Tag Archives: sexy author

The Neighbors Are Watching, by Debra Ginsberg

Posted on by
Reply

There is nothing quite so satisfying as a story about suburbanites with secrets. If you tune into popular culture regularly, you might come to believe that every cul-de-sac is a hotbed of lust, avarice, infidelity and worse. Alas, most are not. Fuller Court, however, is rife with several of these vices, and is marinated in a heavy broth of suspicion, indifference and bias. The perfect setting for a juicy novel!

Pregnant 17-year-old Diana appears one July day in this Southern California neighborhood of virtual strangers. She has come seeking her birth father, whom she’s never met, having departed her mother’s home in Las Vegas. Has she been banished? Ore escaped? Over the course of the summer, her presence shakes up the households in her new neighborhood, pulling families apart and making unexpected allies among the group. As the Santa Ana winds sweep fire through the valley in September, the little community cracks. What emerges is a mystery and the unveiling of many secrets. Fabulous!

This is one of my favorite genres of novel, beautifully executed. There is a mystery, there is possibly a crime, there is a great sense of people forced to abandon a very modern kind of solitude. The author also takes on the subject of parenting: what makes a good parent, what makes a bad parent, and how we feel about our children, particularly those who are not with us. Like many parents, I struggle almost daily with the worry that I am not doing enough, or enough of the right things, for my kids. And as a parent who shares custody, I know that horrible black hole that opens in my life when I’ve been separated from them for too long. This novel describes all of these feelings beautifully. It also provides some great examples of people who are definitely doing the whole thing less skillfully than I! Which always gives me a great sense of satisfaction.

The writing is quick, smart and evocative. I’m glad I read this on a long travel day – otherwise I would surely have missed hours of precious sleep reading Just One More Chapter. I’ve been meaning to read all of the author’s work for some time now, having loved Waiting: The True Confessions of a Waitress. I especially want to read About My Sisters, since I have the absolute privilege of actually knowing one of them! Time to load up the nook.

Debra Ginsberg, in addition to having written lots of terrific books, both fiction and non, also has a great blog, which I could spend many hours reading. This is one of my favorite posts, which I would like to steal and re-title Another Reason Why Judaism Is So Much Cooler Than Christianity.

The English Patient, by Michael Ondaatje

Posted on by
Reply

I first read this book about 15 years ago, and was blown away. I rushed to finish it the day before the movie came out, and thus ruined my enjoyment of a highly acclaimed film.

My disappointment stemmed from the filmmakers choosing what I considered to be the secondary love story as their main theme. Otherwise, I remember it as beautiful and moving. What can I say, the book is always better…

Rereads are so satisfying. I love to see how I’ll react to a book once I’ve moved into a different phase of life. And then, of course, I already know the ending. When I read this the first time, I was closer in age to Kip and Hana; now I’d call Caravaggio and the English patient my contemporaries. I feel more nostalgia for the younger pair, and having been disappointed and having disappointed in turn, I have more sympathy for those characters who fail to act honorably, or who suffer lapses in judgment.

The story takes place in 1945, in a bombed out Italian villa. A young Canadian nurse takes care of a badly burned man, known only as the English patient. Her wounded surrogate uncle stumbles them, and joins the household. Which coincidence somehow seems reasonable. A young Indian sapper, a bomb-defuser, lives in the garden while he clears mines from the countryside. The story relies on flashbacks and internal dialogue, as the four of them limp through the physical and emotional aftermath of the war. There is a mystery to solved, which takes pressure off the rest of the story; the relationships among those present and missing is the real meat of the novel.

The writing in this book is gorgeous. Ondaatje evokes landscape vividly, and is one of those authors who says a lot with just a few words. Each character is given a lot of attention, and all are fascinating. Despite being a wartime novel, this is less about the horrors of war then about the profound solitude they engender. The two older men embody loads of moral ambiguity, while Kip and Hana are mostly reacting to the unrelenting sorrow they’ve been exposed to, and do so with strength and grace. This may be a comment on the complexities that arise from age and experience; it’s hard to stay untarnished over the course of a lifetime.

There’s an undercurrent throughout of disaffection, isolation, people intentionally turning their backs on familiarity and tradition, and the damaging aspects of obsession. This is a terrific book, worthy of rereading, and definitely deserves to be called a classic.

Chang and Eng, by Darin Strauss

Posted on by
Reply

Yesterday I told my friend Tessa that life is too short to read anything you don’t thoroughly enjoy. Then I went back to slogging my way through this book, which I have been failing to enjoy lo these many months.

Sometimes I’m just sure I’m going to love a book, either because I’ve heard good things about it or, as in this case, I have really liked other books by the same author. But of course tastes vary, and liking an author doesn’t mean liking all of his work. Still, this was so hard to give up on! The premise is pretty fascinating; it’s the fictional memoir of one of the original Siamese twins. The writing is good, the story is promising, but I just didn’t like it.

Chang, the narrator, is a complete misanthrope. And the person he dislikes the most? His conjoined twin, Eng. I can relate to his desire to be alone; I am pretty reclusive myself. His total disconnection from every other human being, however, became oppressive. That and his sense of utter superiority. Could one really spend every single moment inches away from another human and feel nothing but contempt for him? This seems unlikely to me. If true, I can  not bear to read about, and would much prefer sweep it under the rug of ignorance.

As long as I’m complaining, I will note one other problem I had with this book. The twins were connected by some sort of ligament, referred to here as a band. Although many other details of scenery and physical countenance in the novel conjured up vivid images, I just can’t manage to picture this bond. Or band. Or ligament. Or… something. Google returns nothing useful; there were a few pictures taken of the twins, but none that show how they were attached. The band is mentioned often, and this lack of a visual representation drove me crazy.

I loved Darin Strauss’ memoir, Half a Life, and look forward to reading his other books. And I’m glad I didn’t spend another minute trying to like this one. Life is, after all, too short to spend reading anything you don’t thoroughly enjoy.

Anansi Boys, by Neil Gaiman

Posted on by
2


Another terrific Neil Gaiman book – is there any other kind? Anansi Boys is set in the same territory as American Gods, the nexus of humanity and godliness. In this case, the god in question thinks he is human, and only slowly comes to understand that his family is not just mildly dysfunctional, but is downright otherworldly.

Gaiman’s ability to take on the voice of a character so decidedly unlike himself is uncanny. I understand that that is the job of the novelist, but still. The atmosphere ranges from the mundane to the bizarre, and I could always picture myself in the scene. There’s something Everyman about Fat Charlie, which makes his realization of his godliness very satisfying.

The clumsy, always slightly-behind-the-curve child of a charmed ne’er-do-well, Charlie has no interest in revisiting his childhood home after his father’s death. It turns out that some childhood fears are well-deserved; the frightening neighborhood ladies of his youth are in fact witches of a sort. As the layers slowly peel away, Fat Charlie is dragged into the realization that what he thought were dreams are real, and that he has a family unlike any other.

One of the things Neil Gaiman does really well is interweave the supernatural with the every day. The more fantastical elements of the story are counterbalanced with reality: difficult boss, demanding girlfriend. The result is a hero who provokes your frustration, but who you can’t help rooting for.

The Hand That First Held Mine, by Maggie O’Farrell

Posted on by
Reply


In a recent post I described new parenthood as interesting only to the parents themselves. How wrong I was! This author describes new motherhood in minute detail, and it is absolutely fascinating. This may be because these scenes are interspersed with so many other slivers of life. To me, the difficult thing about having an infant, aside from the utter lack of sleep, is that it is so unrelenting in its repetition. Change, feed, pat, rock, feed, change, rock… Maggie O’Farrell manages to pull out specific moments, while conveying the overwhelming whole.

Elina can’t quite remember how her baby got from inside her to next to her; a traumatic birth has left her with a sense of unreality that will be familiar to anyone suffering sleep deprivation, but even more so. As she tries to navigate her new situation she is careful not to alarm her boyfriend, Ted. He, in turn, is hiding the confusion and apprehension he is feeling as a result of a deluge of near-memories of his childhood.

Their story is told in parallel with that of Lexie, a vivid character from an earlier generation. The two stories are seemingly unrelated, but of course a connection eventually reveals itself.

I loved this book from the opening. I don’t remember hearing anything about it, I just found it while browsing at the library. Which reminds me of how enjoyable it is to read a book with no preconceptions. It seems especially appropriate in this case, as the characters move in seemingly random loops and arcs.

There is one oddly unreal character wandering the halls of this book. He stands in stark contrast to the others, who are so carefully drawn. A connector, rather than a person. This flaw did not, however, dull my enjoyment of this book. I really had a hard time putting it down, and was riveted right up to the end. The author uses lots of color and visual detail, which stuck in my mind long after I finished reading. AN author I’ll definitely revisit.

Someday This Pain Will Be Useful to You, by Peter Cameron

Posted on by
Reply

No one uses language the way Peter Cameron does. The precision of every word is a luxury not often experienced in modern literature. In this book, the juxtaposition of perfect grammar and an astute vocabulary emanating from the mouth of a disaffected eighteen year old boy is, well, affecting. What is most interesting is the subtle way this character’s diction changes over the course of the novel. As he begins to accept his unhappiness and descend, slowly, from his aerie of isolation, his use of language loosens up ever so slightly. By the end he is far from slinging around slang, but he sounds more like a resident of the 21st century than the 19th.

This is one of those books that almost makes me wish I’d grown up in New York City. There is something about that experience that is hard to fully imagine, as opposed, say, to growing up on a farm in Appalachia. This is also foreign to me, but it’s somehow easier for me to mentally put myself there. A childhood in Manhattan will forever be something I don’t want, but want to know.

As for what happens in this book: James is eighteen, spending the summer before his freshman year (he’s going to Brown) working at his mother’s art gallery. His mother is recovering from her day-long third marriage. His father is preparing for his first bout of cosmetic surgery. His sister, who attends Barnard, is having an affair with a married professor of linguistics. His therapist is dedicated to making him initiate their conversations. His only friend, John, is trolling online for men when the gallery is empty, which is most of the time. This is the backdrop of James’ life, a collection of extremely intelligent, outwardly successful urbanites, none of whom seem particularly happy.

The one bright spot in James’ life is his grandmother, keeping her house in the affluent suburbs spotless as she embodies a more graceful era. She may provide the impetus for her grandson’s lone hobby: endless online searches for beautiful, inexpensive houses in the Midwest.

There isn’t a lot of action in this book. There are a couple of seminal events, one told in flashback, and there is a lot of self-examination. All of which is engrossing, because it is so well-written, and the main character is endlessly sympathetic and charming. Even when he’s being kind of a self-absorbed smart alec. I liked this book almost as much as I liked The City of Your Final Destination, which I recommend with stars in my eyes. And clearly Peter Cameron should win some sort of literary prize for the best titles.

Half a Life, by Darin Strauss

Posted on by
Reply


I first heard Darin Strauss on This American Life, telling this story. I found it so intensely moving that I listened to it again in its entirety. In short: at the age of 18 Darin hit and killed a 16 year old girl, she on a bike, he in a car. No one blames him, it wasn’t his fault. This, of course, hasn’t stopped him from feeling guilty, and feeling guilty about feeling guilty, for half his life.

The accident itself was not so very huge – the car didn’t suffer any damage past a cracked windshield, and none of its occupants were hurt. Despite the sad outcome, it’s the kind of event that you’d read about and then pretty quickly forget. Unless, of course, you happen to be the one in the driver’s seat. In which case it colors everything you do for years, maybe forever.

Strauss says in this book that had this episode never occurred, he may not have become a writer. Which is hard to imagine. I kept thinking that another, less introspective person might not have spent so very much time obsessing over his every reaction to the pivotal event in his life; he’s not sad enough, he’s selfishly sad, he’s not demonstrative enough, he’s faking it. This is probably naive of me. Probably the truth is really that not everyone in this situation would do such a good job of describing his feelings.
Somewhere in the midst of the story, I realized that this book is not a memoir of Darin Strauss’ whole life, but more a very close look at the lens through which he’s lived his life. He doesn’t tell us about the many times he didn’t think about Celine, because that’s not the point of this story.

It’s hard to imagine living with the weight of having accidentally taken some one’s life. This small book serves as a reminder that life can change on a dime; a moment can stretch into eternity. I really recommend listening to Darin tell the story, here.

 

The Keep, by Jennifer Egan

Posted on by
Reply


This novel is a little bit gothic, and a little bit rock and roll. It is full of rabbit holes and dramatic shifts of perception. There’s a ghost story, some romance, life-threatening adventure, childhood trauma, and deep dark, secrets. In short, it’s got just about everything crammed into it, and yet it flows along smoothly, and the shocking surprises seem utterly plausible. Very impressive.

Danny, a wannabe New York player, finds himself scaling the walls of a castle somewhere in the no-man’s land between Austria, Germany and the Czech Republic – fairy tale land. His cousin is trying to create an experiential vacation spot for tourists seeking inner peace. Or something. There’s a traumatic childhood secret binding and repelling these two, and the situation at the castle is fraught with interpersonal dysfunction and possibly a little supernatural shenanigans. I hesitate to say much else, because the twists and turns should really be experienced with the sudden intensity that comes from complete ignorance. There is a second simultaneous story in the novel, about a prison inmate and his writing teacher; I wouldn’t call it subplot, exactly, more a concurrent reality.

Suffice to say the complete story is told from the points of view of several different characters. These perspectives are different enough to really pretzel your mind, in a way I found most satisfying. In the end there are several unanswered questions; in fact, the whole narrative seems to be about opening one door after another, wandering down hallways, becoming intrigued more with the path than the destination. There is also an underlying theme of conectedness: Danny, who relies on his digital connections to feel any sense of self, is cut off from the outside world the moment he steps inside the castle grounds. Ray, the lifer, is cut off from the self he left outside the prison walls. Questions about the nature of reality, and communication, and maintaining personal strongholds are intertwined in a manner that makes (this)  reader wonder if she has any idea what these things mean at all.

There’s a lot going on in this book, much of it funny, some of it heartbreaking, all of it written with a vividness that makes it seem immediate and real. There’s so much story telling going on, you might fail to notice that it’s written very, very well.

Here‘s an interview Jennifer Egan did with the editor of the New York Times Book Review – no spoilers, and she’s enviously articulate.

War Dances, by Sherman Alexie

Posted on by
1


I think I would be a better person if I spent a little time in Sherman Alexie’s presence every day. He’s smart and funny and reasonable and passionate. And he’s good at taking a stand. I have really enjoyed everything I’ve read of his, including many interviews. Here is a very funny clip of him talking to Steven Colbert about why he won’t allow any of his work to be sold electronically.

Some of the things I love about this book:

It is a perfectly balanced collection of prose and poetry. Everyone likes poetry, right, but how many of us can manage a whole book of it? Much better to have it mixed in with good old-fashioned prose.

It is always hard to tell whether these stories are autobiographical, fictional, or a combination of the two. For some reason this makes them all seem very real and very true. And it’s not at all distracting, as I would have expected. Instead of wondering which parts are the author, and which parts are imagined, I find myself thinking that these are the thoughts and actions of a real person in a real situation.

The people in this book are all flawed, and are all exactly the kind of people I would like to hang out with. Alexie’s characters all share an authenticity that is rare and delicate. I’ve always wondered how one would invent a person and make her true to herself; half the time I don’t know how I’m going to feel about something, so how on earth would I know how my fictional character would feel? Apparently Sherman Alexie does not have this problem.

This is a quick read. Yet it is not at all fluffy. This, I think, is a rare gift, to be able to write stories that are true and rich and yet simple. It feels as though he’s sitting a the table with you, telling you the story, choosing his words carefully, but not deliberating overlong, not complicating things.

I read The Absolutely True Story of a Part-Time Indian about a year ago, then immediately watched Smoke Signals, a movie for which he wrote the screenplay. I am now tempted to gather all things Alexie and power through them, but that would be like eating all your jellybeans on Easter morning. An indulgence which ultimately makes you wish you had some restraint.

Bonk, By Mary Roach

Posted on by
2

This book is subtitled “The Curious Coupling of Science and Sex”. Which sums up Mary Roach’s combination of humor and academic rigor. This book will tell you every single thing you never wanted to know about sex, in shuddering detail. I found myself physically cringing an awful lot while reading this book, but I had a hard time putting it down. It’s not surprising that researchers want to understand the mechanics of sex more thoroughly, but some of their experiments verge on the masochistic.

Mary Roach is a very funny woman, which is one reason that I, an avowed avoider of nonfiction, read all of her books. She also has a talent for exploring subjects that are a little uncomfortable (see Stiff). I really admire her willingness to climb out from behind her stack of books to experience the ickier side of science. In the case of this book, she, and at times her apparently very understanding husband, participated in several of the studies she describes. That is dedication I admire.

The author herself notes that sex is not a subject that can be understood without taking into account the emotional side of the equation. Most of the studies she uncovers are, however, all about mechanics. It makes sense, of course, that scientists are interested in pure data. And I can imagine that funding proposals for sex research have to be carefully written. It is true that this kind of scientific pursuit has led to breakthroughs in both medicine and technology, but I still maintain that there is a little bit of magic at work in really good sex, and all the studies in the world aren’t going to make either a pill or a device that can deliver it.