The Physick Book of Deliverance Dane by Katherine Howe

While Katherine Howe studied for her PhD qualifying exams, she took walks with her dog in the woods around Marblehead and Salem, MA. During these rambles, she began to spin a mildly interesting tale two of her ancestors persecuted during the Salem Witch Trials of the late 17th century. One of her ancestors, Elizabeth Proctor, survived, because she was pregnant. Fortunately, the hysteria had died down by the time the she delivered her child. The other, Elizabeth Howe, was hanged.

Connie Goodwin, a PhD candidate at Harvard, receives a phone call from her new age mother in New Mexico. Grace Goodwin asks her daughter to clean out an old house in Marblehead, which belong to Grace’s mother and prepare to sell it.

Her first visit to the house involved overgrown vines and creaky gates, but I did not get a creepy, gothic feeling from the prose. In fact, the lack of atmosphere is only the beginning of the writing flaws in this novel. Awkward sentences, fact errors, and plain dumb rookie writing mistakes all mar what could be a quite interesting and atmospheric tale.

For example, she claims the witch trials were “before [emphasis Howe’s] the Scientific Revolution. They didn’t have the scientific method” (82). Rudimentary explanations of investigations of nature with strong parallels to the scientific method date back to an Egyptian papyrus from circa 1600 b.c.e. The ancient Greeks had steps for scientific inquiry, as did the Babylonians, the Arabs, and the sub-continent Indians. Frances Bacon, Descartes, and Newton all laid down principles for scientific investigation. With the founding of the Royal Society of Science during the restoration in 1660s England, the steps, still in use today, were firmly established. She also displays an alarming thinness of knowledge of common historical facts – things even my ancient minor in history allowed me to recall. Howe is an historian?

Here is one example of her sometimes awkward style. “[Connie] placed the lamp on the mantelpiece, resting her elbow next to it and gnawing on a knuckle” (111). Other examples are shifts in point of view. During a phone conversation with her mother, Connie describes an unpleasant encounter with her PhD advisor. “’He sort of … screamed at me’” (165), . . . “‘but it totally wasn’t a big deal,’ at the same moment that Grace cried. ‘Oh, Connie!’ and threw down her crochet hook in irritation” (165).

The best part of the book, for me, was the “Interludes.” These flashbacks to the witch trials offered an interesting glimpse into a terrible episode in our history.

Okay, if these things don’t bother you, then this will make a fine beach read this summer, but not much else. (3 stars)

--Chiron, 4/29/11

The Shadow of Sirius by W.S. Merwin

I showed the interview of Merwin with Bill Moyers to my creative writing class and became inspired to buy a copy of this collection, which Merwin frequently read from during the interview.

The poems are exactly the kind I love to read – simple, straightforward with some surprising and highly pleasing insights. I will buy some more of his verse as I come across them. Considering the fact that he has published almost 30 volumes, I can’t bust my budget to complete the collection as I would like to do.

As is my custom when reading a volume of poetry, I mark ones I especially love for quoting here. I marked about 20 in Shadow, so I had a hard time figuring which I would quote. “Cold Spring Morning” kept popping up, so here it is:

“At times it has seemed that when
I first came here it was an old self
I recognized in the silent walls
and the river far below
but the self has no age
as I knew even then and had known
for longer than I could remember
as the sky has no sky
except itself this white morning in May
with fog hiding the barns
that are empty now and hiding the mossed
limbs of gnarled walnut trees and the green
pastures unfurled along the slope
I know where they are and the birds
that are hidden in their own calls
in the cold morning
I was not born here I come and go” (82).

I felt myself in this poem as I recalled that day back in 1993 when I moved to Texas – alone, knowing not a soul at the age of 45. If I can write one poem this wonderful, this powerful, and so full of truth – not only for me, but for some stranger who happens to read it, then I will be allowed to consider myself a poet.

You need to read Merwin. Over and over and again and again. 5 stars

--Chiron, 4/16/11

Remember Ben Clayton by Stephen Harrigan

Stephen Harrigan is the author of the best-selling novel, The Gates of the Alamo. His newest work of fiction is Remember Ben Clayton. Francis “Gil” Gilheaney is a talented sculptor who moves his family from New York to San Antonio, Texas to take advantage of a growing reputation for western-themed works of art. When Lamar Clayton, a crusty rancher, offers him a commission to create a statue to commemorate his son, Ben, killed in World War I, Gil sees it as an opportunity to sculpt a lasting legacy of his life’s work. But everyone involved with this project harbors secrets. Set in Texas and France in the aftermath of “the war to end all wars,” Harrigan has captured the brutality of war, family relationships, and the role and meaning of art.

I must admit, I was not excited about this novel when our local NPR station asked me to review and interview the author for a segment. Literature of the western US is not what I read – as faithful fans of RabbitReader well know! But I read the first chapter and I was hooked. [Right now, I only have an uncorrected proof. I will insert the paragraphs from page 9 when I get a trade edition.]

The battle scene of World War I and the cleanup in the aftermath of the war particularly affected me. We have so many novels on this subject – Remarque, Crane, Heller, Mailer, O’Brien – yet time and again we plunge our young men, and now women, into war. Why haven’t we learned – and remembered -- the lesson of the horrors of war?

The beginning of the novel’s main story-line – about 1920 – was a bit slow at first, but it had enough meat to keep me chewing. As I began to delve into the secrets these characters held, my interest piqued. As the novel reached its climax, one secret after another came out; I expected one or two, but the majority came as a surprise.

The prose is sparse and reminds me of Hemingway, but it fit the characters perfectly. The musings of the characters on art and its role in society – and what it means to an individual artist – were exceptionally absorbing. I could not help comparing the extensive research, planning, playing with his materials to the same things writers go through when creating a poem, a story, or a novel.

This novel should appeal to a wide audience – fans of cowboy lit, fans of historical fiction, and artists of all stripes. Due for publication in May of this year, I will repost this review then. 5 stars

--Chiron, 4/15/11

The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery

The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery is the story of a young girl who believes nothing in life makes it worth living, so she plans on committing suicide before her next birthday. Pretty grim, but in order to make sure she is making the correct decision, she keeps a journal of observations and “profound truths.” She makes friends with a self-described hedgehog – an ugly, lumpy, crabby concierge at the apartment building where the young girl lives. Both then make friends with a new tenant. This novel is one of the most intelligent and thought-provoking novels I have read in a long time. I reviewed it February of 2010, and I am gladly reading it again for my book club.

--Chiron, 3/25/11

Expiration Date by Sherril Jaffe

When I first looked over the cover of this novel, I wasn’t sure I would enjoy it. But I have so much faith in Permanent Press, I went ahead anyway. At first, I thought if I ever wanted to know the date of my death, this book presented a great argument against the fulfillment of that wish. However, as I read on, a thread of humor took hold, and I ended up thoroughly enjoying this book. This reminds me of another recent read that I might have shied away from: The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery. Both proved to become stunningly thoughtful and insightful examinations of life and its meaning.

Flora, 35 years old and pregnant, has a dream in which she is told the date of her death. This and her relationship with her mother, Muriel, occupy the rest of the novel. The characters are all instantly recognizable. I know a woman who, at the birth of her daughter, said, “I’ll never live to see her first communion.” Last year her great-granddaughter had her first communion. Despite falling down an entire flight of stairs when she was in her early 90s – and she didn’t break a single bone! – she is still going strong as her 96th birthday approaches. I love this kind of realism in a novel that allows me to connect with characters in a most interesting way!

The husbands of these two women also play roles, albeit minor ones, but when Muriel’s husband dies, she embarks on a number of interesting adventures with men she meets playing bridge. The lives of these two women are entangled in a most quirky way. Rather than maudlin marches to their coffins, Flora and Muriel learn lessons and really enjoy life.

My only regret is that this novel isn’t longer. Expiration Date is due for publication next month. Don’t miss it! 5 stars

--Chiron, 3/20/11

Something Special by Iris Murdoch

This recently discovered story – apparently from the 1940s – reveals Murdoch’s talent at an earlier stage than most of her novels. The story seems a bit awkward in parts, and does not have that smooth flowing prose of her novels, especially The Bell, The Book and the Brotherhood, and The Green Knight. Nevertheless, as I work my way through her 26 novels (I am about half-way through), I enjoy seeing a slightly different side of one of the 20th century’s great novelists. Michael McCurdy adds interesting illustrations of scenes from the story.

After reading Peter Conradi’s thoroughly detailed biography, I can see some of the young Murdoch and her attitude toward marriage in Yvonne Geary. She does not seem inclined toward marriage, and Sam Goldman does not seem a good fit for the independent minded Yvonne.

A nice slim little book, and only because I am spoiled by the wonderful prose of Murdoch do I give this 4 stars.

--Chiron, 3/13/11

13 Rue Thérèse by Elena Mauli Shapiro

An old saying goes, “Don’t judge a book by its cover.” Well, that is exactly what I did when I bought this book. An intriguing picture dominates the cover, and the mention of a “box of memories” on the jacket clinched the deal. This first novel was every bit as intriguing and exotic as the jacket.

Josianne works as an assistant in the faculty offices of a university in Paris, France. She has in her possession a box with a curious assortment of photos, letters, envelops, coins, gloves, and a few other personal items. Louise Brunet owned the box and assembled the contents. Upon her death, no relatives claimed her possessions, so the box came to Josianne. She places the box in the office of a new professor, Trevor Stratton. He becomes obsessed with the contents, and goes on a wildly imaginative journey, creating lives and events for the individuals in the pictures and mentioned in the letters.

The story has an air of mystery and charm, with some tragedy mixed in, along with some love, and several scenes of brief but intense eroticism, and a dollop of magic realism for some spice. Louise’s story becomes Trevor’s, and Trevor’s becomes Josianne’s, and Josianne’s becomes Louise’s story. Separating truth from reality, from fantasy, and from myth make this a most enjoyable read. Illustrations of the contents of the box accompany Trevor’s spinning of the tale.

As I read, I became more and more intrigued. In the top of my closet, I have a box of memories. Most of them associated with a pen pal I had over a 30 year period. Photos, postcards, letters, small items, even coins and money make up a story only I know. I got out the box after finishing this novel, and roamed over the landscape of my memories dating back to 1965. Maybe I should write it all down before someone else does it for me.

This is a most enjoyable read, and I heartily recommend it. Five stars

--Chiron, 3/13/11

Bird Cloud: A Memoir by Annie Proulx

Ordinarily, when I see a book about a person who buys some land and builds a house, my interest doesn’t go much further. However, when the builder is noted author, Annie Proulx, and the house is her dream home in Wyoming, my interest piqued.

Proulx is one of the best novelists and short story writers of the late 20th and into the 21st centuries. Her award-winning novel, The Shipping News and That Old Ace in the Hole are my favorite of her books. I always show my creative writing class a documentary about Ms Proulx writing Ace. It shows them the amount of research and hard, meticulous work that a novelist of Proulx’s stature puts into a new work of fiction. Her short stories, however, represent another whole aspect of her talent. I can honestly say, I have never read a Proulx short story that I did not like.

In Bird Cloud, Proulx tells the story of her family from its French-Canadian roots through to New England. She describes several places she lives, but none of them match her ideal home for reading, research, and writing. She searches Wyoming -- three collections of her short stories are subtitled “Wyoming Stories” – for a perfect plot of land, secluded, but near enough to civilization for food and supplies. She wanted a place where she could have rooms that looked out over the vast prairies nearby and mountains in the distance. Then she launches into a history of the area she selected dating back to the earliest inhabitants several thousand years ago, through to the Native Americans pushed out by white settlers in the 19th century. Then the search began for an architect and construction crew. The delays and pitfalls were frustrating and costly.

Once the house is finished, she takes a detailed inventory of the flora and fauna surrounding her. She has particular interest in birds, and spots several pairs of eagles – bald and golden – along with falcons, hawks, ravens, owls, and myriad song birds. Here, she describes one unique encounter.

“It was a big thrill when I saw a white-faced ibis near the front gate where there was irrigation overflow. The ibis stayed around for weeks. A few days after this sighting I was sitting near the river and saw two herons fly to the bald eagles’ favorite fishing tree. They were too small to be blue herons, and did not really look like little blues. A few minutes with the heron book cleared up the mystery; they were tricolored herons, the first I had ever seen. By the end of the month, American goldfinches were shooting around like tossed gold pieces despite another cold spell” (220).

This conversational style gives her prose a smooth and seamless fluidity that paints a digital-quality image in the mind of the reader. She welcomes me into her world as a expected visitor. This memoir will appeal to those interested in wildlife, because her keen eye for observation reveals much about the fauna of a wilderness area most of us would never visit.

The house is complicated in its orientation, layout, and construction, and I can imagine such a wonderful hideaway for a writer and reader. If you have never read Proulx, start with one of her collections of stories and get a feel for her exquisite view of nature – flora, fauna, and human. 5 stars

--Chiron, 3/8/11

Mentor: A Memoir by Tom Grimes

Mentor is the second book recommended by my good friend, Margaret Hawkins, author of A Year of Cats and Dogs and How to Avoid a Natural Disaster, both reviewed here last year. Grimes’ memoir must be on the shelf of anyone interested in the writing process or writing while trying to hold body and soul together. Tom had an amazingly supportive partner, Jody – that makes all the difference in the world. I can personally attest to the value of spousal support.

In 1988, Tom Grimes wrote 20 hours a week and held down a job as a waiter in a Florida restaurant. A fleeting encounter with Frank Conroy, published novelist and director of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, led Tom to apply to Iowa. He was accepted and packed up his family and moved. The memoir revolves around the relationship Tom developed with Frank. He also reveals, in great detail, the agonies, joys, triumphs, and disappointments of the writing life.

The Amazing thing about this book involves an incredible number of passages that reflect closely on my own reading and writing life. For example, he describes his first class with Frank, who began by writing on the board, “meaning, sense, and clarity,” then said, “‘If you don’t have these you don’t have a reader’” (25). Another, “the world is chaos and an artful novel satisfies our human desire for order, or … the novel excavates meaning from the rubble of incomprehension” (55). Frank discusses the “impostor syndrome” with Tom. “You can’t believe good things are happening to you and you’re worried someone will find you’re a fake…Don’t worry, it’ll pass” (121). I have said these, and many other things, to my creative writing classes.

At times, Tom displays a seemingly inexplicable lack of confidence in his writing. But a writer knows and understands. I can relate to that feeling. Agonizing over a poem or a story for hours or days or months only to see someone chop it to bits, or worse, dismiss it out of hand, can have a devastating effect on a writer. Grimes gives the reader a boost and a reminder that beginning writers can never give up – if they are serious about their art.

Only one chapter failed to hold my attention. Chapter Eleven, which relates the story of a play Tom was writing, is written as play dialogue. Beside this minor lapse, I thoroughly enjoyed every other page. This book goes on my reading list for my own creative writing students. 4-3/4 stars

--Chiron, 3/3/11

Charlotte Brontë, You Ruined My Life by Barbara Louise Ungar

Not everything Amazon.com recommends turns out to be a waste. These sharp, but simple poems convey all the passion and emotion a reader could want in a collection of verse. I had never heard of Ungar, but the title intrigued me, so I bought it. It is so very (too?) easy with one click shopping to indulge a passion – or an obsession – these days, but I am really glad I did.

Here’s my favorite:

“Moccasins”

Sky-blue beads’ pattern of heaven
and walking on wind—
who made them?

When I left home
and the great Plains behind,
I painted the floor of my narrow

room that very blue: I had
a futon, books and clothes,
three windows that opened on chains

into magnolia trees.
I lived in the sky.
I danced all night and out into the dawn.

It’s those cloud moccasins
I want, dancing the sky (52)

This poem, and almost all the rest of this collection, embodies everything I love in poetry I read and write: simple images, nice phrasing, a smooth, flowing rhythm, with a wonderful, unexpected closing image. Many even have a nice crisp edge to them. Ungar doesn't hold anything back. Anger sometimes peeks out of this collec tion about break-ups and divorce, but it never has a hint of self-pity. 5 stars

--Chiron, 3/4/11

I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith

A good friend in my book club recommended this, and I was a bit skeptical when I found out it was a young adult novel. However, I Capture the Castle proved to be a mixture of Brontë, Austen, with a dash of Dickens – in short a wonderful read that tells a story of interest to any serious reader.

Cassandra, the narrator, is 17 on the verge of 18. She has finished school and decided to keep a diary to help her learn to write. Her wonderfully quirky family includes her younger brother Thomas, an older sister Rose, her father James Mortmain (the author of a well-received novel who is now blocked), his wife Topaz (the children’s stepmother), and Stephen, the son of a deceased housekeeper of the Mortmain’s who had nowhere to live. Heloise (the beloved dog), Abelard (the cat), and Miss Blossom (a dress form with a personality all her own) round out the main cast.

The family has serious money problems, and one day, two Americans arrive to take possession of the estate on which the Mortmains live.

Cassandra is one of the best narrator/characters I have ever had the pleasure of sharing all the joys and sorrows of growing into adulthood. She has a marvelous imagination, and places herself in all sorts of situations. She goes for a walk with Stephen. Smith writes, “As we pushed aside the first green trails of larch I thought, ‘Well, this will disprove my theory that things I’ve imagined happening never really do happen.’ But it didn’t – because everything was so different from my imagining. The wood had been thinned out, so it wasn’t cool and dark as I expected; the air was still warm and the rays of the sinking sun shone in from behind us. The tree trunks glowed redly. There was a hot resinous smell instead of the scent of bluebells – the only ones left were shriveled and going to seed” (251).


Reading this prose, I felt as if I were in the room as she told me the story of her life. The prose is simple, yet elegant, descriptive without being overbearing – in a word: marvelous. She cleverly hid the ending in quite a few clues that only made sense when I finished the book. I hated to put it down and read it in three chunks of about 15%, 35%, and 50%. I also watched the film which was pretty good, although as expected several scenes were deleted, shortened, or combined with others. Despite this minor disappointment, I thoroughly enjoyed the movie, but I loved the book completely. A must read for anyone with the slightest touch of the romantic. 5 stars

--Chiron, 2/25/11

Beet by Roger Rosenblatt

Academic novels are among my favorite reads – especially those involving English professors. I measured Beet against my favorites: Straight Man by Richard Russo, The English Major by Jim Harrison, and All Is Forgotten, Nothing Is Lost by Lan Samantha Chang, and I am happy to say this one measures up! The fun, the politics, the turf wars, the “unusual” students, the bizarre faculty, and the businessmen trying to turn a college into a business are all present in their funny, sad, and tragic glory.

Peace Porterfield is a tenured English professor who cares about only one thing: teaching his students. Rosenblatt writes, “All he knew about being a professor was students, teaching, and learning, and this skewed and narrowed prospect of academic life deprived him of the full, rich picture” (26).

If I listed all my favorite passages, this would be the longest review I have written to date. But here are a few:

“There were more political constituencies on the faculty than professors” (45). “What’s wrong with making a buck? … “Nothing. Unless that’s all you make” (121). “Once money alone drives these [academic] institutions, they’re goners” (126). “He [a fellow faculty member] had a liberal arts education, you had one, I had one. What’s it for, if not to enable us to beat back people whose only values are dollars?” (126). And lastly, really my number one favorite: “Professor Porterfield was just the sort of faculty member he despised, … ‘He keeps to himself. He teaches, talks to students in office hours, and goes home. He doesn’t gossip’” (145).

Chapter Nine was rather poignant. It focuses on Peace as a professor. The chapter begins, “The better teachers at any level possess invention and imagination. These powers are not the same and are not equal. An imaginative teacher is always inventive, but an inventive teacher is not necessarily imaginative” (101). The chapter includes a Socratic dialogue between Peace and his creative writing class.

Irony abounds in this novel, from the fierce feminist student who continually uses “seminal” to characterize her ideas to the name of the English building, Mallory, which is a misspelling of the Sir Thomas Malory, author of the great legends of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table.

Tons of literary references are spread throughout the book as well. Peace’s wife, Livi, often calls him “Candide,” because of his naiveté and cockeyed optimism. At the end of the novel, Rosenblatt foretells the future for most of the main characters, but he doesn’t know what happened to Peace. “He may have decided to cultivate a garden – not one of his own, but somewhere that had no gardens, and needed them. One simply doesn‘t know what Peace’s future contained. His present was good enough. He took her hand [Livi’s], and they walked together from that place” (225). A free book to the first reader to identify the literary reference contained in the last sentence of this novel!

Students might not find this novel funny, administrators might wince on occasion, but faculty members will howl with laughter. 5 stars.

--Chiron, 2/20/11

The Reckoning by Howard Owen

Suspense takes a place in my reading life only once or twice a year, so I like to save the space for a well-told story, with interesting characters, and a plot with believable twists and turns. Howard Owen has admirably fulfilled this task with his ninth novel. Seems as though I have some searches at local bookstores and, failing that, on Amazon ahead of me!

Jake James is 16, a cross country star, and seeking his first intimate relationship. He is the grandson of “Wash” James, failed candidate for lieutenant governor of Virginia and scion of a wealthy family that owned a famous Virginia ham company. Jake’s father, George, runs the company now, and his past intrudes into the life of Jake and his friends.

The story lives in a backdrop of the Vietnam War and 9/11. George graduates from college one year after I did, so many of the events and characters are strikingly familiar to me. I lived through the national turmoil of the 60s and 70s, and Owen has recaptured those memories for me in amazing detail.

My major problem with the story is a curious episode at the end. Jake befriends a nine-year-old Guatemalan boy, who is the son of his aunt’s housekeeper. The novel is 2-1/2 pages too long to my tastes. I did some checking and some reviewers feel this ties up the novel with Jake becoming a little self-centered and more caring about others. However, I never really saw him as entirely selfish -- he was a typical teenager. I am much more interested in the evolving relationships between Wash and George and then George and Jake. So, I still think this ending was a bit too cute. Aside from that, I found a few sentences and references that gave me pause. Nevertheless, this is a page turner of the first order. 4-1/2 stars.

--Chiron, 2/11/11

The Seven Sisters by Margaret Drabble

This rather peculiar book has really left me perplexed. I discovered Margaret Drabble in grad school, and was surprised to learn she is A.S. Byatt’s sister. Byatt visited a class in British Women Writers. I had already known Byatt from her novel, Possession, and I have since read most of her novels. When I first read Drabble, I liked her, but not entirely and not as much. Her prose seems a bit stilted at times, and I had to stop on more than one occasion to pick up a thread she had dropped.


The story starts out as a diary of Candida Wilton, newly divorced mother of three daughters. Candida has taken her divorce settlement and moved from rural Suffolk to a slightly squalid London neighborhood. She takes a class reading Virgil’s Aeniad, but when the building is converted to a health club, she aimlessly joins. She has friends from school, whom she rarely hears from, and friends from Suffolk, whom she rarely hears from, and doesn’t seem able to make any solid new friends. When a sudden windfall lifts her from near poverty, she rounds up her friends for an adventure retracing the steps of Aeneas from Carthage to Naples. This is part one.

Part two suddenly shifts to third person and relates details of the trip to Italy. Then one of her estranged daughters weighs in as the narrator of part three, with a final section from Candida, post Italy. This must represent some sort of post-modern novel, but the ending confused me quite a bit. I am going to have to dig up some serious reviews and see what others think.

I really enjoyed the diary section. The issues of aging, broken relationships, loss of family and friends all made for an interesting excursion into the life and mind of a 50-something women who finally gets a grip on herself.

The section on the Italy trip was also good, but I felt it lacked some detail. The daughter’s section reminds us that every story teller tells his or her version of events. The last section really confused me.

Not the best Drabble I have ever read, but it certainly was worth the effort. This one will need a re-read sometime soon. 4 stars.

--Chiron, 2/6/11

Neither Wolf Nor Dog by Kent Nerburn

I wasn’t sure I would like this book. A good friend who is really into some New Age things recommended it for our book club. I had read Dee Brown’s Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee years ago and found that horribly tragic tale of genocide moving and unforgettable. As I began Nerburn’s book, I became absorbed from the opening pages. This first person account of atrocities and the underlying philosophy of Native Americans, takes its place as an important supplement to Dee Brown’s book. While some of these incidents had a vague place in my consciousness, Nerburn brought them into clear focus with his collection of “talks” by Dan, an elder of the Lakota tribe.



Quite a few passages really stuck out. Here they are – without comment – because they clearly speak for themselves.

“Our elders were schooled in the ways of silence, and they passed that along to us. Watch, listen, and then act, they told us. This is the way to live” (65).

"‘Look out there, Nerburn’ he said. I surveyed the lavender morning sky and the distant rolling foothills. “This is what my people care about. This is our mother, the earth.”
"‘It’s a beautiful place,’ I offered.
He snubbed out his cigarette. “It’s not a place. That’s white man’s talk. She’s alive. We are standing on her. We’re part of her’” (131).

“'Whenever the white people won it was a victory. Whenever we won it was a massacre. What was the difference? There were bodies on the ground and children lost their parents, whether the bodies were Indian or white. But the whites used their language to make their killing good and our killing bad’” (162-162).

Dan’s granddaughter weighed in, when she met Nerburn during one of the author’s trips around the reservation with Dan. She said, “They ignored us. We were just women. But we were always the ones to keep the culture alive. That was our job, as women and mothers. It always has been. The men can’t hunt buffalo anymore. But we can still cook and sew and practice the old ways. We can still feed the old people and make their days warm. We can teach the children. Our men may be defeated, but our women’s hearts are still strong” (249).

I did find some minor faults with the book. I felt the book went on just a bit too long -- the last few chapters were really over the top. I got the message clear as a mountain stream without them. While Dan often complains about how “Hollywood Indians” sounded, he frequently sounded like a Hollywood Indian to me.

But overall, a touching and shameful account of the genocide this country perpetrated against Native Americans. At times, it had a rather Zen-like feel to it, but it was always, honest and from the heart. 4-1/2 stars

--Chiron, 1/26/11

Solar by Ian McEwan

While searching for a novel with a title I could not quite remember, I stumbled on a similarly entitled book by Ian McEwan. I examined the dust jacket, and I bought it, because, judging by the cover, it sounded interesting. Several decades later, I eagerly await each new novel by this Booker Prize-winning author.

Ian McEwan’s latest novel, Solar, tells the story of Michael Beard, a Nobel Prize-winning physicist who expanded on an aspect of Einstein’s Theory of Relativity. Beard coasts on his past glory, and now seems only interested in the pleasures his reputation can bring him. Patrice, his fifth wife, has discovered an affair, and Michael experiences severe regret and tries everything to mend his marriage. He returns home early from a conference to discover his post-doctoral student assistant naked in a dressing gown Patrice had given Michael for his birthday. Michael’s life becomes as dense and entangled as the theories and calculations that made his reputation.

As in all his novels, McEwan mires his characters in contemporary problems and difficulties. Otherwise intelligent people seem bewildered when faced with moral and ethical choices. When Michael receives a possible solution to the problem of global warming from a deceased colleague, he decides to pursue this idea alone, and gathers funding from numerous sources in the U.S.

As I approached DFW airport the other day, I silently hoped for one or two more turns circling the airport so I could finish the last 18 pages – McEwan’s prose is that good. What I like most about McEwan’s novels are the tiny fire crackers he plants along the way, which turn out to be bombs that flare unexpectedly. Finding these seemingly offhand remarks becomes a game I relish when reading his work. For example, when Beard takes off from England for a conference near the Arctic Circle to study melting glaciers, he looks out the window of the plane. McEwan writes,

“Here was a commonplace sight that would have astounded Newton or Dickens. He was gazing east, through a great rim of ginger grime – it could have been detached from an unwashed bathtub and suspended in the air. He was looking past the City, down the bulging widening Thames, past oil and gas storage tanks toward the brown flatlands of Kent and Essex and the scene of his childhood and the outsized hospital where his mother had died, not long after she told him of her secret life, and beyond, the open jaw of the tidal estuary and the North Sea, an unwrinkled nursery blue in the February sunshine. Then his gaze was rotated southward through a silvery haze over the Weald of Sussex toward the soft line of the South Downs, whose gentle folds once cradled his raucous first marriage, a synesthesia of misguided love, infant excrement and wailing of their lodgers’ twins, and the heady quantum calculations that led, fifteen years and two divorces later, to his prize. His prize which half blessed, half ruined his life. (107-108)

McEwan’s lovely prose hides a secret, and as I circled DFW, too absorbed to look out the window, I turned the last page, and the “commonplace” exploded into a tragic-comic ending, which left me looking forward to McEwan’s next novel. 5 stars

--Chiron, 1/12/11

Chipmunk Seeks Squirrel by David Sedaris

At first, I did not really like this collection of fables, but, trapped on a long flight to California, and with nothing else to read easily at hand, I decided to slog through to the end. Actually, I began to enjoy the tails [pun intended], and the last were the best of all.

I really look forward to Sedaris’ pieces on NPR, but I rarely enjoy his writing. It always seemed smarmy to me, and I had a hard time relating to his tone. However, I heard him interviewed on Terry Gross’ show, Fresh Air and felt this latest book might be interesting. I also saw him interviewed on Jon Stewart, so I decided to give him another try.

This book had its moments, but it will not make me a fan of his writings. As I began this review, I tried to figure out some explanation for this dichotomy, but I came up empty. As I said, the last story was really good, and made me close the book with a chuckle. “The Grieving Owl” tells the story of an owl whose mate is three days dead. he obsesses over learning things, and jilts a young female his mother tried to match him with. Two brothers and his mother stalk the grieving owl, and sometimes steal his victims of hunting, because he asks them to teach him something in exchange for their freedom.

Now, a beast fable is a story with animals who have human characteristics – including the power of speech – which contains some moral lesson. Chaucer’s “The Nun’s Priest Tale” is a classic of the genre, right up there with Aesop and his foxes, hares, and tortoises. The glitch is in the moral. For the life of me, I cannot figure out this as any more than a humorous, slightly bawdy story. Characteristics shared by most of the tales.

Owl sees a rat and debates the one rule of owldom – never engage with your food. Kill it immediately and eat. But he catches a rat, and begins a conversation:

“So this rat, it was as if he were following a script. ‘I just swallowed some poison,’ he claimed. ‘Eat me, and you’re destined to die as well.’

It’s embarrassing to hear such lies, to think they think you’re dumb enough to believe them.

‘Oh please,” I said.

The rat moved to plan B. ‘I have children, babies, and their counting on me to feed them

I said to the guy, ‘Listen. There’s not a male rat in the history of the world who’s given his child so much as a cigarette butt, and don’t try to tell me otherwise. In fact,’ I went on, ‘from what I hear, any baby of yours has a better chance of being eaten by you than fed by you.’”

Grim humor, yes, but pretty amusing. The brother of Owl, steals the rat when he tells Owl something interesting, and then the brother eats the poor fellow. Oh, well. If I ever figure out what the moral is, I’ll let you know. 3 stars

--Chiron, 1/7/11

The Greatest Show on Earth: The Evidence for Evolution by Richard Dawkins

Richard Dawkins, one of the foremost proponents of the “new atheism,” has returned to his first profession, evolutionary biologist. In this fascinating work, he lays down, in clear terms for the non-professional, all of the evidence from DNA to skeletal structure to behavior proving Darwin’s theory of evolution.

He starts off with some things I have argued for years. People who do not believe in evolution misunderstand the use of the term theory in that connection and fail to grasp the immense time scales involved. In fact, Dawkins describes quite a few things about evolution, which seemed to be mere common sense to me. Bi-lateral symmetry and similar skeletal structures for example.

Near the end, he sums all this up in a neat little package. Dawkins writes,

“What Darwin didn’t – couldn’t – know is that the comparative evidence becomes even more convincing when we include molecular genetics, in addition to the anatomical comparisons that were available to him.

Just is the vertebrate skeleton is invariant across all vertebrates while the individual bones differ, and just as the crustacean exoskeleton is invariant across all crustaceans while the individual ‘tubes’ vary, so the DNA code is invariant across all living creatures, while the individual genes themselves vary. This is a truly astounding fact, which shows more clearly than anything else that all living creatures are descended from a single ancestor. Not just the genetic code itself, but the whole gene/protein system for running life,…is the same in all animals, plants, fungi, bacteria, archaea [microbes that live in extreme environments] and viruses. What varies is what is written in the code, not the code itself. And when we look comparatively what is written in the code – the actual genetic sequences in all these different creatures -- we find the same kind of hierarchical tree of resemblance. We find the same family tree [emphasis by Dawkins] – albeit much more thoroughly and convincingly laid out – as we did with the vertebrate skeleton, and indeed the whole pattern of anatomical resemblances through all the living kingdoms. (315)

On one or two occasions Dawkins does become a bit overly technical, and some passages required a slower and repeat reading, but overall this is a thoroughly readable and enjoyable account of the present state of the theory of evolution. (5 stars)

--Chiron, 1/14/11

Old Heart by Stanley Plumly

These are the kinds of poems I do not like. Awkward constructions, twisted odd metaphors, minimal punctuation, dense imagery all prevent me from enjoying this book of poetry. Unfortunately, the poems he read were not in any of the books he had for sale – at least none in the ones I bought sound even vaguely familiar.

Maybe the poet, reading this kind of poetry, knows where the commas should be. But the casual reader is lost. I read a couple I mildly liked, but most of these were less than enjoyable. 2 stars

--Chiron, 12/31/10

Tinkers by Paul Harding

Usually, for some unknown reason, I do not follow the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, but a good friend recommended Tinkers, so I thought I would give it a go. This peculiar novel recounts the last couple hundred hours in the life of George Washington Crosby as he lay dying. During this time, he reminisces, hallucinates, and briefly becomes lucid as to his surroundings.

Most of the prose has a smooth, dreamlike quality, but I was puzzled by frequent shifts in viewpoint from George, to his father Howard, and to George’s grandfather. Harding tells some of these flashbacks and memories in first person and some in third person. This seemed confusing at times.

George’s hobby concerned clocks – collecting and repairing them. He made lots of money which he squirreled all over the place. Many of the images of people getting sick and dying resembled the winding down of a clocks works. George and Howard both had missing fathers.

The psychological aspects of this novel, however, really stand out. The hallucinations, the memories floating in and out, all punctuated with those moments of lucidity when George had to recollect where he was, who all the people around his bed were, and why he couldn’t wind his clocks.

A decent novel, a worthy addition to the Pulitzer Prize canon, but the confusing bits bothered me. 4 stars

--Chiron, 12/31/10