Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout

For the life of me, I cannot understand how this novel won a Pulitzer Prize. The committee must have had an overstock of shrinks and therapists! Practically every character is either suicidal, anorexic, depressed, paranoid, just plain loopy, or all of the above. Crosby, Maine must be one hell-hole of a place to live.

Olive Kitteridge, retired school teacher, lives with her husband Henry, the town pharmacist, and her son Christopher. Chris marries a woman whom Olive, naturally, hates. She has disparaging comments about everyone in town, which sometimes she bases on nothing more than rumor. Her husband tells her she has never apologized for anything. In the closing chapters, she admits this. So guess how many people, including her son, she called and tried to make amends? Zero. Olive is one of the most despicable characters I have encountered in quite a while. Why are people afraid to apologize – when they are wrong or even when right, and the dispute is not worth the loss of a friend? Is saving face that important? Is the possibility of appearing weak that repulsive?

However, the novel is well written. Numerous passages sprinkled throughout have a certain luster, a smooth polished surface that kept me reading. Here is one example:

“He was as much a stranger up here now as any tourist might be, and yet gazing back at the sun-sliced bay, he noted how familiar it felt; he had not expected that. The salt air filled his nose, the wild rugosa bushes with their white blossoms brought him a vague confusion; a sense of sad ignorance seemed cloaked in their benign white petals” (31).

I gather these chapters are intended as a collection of short stories, but does the reader need to be told in nearly every chapter that Olive taught math in seventh grade? Some more skillful editing would have helped this story become a bit more enjoyable.

All of these stars are strictly for the writing. 3 stars

--Chiron, 5/29/11

Thrift and The Origin of the Milky Way by Barbara Louise Ungar

Have you ever encountered people – face-to-face or as characters in a novel or even writers – and felt as if you knew them? That has happened to me. When I read Margaret Atwood’s novel, Cat’s Eye, I felt as if we had grown up on the same block in Philadelphia, even though she grew up in Toronto. When I read James Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, I felt as if we had gone to the same boarding school. Now I have another author to add to this list. I connect on so many levels with Ungar.

While shopping at Amazon, their creepy, prescient, wonderful computer recommended a book of poetry -- Charlotte Brontë, You Ruined My Life by Barbara Louise Ungar. I had never heard of the poet, but I bought it on impulse, solely because I was intrigued by the title. I read it and loved the poetry. I reviewed it here last March.

Now here is where the story gets a bit complicated. I never heard from James Joyce, of course, and I had only met Atwood at a signing in Boston -- before I had read Cat’s Eye. After my review of Ungar appeared, I corresponded with her through e-mail. She thanked me for my review, and I told her I was going to get both of her other books of poetry. She wrote, “Oh, no. Let me send them to you.” I had misgivings, and I responded with an “Okay, but let me pay for them.” “No, I have plenty of copies here.” So, time passed, and I fretted. What if I don’t like them? How can I review them after her kindness? Worse yet, what if I love them? How will she know I am being sincere? After all, she doesn’t know me any better than I know her.

Well, the books arrived this week, and I am in the middle of a novel I am not really enjoying, so I set that aside on an overcast Saturday to read these two slim volumes. First, we will tackle Thrift.

I am just going to say it – I loved most of the poems in here. Ungar’s humor, her excellent diction, her clever allusions, images, and phrases captivated me. I immediately read it again and found another thing or two I liked. “Formica” represents an excellent example of all these points:

“After arranging the peonies, I scoop
crazed ants off the counter

with delicate paper coaxings, and,
by my third transport

across the grass to the peony bush, wonder
if they could find their own way

home from the front
steps (like pets who navigate

the continent) or if they’d be devoured
by enemy armies (an ant Iliad)

and what tales
do they tell the colony

of alien abduction
(the A-Files?)

and of the strangeness of Formica
and this paper plane.” (21)

I also loved “Self-Diagnosis” (38-39). Another poem I really liked, “For the Town Clerk” (60) inspired me to write a poem about a box in my closet containing a mishmash of cards, letters, photos, and souvenirs from a pen pal I had years ago. I hear echoes of 13 Rue Thérèse here as well. All in all, a most excellent and enjoyable collection of poetry. (5 stars)

The second volume, The Origin of the Milky Way is another story. While I like several of these poems – all with the same wit and quality as those in Thrift – I didn’t relate to these as well, since many were about childbirth. When my son -- now about to turn 28 yikes! -- was in utero I heard all the stories about the difficulty and pain of childbirth, but I must admit, none so clever or vivid as Ungar’s.

One short poem, “Tanka,” really made me laugh, however:

“Horses stand in the rain
head down in an open field.
What else can they do?

It’s not labor.
I can stand it.” (39)

I refuse to take a star away for the reason stated, so I won’t rate it. Read it yourself and let me know what you think. I hope Ungar writes a memoir. She sounds as if she has had a wonderfully interesting and creative life so far!

--Chiron, 5/22/11

Emily, Alone by Stewart O'Nan

A couple of years ago, I read a curious and interesting little novel by an author I had never heard of. When I met O’Nan at a conference and got a copy of his newest novel, I was eager to try him again. Emily, Alone is a quiet, earnest story of ordinary people going about their daily lives, trying to manage the vagaries of existence as senior citizens.

Emily Maxwell is a widow, and she lives alone with her aging dog, Rufus. Her children are grown with families of their own, and Emily lives for and from one visit to the next. Her best friend is her slightly crusty sister-in-law, Arlene. Together they lament the changes they face in growing old and share a routine of lunches, dinners at the club, and miscellaneous errands.

Set in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, the landscape O’Nan describes seems comfortably familiar. I grew up at the other end of the state and only made a couple of brief visits to the Steel City, but Emily’s experiences mirror many of my own.

One childhood memory I vividly recall matches O’Nan’s description precisely. Emily and Arlene are driving by the old Nabisco plant, which is being converted into condos. O’Nan writes, “The real shame was that, winter or summer, when the plant was running, as you drove by you could smell them baking, even with your windows closed. They made Ritz crackers, and the warm buttery scent surrounded the place like a cloud. … In the Spring, … you could stand with your lemonade and … see the steam rising from the factory and practically taste the air” (10). I remember my Dad would detour on a trip home just to drive past the Nabisco plant on Roosevelt Boulevard. I can still smell it.

Another memory of mine involves her son, Kenneth, who signs off each phone call to his mother with, “All righty.” Must be a Pennsylvania thing. Of course, every Sunday I lament the arrival of the Waco Trib. “Stripped of its advertising, the [Pittsburgh] Post-Gazette was criminally thin” (53). Emily also surveys the “obituaries, and is relieved to find no one she knew. She noted those close to her age and younger, but refused to brood on them. She didn’t want to be one of those old ladies obsessed with death, hearing it in every tick of the clock and creak of the floorboards” (53). My favorite line, however, is, “People should give gifts because it made them happy. There should be no obligation involved, no guilt” (129). Another Pennsylvania thing perhaps?

While this might seem a tad depressing, it is anything but. The novel floats on an undercurrent of humor. Emily is an interesting, bright woman with a strong will. She has her routines, and they keep her active. She worries about Arlene, her neighbors, her daughter Margaret, her son Kenneth, the grandchildren, loyal Rufus, of course, and her preparations for the inevitable. I won’t reveal the twist in the last chapter, but it has me thinking. A third novel could have a neat little opening to resolve this riddle so tiny it could easily be missed.

I learned this novel is actually a sequel to an earlier work, Wish You Were Here. I’ll be tracking that one down in the coming days! 5 stars.

--Chiron, 5/14/11

Last Night at the Lobster by Stewart O'Nan

A great little novel about the last night of a Red Lobster restaurant closed because of corporate greed. I have been to this Red Lobster, despite the fact the exact location is never mentioned. It is somewhere in the snowy north, vaguely New York State.

Manny manages the doomed branch of Darden Restaurants, and December 20th is the last day it will be open for business. Typical corporate move. Five days before Christmas and most of them are losing their jobs. On the epithet page, before the half-title, O’Nan has written: “Darden Restaurants, Inc., raised its outlook and expects full year 2005 diluted earnings per share growth in the range of 22% to 27%... (MSN.com).” Capitalism at its finest. The restaurant makes money, but not enough to satisfy the billionaires that own Darden.

Manny has an eclectic crew, and only about half of them show up for the last day. The best workers along with two who deserve to lose their jobs. Manny had an affair with Jackie, and Roz is like his mother. Ty is the king of the kitchen. The realism of this novel is striking. O'Nan has filled it with precise details of opening and operating a chain restaurant.

The last day has plenty of typical restaurant urgencies – a party of 14 who arrives demanding a big table without any prior notice to the toddler over whom the mother has absolutely no control. I have seen that kid in many restaurants, and I hope someday I will see that same mother trying to deal with the obnoxious brat when it is a teenager. Manny is a loyal company employee, and he does his best to placate the woman.

A nifty, well-written little tale of about 150 pages. 5 stars.

--Chiron, 5/15/11

Liquid Jade by Beatrice Hohenegger

A good friend recommended this book, and, although I had a bit of trouble finding a copy, the hunt was more than worth it. Liquid Jade tells the history of tea tracing its origins to second century b.c.e. China. Berenice Hohenegger quotes extensively from texts dating back centuries. This most interesting tale tells of plots to steal the closely guarded secrets of growing and brewing the perfect cup of tea. I like coffee, but there are times when nothing but a nice, hot mug of Earl Grey will do.

The story of the earliest discoveries of the benefits of brewed tea leaves begins in the Han Dynasty, which lasted from roughly 200 b.c.e. to 220 c.e. She tells the story of the tragic “gunboat diplomacy” which forced open the trading ports of China and Japan and the establishment of the East India Company and its attempts to monopolize world tea production, shipping, and sales. The author reveals the origins of afternoon tea, and its growth as a drink enjoyed world-wide, albeit in many different forms.

Unfortunately, the tea trade became tightly bound to the opium trade, which destroyed the lives of untold millions in China and Western Europe. This disturbing story did shed new light on this period of history for me. Furthermore, while “the Chinese do not use sugar in their tea,” the English did, dumping several spoonfuls in each cup. As a result of this practice, we now all use “teaspoons” (99). The English even invented a new type of sailing ship – the tea clipper – to bring the delicate tea leaves to England in one-third the time of traditional sailing ships (171).

The secret of porcelain – also closely guarded by the Chinese – fell under the control of English manufacturers when the first industrial spies roamed freely around the countryside. Blue willow porcelain, designed by Josiah Spode in the 18th century, depicted an Englishman’s view of Chinese mythology. The story associated with this pattern became so popular, the Chinese and Japanese began manufacturing it for export and even created a myth to go along with the design.

Hohenegger sums up the history of tea with some amazing statistics. Worldwide tea acreage today amounts to 6.2 million acres, with 89 percent in Asian countries. In 2004, over 7 billion pounds of tea was produced, which amounts to “3.8 billion cups of tea drunk every day around the world’ (240). Unfortunately, all this pleasure comes at a price.

A tea worker must pluck an average of 2,000 young shoots to attain about 1kg of leaf. With a “daily target weight of 30kg, the worker will have to perform the gesture of plucking the two leaves and the bud 60,000 times in one day, every day, from morning until night” (242) for the paltry wages of about one dollar (244). Hohenegger makes an excellent case for supporting fair trade coffees and teas. The added price amounts to less than a penny a cup. I rushed to the cabinet and checked my three favorite brands of Earl Grey. I was happy to see they were all organic and fair trade. 5 stars.

--Chiron, 5/9/11

Horoscopes for the Dead by Billy Collins

Whenever a new collection of poetry by Billy Collins appears, I drop everything on my TBR list and read. I have already been through this volume three times, and I absolutely love nearly every poem in it.

I met Mr. Collins last year in Louisville, KY, and had him sign a paperback copy of the collection, Picnic, Lightening, which has my favorite Collins poem in it, “Shoveling Snow with the Buddha.” As I have written before, if I can ever write a poem that someone who knows says, “It reminds me of Billy Collins,” I will consider myself a poet.

About 20 poems are starred, and it was quite a struggle to emerge with one to reproduce here, but I did it. “Two Creatures” represents everything I love about poetry, everything I love about Billy Collins, and everything I aspire to in my own work:

"The last time I looked, the dog was lying
on the freshly cut grass
but now she has moved under the picnic table.

I wonder what causes her to shift
from one place to another,
to get up for no apparent reason from her spot

by the stove, scratch one ear,
then relocate, slumping down
on the other side of the room by the big window,

or I will see her hop onto the couch to nap
then later find her down
on the Turkish carpet, her nose in the fringe.

The moon rolls across the night sky
and stops to peer down on the earth,
and the dog rolls through these rooms

and onto the lawn, pausing here and there
to sleep or to stare up at me, head in her paws,
to consider the scentless pen in my hand

or the open book on my lap.
And because her eyes always follow me,
she must wonder, too, why

I shift from place to place,
from the couch to the sink
or the pencil sharpener on the wall –

two creatures bound by the wonderment
though unlike her, I have never once worried
after letting her out the back door

that she would take off in the car
and leave me to die
behind the solid locked doors of this house." (53-54)

No comment necessary. If you read this and don’t get it, I am sorry. Keep trying. Perhaps one day, it will settle into your mind, and you will know. 5 stars.

--Chiron, 5/1/11

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