Something Else: A Memoir by Richard Russo

Richard Russo has been one of my favorite authors for a long time. I started with Straight Man, a comic look at life in the English Department of a rural New England College. As an English Professor, I laughed and cried with tears of joy and sorrow as Russo exposed the peculiarities of my profession. I “knew” many of his characters as colleagues of my own.

Of course, Russo is most well-known for his stories of decaying towns in the rust belt of the U.S. Several of these novels, including, Nobody’s Fool and Empire Falls have been made into successful movies. Empire Falls won two Golden Globes along with other awards and nominations, including a Pulitzer Prize for the author. All these stories are tales of ordinary, hard-working people, who overcome serious difficulties in their struggles through life. Russo’s recently published memoir, Elsewhere sheds a bright light on the origin of many of these characters.

Russo grew up in the mill town of Gloversville, NY, famous for its gloves. As has frequently been the case, the labor was sent overseas and the mills closed. The town was left with poverty, unemployment, and a host of medical problems resulting from working around the chemicals used in tanning the leather and the dust as a by-product of glove making.

Elsewhere focuses on Russo’s mother and their relationship. His father left the family early on, and apparently played only a little role in the young boy’s life. Richard struggled to understand and cope with the mental illness of his mother. He tells this sad story of his mother's illness without becoming maudlin because of the streak of humor underlying it all.

Russo and I are about the same age, and we share a number of interesting coincidences. His youth was filled with books and a wide variety of interests. He even flirted with a career in archaeology. While I was fortunate to grow up in a stable family with no hint of mental difficulties, my life closely parallels Russo’s in a number of respects.

In the “Prologue,” Russo writes,

“What follows in this memoir – I don’t know what else to call it – is a story of intersections: of place and time, of private and public, of linked destinies and flawed devotion. It’s more my mother’s story than mine, but it’s mine, too, because until just a few years ago she was seldom absent from my life. It’s about her character but also about where she grew up, fled from, and returned to again and again, about contradictions she couldn’t resolve and so passed on the me, knowing full well I’d worry them much like a dog worries a bone, gnawing, burying, unearthing, gnawing again, until there’s nothing left but sharp splinters and bleeding gums” (12).

Obviously, I could never hope to explain this heartwarming yarn of growing up in the northeast as well as Russo does here. If you have never read Russo, I think Elsewhere will provide a solid foundation for understanding his novels, and those are a real treat for anyone interested in fine literary fiction. 5 stars

--Chiron, 1/27/13

Luka and the Fire of Life by Salman Rushdie

Salman Rushdie has a reputation for prose that tends to be dense to the point of un-readability. I believe this view has developed solely from The Satanic Verses, which is, admittedly, a difficult read. But lately, Rushdie has published a number of books that are not only eminently readable, but interesting and thoroughly entertaining. His 2010 novel, Luka and the Fire of Life proves this point.

Luka’s father, Rashid, has an unparalleled talent for telling stories. He has created whole worlds full of interesting characters, places, and ideas, which become real for Luca, when he actually travels to “The World of Magic.” One day, Rashid falls into a deep sleep, which puzzles the doctors. Luka, concerned for his father, takes an errant step, and slips into the world his father created. The wraith, Nobodaddy, slowly absorbs Rashid’s life forces, and, should he absorb all of them, he will die. Luka decides if his father dies, his stories, and the world he created, will die with him. The young boy embarks on a classic hero’s journey to steal the fire of life, restore his father to health, and save the World of Magic.

Rushdie has bathed this novel in the art of storytelling. In fact, the entire story is about stories and the lessons they teach us. Luka also fits nicely into Joseph Campbell’s keys to his theory of myth. Luka reluctantly answers the call to adventure, he has helpers and supernatural assistance, he must cross the threshold of The River of Time, he must complete the last leg of his journey alone, and he returns to his home. But will he make it in time to save his father?

Another interesting and fun aspect of this work includes the numerous embedded cultural references that seem way out of time and place in the World of Magic. For example, while looking at “The River of Time,” Luka sees,

“Running along the bank was a white rabbit wearing a waistcoat and looking worriedly at a clock. Appearing and disappearing at various points on both banks was a dark blue British police telephone booth, out of which a perplexed-looking man holding a screw driver would periodically emerge. A group of dwarf bandits could be seen disappearing into a hole in the sky. ‘Time travelers,’ said, Nobodaddy in a voice of gentle disgust. ‘They’re everywhere these days’” (60-61). Alice in Wonderland, Doctor Who, and Monty Python all in one breath. This story can be shared by the whole family.

In fact this novel is about storytelling, the importance of myth, and imagination. Rushdie does it with style, grace, and a prose so spectacular, he never ceases to amaze me. I have read eight of his eleven novels, and I have the other three which I am eagerly waiting to devour. If you have never read Rushdie, Luka and the Fire of Life is a grand place to start. 5 stars.

--Chiron, 1/5/13

Short Cuts by Raymond Carver

This book probably represents the best half-dollar I ever spent at a yard sale. Raymond Carver wrote mostly short stories, and he is among the best short stories writers of the latter part of the 20th century. I had never heard of this book, although I have read several of the stories.

Raymond Carver died at the young age of 50. He wrote five collections of stories, and five collections of poetry. His first published story appeared in a college literary journal, and his first book of poetry was published by a college press. His career was plagued with bankruptcies and alcoholism. The American Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters awarded him a fellowship, which allowed him to write full time. At age 49, he was diagnosed with lung cancer, and despite radiation, chemo, and surgery, he died in August of 1988.

Robert Altman wrote the Introduction to Short Cuts, because he assembled a selection of nine Carver stories and a poem and made a film with the same title. Amazon should shortly process my order for the film.

Each of these nine stories tells a tale of families and relationships. Individuals, who through fate, carelessness, accidents, and plain old stupidity, find themselves in a corner of dark shadows, fears, and stressful situations. Raymond Carver short stories often probe the psyche of men and women caught in uncomfortable positions. Most of these slice of life stories end up without resolution, as the character founders and struggles with the consequences of his or her own deeds.

I do not have a single favorite. Unlike most collections of stories, Carver’s Short Cuts, has no lumps of coal. They are all gems. However, one story intrigued me slightly more than the others – “So Much Water So Close to Home.” In this intense story, four friends, bowl, play cards, drink, and a couple of times year, travel over 100 miles for a long weekend of fishing. One trip, however, will alter Stuart Kane’s life forever.

Carver wrote, “On Friday afternoon these four men left for a three-day fishing trip to the Naches River. They parked the car in the mountains and hiked several miles to where they wanted to fish. They carried their bedrolls, food and cooking utensils, their playing cards, their whiskey. The first evening at the river, even before they could set up camp, Mel Dorn found the girl floating face down in the river, nude, lodged near the shore in some branches” (71).

Imagine what happens next! All of these stories revolve around a crisis of some sort, and they all shatter lives and relationships. A nifty collection and a first-rate introduction to a master of the short story. 5 stars.

--Chiron, 12/31/12

Nothing Serious by Daniel Klein

A funny philosophical novel? A resounding yes in the case of Daniel Klein’s Nothing Serious. When I first picked up this novel, the name Daniel Klein seemed remotely familiar. The jacket bio informed me he co-authored Plato and a Platypus Walked Into a Bar. This humorous introduction to philosophy in plain language and cartoons entertained me every minute I spent on its musings about the great thinkers of the world. Klein has turned his hand to fiction and written a witty story of Digby Maxwell, who has found himself the editor of Cogito, a small philosophy magazine headquartered in a Vermont College town.

Digby has had a storied career with The Village Voice and New York Magazine as a talented trend spotter. A word in his columns quickly spread through Manhattan and the country. One day, Digby finds himself on the bad end of a pink slip. His editor feels he has lost his touch.

He wanders around a bit, and tries to figure out how long his savings and his supply of pot will last. Suddenly, literally out of nowhere, Digby receives a call from a small magazine, Cogito, based at Loudon College in Vermont. The caller informs Digby he is the only candidate for the job of editor. He protests his lack of knowledge of philosophy, but the publisher has other plans. She is completely aware of Digby’s connections to pop culture, and she wants the magazine to take a different turn – looking at philosophy from the outside. In other words, integrate pop culture and make the journal more relevant to the 24 to 40 crowd with lots of disposable income.

Digby takes the job and appears stoned at a welcoming party in a frayed tweed jacket with leather elbows. He begins surveying the women at the party for likely candidates as bed mates. He quickly develops several relationships on and off the campus of the small town. Digby is pleased with the salary, and decides to go ahead with the job. However, others at Loudon and Cogito have significantly different ideas.

The story unfolds into a complicated tale of small town politics, academic turf protection, sexual obsessions, and petty jealousies. Partly because of his self-medication with weed, Digby finds himself quite anxious about his ability to pull this off. Klein writes, “This welcoming party merely touches the tip of the angst iceberg that chills his soul” (12). Digby muses, “I am an impostor. A charlatan. A quack in tweeds” (13). In his attempt to learn something about the philosophers whose ideas he deals with daily, he undertakes a reading project of huge proportions. He begins to analyze his colleagues and co-workers according to the ideas of Kant, Schopenhauer, and others.

Digby falls in love with Mary Bonavitacola, the pastor of the local Unitarian-Universalist Fellowship. He attends a meeting, but “As a point of pride, Digby has never allowed himself to feel a part of a rapt audience. It smacks of groupthink. And for him, a church congregation is the most flagrant laboratory of groupthink in the civilized world, the kind of groupthink that usually ends in group mayhem. That said, he is listening like an acolyte to Reverend Bonavitacola” (65).

Daniel Klein’s Nothing Serious has a publication date of April 2013. Look for a copy, you will not be disappointed. Because of some slightly improbable observations and comments by Digby, Four stars --Chiron, 12/31/12

The Art of Fielding by Chad Harbach

I am not much of a sports fan -- except for the occasional football game or a rarer basketball game, which have tenuous holds on my attention. However, ice hockey has a place near the top of my list, but it seems as if the entire season will be canceled for the second time in the last decade. But I do enjoy baseball. Chad Harbach’s The Art of Fielding rose to the top of my TBR pile, because it is the last of my Christmas 2011 book presents, so I thought I would read it before the next sure-to-be excellent pile would appear on December 24th. I had delayed reading it, because I thought it would be another sports story about a sad-sack team of misfits saved by the talent, hard work and charisma of a young phenom. I sure did strike out on this at bat!

The Art of Fielding tells the story of Henry Skrimshander, skinny, talented ball player obsessed with the fictional career, a fictional book by the fictional Aparicio Rodriguez, The Art of Fielding. Henry reveres Aparicio. He has the book memorized, and carries it with him at all times. This young man comes under the notice of Mike Schwartz, a sophomore at Westish College on the shores of Lake Michigan in Wisconsin.

This seems to be the cliché-filled story of the aspiring athlete, the mentor, and a rags-to-riches team of college athletes going through the motions of playing baseball. But this is not the full story. Several characters slowly enter the story, and all become intertwined. Henry’s roommate, Oscar, also on the team, has earned the nickname “Buddha” because he always has a book in his hands – even as he sat on the bench during a game. The college president, Guert Affenlight, opens his home to his daughter, Pella, after she leaves her husband in San Francisco. These five characters orbit around each other and interact in surprising and interesting ways.

Henry’s manual almost becomes a character itself, guiding him and eventually other members of the team. The Zen advice in the book can also be applied to many of life’s daily activities. The book provides Henry with more than 200 aphorisms and ideas for conducting his daily life. For example, “3. There are three stages: Thoughtless being. Thought. Return to thoughtless being. 33. Do not confuse the first and third stages. Thoughtless being is attained by everyone, the return to thoughtless being by a very few.” [Italics Harbach’s] (16). These principles become the key to Henry’s actions on the field. He becomes an instinctive player, a machine, who can anticipate the direction a ball will take based on the pitcher, the swing of the hitter, and the sound of the bat.

Harbach’s prose mesmerized me, and the pages flew by faster than I would have imagined. The lives of these five characters move in surprising ways, and the final resolution of the novel was completely unexpected. Pella begins dating Mike, but his relationship as Henry’s mentor casts a pall over them. Harbach writes,

“And had Pella said boo about any of it? Had not said for instance, that Henry was an adult or nearly adult person who could fend for himself; nor had she said that being occasionally unable to throw a baseball from one place to another with perfect accuracy didn’t exactly qualify as tragic; nor had she said – for instance – that Henry would start throwing the ball better when he felt like throwing the ball better; and maybe everybody should just leave him alone for a while and let whatever was going to happen happen. It was amazing the way people hemmed each other in, forced each other to act in such narrowly determined ways, as if the world would end if Henry didn’t straighten himself out right now, as if a little struggle with self-doubt might not make him a better person in the long run, as if there was any reason why he shouldn’t take a break from baseball and teach himself to knit, to play the cello, to speak Gaelic – but no, God, no, he had to work hard and stay focused and grind it out and keep his chin up and relax and think positive and keep plugging away, subscribe to every stupid cliché Mike or anyone else could throw at him, working and worrying until he started having panic attacks, for Christ’s sake, which wasn’t tragic either but was far from a promising sign.” (247-248)

This paragraph consists of only three sentences and encapsulates the wildly different viewpoints of dedicated athletes to their passion and casual observers. Fascinating, fun, sad, and yes a bit tragic, but in the end … things work their way to some surprising conclusions.

Recently released in paperback, The Art of Fielding by Chad Harbach has room for enjoyment by sports fans and avid readers of literary fiction. 5 stars

--Chiron, 12/31/12

Red Bird by Mary Oliver

This slim book of poetry – recommended by a good friend – contains 61 poems. Until this recommendation, I had never heard of this poet, but I really do appreciate finding another poet who reminds me of my favorite, Billy Collins. Mary Oliver’s Red Bird contains poems with simple language, clear imagery, with profound insights into the human condition.

The best thing I can do is to quote a few of the many favorites I found in the collection, most of which focus on nature. “Of the Empire” has a timely theme:

We will be known as a culture that feared death and adored power, that tried to vanquish insecurity for the few and cared little for the penury of the many. We will be known as a culture that taught and rewarded the amassing of things, that spoke little if at all about the quality of life for people (other people), for dogs, for rivers. All the world in our eyes, they will say, was a commodity. And they will say that this structure was held together politically, which it was, and they will say also that our politics was no more than an apparatus to accommodate the feelings of the heart, and that the heart, in those days, was small, and hard, and full of meanness. (46).

Some poems have a Zen-like quality. In “Both Worlds,” for instance, Oliver writes,

“I rise from the chair,
I put on my jacket
and leave the house
for that other world –

the first one
the holy one –
where the trees say
nothing the toad says

nothing the dirt
says nothing and yet
what has always happened
keeps happening:

the trees flourish
the toad leaps
and out of the silent dirt
the blood-red roses rise.” (51-52)

Many others have a philosophical bent. This short poem packs a lot into six lines. “I Ask Percy How I Should Life My Life (Ten)" sums up many of Oliver’s sentiments.

“Love, love, love, says Percy. And run as fast as you can along the shining beach, or the rubble, or the dust.

Then, go to sleep. Give up your body heat, your beating heart. Then trust.” (55)

In the waning days of 2012, this poem takes me back to Christmas weekend -- a mere week ago -- and the honeymoon we never had. Port Aransas, Mustang Island, Padre Island, the gulf, the hotel pool, walks at night and in the morning, in the afternoon and in the evening and with quiet dinners alone. How closer can I connect to a poem than that? As I near thoughts of retirement, Oliver and Percy have found the truth: “Love, love, love.”

Mary Oliver’s collection, Red Bird, deserves a read, and a second closer read, and a third, even closer, and a fourth… 5 stars.

--Chiron, 12/30/12

The Testament of Mary by Colm Tóibín

Colm Tóibín writes novels which tend to the dark and intense while thoroughly examining the angst and joys of his characters. His prose tends toward the simple – without an ounce of simplicity – the sublime and, as one reviewer wrote it is, “elegant and complex.” The Testament of Mary, however, takes a slightly different tack. Based on a play, this novelization examines the life of Mary, the mother of Christ, years after her son’s crucifixion.

Tóibín portrays Mary as a skeptic in regard to her son’s divinity and the character of the men surrounding him during his public ministry as recounted in the New Testament. Those apostles are now her caretakers, providing her with food and shelter, all the while quizzing her for details of her son’s life. She clearly does not want the attention neither from strangers nor from those “misfits,” (6) as she refers to them. She holds an empty chair for his return, but deep down, she her skepticism touches even this basic tenet of Christianity. Tóibín writes,

“‘He was the Son of God,’ the man said, ‘and he was sent by his father to redeem the world.’

‘By his death, he gave us life,’ the other said. ‘By his death, he redeemed the world.’

“I turned toward them then and whatever it was in the expression on my face, the rage against them, the grief, the fear, they both looked up at me alarmed and one of them began to move towards me to stop me saying what it was I now wanted to say. I edged back from them and stood in the corner. I whispered it at first and then I said it louder and as he moved away from me and almost cowered in the corner I whispered it again, slowly, carefully, giving it all my breath, all my life, the little that is left in me.

“‘I was there,’ I said. ‘I fled before it was over but if you want witnesses then I am one and I can tell you now, when you say that he redeemed the world, I will say that it was not worth it. It was not worth it’” (79-80).

Mary carries an enormous guilt for not staying with her son as he expires. Rather, she slips away with the others to save herself.

Mary also treasures a small silver statue of the Goddess,

“I do not go to the Synagogue now. All that is gone. … I move quietly. I speak to her in whispers, the great goddess Artemis, bountiful with her arms outstretched and her many breasts waiting to nurture those who come towards her” (80).

This novel will most likely upset true believers, but Tóibín has captured the anguish of a mother who has lost her son for a cause she neither believes in nor understands.

Twice short-listed for the Man Booker Prize, Tóibín’s Testament of Mary strikes at the core of sorrow, love, regret, and her longing for death. A truly noble and elegant story. 5 stars.

--Chiron, 12/8/12

Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel

Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel won the 2009 Man Booker Prize. The novel tells a fictionalized account of the rise to power of Thomas Cromwell during the reign of Henry Tudor – Henry VIII – in 16th-century England. This interesting story of one of the most famous – and infamous – families in British History tops at an imposing 604 pages. But every single page carries the story forward. Reading this novel causes an imperceptible and complete immersion into the story. Interestingly enough, Mantel became the first woman – and only the second person – to win two Man Booker Prizes, when the committee awarded her the 2012 prize for the sequel, Bring Up the Bodies. I collect first editions of Booker Prize winners, so I will have to wait for a reading copy before finishing the story.

Thomas Cromwell, the clever son of a blacksmith, became secretary to Cardinal Wolsey through the later years of his powerful position as Cardinal and Chancellor of England. When Wolsey fell, partly through the machinations of Anne Boleyn once she was queen, Thomas attracted the attention of Henry, who gradually raised him to the highest office beneath the king: chancellor.

As I have written several times, I find the Tudor period one of the most fascinating in English history. This novel – with its meticulous detail – has added greatly to my understanding of this time and its many interesting characters. In addition to elaborate family trees, Mantel provides a list of the characters in each of the important locales of the novel.

In one early passage, the “sweating sickness” has struck Thomas’ daughter, Anne. Mantel writes, “Mercy hangs outside their door the signs of the sweating sickness, She says, how has this happened? We scour, we scrub the floors, I do not think you will find in the whole of London, a cleaner house than ours. We say our prayers, I have never seen a child pray as Anne does. She prays as if she’s going into battle.

“Anne falls ill at first. Mercy and Johane shout at her and shake her to keep her awake, since they say if you sleep you will die. But the pull of the sickness is stronger than they are, and she falls exhausted against the bolster, struggling for breath, and falls further, into black stillness, only her hand moving, the fingers clenching and unclenching. He takes it in his own and tries to still I, but it is like the hand of a soldier itching for a fight” (139).

This passage conveys the desperation of the tragedy. The “sweating sickness” was a devastating disease that struck England and Europe in a series of epidemics from 1485 to about 1551, when it mysteriously disappeared. It struck without warning and frequently resulted in death within hours. We still do not know its cause.

While prior knowledge of the Tudors is not necessary, some familiarity enhances the read. For example, Mantel mentions, “John Seymour’s daughter” several times. This daughter, Jane, spent her days at the side of Anne Boleyn as one of her “ladies in waiting.” Knowing she would become Henry’s next queen following the execution of Queen Anne, added to my enjoyment.

But the thing I love about the Tudor’s involves the parallels to our country today. Thomas tries to deal with the rebellious Percy family. Mantel writes, “How can I explain to him? The world is not run from where he thinks. Not from his border fortresses, not even from Whitehall. The world is run from Antwerp, from Florence, from places he has never imagined; from Lisbon, from where the ships with sails of silk drift west and are burned up in the sun. Not from castle walls, but from counting houses, not by the call of the bugle but by the click of the abacus, not by the grate and the click of the mechanism of the gun but by the scrape of the pen on the pages of the promissory note that pays for the gun and gunsmith and the powder and the shot” (349).

For history buffs, for lovers of historical fiction, for aficionados of romance and mysteries and spy thrillers, Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall will captivate the discerning reader. 5 stars

--Chiron, 12/16/12

Rust by Julie Mars

Rust, by Julie Mars, tells the story of Margaret Shaw, a critically acclaimed artist, who cannot land a show in a prestigious gallery. She begins wondering if she has chosen the right career. After reading a random article about coyotes wandering the streets of Albuquerque, she uses most of her savings earned as a waiter in a bar to move to New Mexico. Thus begins the heroic journey of a confident woman, who suffers from occasional bouts of self-doubt.

She has decided to move her art to three dimensions, and, in order to accomplish this, she begins collecting an assortment of rusted machine parts. Her next step involves learning to weld. Rico Garcia, widely known as “El Rey,” because of his skill as a welder among low-rider enthusiasts, agrees to teach Margaret this skill. The two become close friends and sets them both on paths of introspection.

Margaret’s parents abandoned her as a young child, and she grew up under the care of her grandfather. Rico’s marriage slowly disintegrates as he tries to figure out why his loving, passionate wife has turned cold. Interspersed among the chapters, Mars describes the life of Vincent. On a trip to India, he has found himself imprisoned for some unspecified drug crime. He begins a journey of his own, which brings him into contact with Margaret and Rico.

Now, my faithful readers might think they know how this novel will turn out, but they would be wrong. Rust is Mars’ fourth novel, and I can assure you, I am already on the hunt for the first three. Her prose shines like the sun in the Southwest desert. Early on, Mars writes,

“On Sunday, Margaret woke up moody. After she had taken her morning shower, for example, she threw her towel to the floor and studied her naked body in the mirror on the back of the bathroom door. This was a sure sign of a coming storm. Whenever she experienced the urge to stand outside herself and technically review her body, which in these moments she tended to equate with her cage, her jail cell, or her hostage closet, she was already in trouble. It meant the restlessness, the discontent, was upon her, and she was trapped in it” (52).

Margaret encounters an entirely new world in Albuquerque, and this world helps her tie up a lot of the loose ends resulting from her unraveling in New York. Julie Mars’ novel, Rust is an interesting and imaginative novel and deserves a look by all serious readers. 5 stars

--Chiron, 11/16/12

The Ogden Nash Pocket Book by Ogden Nash

I found this handy little pocket book, published in 1943, at a yard sale. The excellent Introduction, by Louis Untermeyer, reminds me of the early days of The New Yorker magazine. The cover proclaims Nash as “America’s Light-Hearted Laureate.” I couldn’t agree more. While his short poems are most familiar, some of his longer ones really demonstrate his skill at twisting words and spellings a circus contortionist would envy. Here is a poem – “A Brief Guide to New York” -- with all the wit and humor which made Nash famous: "In New York beautiful girls can become more beautiful by going to Elizabeth Arden And getting stuff put on their faces and waiting for it to harden, And poor girls with nothing to their names but a letter or two can get rich and joyous From a brief trip to their loyous. So I can say with impunity That New York is a city of opportunity. It also has many fine theaters and hotels, And a lot of taxis, buses, subways and els, Best of all, if you don’t show up at the office or at a tea nobody will bother their head They will just think you are dead. That’s why I really think New York is Exquisite. And someday I’m going to pay a visit." Chiron, 12/7/12

Life As I Blow It by Sarah Colonna

One of my guilty pleasures is watching “Chelsea Lately” Monday through Thursday evenings on E! -- The Entertainment Network. In case some of my faithful readers have never encountered this comedy talk show, Chelsea Handler is the host, and she has three comedians on a panel. The three rotate among a seemingly endless list of A, B, C, and the occasional D-List stand up comics. Chelsea reads snippets of news mostly about show business figures. Once in a while, she talks about a politician or a world leader. The show is edgy, daring, provocative, and tends to specialize in sexual humor.

I find it hilarious.

Of all the regular comics, my absolute favorite is Sarah Colonna. I like her hair – reddish – I like her comedy – always funny and a bit dry – and I think she is sexy!

Now, I have read a couple of Chelsea’s books, which tend to deprecate her father, her brother, her friends, and her staff. These kept me laughing from beginning to end. When Chelsea announced Sarah had published a book, I immediately got a copy.

Unfortunately, I did not find this one as funny as Chelsea’s, nor was it as funny as Sarah is on the show. Perhaps my expectations had climbed a bit too high. While I did not hate the book, and while I felt no need to invoke the rule of fifty, I did have a pretty clear level of disappointment.

As the memory of Chelsea’s books fades, I think I will take another look at Life as I Blow It by Sarah Colonna. She is still sexy. 3 stars

--Chiron, 11/11/12

The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake by Aimee Bender

The publication page of Aimee Bender’s The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake, reads: “1. Taste—Fiction. 2. Family Secrets—Fiction.” Normally, I rarely look at this page before reading a novel, but, while searching for my next read after a couple of complicated novels, I stumbled on the page and immediately decided to try Bender out.

The premise is as interesting as the Sears’ Subject Headings librarians use to categorize books into neat compartments. Rosie is about to turn eight, and her mother, Lane, bakes her favorite cake. Rosie spies the finished cake and a bowl of icing nearby, while her mother naps, waiting for the cake to cool. Rosie helps herself to a chunk and slathers icing on it. Bender writes,

“To be clear: the bite I ate was delicious. Warm citrus-baked batter lightness enfolded by cool deep dark swirled sugar.

“But the day was darkening outside, and as I finished that first bite, as the first impression faded, I felt a subtle shift inside me, an unexpected reaction. As if a sensor, so far buried deep inside me, raised its scope to scan around, alerting my mouth to something new. Because the goodness of the ingredients – the fine chocolate, the freshest lemons – seemed like a cover over something larger and darker, and the taste of what was underneath was beginning to push up from the bite. I could absolutely taste the chocolate, but in drifts and traces, in an unfurling, or an opening, it seemed that my mouth was also filling with the taste of smallness, the sensation of shrinking, of upset, tasting a distance I somehow knew was connected to my mother, tasting a crowded sense of her thinking, a spiral, like I could almost even taste the grit in her jaw that had created the headache that meant she had to take as many aspirins as were necessary, a white dotted line of them in a row on the nightstand like an ellipsis to her comment: ‘I’m just going to lie down.” (9-10)

This really long, absorbing sentence captures the gift – or the curse – Rosie must learn to live with for quite a few years.

Rosie’s brother, Joseph, also has a mysterious gift, but in an entirely different direction. Her reclusive grandmother also has some secret. In fact, all the members of the Edelstein family harbor strange, inner fantasies, which reveal themselves in odd behavior.

Joseph has plans for a brilliant career in physics; however, his friend George receives an acceptance to CalTech, but Joseph is rejected and ends up unhappily in a small local college. Bender describes Joseph as, “brilliant, adults often said as they shuttled out of the house, shaking their heads at the precise drawing he’d made on sketch paper of planets yet to be discovered, complete with atmosphere thicknesses and moons. Our mother lowered her eyes, pleased. I was often admired for being friendly.” (40)

To the consternation of Rosie and her parents, from time to time he disappears without a trace, then, just as suddenly, reappears. Rosie has a crush on George, especially after he believes her claim of “tasting the emotions of people who make the food she eats.” Lane tells Rosie, “Such a sweet supporter you are. Much nicer than your father.” (42) Paul, Rosie’s Dad, a moderately successful attorney on the other hand, describes himself as “without any special skills” (108 et al).

Rosie reduces herself to eating “factory” food, made strictly by machines. However, she does do some cooking of her own, and tastes, “Sadness, rage, tanks, holes, hope, guilt, tantrums. Nostalgia, like rotting flowers. A factory, cold.” (222)

In The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake, Bender has put together a story with prose which runs like a quiet stream in the coolness of a fall afternoon. I could hardly admire her and her work any more than I do. 5 stars

--Chiron, 10/31/12

Winter King by Thomas Penn

During my days at LaSalle University in Philly back in the 60s, I took a bunch of history classes, because I was always fascinated with the subject. I reveled in a couple on the ancient Greeks and Romans, but my heart fell in a class on Tudor England.

Since then, I have been consumed with the Tudor dynasty, which began in 1485 after Henry Tudor defeated Richard III at Bosworth Field, thus ending the War of the Roses between the Royal Houses of Lancaster (red rose) and York (white rose). The family reign ended with the death of Elizabeth I in 1603.

Over the years, I have collected biographies of every major figure in the Tudor family – all the kings and queens, all six of Henry VIII’s wives, and a number of other peripheral figures around the court. However, I lacked one important piece of the puzzle – King Henry VII, the founder of the dynasty. Late last year, I discovered a new biography of Henry by Thomas Penn, who holds a PhD in early Tudor history from Cambridge University.

One of the fascinations I have with history revolves around the amazing discovery that history repeats itself over and over. Winter King: Henry VII and the Dawn of Tudor England amply proves the truth of that statement once again.

Following the defeat of Richard at Bosworth Field, Henry became King of England. Many people in England resented his crown, and numerous plots to dethrone him popped up over the next 20 years. Numerous factions, especially those with connections to the defeated York family, complained that Henry illegitimately claimed the crown.

The corruption, back-stabbing, spying, treachery, and extortion, which were the hallmarks of the Tudor family throughout its existence leaves me gasping in fascination. In the “Introduction,” Penn quotes Francis Bacon, who wrote, “Henry VII was ‘infinitely suspicious’ and he was right to be so, for his times were ‘full of secret conspiracies and troubles’. Perhaps the most telling verdict of all,” Penn writes, “is that Shakespeare, omits Henry VII altogether from his sequence of history plays – not for want of material, but, one suspects, because the reign was simply too uncomfortable to deal with” ( xxv-xxvi).

Penn tells us, the idea of Henry VII as a “time of transition, one in which the violent feuds of the previous decades gave way to a glorious age of renaissance and reformation … was a myth the Tudors themselves built” (xxv). Most scholars now see him as “the unifier of a war-torn land, a wise king who brought justice and stability, and who set the crown on a sound financial footing. Nonetheless they were unable to eradicate the lingering sense of a reign that degenerated into oppression, extortion and a kind of terror, at its core a Machiavellian king who inspired not love but fear” (xxv). Bacon, his first biographer, referred to Henry as a “dark prince” (xxv).

A splendid biography for anyone interested in the history of one of the most famous – and infamous – families in English history. 5 stars

--Chiron, 10/26/12

The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murikami

The timing – and indeed the reading of this novel – has an unusual genesis: a specific request for a birthday present from a close friend. The present takes the form of a blog entry on Rabbit Reader and the October 4th segment of “Likely Stories,” my twice-monthly radio show on the local NPR affiliate, KWBU-FM 103.3 in central Texas. Happy birthday, P.! I hope you enjoy my review.

This might be the hardest review I have ever written. I have read Joyce’s Ulysses, and Proust – of which I have only read a few fragments -- and Mark Z. Danielewski’s House of Leaves. These great works share some things in common: complex plots, a large cast of characters, enough symbolism to make one’s head spin, and a plot which defies simple explanation. Muraki Hurakami’s The Wind-up Bird Chronicle definitely belongs in the company of these stunning novels.

I first encountered Murakami when I heard of a new novel, Kafka on the Shore. I bought it simply because of the intriguing title. I loved the book, and went in search of something else by the Japanese author. I quickly found the Chronicle, but because it was over 600 pages, I put it aside. Then the request for the birthday present arrived.

Haruki Murakami was born in Kyoto, Japan in 1949. He attended Waseda University as a theater arts major. He runs marathons, and reportedly has a collection of over 40,000 jazz recordings. In 1974, he opened a Jazz bar, which he named “Peter Cat.” He published his first novel, Hear the Wind, in 1979, and he won a major Japanese literary award for it. In 1992, he was named an Associate Professor at Princeton University. In 1996, he published Chronicle and won another major Japanese Literary prize.

Normally, my habit in these reviews is to place a quote or two to give a flavor of the novel. However, I have so many passages underlined, bracketed, and starred, I would have difficulty choosing one. Furthermore, those I might choose would require so much background information, I would spoil the plot, while making the review impossibly long. Suffice it to say Murakami’s prose sparkles with amazing and hypnotizing detail. A reader cannot help but be drawn into the story, as if descending into a deep, dark well, with no light and only inner thoughts for company. Readers of the novel will understand this reference – like many others – repeated in various forms throughout the story.

Now, I always tell my students that reading and writing should raise questions in the reader’s and the writer’s mind. So rather than only a cursory trace of the plot, I will also share some of my questions.

The core plot set in Japan is simple. Toru and Kumiko meet and decide to marry. Her father does not like Toru, but agrees to the marriage on one condition: the couple must meet weekly with the mysterious Mr. Honda. Kumiko’s father will pay for the sessions. Mr. Honda proceeds to tell the couple strange and sometimes terrifying stories of his experiences in the Sino-Soviet war in Manchukou in the 1930s. This continues for about a year. Then, the couple’s cat, named Noburu Wataya, after Kumiko’s brother, disappears. Kumiko is heartbroken, and she insists Toru spends his days looking for the cat. Then, one day, Kumiko leaves for work, and completely disappears. Toru’s life then takes a surreal and, at times, bizarre turn. He meets a succession of strange characters, and the novel takes a sharp detour into the realm of magical realism.

Some of the questions which emerged as I read include: Why are all the products mentioned western? Why are all the long dreams of these characters described in vivid detail? Why is all the music the characters listen to exclusively western classical pieces? Who are all these strange surreal people who pop in and out of Toru’s life? What really happened to Kumiko? What boundary lines divide reality from dreams? Dreams from hallucinations? Hallucinations from reality? I could go on, but I do not want to discourage anyone from reading this great work.

Haruki Murakami is a genius, and The Wind-up Bird Chronicle is one of the great pieces of world literature. I classify it as a must read for all devotees of serious fiction. 5 stars.

--Chiron, 9/29/12

Mortality by Christopher Hitchens

Mortality, Christopher Hitchens’s essays on his slow walk to death, all have an air of seriousness, of course, but a vein of humor runs through them like a stream of cool water. I read this 104-page gem in a single sitting. The book includes a forward by Graydon Carter, the editor of Vanity Fair, for whom Hitchens wrote for many years, and an Afterword by his wife, Carol Blue.

According to her, “Hitch” – as his friends and readers affectionately knew him – wrote up until the end. In fact, the main point of the book is about the importance of writing. His greatest fear seemed to be the loss of this ability. During the final stages, speech became almost impossible, but he kept writing away. The last chapter consists of fragments, which “seem to trail off, but in fact were written on his computer in bursts of energy and enthusiasm as he sat in the hospital using his food tray for a desk” (103) as Carol Blue says.

Hitch gave some advice to writing students, which I have shared with my writing classes. He would begin, “by saying that anybody who could talk could also write. Having cheered them up with this easy-to-grasp ladder, I then replaced it with a huge and loathsome snake: ‘How many people in the class, would you say, can talk? I mean really talk?’ This had its duly woeful effect.” He then added this advice: “Avoid stock expressions (like the plague, as William Safire used to say) and repetitions. … So, this above all: Find your own voice” (50).

He wrote on an incredibly wide variety of topics, but I did not always agree with him, particularly in regard to his support of the Iraq War; however, I always loved his prose, his way with words, his humor, and his evident love of the English language. Mortality is a sad good bye to and from Hitch.

Reading this meditation upon his impending death, inspired me to dig into the recently published mammoth, Arguably: Essays by Christopher Hitchens. At nearly a thousand pages, it contains well over a hundred of his essays. I would rarely sit down and begin reading something like this from cover to cover, so I devised a plan -- an homage -- to Hitch. Starting on Sunday, September 16, 2012, I read one essay every night before bed. It will take more than three months, but that will be my own meditation on the loss of one of the great writers and orators of the 20th and 21st centuries. 5 stars

--Chiron, 9/22/12

Winter Journal by Paul Auster

Through the years, the name Paul Auster would occasionally pop up in interviews, reviews, blogs, and even a half-hearted suggestion from a friend. But none of these sparked any interest in this prolific author. He has written 16 novels, 4 screenplays, 6 works of non-fiction, a volume of poetry, 3 illustrated books, and he has edited 3 anthologies. When I received an advance reader’s edition of his latest work – a memoir, Winter Journal -- from Henry Holt through the early reader’s club of www.LibraryThing.com, I decided it was time to find out what Paul Auster was all about.

Winter Journal appears 30 years after his critically acclaimed memoir, The Invention of Solitude, and, as the cover notes say, “Auster gives us a second unconventional memoir.”

The cover notes further state, Auster writes a “history of his body and its sensations – both pleasurable and painful.” Unconventional is a bit of an understatement. Auster wrote Winter Journal in the second person. Normally, I do not read second person novels. Ever since Jay McInerny’s, Bright Lights, Big City, I have resisted the temptation to read second person works. Auster’s memoir, however, has given me pause – a great, big, eye-opening pause. His narrative is engaging, and drew me almost from the first page, once I got over my “you/your phobia.”

Early on, when Auster examines his young body, he writes,

“…you ask your mother the question all children ask their parents, the standard question about where babies come from, meaning where did you come from, and by what mysterious process did you enter the world as a human being? Your mother’s answer is so abstract, so evasive, so metaphorical that it leaves you utterly confounded. She says: The father plants a seed in the mother, and little by little the baby begins to grow. At this point in your life, the only seeds you are familiar with are the ones that produce flowers and vegetables, the ones that farmers scatter over large fields at planting time to start a new round of crops for harvest in the fall. You instantly see an image in your head: your father dressed as a farmer, a cartoon version of a farmer in blue overalls with a straw hat on his head, and he is walking along with a jaunty, insouciant stride out in some rural nowhere, on his way to plant the seed.” (36).

My mother told me an almost identical story, except that the seed was “planted” beneath the mother’s heart. I had no idea back then my mother was so poetic!

Auster’s Winter Journal becomes a new connection to a favorite author. I already have a copy of The Invention of Solitude. I might even go back and take another look at Jay McInerney’s novel. 5 stars

--Chiron, 9/16/12

Making Things Better by Anita Brookner

Anita Brookner’s novels usually feature women loners floundering under bad relationships, who then try to escape depressing situations. As I wrote in 2009 about Strangers, this might seem boring – mining the same plot line over and over, but she draws her characters as finely as detailed, realistic paintings. Brookner spent years teaching art history in England. Furthermore, each of these characters deals with the escape and resolution in an entirely different manner. Strangers was the first of her novels I read that featured a man as the main character. Making Things Better, published in the U.S. in 2002, also features a man -- a loner, a dejected, rejected man who suffers some serious losses in his life.

Julius Herz manages a business owned by his father, Willie, and his partner Ostrovski. He lives alone in a flat over the shop. Julius meets Josie, and they marry. They try to live in the cramped flat, but Julius’s mother needs care, so they move into the even smaller flat with his mother. Julius’s world is shrinking – literally and figuratively. Josie hangs on for two years, but she abruptly leaves and files for divorce.

Then, the last prop is shoved out from under Julius. Ostrovski decides to retire to Spain, and he sells the business, but he does take care of Julius by settling a large amount of money on him for his years of service. Julius is now confronted with the possibility of a life style he never thought possible. He first leases a larger flat, and then – a creature of some serious habits -- continues his daily routine broken only by an occasional trip to a museum. Then he decides to take a holiday.

Brookner’s novels feature little in the way of dialogue. Rather, her forté is the serious interior examination of her protagonist’s life, loves, dreams, fears, and pleasures. In this scene, Ostrovski has broken the news of his retirement to Julius. Brookner writes,

“The suddenness of Ostrovski’s announcement seemed to have obliterated any response. Julius went to his small desk and scrutinized the invoices and accounts, the contents of which he knew by heart. But it was no good; he could make sense of none of it. His working life, it seemed, was over. Not quite what he had expected, he had admitted to himself in the course of the afternoon. Yet he had expected nothing, and had been endowed with freedom, a freedom for which he was entirely unprepared. … he would have to find somewhere to live. The prospect posed even more difficulties; he had never exercised his own wishes in this respect. … all his homes had been chosen for him. And home was such an emotive concept that he doubted whether he would be able to live up to it, to make a place for himself in a world where people exercised choices” (63-64).

The name “Julius Herz” sounds like a clue to the main character’s state of mind. My faithful readers know I am a fan of novels with deep psychological insights. Making Things Better fills that bill perfectly. 5 stars

--Chiron, 9/10/12

Caleb’s Crossing by Geraldine Brooks

One of my favorite books of the last few years is Geraldine Brooks’ The People of the Book. She also won a Pulitzer Prize for March, as well as critical acclaim for The Year of Wonders. Brooks has set all of these novels in remote time periods, and they all share one important similarity. Each time, Brooks captures the voice of the characters in their time and place. Her latest novel, Caleb’s Crossing follows this pattern with superb results.

Geraldine Brooks loosely based Caleb’s Crossing on the true story of Caleb, a Native American living near some less than strict Puritans, in 1660, on what is now known as Martha’s Vineyard. He befriends the 15-year-old Bethia Mayfield, daughter of a strict Calvinist minister trying to convert Caleb’s tribe. The two form a bond which lasts for many, many years.

Bethia’s father agrees to tutor Caleb, and another young Indian, Joel, in Latin, Greek, and Hebrew in order for them to qualify for a scholarship dedicated to Native Americans to the recently founded Harvard College in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Before the arrival of Caleb, he tutored Makepeace and Bethia, but his son proved a poor student, and he despaired and stopped the lessons for both his children. He tried again with the two Indians in the hopes that Caleb would inspire his son.

He succeeded with Caleb and Joel, both of whom received the scholarships; however, Makepeace faltered. His father could not afford the cost of sending Makepeace to a preparatory school – along with Caleb and Joel – but he solved this difficulty by sending Bethia as an indentured servant to the headmaster of the school. Bethia narrates the story and reveals many of the secret meetings she has with Caleb. Her struggles with religion and her blooming womanhood are the keystones to the story.

As always, Brooks’ plots have a certain something, which creates vivid images in the mind of the reader. Her attention to detail raises the story to a level of realism I find most admirable. The icing on this marvelous dessert, however, consists of the voice of the narrator. I have spent a fair amount of time studying the 17th century, and have read a few books set in that period, not the least of which is Iain Pears’ An Instance of the Fingerpost. Brooks deserves a place of honor right next to that spectacular novel.

Bethia struggles with her religious views after spending some time with Caleb. He explains to her his pantheon of deities after Bethia tells him of the “one, true God of the Christians.” Brooks writes,

“But then, I remembered the singing under the cliffs. An inner voice, barely audible: the merest hiss. Satan’s voice, I am sure of it now, whispering to me that I already knew Keeskand, that I had already worshipped him many times as I bathed in the radiance of a sunrise, or paused to witness the glory of his sunset. And did not Nanpawshat have power over me, governing the swelling, salty tides of my own body, which, no so very long since, had begun to ebb and flow with the moon. It was good, the voice whispered. It was right and well to know these powers, to live in a world aswirl with spirits, everywhere ablaze with divinity” (36).

Numerous words in the Wampanoag tongue add additional spice to the story. Bethia explains some of the words, some are clear from context, while translation of others are easily found with a smart phone.

Bethia seems a bit too mature for a girl of 15, and sometimes I found this a bit annoying. Nevertheless, in Caleb’s Crossing, Geraldine Brooks has another wonderful historical novel to her credit. I can’t wait for the next. 4-1/2 Stars.

--Chiron, 9/1/12

The Small Room by May Sarton

I have never read anything by May Sarton – except for a few short stories. When a member of my book club recommended this title, I became intrigued. I enjoy novels describing the ins and outs, ups and downs, and other antics which play out behind the scenes in academia. Sarton’s novel, A Small Room takes its place among several novels of this genre I read over the last few years.

Lucy Winter has a newly minted PhD in hand, and she takes a job at a small New England women’s college as a professor of English. The dynamic relationships in the college fascinate me the most. Among the faculty, between the faculty and the administration, and between the students and the faculty.

Carryl Cope is a veteran professor with lots of clout with the administration. She is also intimately involved with a member of the Board of Trustees who holds the purse springs of a substantial endowment in a will. Carryl also has a prize student, Jane Seamen, whom she is grooming for grad school and what promises to be a stellar academic career. Then Lucy discovers Jane has seriously plagiarized an essay for the college literary magazine. Lucy caught in the eddy of the politics – pro- and anti-Carryl, pro- and anti-Jane, and then the agitated students are thrown into the mix. Lucy handles all this with aplomb, but with a touch of trepidation since she must slide on a knife’s edge to the resolution of the situation.

The novel overflows with statements and observations most teachers have felt at one time or another – I know many of them are all too familiar to me. For example, “‘The hell of teaching is that one is never prepared. I often think that before every class I feel the same sort of terror I used to experience before an examination … and always I imagine that next year it will be different’” (28). A familiar refrain in our building at every semester’s end runs like this: “Next semester will be better!”

On her first day of class, Lucy decides to reveal something about herself to the students. She tells them, “‘You will discover,’ she added with a smile, ‘that you appreciate teachers rather a long time after you have suffered from them’” (34) I can only hope this one has a grain of truth. I know I want it to be true. Lastly, Sarton writes, “‘The relation between student and teacher must be about the most complex and ill-defined there is’” (83). I know this one to be absolutely true. Literally dozens of other examples have my pencil marks.

Another little game I played with this interesting cast of characters included matching some of Sarton’s characters with some of my colleagues. And, of course for fans of Mad Men, ubiquitous cigarettes and martinis accompany every meeting no matter the size. This quite dates the novel in the year originally published – 1961.

All in all, May Sarton’s The Small Room will surely appeal to anyone who has spent some time at the head of a class. At our book club, an animated discussion lasted nearly all of the two hours allotted. I noticed that a few non-teaching members of the club were uncharacteristically silent during these discussions. Nevertheless, everyone seemed to enjoy the novel. 4 stars for so much smoking I found myself coughing as I read.

--Chiron, 8/20/12

The Lives of the Heart by Jane Hirshfield

I had never read anything by Jane Hirshfield, but she did carry a recommendation from a good friend. In addition to The Lives of the Heart, Hirshfield has written about eight books of poetry, some essays, and edited, or contributed to, other collections.

My usual custom when opening a book of poetry by an author I do not know is to read through rather quickly, sometimes skipping poems with openings I did not care to finish. Then, I read a second time – slowly -- thinking, digesting, marking a few poems for a third or fourth read.

That plan did not work out so well this time. I found myself, on the first read, digging into some of these thought-provoking, intelligent, and wonderfully crafted poems.

For example, “Mele in Gabbia” is one of my favorites from this collection:

The pastry / is dusted with sugar. / The slices of apple inside, / just sour enough. // The name, / “apples in a cage.” // I eat them / in this good place -- / the pastry warm, the linen / impeccably white -- / and consider. // (65)

Like many of the poems this one has a rather opened ended finish. This device, I believe, allows me to immerse myself in the scene, and then “consider” for myself what passes through the mind. When I read this one for the first time, memories flooded over me of when I was a child and sat at the breakfast table. My Dad would pluck a jelly donut from the plate, point to the tiny spot of jelly on one side, shake his head no, and bite into the other side. He explained, the idea is not to get all the jelly at once, but also not to let it all escape. To this day, I bite into a jelly donut on the side, and until I read this poem, I had forgotten the incident.

Some of the poems have a Zen-like quality. “Reading Chinese Poetry Before Dawn” is another favorite:

Sleepless again, / I get up. / A cold rain / beats at the windows. / Holding my coffee, / I ponder Tu Fu’s / overturned wine glass. / At his window, snow, / twelve hundred years fallen; / under his hand, / black ink not yet dry. / “Letters are Useless.” / The poet is old, alone, / his woodstove is empty. / The fame of centuries / casts off no heat. / In his verse, I know, / is a discipline / lost to translation; / here, only the blizzard remains. // (83)

Again, one easily slips into other times and other places. In this poem, I recall many days of my youth – pre-Texas! – of blizzards roaring down the street, covering the cars, closing the schools, and stopping trolleys and buses from carrying my father to work. This poem also has that quiet, sparse feeling of a Chinese poem, or a painting of a farmer laboring in the snow to tend his herd.

One last short poem I also found thought-provoking is “Wine Grapes for Breakfast”:

Sweet / at first / on the tongue, / hours later / the red grapes / still sting, / as if trying / to tell me something -- / what the hook / tells the fish / perhaps, / or the wand / or stick hears / before conductor / or mule driver / brings it down. // (66)

I have to end now, because I want to read this collection again. 5 stars

--Chiron, 8/22/12