Randy's reads in 2019

Welcome. This will be my eighth year in the 75 Books Challenge. I don’t always make it (though last year I did), but I have a great time trying. I usually end up reading a fair number of excellent books. And a fair number of those are due to others in this group who spotted them first. My reading is eclectic. You’ll find everything from poetry to physics to philosophy and more here. But my mainstay is literary fiction. Once again I’ll offer a brief review for each book I read. I invite you to comment and, especially, to recommend other great books that should be on my radar this year.

I live in Waterloo, Ontario, Canada. But my wife and I love to return to England, where we spent many years. Below is a shot of a spring day stroll in the South Downs National Park.



Best of luck on your challenge in 2019.

Books read in 2019

January
1. Fox 8: a story by George Saunders

February
2. The Flamethrowers by Rachel Kushner
3. Sing, Unburied, Sing by Jesmyn Ward
4. Good Dog, McTavish by Meg Rosoff
5. A Jazz Odyssey: The Life of Oscar Peterson by Oscar Peterson
6. A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry

March
7. Days of Awe: stories by A.M. Homes
8. Where Reasons End: a novel by Yiyun Li
9. The Book of Speculation: a novel by Erika Swyler
10. Oscar Peterson: A Musical Biography
11. Little Fish: a novel by Casey Plett
12. Swamplandia!: a novel by Karen Russell
13. Macarons and Murder: a Hansel & Pretzel Mystery by Dani Baker
14. Days by Moonlight by André Alexis
15. Paris in Stride: An Insider's Walking Guide by Jessie Kanelos Weiner & Sarah Moroz

April

16. Mad, Bad, Dangerous to Know: The Fathers of Wilde, Yeats, and Joyce by Colm Tóibín
17. How To See: Looking, Talking, and Thinking about Art by David Salle

May
18. A Philosophy of Walking by Frédéric Gros

June
19. Paris By The Book by Liam Callanan
20. Full Dark House by Christopher Fowler

July
21. Le roman d'Ernest et Célestine by Daniel Pennac
22. The Strange Order of Things: Life, Feeling, and the Making of Cultures by Antonio Damasio
23. The Philosopher's War by Tom Miller
24. L'oeil du loup by Daniel Pennac
25. Light From Other Stars: a novel by Erika Swyler
26. Grief is the Thing with Feathers by Max Porter

August
27. Le professeur a disparu by Jean-Philippe Arrou-Vignod
28. My Year of Rest and Relaxation by Ottessa Moshfegh
29. A Thousand Small Sanities: The Moral Adventure of Liberalism by Adam Gopnik
30. Milkman: a novel by Anna Burns
31. Fleishman is in Trouble: a novel by Taffy Brodesser-Akner
32. The Innocents: a novel by Michael Crummey

September
33. Francis Plug - How to be a Public Author by Paul Ewen
34. Coventry: essays by Rachel Cusk
35. Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier
36. The Silence of the Girls by Pat Barker

October
37. The Journey Prize Stories 31: The Best of Canada's New Writers compiled by Carleigh Baker, Catherine Hernandez, and Joshua Whitehead
38. The Angel Esmeralda: nine stories by Don DeLillo
39. The Topeka School: a novel by Ben Lerner
40. Trickster Drift by Eden Robinson
41. Your Duck is My Duck: stories by Deborah Eisenberg
42. Mean Free Path by Ben Lerner
43. Liminal by Jordan Tannahill
44. Educated: a memoir by Tara Westover
45. How To Invent Everything: A Survival Guide for the Stranded Time Traveler by Ryan North
46. I Do Not Think That I Could Love A Human Being by Johanna Skibsrud
47. Wittgenstein's Nephew: a friendship by Thomas Bernhard

November
48. Olive, Again: a novel by Elizabeth Strout
49. Grand Union: stories by Zadie Smith

December
50. The Ticking Heart by Andrew Kaufman
51. McTavish Goes Wild by Meg Rosoff
52. The Dutch House by Ann Patchett
53. Lint by Steve Aylett
54. Letters from an Astrophysicist by Neil deGrasse Tyson
55. Incidental Inventions by Elena Ferrante
56. Kitchen by Banana Yoshimoto

Five best reads of 2018

The Mars Room by Rachel Kushner
Romy Hall is never getting out of prison. But even before, she was really just in a different kind of prison. Maybe nobody gets out in this life. Yet there are still acts of kindness and viciousness, good people and bad people. And beautiful writing. My first Kushner, but definitely not my last.

Circe by Madeline Miller
Circe is a Titan, the daughter of Helios and Perse. She’s mild and curious and fully capable of transformation. She’s also a witch, of sorts. Her banishment is only the start of her trials. It will take a special kind of strength to manage her final transformation. Once again, Miller’s lyrical prose bewitches.

Kid by Simon Armitage
This poetry collection has been very highly regarded by others for years, but this was my first encounter with it. And it was a delight. From “Brassneck,” to “Kid,” to the many “Robinson” poems, this book delivers on every page.

Radiant Shimmering Light by Sarah Selecky
Lilian Quick paints the auras of animals. She can’t help that only she sees them. She can’t help much of anything. But when her cousin, now the leader of a self-help cult called the Ascendency, invites her to join her inner circle, Lilian’s life is about to get on track and fast. At once a gentle satire of a peculiar industry and a moving portrait of a single character’s growth and development. Lovely writing.

Cabot-Caboche by Daniel Pennac
Life doesn’t begin well for Le Chien (a dog). But he falls under the care of La Gueule Noire who protects him long enough for him to make his journey to find the little girl, La Pomme, whom he has chosen to become his mistress. I don’t often read books in French, but this one has a marvellous lightness of touch and a protagonist who, despite his charm, remains throughout a dog.

Welcome back!

Happy reading in 2019, Randy!

Happy New Year!

Happy new year, Randy!

Happy new year!

Having started this thread with good intentions for 2019, I promptly fell under the sway of a large tome of essays on jazz, Visions of Jazz, of which I read bits and pieces but had to return to the library before finishing, numerous distractions in the form of films, a polar vortex that contributed to a doozy of a cold I was nurturing, and an editing project that absorbed my otherwise copious amounts of free time. Thus January.

Now's it's February and I'm ready to begin. Really!

1. Fox 8: a story by George Saunders

Fox 8 is a learner. He learns English by peering in the window of the nearby Yuman (i.e. human) dwelling, listening to their conversations, seeing what they see on television, and trying to sound out the words. His spelling is not so good. But his insight into Yuman behaviour is a benefit to his den, or would be if they hadn’t mostly all been killed during the construction of FoxViewCommons, a huge shopping mall and parking lot. There’s just no living with these Yumans. There’s only being killed, starved, or beaten to death (which is also being killed). So Fox 8 heads out in search of a bit of forest uncontaminated by Yumans. And finds it. But it’s hard living with what he’s seen. To help deal with his trauma, Fox 8 pens this story (not really “pens” because he’s a fox; so he used a typewriter instead) to let Yumans know what they have done and hope he can move them to feel some shame and act better in future. Wishful thinking.

A lovely story in which Saunders captures the voice of Fox 8 so completely, you too may feel the shame that Fox 8 hopes Yumans will on account of their actions.

Good luck starting your reading year, Randy. Sorry about the cold, the polar vortex, and the vicious lure of Visions of Jazz. *smile*

My book club will be reading Circe for our June discussion. I'm looking forward to reading it, especially after your description and inclusion among your top 5 of 2018.

edited to add: I just checked your library to see if you've read Lincoln in the Bardo and you have - gave it a very high rating as did I. I also see that you gave 1/2 star to The 100-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out The Window And Disappeared. I didn't even finish it.

>11 karenmarie: Thanks, Karen. Glad to hear that we share some similar impressions.

2. The Flamethrowers by Rachel Kushner

The 1970s New York art scene, revolutionary Italian social movements, land speed trials on the Bonneville Salt Flats, art as object or performance, design in art and engineering — Rachel Kushner’s novel is a swirling maelstrom turning us about, offering glimpses of fleeting moments and rapidly spinning us onward. Reno is a young, beautiful, student of artfilm set on making it in New York. She’s also a former downhill skier, motorcycle racer, and student of Italian. At first the art world of New York seems impenetrable, but then she slowly begins to work her way in through cracks and crevices, all the while both seeming and believing herself to still be on the outside, even when her relationship with Sandro Valera takes her to the heart of all her interests. A heart which is bound to be broken.

Kushner fills these pages with startlingly vivid characters whose interests and appetites come close to overwhelming the story, such as it is. From the well spun anecdotes of Ronnie, which may be his real art form, to the lived performance by Giddle as a diner waitress, to the huge loft apartments in the Bowery which even artists could still afford in the 70s, to the openings, the after parties, and the violence of near-nihilism that underwrote much of what passed as art. It’s a world unto itself, and as such both unbelievable and entirely convincing. All rendered in neon-poetic prose. A remarkable piece of writing.

Recommended.

>13 RandyMetcalfe: The Flamethrowers is on my TBR list -- your positive comments make me want to read it this year.

>14 Cait86: Enjoy!

3. Sing, Unburied, Sing by Jesmyn Ward

From the opening set piece description of Pop and his grandson, Jojo, slaughtering, butchering, and cooking a goat for Jojo’s 13th birthday dinner, the reader knows she is on heavily storied ground. Jojo’s mother, Leonie, doesn’t have the mothering instinct, much to the dismay of Jojo and his toddler sister, Kayla. Their father, Michael, is in Parchman, the Mississippi state penitentiary, but he is about to be released. And that means a road trip for Leonie and the children and Leonie’s work friend, Misty. Pop, meanwhile, will tend to his wife, Mam, who is dying of cancer, bedridden and ready for the end. The end, however, isn’t always the end. Sometimes it just opens up a further state of waiting, as is the case for Leonie’s murdered older brother, Given, whom she can see whenever she is high. And it isn’t true for Richie, a youth who died violently in Parchman back when Pop himself was serving a stretch there. Those with the gift, or curse, can see these lost souls and some may even have the power to help them find their way home.

Ward writes in a lyrical gothic style, alternating the narrative point of view between Leonie and Jojo, and latterly Richie. Between them we see a tapestry that is frayed and weathered by old violence, race hatred, spirituality and the lore that accompanies it, and cross-generational anxiety. Everyone, it seems, is looking for the mother or father they don’t have, or failing to become the mother or father one might hope them to be, or being forced into such roles before or after one’s time. The journey to Parchman and back introduces the cyclical nature of time and life. So it no surprise that the end of this tale sees many stories coming full circle.

Beautiful writing that can be easily recommended.

4. Good Dog, McTavish by Meg Rosoff

Delightful.

The Peachey family are a mess. Ma Peachey has resigned in order to devote herself to yoga. No more cooking, cleaning, laundry, etc. No more anything. Pa Peachey and the children — Ava, Ollie, and Betty — don’t know what to do. They also don’t know how to do either, meaning cooking, cleaning, laundry, etc. So it doesn’t take long for the Peachey household to start reflecting the state of the Peachey family. It’s a mess. There’s only one thing to be done. Get a dog. More specifically, a rescue dog. Enter McTavish.

McTavish agrees to take on the Peachey family largely on the basis of the almost-nine-year-old Betty, who is the only sensible one of the bunch. With her help, he quickly settles in and starts coming up with plans. Plans! Plans to get this family back on track. It’s not going to be an easy task, but if anyone can do it, it’s McTavish.

Meg Rosoff presents a charming tale of reversed expectations and canine cunning. Each of the Peachey family members has their own quirks. But it is Betty, the youngest, who gathers and sustains our affection. No wonder McTavish recognizes her as an equal. Together they bring order to the Peachey family chaos. It is such a delicious treat that you’ll wish the story could have lasted twice as long. And before the end, you’ll gain new respect for canny canines (and possibly equally canny moms).

Recommended.

This was a LibraryThing Early Review book.

You're having a good February, reading-wise!

5. A Jazz Odyssey: The Life of Oscar Peterson by Oscar Peterson

Legendary jazz pianist Oscar Peterson tells his own story in this autobiography. It is a book filled with anecdotes of his time on the road performing with most of the jazz greats active between the late 1940s and the end of century. Since Peterson was equally proficient as a soloist, accompanist, small combo performer, or participant in larger ensembles, he was nearly constantly at the keyboard. That leads to a life of jazz clubs, hotel rooms, and concert halls. Without much of a fixed locale, the focus naturally has to be the music and this is what most of the book concentrates upon — Peterson’s musical ideas and his impressions of each of his colleagues.

The most consistent and clear part of the text consists in his account of his early life in Montreal, his personal and musical upbringing (these were intertwined), and his emergence as a jazz prodigy in his teens. Although his entire family were accomplished musicians, it was Oscar alone who had both the talent and the performance skills to achieve a career on the stage. Much of the remainder of the book feels less narratively direct as Peterson describes first one musical partner and then the next, with brief insights. However, for a fan of the great personages of jazz, the book offers much to enjoy. And what comes across most, apart from the boyish playfulness that Oscar and his best friends delighted in, is his unswerving devotion to the craft of jazz. It’s not always something that can be articulated in words, but OP, as he was known, makes a huge effort to lift the veil on his creative method and ideas.

Worth reading for the jazz enthusiast or merely the jazz curious.

6. A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry

In a country as vast and varied as India, perhaps only a story that focused on the particulars of very small players could provide the sense of scale appropriate. Dina is a strong-willed widow finding it hard to make ends meet. Maneck is a student at the college seeking accommodation. Ishvar and Om are tailors seeking employment. When their lives intertwine, it is as though fate itself is drawing them together. And piece by piece the quilt of their lives takes shape. But given that it is stitched with misery, injustice, and calamitous bad fortune, it may not be a quilt that anyone would care to use.

Rohinton Mistry sets his many, many pieces in motion and successfully keeps them going through all the changes. Personal joys and tragedies are set off against a backdrop of national events and Emergency. Sometimes it’s a bit clunky how history keeps intruding, but for the most part the stories of Dina, Maneck, Ishvar, and Om sustain our interest and see us through. Whether the Yeatsian fine balance is ever achieved however is an open question. Despair — justified despair — seems all too likely.

Gently recommended.

Hi Randy!

>20 RandyMetcalfe: I am participating in a year-long read of A Suitable Boy by Vikram Seth, my first reading of Indian literature. I have A Fine Balance on my shelves, and am encouraged by your take on it. Since this year is taken up with the 1,349 page ASB, I'm going to flag this one for next year.

>21 karenmarie: I hope ASB is worth it. I thought AFB was long at over 700 pages, but ASB dwarfs it.

7. Days of Awe: stories by A.M. Homes

The twelve stories herein run the gamut from the peculiar to the extreme, but each shows the hand of a fine craftsperson at work and some exhibit moments of pure comic genius. Unsurprisingly for readers of Homes’ novels or previous short stories, the situations in which these stories take place border on the absurd. A good example is the lyrical but eerie, “Your Mother Was a Fish,” or the possibly apocalyptic, “Omega Point.” There are also recurring locales that Homes uses with skewering insight, such as the overly bright hills above Los Angeles. Equally Homesian is the story based around an experimental technique — such as the transcript of a chat room or when two characters role-play through the voices of other characters (real or imaginary).

Undoubtedly the best of these stories is the title story, “Days of Awe,” set at a conference on Genocide(S). All of Homes’ numerous strengths as a writer come to the fore there. And it’s also very funny! But I would be remiss if I didn’t also single out the two linked (though independent) stories that share a common set of characters, “Hello Everybody,” and, “She Got Away.” Priceless.

Recommended.

8. Where Reasons End: a novel by Yiyun Li

A grieving mother interrogates herself through a conversation, in thought, with her suicided teenage son, Nikolai. And since this is Yiyun Li writing, the interrogation takes the form of word worrying — meanings, origins, overuse, etc. The dead son, who killed himself at 16 even as Yiyun Li’s son did, is articulate and incisive, formerly precocious but now merely clever. He challenges his mother at ever step, catching out her clichés and lack of facility with adjectives. Together they perform a sort of dance of words. Is she working through her very real grief? Or is this a two-handed meditation? Are we witnessing decline or recovery? And what about this justifies the addition of “a novel” to the title?

Yiyun Li is such a clear, precise thinker that she almost can’t help undercutting herself. And so she worries her relationship with her son like beads on a prayer chain, over and over. It’s frazzling. Because the reader cannot escape the knowledge that Yiyun Li’s son also killed himself. Nor the two suicide attempts of her own that she repetitively reflects upon in her previous non-fiction work, “Dear Friend, from My Life I Write to You in Your Life.” It’s worrying. I don’t know whether writing and publishing, “Where Reasons End,” helped Yiyun Li reconcile herself to her son’s death. But I do wonder about it as a form of literature. And I hope she finds solace and pours her immense talents into other characters in the future.

Although extremely well-written, I don’t think I can recommend this work.

9. The Book of Speculation: a novel by Erika Swyler

Simon Watson and his sister, Enola, are swimmers. Or to be more precise, breathers. Or even more precise, breath holders. Like their mother before them and, we eventually learn, all their female forebears, they are able to hold their breath under water for extraordinary lengths of time. Long enough to be thought part mermaid. So why have all their female forebears, including their mother, died by drowning? And why always on July 24th? It’s a puzzle that has always haunted Simon, a reference librarian in the small town of Napawset on the coast of Long Island Sound. The arrival of an ancient tome that appears to be a circus master’s ledger may hold the clue. But more important matters are pressing. Enola is coming home after years away and July 24th is looming.

Unravelling the mystery of Simon and Enola’s cursed family sets up a wild race of investigation and insight in the present. But we are also, alternatingly, provided with the origin story as we see the emergence of the wild boy, Amos, and his love for Evangeline in the menagerie that is Hermilius H. Peabody’s troupe of travelling entertainers. Somehow a curse is passed on to Evangeline and her heirs. But how and by whom?

This is an engaging twin page turner as we follow the story in the present and the one in the late 18th century. Swyler maintains the tension and, for the most part, makes plausible the incredible number of coincidences that result in Simon and Enola’s situation. She gently weaves in the real possibility of rusalki preying on men and luring them to watery deaths as well as grave destinies foretold in tarot readings. And even, curiously, a man who can generate electricity. Plus there are lots of books and libraries and research. What’s not to like?

Gently recommended.

10. Oscar Peterson: A Musical Biography by Alex Barris

Part personal memoir, part textual reference (from reviews, liner notes, and other works mentioning Oscar Peterson), part discography, and part biographical narrative — this is a heady mix of hagiographic enthusiasm and (sometimes) point scoring. And while it doesn’t always come together as a whole, there is certainly enough of merit here to warrant a look.

Alex Barris had been aware of Oscar Peterson’s brilliance even before he made his triumphal appearance at Carnegie Hall that launched his international career. Barris was a jazz journalist in Toronto in the 1940s and was astounded by Peterson whenever he visited and performed in Toronto. Thereafter he kept Peterson in his journalistic sights, becoming both a friend and sometime impresario. Which largely explains why this “musical biography” moves between personal memoir and (mostly) objective treatment of Oscar’s recordings. It’s hard to judge whether Barris’ assessment is even close to neutral. But that doesn’t diminish the charm, such as there is.

Although superseded by Peterson’s autobiography that was published in the same year (and which contains many of the same anecdotes), Barris’ musical biography remains a useful volume for insight into the recordings. I especially appreciated his recommendation of four cds that best capture Peterson’s development over the years: Oscar Peterson Beginnings — 1945-1949; The Oscar Peterson Trio at the Stratford Shakepearean Festival (from 1956); Ella and Oscar (from 1975); and Last Call at the Blue Note (from 1990).

11. Little Fish: a novel by Casey Plett

Wendy is a working girl. In every sense. She’s got a job in a gift store. But sometimes she’s also on the job, i.e. a sex worker. And Wendy is also fully transitioned; she has all the working parts of a woman. Still, it’s a bit challenging for someone who grew up as a boy in a strict Mennonite community in Winnipeg. And with her Oma recently passing away, there is just Wendy and her dad, Ben, left. So a call from an elderly stranger on the day of the funeral about her previously deceased Opa, Henry, presents a sliver of hope. Anna, who apparently knew both Henry and Aganetha growing up, suggests that there may have been more to Wendy’s Opa than he let on, at least to Wendy. Finding out about your past as you try to negotiate your future is a lot to ask as the bitter cold of a Winnipeg winter sets in.

Casey Plett presents a rich community of trans friends and lovers who both help and at times hinder Wendy. For example, Wendy is clearly abusing alcohol but unwilling to acknowledge that she is an alcoholic, and her friends enable this self-deception. But at the same time, her friends are regularly there for her in stark, dramatic fashion when her life is at risk. Just as Wendy is ready to come to the aid of any of her friends. And their lives are regularly at risk, both through choices that they’ve made and because the environment in which they live is often violently aggressive towards those at any stage of transition. For those unaccustomed to the gritty reality of life, this novel could be both eye-opening and enlightening. And also a bit sad. For Wendy, despite having reached the age of 30, life holds out little more promise than the next mickey of rye and the hope that she can live longer than her father.

Gently recommended.

12. Swamplandia!: a novel by Karen Russell

In the quirky world of Swamplandia, a waterlogged island on Florida’s southwest coast, even the alligators are part of the act. Chief Bigtree is not actually a native, but he still thinks of his family as a tribe. And the family business is alligator wrestling. And everyone in the family is part of the business. But when the Chief’s wife, Hilola, succumbs to cancer, the real world starts seeping in. Soon the Chief’s father, “Sawtooth”, has to be put in a home for the elderly. And then a massive and nasty competitor, The World of Darkness, opens on the mainland. Which quickly puts an end to the tourists making their way across the water to Swamplandia. The Chief has a crazy plan to meet this new challenge, but his three children know it is doomed. When he leaves to “talk to investors” and fails to return, first his son, Kiwi, leaves to find actual employment at, surprise, The World of Darkness, and then his oldest, Osceola, follows her ghost boyfriend into the swamps, leaving young Ava to hold the fort. But eventually Ava is compelled to put forth in search of her sister, even if she has to journey to underworld to find her.

Of course what starts out quirky and fun often hides darker matters. Some of these come to the fore in Kiwi’s steep learning curve amongst his co-workers at The World of Darkness. But even more are visited upon Ava, some so shockingly as to be altogether out of keeping with the tone of the remainder of the novel. I suppose it is a risk whenever characters and events are unmoored or ungrounded. Anything can happen. And there are plenty of bad things that are just as likely to happen as good things.

There is much here in the writing that is admirable. And certainly the imaginative initial concept of the Swamplandia alligator theme park is beguiling. But just as Ava and her travelling companion risk getting lost in the channels of the swamp, so too does this story. So while there are moments and scenes that are delightful, the whole is less, perhaps, than the sum of (at least) some of its parts. However, Russell is clearly an author to keep an eye on, even if, for me, this novel didn’t entirely work.

13. Macarons and Murder: a Hansel & Pretzel Mystery by Dani Baker

Linn Sommer just can’t seem to avoid murder and mayhem, even at the salon getting her hair trimmed for her Valentines date with Detective Inspector Bas van de Groot. This time the victim is none other than Maurice Woodard, Linn’s hairdresser. As per usual, there are a host of plausible suspects, motives, and baked goods. But trust Linn to find the murderer, even if much of her sleuthing is accidental, prone to red herrings, and bedazzled by her boyfriend’s steely good looks. But it’s February in Kitchener, Ontario, and love, as well as a fair bit of snow, is in the air.

Baker positively romps through this delightfully frenetic tale. You’ll need to keep your wits about you. But you may pause when a recipe, straight the Hansel & Pretzel Bakery, is proffered. And this time the recipes are all French bake goods. It is a tasty treat with, admittedly, a few markers that it has been translated from its original German. Not to worry, as that merely adds to the charm.

Gently recommended.

14. Days by Moonlight by André Alexis

Alfred Homer’s grief at the loss of his parents a year earlier has deadened him to the world. It also probably explains the breakdown in his relationship with Anne, who has also left him. An invitation from Professor Bruno, a friend of his parents, to accompany him on a meandering journey through southern Ontario tracing memories of the poet John Skennen could be just what Alfred needs to break out of his funk. But the small towns and villages they visit and the people they encounter will startle and amaze Alfred. And the peculiar practices of these “Canadians” will have him questioning his own identity, and everything else as well.

Alexis creates a believably unbelievable reality here. With Professor Bruno’s academic distance and Alfred’s muffled emotions, the perfect tone is creating for piercing satire and subtle metaphysics. It’s a strange yet beguiling combination. And nothing I report here could prepare you for the odyssey of this journey (unless a character named “Homer” suggests something to you). As ever, Alexis’ writing is pitch perfect and full of mystery. A fitting conclusion to his cryptic Quincunx series.

Recommended.

15. Paris in Stride: An Insider's Walking Guide by Jessie Kanelos Weiner & Sarah Moroz

I almost never read a tourist guide book cover to cover. Paris in Stride is an exception. The text is comprised of seven idiosyncratic walks through most of the arrondissement of Paris with stops ranging from wine cellars to artist studios to upscale eateries and the best boulangerie in the city (I’m definitely headed there!). In an age of ubiquitous connectivity, Google maps, and Citymapper, there is no need to burden a guide book with details of how to use the metro or what exactly absolutely everything you will see might be. Instead a guide can and perhaps should be selective, thoughtful, reflecting the writer’s special interests. In this case, it is clear that Sarah Moroz is a fan of “natural wine”, which gets numerous mentions. But so too do many gastronomic hot spots, often smaller and friendlier offshoots of a famous chef’s main restaurant. However, as much as the text entices, it is the charming illustrations by Jessie Kanelos Weiner that make this book the delight that it is.

Recommended.

16. Mad, Bad, Dangerous to Know: The Fathers of Wilde, Yeats, and Joyce by Colm Tóibín

Ireland in the late 19th century was politically sparking, socially heaving, and artistically fertile. It was also, in truth, a fairly small world, or at least Dublin was. Nearly everyone within a certain class knew each other either in passing or more intimately. So it’s maybe not surprising that the fathers of Oscar Wilde, W.B. Yeats, and James Joyce, at one time or another crossed paths. It’s also not so surprising that they shared similar traits be that fecklessness or fecundity. What Colm Tóibín explores, however, is how these fathers affected the works of their sons. And in each case, even those of extreme distancing as with Yeats and Joyce, the father's presence in the work of the sons is startling.

Tóibín’s research is comprehensive and his insights are always subtle and well-founded. To have such an in-depth knowledge of the literature and artistic history or one’s land might only be found in Ireland. I don’t know. It’s certainly gives one pause. Tóibín’s own fiction and poetry is clearly imbued with his reading of his nation’s history. But equally significant, though unexplored here, is the well-known fact of Tóibín’s own father’s influence on his writing. And that in the end may explain why Tóibín even pursues this research project so thoroughly. If so, so much the better. This is a beautifully written set of essays that will enlighten and entertain as well as renew your respect for what a thoughtful writer can achieve in his more academic mode.

Certainly recommended.

I don't know how I managed to miss your thread this year until now, Randy.

Always enjoy your thoughtful reviews and was interested in your take on A Fine Balance @ >20 RandyMetcalfe:
It is one of my absolute favourite novels and I do like Indian literature as I find writers from there have a wonderful storytelling gift. Anita Desai, RK Narayan, Vikram Chandra and Amitav Ghosh are all authors I much admire.

>33 PaulCranswick: Welcome, Paul. I'm a bit slow on the reading this year, but I've still stumbled across a few good books.

Remembering Notre Dame

My wife and I have been to Paris many times. We are set to go again in May (an early 25th anniversary trip). Below is a view of Notre Dame from November 2005.

It's one of those things you never thought you'd see. It's hard to imagine what could have started it.

17. How To See: Looking, Talking, and Thinking about Art by David Salle

This is not a book about how to see. But its subtitle is a fairly accurate summation of what you’ll get. In some thirty-three essays published across many years in various fora (mostly art magazines), David Salle does a lot of looking at art, a modicum of thinking about art, and a significant amount of talking (i.e. writing) about art. Salle is a highly respected artist himself. He’s the real business. He knows his stuff from paint brush to French theory, from drawing room to board room. And along the way he’s got to know (and like, or at least respect) nearly everyone he eventually writes about (because there’s no point writing about the other guys). Which isn’t to say that he isn’t at times critical of what his friends (or he, himself) produce. But for the most part he is typically appreciating here (as opposed to chastising), noting something he’s overlooked before, drawing connections that help him make sense of what he is seeing. And in explicating these observations, he does, in a way, help the reader see things too. In fact, I’d go so far as to say, following his example, that if I too had spent a lifetime producing and exhibiting and writing about art subsequent to “halcyon days” at CalArt while obtaining my MFA, I too might see things in much the way Salle does. But I suspect I wouldn’t be able to write about it so charmingly.

And it is the writing here that really stands out. With easy erudition, personal anecdotes, and bon mots galore, Salle does the heavy lifting for the reader. Even of the many artists here whose work I do not know at all well, I felt that I learned something vital, or at least interesting. Although Salle abjures the language of theory, he is clearly familiar with it. And his anti-theory stance can only go so far before it begins to cultivate a theoretical language of its own. Nevertheless, most of the writing here is refreshingly accessible and engaging whether or not you end up agreeing with Salle’s opinions, a point on which he is not insistent.

Definitely worth reading.

Notre Dame today, 7 May 2019.



Currently visiting Paris with my wife.

I hope you're having a good time, despite Notre Dame being unavailable.

Paris is always Paris ☺

18. A Philosophy of Walking by Frédéric Gros

Not philosophy, I think. Though many philosophers get mentioned along with poets, painters, and thinkers ancient and modern. Basically, Gros thinks walking — that is, “real” walking — is good. It’s great! Apart from any health benefits that may accrue to the walker (i.e. real walker), there are less well-codified benefits such as a connection to the earth, which is apparently a good thing, and a connection to nature in its broadest sense (again, a good thing, says Gros). Also, you can sometimes get from one place to another by walking, even places very far away. It’s just one foot in front of the other. The same is true, however, even if the place you are getting to is the place you set out from in a longish circular walk. However, strolling about city streets, peering into the shops, noticing others walking near you, being a flâneur if you will, is not good. It’s bad. As Walter Benjamin long ago explained. But real walking, going for long (sometimes very long) hikes by yourself with as little gear as possible, is good.

Even if you aren’t convinced by Gros’ overall project, there may still be part of this book that you will enjoy. He is, after all, a fine wordsmith and his enthusiasm for his subject(s) goes a long way. The book divides, for the most part, into chapters of semi-historical biography (on such figures as Nietzsche, Rimbaud, Rousseau, Thoreau, Nerval, Proust, and Gandhi) which are pleasantly informative, and alternating chapters in which Gros gets a bit more speculative. However, no coherent philosophical treatment of walking emerges. Which leaves the reader merely with enthusiasm. And perhaps that’s what you’ve come to this book for in the first place. Thus, success.

It’s a gentle read which might well accompany a long walk far away from anywhere.

19. Paris By The Book by Liam Callanan

The elevator pitch for this book must have been a Paris-smitten bibliophile’s dream book: an author vanishes leaving behind a wife and two adolescent daughters who find a clue that he might be in Paris, follow him there, end up staying, buy a bookstore, and continually scan the Paris streets for him. It’s a mystery, a love story, a love affair with Paris, and an emotional exploration of loss and remembrance. It’s one part Bemelman (author of the Madeline stories), one part Lamorisse (writer/director of The Red Balloon) and one part Modiano. It sounds incredibly enticing. And there are moments — more than just moments, to be fair — in which the mélange becomes something altogether new and a bit wonderful. Alas, there is also the difficult problem of going from elevator pitch to full-length novel. The huge leaps the reader is asked to take, the implausibility of some situations, the plot holes, and the tricksy business of 21st century passports and identity tracking, which make the reading at times a bit of a slog. Nonetheless, I think most lovers of Paris will still say they enjoyed the book. Just thinking yourself into Paris page after page is probably enough.

And so, gently recommended for lovers of Paris only.

20. Full Dark House by Christopher Fowler

The Peculiar Crimes Unit, set up by the Home Office during WWII has always perched on shaky ground. Hardly surprising then that a bomb should obliterate both its headquarters and its first lead officer, Arthur Bryant, more than sixty years later. Pigeons coming home to roost perhaps? That may be more true than could be imagined, since Bryant was apparently digging again into the first case the he and his partner, John May, investigated together back during the war. He must have disturbed something or someone, especially seeing as forensics has informed May that the incendiary material used in the bomb was most certainly decades old. Now John May must follow a sixty year old trail that his former partner had unearthed in order to both re-solve the crime that solidified their working relationship and bring closure for this latest victim. Peculiar indeed.

Although beset by an awkward frame with chapters jumping back and forth between WWII and 21st century London, Fowler manages to bring his principal characters to life. Bryant and May are supported by a cast of curious and more or less helpful associates leaving open endless possibilities for future novels in this series (which were later realized by Fowler). For those who like this sort of thing (I confess I’m not usually of that persuasion), then this is the sort of thing I’m sure they will like. There is a lot to Bryant that could be unravelled over a long series, and maybe May is even more surprising in his steadfast sidekick way.

21. Le roman d'Ernest et Célestine by Daniel Pennac

Ernest and Célestine are friends. Best friends. However, their friendship is astounding because Ernest is a bear and Célestine is a mouse. And everyone knows a bear and a mouse cannot be friends. Everyone knows. Perhaps that is the reason that Ernest doesn’t fit in en haut or Célestine en bas. Ernest is a musician and wants to make music all of the time. Célestine is a painter and wants to paint and draw all of the time. This is the story of how Ernest and Célestine became friends and the amazing adventure that their friendship set off.

Beautifully written with delicate characterization and typical Pennac wit and style. Along with the principal characters, we see a host of minor characters that flesh out their contrasting but parallel worlds. The Author even appears as a character, in part to explain why he is telling the story rather than either Ernest or Célestine. And later The Reader shows up and, as you might expect, gets things wrong. Readers!

A delightful story that can easily be recommended.

22. The Strange Order of Things: Life, Feeling, and the Making of Cultures by Antonio Damasio

Homeostasis does the heavy lifting in Antonio Damasio’s account of life, subjectivity, consciousness, and culture. Not the homeostasis that your mom told you about, the one that describes the tendency towards a relatively stable equilibrium of independent elements. It’s that, of course, but it is also much more. For Damasio, homeostasis includes the notion of prevailing. Life, from its earliest beginnings, hasn’t been about maintaining the status quo, it’s been about prevailing. All life. From the tiniest bacteria to multi-talented mankind. This redefinition or realization (it could be either) underwrites Damasio’s claim to be setting the standard view of consciousness, subjectivity, even culture, on its head. Consciousness, it turns out, is as embedded in the basic homeostatic drives as is hunger or thirst or what have you. The order goes from the bottom up, not the top down.

Damasio is both a serious researcher and an accomplished writer on his scientific field of study. Much of this book is devoted to detailing the research by himself and others that support his view of homeostasis. Especially important in this regard is the fundamental contribution made by feelings. Feelings are not some flavouring added on to the dish of life. They are essential for homeostatic prevailing to succeed when life encounters a potentially hostile world. Damasio rightly notes the novelty of his position. If he’s right, philosophers and cognitive scientists have some hard thinking ahead.

Where Damasio’s story begins to fray is perhaps where it began. His initial inspiration for this book stemmed from reading Jean Genet’s account of creativity: “Beauty has no other origin but the singular wound, different for each person, hidden or visible.” Could homeostatic prevailing also explain human culture? Perhaps. Certainly if Damasio’s earlier story is close to accurate, there is no reason to think that homeostasis doesn’t underwrite culture. If it underwrites all aspects of life, that would follow. But does saying that get us anywhere? When something explains everything, it ends up not explaining much at all. To which the useful admonishment is — back to the rough ground.

Recommended.

23. The Philosopher's War by Tom Miller

Robert Weekes is back. Now using his father’s surname, Canderelli, to obscure the notoriety gained during his year at Radcliffe College, Robert has achieved his dream of joining the Rescue and Evacuation Corps. He is ready to be shipped off to France to serve. “Ready” might be an exaggeration because nothing could really prepare him for the danger, drudge, and daring he will experience as the only man in the service. If only he can keep his head down, do his job, and, quite literally, keep his head, he’ll be fine. Unless General Blandings has her way and can convince him to join her mutiny, capture Berlin, end the war, and save millions of lives. Well, there’s that as well.

Tom Miller’s tales of sigilry moves into combat mode with Robert flying countless rescue sorties and the odd secret mission for Blandings. The pace is terrifying, so hold onto your hat. Along with many beloved characters from the first novel making a reappearance, a whole host of new ones fill out this tale. And the possibilities opened up by the ending virtually ensure that this will be long-running series.

Easy to enjoy.

(Not sure why, but the touchstone is pointing to the first novel in this series, The Philosopher's Flight.

24. L'oeil du loup by Daniel Pennac

I won't offer a review of this book other than to say that I thoroughly enjoyed it, as ever with Pennac.

25. Light From Other Stars: a novel by Erika Swyler

Two stories unfold. In one, Nedda is aboard the Chawla, an interstellar vessel, with three other terraformers headed to a new home, to prepare the way for the thousands that will follow. In the other, Nedda is an eleven year old girl in the town of Easter, Florida, in 1986. In the latter story we gradually learn how it came to be that the Nedda there could also be the Nedda on board the space vessel so many years later. In both stories, Nedda holds our attention and our concern as she faces increasingly difficult technical challenges, which, curiously, have a common cause.

Apart from the science of this fiction, the core story is about familial bonds, aspiration, and grief. Nedda’s family — scientist father, former scientist now conceptual baker mother — are surrounded in a bubble of grief of which Nedda is unaware. It both locks them together and keeps them separate, unable to fully bond. Unwitting bubbles, temporal bubbles in this case, also begin to envelope the town of Easter due to unanticipated effects of an experiment that Nedda’s father is conducting at the local college. The consequences will be both far-reaching and particular. And a very similar unanticipated outcome will threaten the success of Nedda’s interstellar mission.

It’s a challenging mixture, especially holding our interest across the two storylines. But Erika Swyler has succeeded in making Nedda’s story whole. Admirable writing indeed.

Recommended.

26. Grief is the Thing with Feathers by Max Porter

A father and his two sons mourn the loss of their wife and mother, respectively. How is grief even survivable? It’s like a garrulous, wild thing, ripping out viscera, playing with crisp packets, stomping on fingers and eyes, crying out in its guttural native tongue, “Oi, stab it!” Yes, grief is like Ted Hughes’ Crow. An elemental thing. A somewhat friend that comes and lives with you when the balance in your life has been tipped.

Max Porter’s pressingly immediate prose brings Crow to life: friend, confidant, baby-sitter, and bad egg. It is a remarkable achievement that something so outside the ordinary can nonetheless be utterly gripping, with a ring of truth.

Highly recommended.

27. Le professeur a disparu by Jean-Philippe Arrou-Vignod

I won't offer a review of this book. Very enjoyable, the first of a series.

28. My Year of Rest and Relaxation by Ottessa Moshfegh

Even when you are young and blonde and beautiful, financially comfortable, unencumbered by familial attachments or the complications friends carry, you can still feel a bit heavy. Life is like that, or gravity. One of them gets you down if the other doesn’t. Sometimes you just want to sleep it all away. But getting there, getting to the point of real sleep, and staying there, that takes serious effort and planning and non-FDA-approved psycho-medications.

The unnamed protagonist of Ottessa Moshfegh’s novel has had some disappointments. Both of her parents died while she was an undergraduate studying art history. Her only friend, Reva, is intensely needy and unobservant. Her sometime boyfriend, Trevor, is emotionally distant and sexually unimaginative. Her waspishness practically guaranteed her a front of house position at a trendy Chelsea gallery. But it also ensured that she would lose said job in a fit of pique. The only thing that brings her any pleasure, if that’s the correct word, is empty chunks of unconsciousness, i.e. sleep. When she turns to Dr Tuttle, a somewhat unorthodox psychiatrist, she is prepared to tell her almost anything in order to obtain prescriptions for numerous and various medications to assist her goal of uninterrupted repose.

The writing here is both inventive and subtle, even though the events described are rarely either. There is a certain inexorableness to this. Perhaps any novel set in New York in the year 2000 will have that feel, as though it is leading up to something, or falling, falling endlessly. It’s an achievement to hold the readers attention throughout, despite the protagonist’s recurrent and lengthy bouts of forgetful sleep. I was impressed.

Recommended.

29. A Thousand Small Sanities: The Moral Adventure of Liberalism by Adam Gopnik

Much decried by those on the right and left, the wild passive liberal might be thought now to be extinct. Not true! Adam Gopnik boldly steps forward to take up the reins of compromise and conciliation that typify the liberal estate. Presented under the conceit (dread word) of a “conversation” with his 17-year-old daughter on the occasion of the election of an anti-liberal autocrat to the highest office in the land, this book is what he might have said if he hadn’t been at a fumbling loss for words and satisfied that an arm around her shoulders would be just as eloquent that sad evening. Fortunately for us, Gopnik took up his own challenge and is able to present, initially, the basis of what he construes liberalism to be, and thereafter the principal critiques of liberalism from the right and from the left. He is left with the view that liberalism is still the best thing on the block. It gets things wrong. Of course it does. But it also critiques itself and works, ceaselessly, to make corrections, to make things better. And it is these thousand small sanities that both right the ship of state and keep us all afloat.

For those of us either under-versed in political philosophy or overcome by the all-encompassing daily inanities issuing from on high, a book like this is a welcome relief. Gopnik is able to take a synoptic view, and though such views may be just as distorting as any other, his sounds sane and sensible. You will learn a fair bit about a number of Gopnik’s heroes, from John Stuart Mill to George Eliot. There is enough political philosophy here to satisfy the more knowledgeable readers, but also enough social and literary history to captivate those of us who find philosophy a bit dry. I liked it. And at least while I read it, I felt like I was a fellow traveller (though by now I may have already forgotten some of the more subtle arguments). I confess I prefer Gopnik’s non-political books. But these are challenging times for liberal intellectuals and I appreciate Gopnik’s willingness to step up.

Recommended.

----

By the way, one added bonus for me was the frequent and positive references to Canada in this book. I think it is the first in which Gopnik regularly (as opposed to in an aside) draws upon Canadian history for examples. And I can't help wondering what his many American readers will make of it.

30. Milkman: a novel by Anna Burns

The first thing you’ll notice as you begin reading this novel is its distinctive voice. Told in a close first person, the cadences of the sentences at once have a fluidity that is irrepressible but also arresting. At times sentences seem awkward but on rereading they make perfect sense, in tune with the rhythm of the language and their involuted clausal structure. And the diction is sporadically extreme with rare usage and coinage that nevertheless feels entirely natural. It is remarkable on the first page and, sustained throughout over 300 pages, it is an astounding achievement.

The story this writing style presents is as infolding and obsessive as its sentences. In brief, an unwanted sexual aggression in an unnamed zone of internecine strife has consequences near and far. But it is so much more. Although we rarely have characters named, most of them are so vivid that you won’t easily forget them. The exception being the shadowy aggressor, Milkman, who remains obscure, menacing both metaphorically and actually.

There are numerous side stories, grim or delightful in turn. And special characters like Chef, and the real milkman, and third brother-in-law, and the women with issues. I found the book both hard to put down and hard to pick up, because I wanted to savour episodes or reflect on the writing.

Highly recommended.

31. Fleishman is in Trouble: a novel by Taffy Brodesser-Akner

Toby, Libby, and Seth meet on their Junior year abroad in Israel. There they form a bond that, despite distance and forgetfulness, holds firm and brings them back together in the year of Toby’s divorce, of Seth’s engagement, or Libby’s estrangement from her suburban existence. Toby is going through hell. Or he’s putting himself through hell. Or he’s putting everyone else through hell. In any case, this appears to be a novel about Toby — close third-person narration, so close it’s inside Toby’s thoughts. Or it seems to be about Toby until the narration switches to first-person from Libby’s perspective and you realize that she’s the one who has been writing Toby’s life. It’s disorienting. I assume it’s meant to be. And then the first-person narrative just drifts off and you get thoroughly immersed again in that close third-person view of Toby’s disastrous marriage. And then back. Breathe in, breathe out. Relax.

This is a fascinating read. And not just because of the narrative complexity (though, yes, mostly). There is a withering view of the current state of male-female relations and the negotiations that facilitate our compromises. Withering but also at times optimistic. Or is that optimism just optimistic? It’s hard to know. At times things seem excruciatingly real. But at others the narrator just seems to be ranting. Which narrator? See, I told you it was confusing. But also exhilarating.

Ultimately the problem of these excessively wealthy New Yorkers (Toby is the poor man of the bunch, a medical specialist who only brings in $268,000 per year!) can seem distant and self-inflicted. But then maybe all of our problems are like that.

Warmly recommended.

32. The Innocents: a novel by Michael Crummey

Evered and Ada are still children when first their younger sister, Martha, dies, followed within months by their mother and father. They are alone on the north shore of Newfoundland with no one to provide aid or even acknowledge their plight until the biannual arrival of the schooner, The Hope, which brings, or at least brought, their father supplies and carried off their catch of dried cod. But would they be allowed to carry on at the trade in the absence of their parents? When The Hope arrives, Evered makes his case to Mr Clinch that he and his sister can make a go of it. Mr Clinch is doubtful but convinced of Evered’s earnestness. He accedes to Evered’s wishes, leaving supplies with them on credit until the next visit of The Hope. And so Evered and Ada are set upon their lonesome life path.

Michael Crummey’s tale of Evered and Ada is both intimate and sentimental. They are, after all, complete innocents, with almost no knowledge of the world and only a bare knowledge of the tasks they will need to undertake to manage this remote cod fishery. Crummey’s diction is sprinkled with terms and phrases that mark the period (late 18th or early 19th century— it’s not entirely clear). This both particularizes their story as well as distances the reader from it. For example, the meaning of a fair few words was not immediately discernible and therefore needed to be merely glossed over. But only now and then did that strike me as a unfortunate.

The narrative proceeds in linear fashion alternating between Evered’s and Ada’s points of view. Over the following ten years they grow together and apart, learning their trade but also yearning for more. They suffer harms both natural and self-inflicted. But eventually it is their innocence itself that seems to harm them, given their bafflement at the urgings of their bodies and the consequences that result. There are a string of striking events over the years but never a great deal of hope, I think, for a reader that they might prevail. And so the impending transition that the end of the novel suggests seems both contrived as well as inevitable.

As ever, Crummey’s writing is immensely readable and that makes recommending this book an easy choice.

33. Francis Plug - How to be a Public Author by Paul Ewen

Deliciously silly. Francis Plug is an author. Or he’s trying to be one. Or at least he’d like to be one. And quite apart from the solitary rigours of writing, which typically leads to drink, Francis has concerns about the post-publication prospects of public performance. Which typically leads to drink. Francis’ concern is such that he’s decided to contribute to the alleviation of the public author plight by tracking down Booker Prize winners and tapping them for advice that he can pass along. But the only way he can get close to these authors is if he brings along a copy of their prize-winning novel and joins the queue for an autograph. It’s a nerve-racking quest, which typically leads to drink. And before he gets down to it, he’ll just have a wee drink or five to steady his nerves.

Paul Ewen’s creation, Francis Plug, is an everyman, if every man were a wannabe writer. He is a man of the earth — or at least he’s covered in earth due to his desultory employment as a gardener and infrequent change of clothes. Ewen imbues Plug with remarkable resilience and a disconcertingly surreal imagination. And he balances these two on the tip of a bottle of sauvignon blanc. You can’t help but love Francis and in the end feel that there, but the grace of whomever and a few litres of spirits, goes yourself.

Lots to like here and more to enjoy. Easy to recommend to friends.

34. Coventry: essays by Rachel Cusk

The essays, literary reflections, and introductions collected together in Rachel Cusk’s Coventry share an uncluttered professionalism, casual precision, and a kind of blindness. As Cusk is famously (or infamously) a public writer, having written at length about her own life and, latterly, having taken up the auto-fiction mantel, these prose pieces reflect a certain interstitial jobbing - the prose one writes between the big works, to a brief, with remuneration agreed in advance. In short, Cusk as professional writer.

The first grouping in the set, under the heading “Coventry”, are by far the most significant, comprising lengthy essays on metaphor, rudeness, motherhood, divorce, and feminism, all with an eye to their relationship to narrative. “Coventry” as the essay of that title explains, is said to be the place a young girl is “sent” when her peers shun her. It’s a common enough experience. But Cusk receives this punishment also from her parents, especially her mother, who is portrayed in a very cold light. And at some point she begins to enjoy life in Coventry. Exclusion becomes seclusion. Punishment becomes accomplishment. Like the individual sentenced to solitary confinement who happily contemplates finally being able to get a little time to himself. This awkward accommodation with circumstance becomes almost a theme for Cusk as she attempts to reconcile herself to her role as a mother, her (failed) relationship with her spouse, and even the lesser niceties of interpersonal interaction, the breakdown of which is perceived as rudeness.

Cusk’s is at once a penetrating gaze and at the same time characteristically askew. You can’t help wondering about her as a writer. Some writers you like to imagine coming over for dinner; Cusk not so much. This despite your absolute conviction that she is an important writer.

The short section of this collection — some literary reflections and introductions for republished novels by other authors — constitute mostly filler. But pleasant filler. She writes a fine overview and deftly points out some of the key features of individual books, sometimes with a glancing sharp observation about the author. It’s not surprising, I think, to find that fine writers are also fine readers of literature; indeed the latter may be a prerequisite for the former.

In all, this is a collection well worth reading. It will be admired without, perhaps, being loved.

Recommended.

35. Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier

The future second Mrs. de Winter may have been a touch naive, a bit young, falling for a handsome older man in Monte Carlo. Maxim de Winter’s charm and mystery masks the pain of his recent loss, and just maybe something more. Certainly the first Mrs. de Winter’s presence is everywhere to be seen and felt, especially at Manderley, Max’s majestic estate in Cornwall. There the awkward and anxious new Mrs. de Winter will come to cower under the crone-like personal servant to the first Mrs. de Winter, Mrs. Danvers. What seemed a dream romance and a chance at wedded bliss might just turn into a nightmare.

Du Maurier’s narrator here, the otherwise unnamed second Mrs. de Winter, is a bit of a fabulist, always playing out possible situations and conversations in her head, imparting motives and means to people she barely knows, and rapidly abandoning such imaginings when the world proves altogether different. She rarely sees what is plainly before her face, happier to imagine Max’s past and grief than to simply ask him (or anyone, for that matter) what’s going on. She is both imposed upon and subject to self-inflicted stress. And just as one crisis is averted another immediately rises to take its place. But the shocking twist in the tale comes almost out of the blue. And it sets in motion a sequence of events that must be played out to their end.

Very nicely crafted, with a host of colourful subsidiary characters (special mention going to Max’s sister, Beatrice), and continuous threat of ill-will, possible madness, and a touch of evil. But whose?

Recommended.

36. The Silence of the Girls by Pat Barker

Briseis is a prize of battle, the battle which killed her brothers and husband and father, the battle in which Achilles led his Greek Myrmidons to victory over Lyrnessus, a liege-city of Troy. She is Achilles’ prize, his slave. She is also the catalyst for the great final tragic sequence of events in the Trojan war. It begins when Agamemnon takes her for his own on having to give up his own prize, Chryseis. Achilles is affronted by the slight to his honour and refuses to fight further for the Greeks until Agamemnon apologizes. It appears the war will now be lost, until Patroclus dons Achilles’ armour and leads the Myrmidons onto the field of battle to break the Trojan lines. Eventually Hector kills Patroclus. Achilles sets aside his dispute with Agamemnon to return to the fight and avenge Patroclus, killing Hector, knowing full-well that Hector’s death removes Troy’s last, best defence. And since Achilles’ own death has been foretold to occur before the fall of Troy, Hector’s death means Achilles’ death can’t be far off. Even if you tell such a tale from the point of view of Briseis, there is virtually no way for this not to be Achilles’ story. Silence, it is said, becomes a woman.

Against the heavy tide of story and character, Pat Barker marshals her considerable gifts as a lyric teller of historical fiction. Her Briseis is full of vim and keen observation, but not so much as to be anachronistic. She remains a woman of her time and there is no avoiding the custom of spoils in war. And compared to some, or many, Briseis’ lot is desirable. Late on we hear a young, rebellious captive declare that it is better to be dead than a slave, a foreshadow surely of the shade of Achilles’ opposite desire when encountered by Odysseus in the underworld. Briseis also chooses life. And despite Barker’s sometime claim that Achilles is a great criminal, we don’t actually see him committing dishonourable acts here. He does seem admirable, often kind, thoughtful, devoted to his friend, Patroclus, and capable of accepting his fate. Briseis comes to like him in spite of herself. Hate him too, of course, for killing her brothers (in battle). But respect him, certainly. Hence the difficulty. It is very hard to turn the narrative away from Achilles being the best of men.

Nevertheless, Barker’s Briseis story is compelling and thoughtful. It holds one’s attention and offers a wider view on the sometimes narrow story of the Iliad. But what lessons are we meant to take? The more real Briseis becomes, situated in her time and place, the less, I think, she has in common with women today. But I could easily be wrong about that.

Recommended.

>59 RandyMetcalfe: Agree with you, Randy as I also thoroughly enjoyed the book.

37. The Journey Prize Stories 31: The Best of Canada's New Writers compiled by Carleigh Baker, Catherine Hernandez, and Joshua Whitehead

Each year the best short fiction published in Canada is sifted to discover the long list that will be included in the Journey Prize anthology. There are twelve stories in this year’s collection, ranging from the very brief (2 pages) to the substantial (31 pages). The themes are various though they tend to be on the edge, I suppose, depending on where your centre lies. The writers range from first year undergraduates to established short-fiction writers. Most, but not all have MFA degrees or are in the process of attaining same.

Some years when I read the Journey Prize anthology, I find that one or two or more of the stories leap out at me, and in my opinion they are substantially superior to the rest. Not that my selections often, or even ever, coincide with the judges. We must be looking for different things in short stories. It’s possible. This year, sadly, none of the stories really clicked for me. But not to worry. There’s always next year.

38. The Angel Esmeralda: nine stories by Don DeLillo

Each story in this collection justifies the purchase of the whole. Yes, they’re that good. Each is quintessentially DeLillo — his distracted, sometimes muffled, realism creating an almost deadpan delivery. Yet the range is astonishing. Perhaps not, given that these stories where originally published over the course of more than thirty years. But compare the Hemingwayesque style of an early work like “Creation” (1979) with the almost absurdist technique of “Hammer and Sickle” (2010). DeLillo never surrenders to his own competence. He always challenges himself.

It would not be playing favourites to find “The Angel Esmeralda” to be the best of the bunch. Presumably DeLillo thought so too, choosing it as the title for the collection. It presents a harsh cityscape in which the nuns, the elderly Sister Edgar and the younger Grace, perform their acts of charity. Sister Edgar is old school, grammatical in her adherence to the metaphysics of indulgence. Grace is more demanding that what she sees in front of her is real. The tension between them is visceral but it is Edgar who succumbs to the very possibility of angelic visitation, convinced that the image appearing sporadically on an advertisement hoarding is none other than the little girl, Esmeralda, so recently murdered in the Bird (a desolate no man’s land of building ruins and despoiled autos).

I also especially enjoyed “Midnight in Dostoevsky” in which two undergraduates at a liberal arts college embellish their drab days with a kind of competitive fictionalization. And the conflict, when it comes, turns inevitably on whether the world is all that is the case. Brilliant!

Highly recommended.

39. The Topeka School: a novel by Ben Lerner

Adam Gordon is a high school senior on the debating team, soon to be national champion at extemporizing, but equally adept at policy debate wherein the favoured modernist technique is the spread. The spread is a presentation of so many “facts”, so much “evidence”, so many “arguments”, so incredibly quickly that those not versed in this technique might easily confuse what they are hearing for nonsense or the glossolalia of rapture. Yet the spread can render one’s opponent impotent, unable to even enumerate all of the rapidly heard arguments that have been presented let alone respond to them. And the spread is spreading. You can hear it in the surfeit of “information” channels submerging not just thoughtful debate but thought itself. You can see it in the massed rows of cereal boxes in a superstore rendering choice impossible. You can feel it in the fear of disconnection. But once you are spread, there’s almost nothing you can do about it.

There is something intensifying in a Ben Lerner novel. Images, motifs, phrases, sentences come round again, and again. Each time they take on a different aspect, they complicate themselves and those images or phrases around them. Soon the effect begins to intensify. Everything becomes both more meaningful and less certain. You begin to feel like a space within a highly orchestrated symphony. So much going on around you and you feel like if you could be completely still you might just hear it all at once. It’s a futile hope but inevitable. The effect is sublime. Or maybe you’re just suffering from the spread.

This is a stunning novel of art, politics, the poetry of language, and the increasingly unlikely prospect for actual communication. Each chapter, presented from one of the three main characters’ perspectives, becomes a kind of set piece as motifs and themes re-emerge and complicate. Past and present and future (from some points of view) are always already in play. It could be intimidating but Lerner makes it easeful. This is a novel you will read quickly but be exhausted by, your breath quite literally taken away.

Astonishingly good and thus highly recommended.

I've read each of Ben Lerner's three novels and his monograph The Hatred of Poetry. I rate him exceedingly highly amongst American novelists. But what I haven't read is his poetry. Yet it was as a poet that he first gained (and continues to maintain) stature in the literary world. Probably high time I set about reading his poetry to discover whether I like him as a poet as much as I do as a novelist.

40. Trickster Drift by Eden Robinson

Jared Martin is sober. It’s been almost a year. Almost a year since the events that brought Son of a Trickster to a close. His girlfriend, Sarah, is now his ex. Most of his friends have abandoned him. And his mother can’t stand what she perceives as his sanctimonious AA sobriety. Just as well that he is on his way out of Kitimat, headed to Vancouver and college. He’ll make new friends and, if necessary, connect with other relations such as his aunt, Mavis Moody, even though his mother hates her sister. What Jared doesn’t expect is his newfound connection to the otherworldly. For example, he sees ghosts, well mostly just one ghost in a bathrobe who always wants to watch Dr Who on the Sci-Fi channel. Oh, and there’s something creepy living in the wall of his bedroom.

Although the opening of this second volume of this proposed trilogy is a bit awkward — inevitably Robinson has to open out Jared’s world with individuals we’ve not yet come across even though they appear to be relatives — once the story gets going, it is fully engrossing. She has a real flair for Jared’s unique voice and his sanguine approach to frankly freaky situations. Not that he has escaped his past. His mother’s crazy ex-boyfriend, David, is stalking him, and magic keeps edging closer and closer.

Of course some of what shows up in the middle novel of a trilogy, of necessity, is bridging material to get us to the final volume. But there is enough real interaction between characters here to ensure this novel satisfies on its own terms. Aunt Mave is a wonderfully eccentric character and Jared’s cousin and fellow participant at AA, Kota, is both complex and poignant. Plus there are plenty of opportunities for Jared’s sparky verbal jousts which are a treat. I enjoyed it all.

Recommended.

41. Your Duck is My Duck: stories by Deborah Eisenberg

The six stories collected here range from dystopian horror to elegiac memorial to quirky social forensics. Most involve extended families, some non-traditional, weariness at the state of the world, and, often, incomprehension. For me, the collection was front-loaded with the best of the stories at the start of the book. I especially liked the title story, “Your Duck is My Duck,” in which the protagonist is very much at sea when drawn into opulent but distasteful surroundings. Her sideways look at things is charming. “Taj Mahal” contrasts multiple views of a milieu, focussing on a clutch of actors and the director who helped make them famous. It has lovely shifting perspectives and just enough ennui to captivate but not so much as to irritate. “Cross Off and Move On” is a retrospective of an extended family filled with misperceptions and well-preserved bile. Again, the protagonist has a unusual take on her situation that holds the reader’s attention.

At their best these stories are very good indeed. But the book as a whole suffers from the inclusion of weaker stories that seem to be just filling it out.

Gently recommended.

42. Mean Free Path by Ben Lerner

Engagement with poetry consists in a reader encountering structured text and in some way responding to it. That moment of response, when textual meaning coalesces and response begins might be modelled by the mean free path of a particle, which in physics is the average distance it travels before colliding with another particle. Once that collision occurs, once meaning triggers response, everything is off again in different directions, reflected, refracted, repelled, reconstituted. Ben Lerner’s fractured semantics in these poems represents what that might be like, may be like, possibly, when set upon a page. As such these poems, as a whole or in parts, are either objects of such a process, or more tellingly, an attempt to jolt the reader into a similar participatory process, i.e. engagement.

The temptation, naturally, is to take Lerner’s recurring words or imagines, even whole phrases, and seek to reconstruct a seamless semantic whole. Better to resist. Likewise, the reader may, even as they read, be thinking about Lerner’s process. Did he begin with a semantic whole and, as he says, “cut and paste” to create the result, frustrating though that may be? Should I, as a reader, be seeking to return the text to its original form if only to then fracture it again as he has done? Is that my task? No. I don’t think so. Our task is to engage with the finished object. And that is going to be, itself, a fractured process. Just go with it.

One advantage of Lerner’s method, whatever it might be, is that he achieves a poetry that is (frustratingly?) non-reductive. I can’t in any easy or plausibly truthful way provide a single sentence that tells you what it is about. Though I could offer halting gestures. And so the fragmentation, the mean free path of meaning, results in a sensibly objective poetry, one that is exactly what it appears to be.

Highly recommended.

Happy Thanksgiving, Randy.

>68 PaulCranswick: Thanks, Paul.

43. Liminal by Jordan Tannahill

On a Saturday in January 2017, Jordan encounters the prone body of his mother lying on her bed and is caught between two possibilities: “a) You are asleep. b) You are dead.” In that instant, in the space between the intention and the action, the perception and the understanding, between living and dying, his life effectively passes before his eyes. Constantly he is recalled to the “You” that either is or was his mother, but his reflections extend well beyond his direct encounters with this woman as he traces his steps from budding theatre performer to avant garde gay artist. In the process he considers art, theory, philosophy, gender studies, computer science, and cosmology. Heady stuff, perhaps, but it all boils down to what “You” are if “You” are no longer “You.”

Jordan’s is a millennial life, he having been born in 1988. But the philosophical, emotional, and sexual issues he considers are not time-bound. And for the most part they are dealt with an assured, fluid form of presentation. Though the presentational form is often antithetical to narrative drive. It can come across a bit like a lecture. Equally disconcerting is what I’ll call the accusatory second person. There are numerous novels written in the second person. This novel is actually written in the first person. But Jordan is constantly addressing himself to “You”, his mother who may be alive or dead. Whenever Jordan is recounting an incident in his life that involves his mother, the accusatory “You” arises. You did this. You said that. You disagreed with me. It can wear thin. At some point perhaps it seems to cross over into whining. I understand the stylistic motivation here. I’m just not sure it offers sufficient benefit for its cost.

Ultimately, if you are moved by the character of Jordan, you’ll find this a compelling and possibly thought-provoking read. I’d caution, however, that citing numerous philosophers does not in fact constitute grappling with the issues they are dealing with. Nor does it, by itself, transform literature into the, perhaps sought after, philosophical novel.

Gently recommended.

***

Liminal was published by House of Anansi Press, an important mid-sized publishing house in Canada. And for the most part the novel is very tight. So it comes as a big shock toward the middle when, in a scene with four characters — Jordan, his mother, and two of his mother long-time friends, Clyde and Wole — a character named “Ted” suddenly appears to be present. There is no Ted there. And then about fifty pages later there another occurrence of “Ted”. Clearly “Ted” must have been in an earlier draft. Not very impressive editing, despite Tannahill, in the acknowledgements, praising his “extraordinary editor Janie Yoon”.

44. Educated: a memoir by Tara Westover

A memoir of physical and psychological abuse perpetrated by the members one’s family is sadly not remarkable. One individual (or more than one) takes on a coercive stance towards others in the group. It’s possible that the aggression may once have been well-intentioned. Though that may also never have been the case. At some point, for whatever reason, be it mental instability, self-deception, or possession, the abuse becomes heightened, then insidious, and eventually pervasive. So overwhelming, in fact, that the victims begin reordering their own conception of reality in order to accommodate what is taking place. To absolve the perpetrators. To explain away their vile acts. To deny even that those actions ever took place. To “fix it” by fixing themselves. It’s a sad story that sadly is often told. It would make for bad fiction. As non-fiction, it’s just depressing.

What makes Tara Westover’s sad story remarkable is that she was able to survive and eventually thrive once she escaped her family’s pernicious influence. It is a life-long struggle, clearly, since she was a compliant and sometimes complicit participant in her own abuse. Time and again, as she recounts her life story, the reader will be wondering why she would ever even consider going back (again and again) to the site of her abuse. You’ll want to throw your hands up in the air as she yet again gets in a car or buys a plane ticket to go back to her family. How can anyone so obviously brilliant (she wins scholarships to Cambridge University in England) be so dumb? And yet… Tara’s struggle to pull herself out — and despite the goodwill and aid of numerous characters, in the end it comes down to her own will — is remarkable.

The writing here is subtle and pointed. Westover has fond memories of her childhood, not unlike children anywhere who grow up in whatever circumstance. She wants to reclaim those memories but also tell the truth about the incredible number of times her childhood was spoiled by the failure of those around her to protect her from abuse. Moreover she seems to still be struggling to bring herself to judge those who abuse her, whether it’s her father or mother or brother (and there are others also complicit). It’s not a constraint I experience as a reader (nor, I think, should we). Though what good judgement does in such cases is difficult to quantify. In the end, this is just another sad story that we’ve heard too often.

Still, that may be no reason not to hear it again.

Recommended.

45. How To Invent Everything: A Survival Guide for the Stranded Time Traveler by Ryan North

If you find yourself somewhere in time with absolutely nothing, then wouldn’t it be great if you had the wits and wherewithal to make something? Or everything? Maybe you’ve time-traveled to the earliest era of anatomically modern humans. Or maybe you find yourself in a post-apocalyptic no-man’s-land. Or maybe you are just stuck out in the woods, or on a sofa with too much time on your hands. Then this book is probably going to be a big help. It not only has (admittedly minimal) instructions on how to build lots of useful stuff, but it also informs you as to why you might want or need that stuff and, more important, what stuff you might need to build in order to be able to build this stuff. That’s good stuff.

Although this is a silly book that is mostly just fun, it may get you thinking about a couple of things. For example, it got me thinking that it would actually be a really good idea if we, collectively, stored our knowledge about stuff in places and on media that will be accessible if everything goes south. Just in case. It also makes you think about how so many things are connected to other things. And how inventing one thing may or may not impact the potential development of other things. And the potential ramifications of that on a society. This is not something Ryan North is particularly interested in. He’s mostly just about the funny. But what does it say about his view of the world when he presents technologies as developing in tree diagrams, where one thing leads to another, practically inevitably? Is he implying that our present technological and social state is inevitable? Wouldn’t that be an odd discovery? Doesn’t it sound more like what you’d expect from a, somewhat limited, computer game?

Yes, well…

Despite its drawbacks this book does what it sets out to do — it’s moderately fun for geeky guys who don’t really know stuff but wish they did (i.e. probably not so interesting for engineers). And it might accidentally provoke some more serious thought about our species’ interaction and dependence on technology. And that might be more useful for the stranded time traveler than the rest of what is contained herein.

Gently recommended.

46. I Do Not Think That I Could Love A Human Being by Johanna Skibsrud

Johanna Skibsrud’s collection of poems is organized into five sections with titles matching one of the poems contained therein. The poems in each section are loosely thematically linked, a few of which were published previously. Skibsrud varies between cosmic existential questions, often pondering the stars, and highly particular and immediate phenomena, such as measuring the depth of the water while taking a boat out from shore in heavy fog. Often the highly particular and the distant vastness share a common point of perception, a standpoint perhaps on a universe exterior to the self whether near or far. And always the search for meaning is both continuous and typically fruitless, other than passing ephemeral certainties. Subjects include: sailing, travel, white-water kayaking, nature and the north, love, and death.

Gently recommended.

47. Wittgenstein's Nephew: a friendship by Thomas Bernhard

Madness and philosophy are a lot alike. Or at least they are for Thomas Bernhard. He consistently mistakes madmen for philosophers and philosophers for madmen. And whenever he, himself, is at his most philosophical, he is most certain that he is mad; but just when he is most mad, he is convinced that he is a brilliant philosopher. It’s understandable, in a way. Bernhard is friends with Paul Wittgenstein, who is none other than the nephew of the estimable philosopher, Ludwig Wittgenstein. Paul is a bon vivant, a lover of opera, a fashionable dresser, a wit. He is also mad. At least sometimes. Enough to be periodically institutionalized. Why exactly Bernhard conflates Paul’s vivid mental life with the mental rigour of his famous uncle is not clear. But he does. And he draws his inference in the other direction as well, assuring us that Ludwig was also a madman. And, oh yes, this is a sort of memoir of Paul, or belated eulogy. Though really, as ever, it’s entirely about Bernhard himself: madman, philosopher(?), enfant terrible of Austrian letters, and sometime friend of Paul Wittgenstein.

This is a short book but a very long paragraph. Indeed it is one long paragraph that extends for 100 pages. Within the confines of that paragraph, Bernhard is able to roam freely across such subjects as the nature of friendship, madness, illness, health, nature and its discontents, coffee houses, classical music, literary prizes, and more. He does this breathlessly. So much so that the reader almost feels compelled to race through to the end of the paragraph (book!) in one reading breath. This is aided by the rhythmic technique Bernhard deploys regularly conferring a positive description of something only to immediately state the opposite, like lapping waves on a shore. It’s mesmerizing. And even his flights of fancy and exuberant denunciations of friends, literary prize givers, conductors and thespians come across as just more typical Bernhard excess. As though everything he were about to say had already been discounted.

I’m not entirely certain what to make of this book, though it certainly has its moments, some of which of are very funny (usually at the expense of Bernhard himself). You’ll find it an easy read, if you can put up with Bernhard’s antics, and sometimes slyly insightful. Just not about philosophy.

Gently recommended.

***

I’m sure I must have originally read this slim volume about 30 years ago. In those days I had read virtually everything by, on, or related to Wittgenstein (the philosopher, not his bon vivant nephew). But at the time I didn’t have an appreciation for Thomas Bernhard as a writer, and especially no knowledge of his influence on a whole swath of younger writers, for good or ill. Sometimes rereading just makes me nostalgic for lost days.

48. Olive, Again: a novel by Elizabeth Strout

It might not be accurate to describe Olive Kitteridge as an old friend. But most readers, I think, will be glad to see her again. She is a difficult woman to like, despite two men in their time having fallen in love with her. She is honest, to a fault. Direct. Unflinching. Yet she is often tripped up by blind spots, especially when it comes to self knowledge. She still has a lot to learn, as do, it turns out, most characters in this epiphanic novel. Revelations, large and small, are the order of the day in Crosby, Maine, with a tendency toward self-revelation.

Although subtitled, “a novel”, once again Strout presents Olive and the other inhabitants of Crosby through linked short stories. In many of these, Olive is front and centre. But in others she appears only peripherally. In each, the protagonist learns something hidden about themselves, even if that bit of knowledge is already evident to everyone else. Olive learns that she has been a bad mother. She discovers that she is snob (though an inverse one). She is surprised, often, by these epiphanies. And sometimes they make her sad. Indeed, it might be said that sadness pervades this book, as Olive transitions from being old to being elderly. But one of her final epiphanies is that she doesn’t have a clue who she has been, that she does not understand a thing. Which rather throws the earlier insights in doubt. And that doubt is about the most human trait that Olive possesses. It’s why we are so glad to spend time with her again.

Although not as subtle or, I think, as powerful as the earlier presentation of Olive, this is nonetheless a book well worth savouring. You may find it makes you a touch sad as well.

Recommended.

49. Grand Union: stories by Zadie Smith

There is something thoughtful about these nineteen stories. Or rather, thought is foregrounded over action, character, or emotion. They have a tendency to feel constructed. Especially the ones explicitly concerned with deconstruction. Metaphysical would not be a term of abuse here. Even philosophical. The kind of stories in which a narrator might casually bring up P. F. Strawson’s, “Individuals: An Essay in Descriptive Metaphysics,” using its full title, as I’ve just done. Which might be considered a bit heavy handed philosophy signalling, in the absence of virtue.

Perhaps the most famous story from this collection is the oft-reproduced, “Escape From New York,” in which Michael Jackson, Elizabeth Taylor, and Marlon Brandon flee New York City together by car in the aftermath of the 9-11 attacks. It’s such an outlandish premiss as to almost partake of the zany. There are other near-zany stories, such as “Miss Adele Amidst the Corsets.” Some, such as, “Parents’ Morning Epiphany,” are not stories, per se, but would not look out of place on McSweeny’s Internet Tendency. Some feel like formal narrative experiments, which perhaps like scientific experiments are considered successful whether they confirm or disconfirm an hypothesis.

So, not a lot here to warm to. Although one might nod one’s head in appreciation at the inspiration and (sometimes) the execution. But I couldn’t help thinking, often, that I’d rather read one of Zadie Smith’s fine essays or finer novels.

And so, only gently recommended.

50. The Ticking Heart by Andrew Kaufman

Charlie Waterfield is broken. His marriage to Linda is over, though he still holds out hope. His current relationship with Wanda is a blessing, though he holds out no hope for it. And his life itself is pointless, which is hardly the point. In such a state, it may not be surprising to learn, shortly after his forty-third birthday, that Charlie is about to be transported to Metaphoria, have his heart ripped out and replaced by a time bomb, and be set the task of answering the question, “What is the purpose of the human heart?,” in order to achieve his epiphany and be restored before the bomb goes off. He’s got 24hrs.

It will take you less than 24hrs to read this slight allegorical novella. As Charlie bounces from one scrape to the next in Metaphoria, things are never what they seem. But when are they ever? Charlie’s quest takes him to strange and, yes, metaphorical places in Metaphoria, including The Library of Blank Books, and The Prison of Optional Incarceration Necessary to Terminate or Lower Excessive Shame and Self-Reproach (i.e. P.O.I.N.T.L.E.S.S. — now do you see where this is going?). His encounters turn out to be beneficial, for others. Most of the people he meets end up having epiphanies of their own and poofing back into “real” existence. Charlie, not so much. There’s something he just isn’t figuring out. Will he resolve his existential crisis before his existence flatlines? Only time will tell.

Kaufman’s writing is characteristically light and incisive. Here he seems to be aiming for a cross between Paul Auster and Jasper Fforde, with a dash of Kafka. On its own terms, it probably succeeds. Maybe.

Gently recommended.

51. McTavish Goes Wild by Meg Rosoff

If you haven’t read the first book in the McTavish series — Good Dog, McTavish — then this book will come across as innocuous. A family, consisting of two parents and three children, go on a camping vacation with their dog, McTavish. A few mild adventures ensue and everyone returns home mildly improved by their time out in nature. If you have read the first book in the McTavish series, then this book will come as a disappointment. It lacks energy, verve, drama, and that sly humour at which the first book excelled. In point of fact, it lacks a problem, the kind of problem that only McTavish, who is a rescue dog after all, could solve. Where the first book presented us with a family on the verge of utter dissolution, this one presents a family with differing opinions as to where each would like to spend their summer vacation. Hardly the kind of situation that would require a dog as thoughtful and compelling as McTavish. Alas.

It seems churlish to judge this book harshly on account of its charming predecessor. So instead I’ll turn to what I like in this book. First off, I like McTavish. He’s still a wonderful character. He takes his responsibility to the family very seriously. And, of course, he succeeds. I also like Betty, the youngest child. Betty is the only one in the family who seems to be sensible. And that makes her more like McTavish, so their friendship is both earned and rewarded. In this book, Betty seems most like her mother (who was largely absent from the first book). That’s both good, because Betty no longer comes across as a sport of nature, and bad, because it undermines Betty’s uniqueness. It’s hard to feel as much sympathy for Betty now that her mother is there agreeing with her and taking her side all the time. I confess that I also have a secret affection for Ava, the oldest daughter, mostly because she is always reading serious works of philosophy and discussing them intelligently. I rather wished that this second book had centred on Ava, just to shake things up a bit. Oh well.

I don’t know if there is more mileage left in the Peachey family. This may be the weak second book in a series that goes on to new and better heights. That’s what I’ll hope for. So even if I can’t recommend McTavish Goes Wild, I still think the McTavish series is worth a go.

This was a LibraryThing Early Review book.

52. The Dutch House by Ann Patchett

An enterprising young property mogul, Cyril Conroy, purchases a mansion, commonly referred to as “the Dutch house”, in Philadelphia as a surprise for his young wife. She is not happy about it. Or she’s not happy about something else. She’s not happy, certainly, and eventually she leaves him and their two children, Maeve and Danny, to go find herself in India or elsewhere. (The children believe she is dead.) Eventually Cyril remarries, but his new wife, Andrea, is a horror. And when Cyril dies within a few years, Andrea manages to evict both Maeve, who by this time was in college, and the still teenage Danny. They are left with nothing but their hatred of their stepmother. That, and an education trust for Danny to continue his schooling. It’s positively Dickensian.

The story is told from Danny’s point of view. Yet as a character, Danny never fully comes to life. Indeed he seems almost a cipher. It is his sister, Maeve, who is the interesting one. But despite Danny and Maeve’s closeness, we learn very little about her. She’s smart at math. And she has a near-obsessive hatred of Andrea. Time passes, life events occur, and then in the third act someone reappears who has the potential to tie up all the loose threads and bring this novel to a restful conclusion. Sigh.

This might have been a novel of place, about a specific house located in a specific wealthy suburb of Philadelphia. But in fact the house is mostly just a placeholder. We don’t ever get a clear picture of it and no one seems to have a close emotional tie to it other than the grasping interloper Andrea. It also isn’t a novel of character. Danny is so underwritten that he barely registers as gendered. Patchett has to remind us on numerous occasions that he is tall because he is so little in our imaginations. Maeve is brilliant and incisive and in some ways the book is really about her, but we know very little about her other than that she is good at math (and later accounting) and once had a promising future. It’s as though the novel never fully takes shape or decides what it wants to be. The result is that although there are some well-written set pieces, the whole is a lumpen mass, like cold porridge.

That sounds harsher than I intend. I did really like Maeve and later, Danny’s daughter, May. I rather wish the story had been told instead from Maeve’s point of view. I would have liked to see the world as she did, if only for a while.

53. Lint by Steve Aylett

Bonkers. Stark raving bonkers. But also brilliant. From its opening epigraph to its closing acknowledgements, this fictional biography of science fiction “legend” Jeff Lint is a breathtaking tour-de-force. It traces Lint’s life from his birth in 1928 to his death in 1994. Typically, Lint’s death was immediately preceded by a near-death experience. He was that kind of guy.

Lint’s life, such as it was, really began when he sought to publish his first stories during the hey-day of pulp science fiction. Lint’s stories were beyond the edge of sensible. So much so that quoting from any of them would render this account senseless. And his periodic forays into other media — comics, film, even pop music — were equally bizarre and disastrous. It’s the kind of life you won’t struggle to remember.

Aylett’s attention to detail is astounding. There is a bibliography at the end that stretches to a hundred blissfully imagined publications. He provides pages of “Lint Quotations” with such memorable lines as, “When the abyss gazes into you, bill it.” And there is a comprehensive 11 page index. Did I mention it was bonkers?

The downside of all this inventiveness is that reading the book is exhausting. Even a few pages at a time. I kept wondering how exhausting it must have been for Steve Aylett to write. And why. Certainly he has created something utterly unique. We can only hope it remains that way.

Cautiously recommended to those who either already are bonkers, or are hoping to go there.

******************

I find it deliciously ironic that when I sought out this book in our public library I discovered it had been catalogued in the non-fiction section, Dewey code 813.54 Lint-A. Priceless! I pointed out to a librarian that it even says “Fiction” in large print on the back cover. She was unimpressed. Also, apparently, powerless to correct the catalogue entry. All I can say is that Steve Aylett has succeeded beyond his own imaginings.

54. Letters from an Astrophysicist by Neil deGrasse Tyson

Astrophysicist Neil deGrasse Tyson is a very public scientist. He receives a lot of mail (including email). From this vast archive of correspondence he has culled a selection of letters that ask good questions, bad questions, praise or blame, and to each he provides sensible and sometimes lengthy responses. The sheer effort to meaningfully fulfil how he sees his role as a public scientist is astonishing.

That said, I’m not entirely certain to whom this book is addressed. It is presented by the publishers as a companion, of sorts, to Tyson’s Astrophysics for People in a Hurry. It is not. You would be hard pressed to learn much about astrophysics from these correspondences. Rather what you learn is just how taxing (I want to write “tedious”, but I suspect Tyson is just more generous than I) it must be to be regularly confronted with the cliff edge of scientific illiteracy. Perhaps the few letters of startling optimism and scientific enthusiasm sprinkled in here make up for how disheartening the others must be. Perhaps.

I’d gladly recommend this book to someone to whom it might serve as inspiration. Until then, I’ll continue to recommend Tyson’s other titles.

55. Incidental Inventions by Elena Ferrante

Over the course of a year, Elena Ferrante produced a weekly column for the Guardian newspaper in the UK. She notes that this was her first such undertaking and that it came with its own set of anxieties. Would she be able to produce these pieces on time? Would she have anything interesting to say? Would they find readers? All of her questions have been answered in the positive. Collected together here, they present a writer self-conscious and self-reflective, anxious but also determined. And if there are no astounding insights or startling conclusions, there are at least consistent workmanly reflections, both thoughtful and occasionally thought-provoking.

The topics that Ferrante tackles range from typical concerns of the professional writer, to the more particular concerns of a woman writer. Even punctuation matters, with entries on the exclamation point and on ellipses. There are also many entries that fall under the rubric of self-reflection. And again, about various experiences growing up. But what most typifies these inventions is their consistency of tone. Ferrante is never frivolous. Nor is she arch. She considers and reconsiders matters and doesn’t overreach. It would not be out of place to call such writing wise.

Easily recommended.

Undoubtedly that will be the last book I complete before Christmas. So I'll take this opportunity to wish one and all a very merry Christmas and all the best in the year ahead.

Thank you for keeping me company in 2019.......onward to 2020.

56. Kitchen by Banana Yoshimoto

The two early novellas contained in this slim volume -- Kitchen and Moonlight Shadow -- are each intimately concerned with grief. Despite the youthful character of the writing and the protagonists, a romantic melancholic sadness permeates everything.

In Kitchen, Mikage is a university student when she becomes an orphan. She had already lost both parents as a child, and her grandfather as a teenager, but now her grandmother, the woman who effectively raised her has died. Can anyone survive such grief? Not without help. Mikage's help comes in the form of Yuichi, a boy Mikage's age, and his "mother", Eriko. Eriko was Yuichi's father until the untimely early death of his wife, Yuichi's mother, after which he transitions through choice and surgery into the woman, Eriko. So grief abounds. But so too does love. And it is the care that Eriko and Yuichi provide for Mikage that rescues her from despair and, eventually, allows Mikage and Yuichi to survive the further sadness in store for them.

Moonlight Shadow is also concerned with love and loss at a very young age. Satsuki loses her boyfriend, Hitoshi, at the same time that Hitoshi's brother, Hiiragi, loses his girlfriend -- a fatal car accident when Hitoshi was driving Yumiko home after a family gathering. Satsuki and Hiiragi deal with their grief in their separate ways, but it is only when they come together to help each other that they finally start the process of recovery, with the assistance of an event that may or may not be magical.

The writing here is both spare and overwrought, if that makes sense. Both novellas benefit from their brevity. Too much of this might get tiresome. But in small doses, like a single Pre-Raphaelite painting rather than a whole gallery of them, it's fine.

Easy to recommend.

It is December 31st. A thread closes and probably tomorrow a new thread will begin. My numbers are down this year, somewhat inexplicably. But the quality of the books I read has been high. I didn’t read a single book that I rated as less than 2 stars. That might be a first. Meanwhile 38% of the books I read rated (for me) 4 stars or above. Which is great. Next year I’ll read more books. But I hope the quality stays high.

Here follow my top reads of 2019:

The Topeka School by Ben Lerner
Told from the points of view of Adam, a high school senior, and his two parents, both psychologists, it captures the unlikely prospect of communication in the age of “the spread”.

The Angel Esmeralda: nine stories by Don DeLillo
DeLillo’s trademark distracted, sometimes muffled, realism suffuses these stories drawn from more than 40 years of superlative writing.

Milkman by Anna Burns
An irrepressible but arresting narrative voice tells a story as infolding and obsessive as its sentences. A remarkable achievement.

Grief is the Thing with Feathers by Max Porter
A father and his two sons mourn the loss of their wife and mother, respectively. Their grief is a garrulous, wild thing, rather like Ted Hughes’ Crow, an elemental thing, a somewhat friend that comes and lives with you when the balance in your life has been tipped.

Fleishman Is In Trouble by Taffy Brodesser-Akner
This metafictional narrative of wealthy New Yorkers both frustrates and rewards. Apparent obsessions of the flesh, however, pale beside the excoriating self-reflection (or self-regard) of the ultimate narrator. Perhaps.

My thanks to those who visited my thread over the course of the year. And many thanks to those who contributed. And finally, thanks to all of you for the many books I’ve added to my TBR list due to your threads. Looking forward to 2020 already.

>80 RandyMetcalfe: Just a brief follow-up. I recently checked our public library and I see that Lint is now correctly catalogued there as fiction. Result!