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“The Middle Place is about calling home. Instinctively. Even when all the paperwork — a marriage license, a notarized deed, two birth certificates, and seven years of tax returns — clearly indicates you’re an adult, but all the same, there you are, clutching the phone and thanking God that you’re still somebody’s daughter.”
So yeah, those little blurbs on the book jacket are supposed to make you buy the book. But I’m stronger than that. Maybe for most books, but this one pulls you into a big bear hug, like I imagine the author herself would do if I met her on the street.
I’m a huge fan of memoirs of “regular” people, by which I mean not Burroughs or James Frey but instead people like Judy Blunt, Alison Smith or Abigail Thomas. Woman with complicatedly simple lives which they live with extraordinary ordinariness. Real people. With real problems.
I read memoirs because they contain that spark of surprise – someone is like me!I like reading things that feel instinctually right, even though when I hear them in my own head I fear they are oftentimes weird or wrong. Call it my need for external validation but to see oneself in another is comforting, no matter who you are.
I was drawn to Kelly herself, but more importantly I was also drawn (as she said I would be; she’s so smart) to her father, George. He reminded me a lot of my late grandfather or at least how I like to remember him. At least I know that my mother felt similarly about her parents, her kind, easy going and fun-loving father and her capable, tough and pragmatic mother. As Kelly suggests, if you want to feel good or need twenty bucks, go see George. If you want something done, go see her mother. I remember thinking the same about my grandparents. My grandfather always had candy, though he was diabetic. My grandmother always had advice, usually of the unwanted variety.
While my relationships with my parents are quite different, I do feel Kelly’s need to be someone’s daughter. To know, that even when you are a parent yourself, there is someone in your corner willing to help you out. That you don’t need to have all the answers because someone else does. She thinks of this as a delaying of growing up, of staving off adulthood. But I think it gets to the heart of familial relationships. It’s certainly hard for parents to see their children as adults, but I think perhaps it’s harder for children to see themselves as such. It’s such a relief to let someone else take control, to know that someone else is in charge. It’s a dynamic that all children and parents work through.
Kelly’s story of her family and her life is inspiring and I don’t say that lightly. She’s a real person with real fears and needs and triumphs. I won’t tell you any specifics, because I expect you to go out and read it. Now. Because it was with regret that I put down this book.
Why do I read such long books? Arguably something like Gone with the Wind is worth the 1,000 pages. I would say each of the Harry Potters was enjoyable even when topping over 400 pages each.
Ken Follett, not so much. We know he can write a long book, certainly, this one caps at a little over 900 pages. But can he write a good one? Of that I’m not so sure. Which is not to say that World Without End is a bad book (or perhaps I’m just trying to justify my continued dedication to it) but Mr. Follett seems to think that his own book is too long. Clearly he doesn’t believe any reader will continue to pay attention. He’s constantly reminding you of characters (remember him? He was back on page 200? He’s still a hunchback, in case you forgot) and events (oh yeah, just in case you forget pages 400-476, here’s what happened, they got married and had a baby and here’s how old it is now).
As a reader of lots of books, and longish books usually, I find this incredibly annoying. I AM paying attention, and if I’m not it’s YOUR fault, Mr. Follett, not mine. I have the same complaints as I did about Pillars of the Earth – too much rape, too much sex and too many inane, repetitive details (do we have to hear about that damn cat again? Unless he turns into a pivotal character, even I don’t want the feline interludes all the time).
I’ve been reading like crazy lately, so it seems strange that I haven’t had time to blog. It looks like I haven’t done anything, if I assume that anyone’s actually reading this. I may have been quiet, but I was cranking through some serious bookage these past weeks. Unlike the industry, which seems to think that summer reading is more prolific, winter is, for me, the best time to stay inside and warm, snuggle up with some good stories (besides I hate sand in my books).
Here’s a quick summary to keep you posted:
I’m not a huge fan of what may be called Chick Lit, but I did read two books lately which could be considered as such. One is a charming little fantasy novel called Garden Spells. Though it probably borrows too heavily from Like Water for Chocolate and often seems to be a new rendition of the terrible movie Simple Irresistible, it is a cute read, worth it if you borrow it from the library or from a friend (sorry, I gave mine away already). The other, is a deceptively simple novel called The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox. I read this book in an afternoon and enjoyed this story of two sisters and a granddaughter. The Esme of the title resurfaces into society after 61 years in a mental institution, but it’s not about her reintroduction to the world, it’s about delving into the past to see how she got there in the first place. The desultory ramblings of her sister, well within the iron fist of Alzheimer’s, adds the necessary counter opinion. This book is good in the reading, but where it hits you is later, when you’ve put it down and tried to move on. It just won’t leave you. I found myself thinking about the implications of this books for weeks afterward. Is that what reviewers mean by “haunting?”
In retrospect it seems I was trying to cleanse all that estrogen by picking up Dennis Lehane next. He’s someone I summarily dismissed for many years because he’s so popular and well, I’ve seen the movies. But Sacred and A Drink Before the War were all the fun of watching a movie without the $10.00 ticket fee (or Sean Penn’s ugly mug). Lehane obviously writes in a certain genre, with movie dialogue, but I can embrace a good PI story, especially one set in my home state.
Finally I picked up Anna Quindlen. I just finished her book Good Dog. Stay. and of course bawled my eyes out when the dog dies (I didn’t ruin it for you, of course it’s coming). I’ve decided I want her career of writing small books that capture people’s emotions. How Reading Changed My Life isn’t so much about how it changed her life as how it forged her life. In this Anna and I have much in common. We’re both that girl who would rather squish into an over-sized armchair with a book about far off place, then squashed into a plane seat on our way to said faraway place. She’s the kind of reader I was and am and will be and it’s good to know that there are more of us in the world.
I’ve been thinking a lot about relationships lately. With everyone I know getting married, it’s inevitable that I’d ponder what marriage means, particularly when everyone is trying to push me into it (and I’m digging in my heels as hard as I can). I can’t help but feel that they are all pushing me into marriage without any consideration or respect for the relationship that I already have. Because to me that is what is important – what exists between two people, not how they go about it.
There are as many treatises singing the praises of marriage as the salvation of society as there are polemics about why it is the road straight to destruction. Marriage as a social construct has been studied to death (or divorce). But very rarely does a reader uncover a fine-focused discussion about what is the relationship between two people. Or what such a relationship could be, freed from the trappings of social obligation.
I read this book when I was a teenager, with no personal conception of love or committment or monogamy. I was “in love” with a new boy every five minutes (more if class just got out and everyone was milling around the hallway). I was not exactly the target audience and to be honest I don’t even remember where or why I picked it up. Still something about this book clearly resonated it’s dog eared like crazy.
Everyone knows how I feel about Oprah books. And while I’d love to give myself the luxury of scrambling up on the soapbox and tearing down the woman for her choice of reading, I will at this moment gracefully decline to do so.
Do not, fair readers, fear that I have gone soft or that I have gained a holiday spirit during this festive time of year. No, I will refrain from an all out attack per se, but only because I have a very specific beef with Ms. Winfrey.
I first read Pillars of The Earth when I was about 14 or 15. I kept that battered mass paperback copy through college, many moves and life upheavals. I didn’t think about it until recently, when I heard that Mr. Follett wrote a sequel to it called World Without End (which I quickly bought) and I thought perhaps it warranted a re-read, particularly considering the roughly 15 years since I had last read it. I went in search of my dog eared mass paperback and alas I could not find it. I think it was collateral damage from our last and greatest move.
I’ve written before about how I develop ( oftentimes extreme) author crushes. Chabon and Maguire are two of the my biggest. They make me want to a be better writer (which is to say a good writer), they make me feel ashamed that I have never created the kind of sentences they do, seemingly effortlessly. I often stop and reread, particularly in Chabon’s case, a phrase that is a brain teaser, something you have to really sit and ponder before you really get it.
Suffice to say, I love these guys. I adore them. If I were a worshipful person, I might even deify them.
Which is why these two books were such a fist-in-the-gut disappointment.
If I were to create my idea of the perfect fantasy love child of, well, fantasy literature, I would take the best of Neil Gaimen and Clive Barker and meld them into one. I would stir gently the darker tones of Clive and fold them into the fluffy yet dense snarkiness and black humor of Neil. I would take the intimidating strength of Neil’s solid characters and plant them into Clive’s firmly rooted geography.
The result would likely be very much like this book.
Perhaps because I’m an atheist I can love stories about angels and demons without any of the resulting fear or guilt. It makes for great story telling that is endlessly entertaining, particularly if you aren’t worried about your immortal soul.
Though this book was described as bone chilling I found it mostly amusing and even in parts, affecting. Mr. B. Gone is a low class demon with a certain amount of charm. He directly threatens, cajoles and otherwise manipulates the reader, all in an attempt to get you to burn the book. In between such tirades he tells the story of how he came to be stuck in the book itself.
I finished Mr. B. Gone (I’ll get to that later) and needed a new book for today’s commute, so I picked up this one. I like nothing more than a good feud. Historical, epic feuds are best. And with Elizabeth I and Mary Queen of Scots on the cover, how could I resist? Two of my favorites in the world of political cat fights.
Alas, I only made it only to page 7.
That’s right page 7 – wherein Mr. Colin Evans, the author of this book, said that Mary Queen of Scots was the daughter of James IV of Scotland and Margaret Tudor, sister of Henry VIII.
I had to read it three times, each time more desperately trying to find the loophole. Some word or another that I’d missed that was changing the meaning of the sentence. Because, you see she was actually their granddaughter. Her parents were James V of Scotland and Mary of Guise (who was French). But no, the sentence was unfortunately very very wrong.
How does such a blatant, glaring, easily discovered, easily fixed error get into such book? Let alone STAY in such a book. Where are all the ever eager intern researchers? How did this slip through the cracks?
Unfortunately this is way beyond my tolerance level. Though I understand that not everyone is the Anglo-phile that I am. I know that most people in this country know all the American presidents instead of all the British monarchs from the Saxons to Elizabeth II. I know that I have a bit of an obsession. But that is beside the point because due to this blinding beacon of an error I now have no trust that the rest of his information is correct, which of course makes reading the book a useless endeavor.
Into the book swap at work it goes. Too bad, because it might have been interesting.
I read an article this morning in the latest Horn Book Magazine about Peter Pan. In the article, Peter Pan. I am he. I am not, the author, Emily Jenkins, mourns the fact that while the stage version of the story allows for girls to imagine they are Peter Pan, the book and Disney movie version did not. This saddens her. She describes her extreme dislike of Wendy and her love for Peter thus:
“I couldn’t bear to be boxed in as Wendy boxes herself, with Peter’s complicity: she sews on pockets and prepares meal in the underground lair, spending her Neverland time playing Edwardian household rather than having adventures. I didn’t want to be her, I wanted to be Peter. And therefore I wanted to be a boy.”
When I was younger I thought I was the only little girl to feel this way. To be indignant that the boys got the snakes and snails and puppy dog’s tails (the greatest injustice, for I loved puppies) and girls were left with sugar and spice and everything nice (yes, I loved sugar, but as much as puppies? No way!). I now know many women who felt that way. To know that it’s not weird and that these are the women I tend to respect more anyway is a a great validation.
I have a really hard time choosing books for trips. What you may ask, just take one of the three books you are currently reading! Ah, but you would be quite mistaken. First, I am very likely (unless I just started it) to finish any of them while in the middle of the trip (or worse, halfway through a plane flight). Second, especially on a vacation, I want to bring something new and potentially exciting. I don’t want the same old book I’ve been reading before bed. I want a vacation book!
So alright, I’ll bring an entirely new book. Except well, that too leaves me open to problems. What if, on the plane on the way there, I decide I’m not really that “into” the book I brought. Perhaps I brought the wrong book for the mood (often a hard thing to gauge when one embarks on a journey) or maybe the book just stinks. Then what?
Let me try this again. Clearly new books are the way to go, but I’ll need a backup. To be safe probably two backups. Of course if I’m going on a trip of more than a few days, one with some downtime for reading, I will likely read one book at least, so to be quite certain I’ll need three backups.
OK got it. Four new books. Read the rest of this entry »
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