at Night are also fantastic.  I have a Lily King novel I hope to get to this summer: Father of the Rain.  And a novel by Lisa King, Death in a Wine Dark Sea from the excellent independent publisher, Permanent Press. 

I also want to get to the recent Nobel Prize winning author, Patrick Modiano and, what some call his masterpiece, The Occupation Trilogy.  Another important Nobel winner is J.M. Coetzee.  I have read a number of his works, and they are all thought provoking, interesting, and they will not let you quit until the last page.  Two of his works are on my radar: The Childhood of Jesus and The Schooldays of Jesus.

And finally, I close this list with two works for bibliophiles: Library: An Unquiet History by Matthew Battles, and Pencil by Herman Petroski.  After reading The Book of the Book Shelves, I might just start off my summer reading right here.

--Chiron, 5/27/17