The Girl with No Shadow (Lesley)
The Girl With No Shadow
Contemporary Fiction
2008 William Morrow (Harper Collins)
Finished on 4/15/08
Rating: 4.5/5 (Terrific!)
Book Description
Since she was a little girl, the wind has dictated every move Vianne Rocher has made, buffeting her from place to place, from the small French village of Lansquenet-sous-Tannes to the crowded streets of Paris. Cloaked in a new identity, that of widow Yanne Charbonneau, she opens a chocolaterie on a small Montmartre street, determined to still the wind at last and keep her daughters, Anouk and the baby, Rosette, safe.
Her new home above the chocolate shop offers calm and quiet: no red sachets hang by the door; no sparks of magic fill the air; no Indian skirts with bells hang in her closet. Conformity brings with it anonymity—and peace. There is even Thierry, the stolid businessman who wants to take care of Yanne and the children. On the cusp of adolescence, an increasingly rebellious and restless Anouk does not understand. But soon the weathervane turns . . . and into their lives blows the charming and enigmatic Zozie de l’Alba. And everything begins to change.
Zozie offers the brightness Yanne’s life needs. Anouk, too, is dazzled by this vivacious woman with the lollipop-red shoes who seems to understand her better than anyone—especially her mother. Yet this friendship is not what it seems. Ruthless, devious, and seductive, Zozie has plans that will shake their world to pieces. And with everything she loves at stake, Yanne must face a difficult choice: Run, as she has done so many times before, or stand and confront this most dangerous enemy. . . .
It’s been almost eight years since I first read Joanne Harris’ Chocolat
Let’s see if I can tempt you to read this wonderful book.
It’s not easy being the daughter of a witch. Harder still being the mother of one. And after what happened at Les Laveuses I was faced with a choice. To tell the truth and condemn my children to the kind of life I’d always had: moving constantly from place to place; never stable; never secure; living out of suitcases; always running to beat the wind–
Or to lie, and to be like everyone else.
and
How to explain this to Roux, who fears nothing and cares for no one? To be a mother is to live in fear. Fear of death, of sickness, of loss, of accidents, of strangers, of the Black Man, or simply those small everyday things that somehow manage to hurt us most: the look of impatience, the angry word, the missed bedtime story, the forgotten kiss, the terrible moment when a mother ceases to be the center of her daughter’s world and becomes just another satellite orbiting some less significant sun.
It has not happened—at least, not yet. But I see it in the other children; in the teenage girls with their sullen mouths and their mobile phones and their look of contempt at the world in general. I have disappointed her, I know that. I am not the mother she wants me to be. And at eleven, though bright, she is still too young to understand what I have sacrificed, and why.
Harris’ mouthwatering descriptions made me reach for a mug of hot cocoa (Ghirardelli) and long for a trip to France:
But there’s always time for hot chocolate, made with milk and grated nutmeg, vanilla, chilli, brown sugar, cardamom, and 70 percent couverture chocolate—the only chocolate worth buying, she says—and it tastes rich and just slightly bitter on the back of the tongue, like caramel as it begins to turn. The chilli gives it a touch of heat—never too much, just a taste—and the spices give it that churchy smell that reminds me of Lansquenet somehow, and of nights above the chocolate shop, just Maman and me, with Pantoufle sitting to one side and candles burning on the orange-box table.
As with Chocolat, I loved the setting in this book:
Montmartre is a village within the city—and remains deeply if dubiously nostalgic, with its narrow streets and old cafes and country-style cottages, complete with summer whitewash and fake shutters at the windows and bright geraniums in their terra-cotta pots. To the folk of Montmartre, marooned above a Paris simmering with change, it sometimes feels like the last village; a fleeting fragment of a time when things were sweeter and simpler; when doors were always left unlocked and any ills and injuries could be cured with a square of chocolate–
I also love the details that made it so easy to envision a room or character:
First, I see her catch the scent. It’s a combination of many things; the Christmas tree in the corner; the musty aroma of old house; orange and clove; ground coffee; hot milk; patchouli; cinnamon—and chocolate of course; intoxicating, rich as Croesus, dark as death.
She looks around, sees wall hangings, pictures, bells, ornaments, a doll-house in the window, rugs on the floor—all in chrome yellow and fuchsia-pink and scarlet and gold and green and white. It’s like an opium den in here, she almost says, then wonders herself for being so fanciful. In fact she has never seen an opium den—unless it was in the pages of the Arabian Nights—but there’s something about the place, she thinks. Something almost—magical.
This sequel doesn’t have quite as many tantalizing descriptions as Chocolat and it has a much more sinister feel to it, but it’s certainly a winner in my book. I couldn’t put it down and when I wasn’t reading it, I was constantly thinking about the characters, curious to see how it’d all play out. Harris is definitely not the hit-or-miss author I thought she was!
Valentines (Lesley)
Valentines
Poetry
2008 University of Nebraska Press
Finished on 4/1/08
Rating: 3.5/5 (Good)
For Valentine’s Day 1986, Ted Kooser wrote “Pocket Poem” and sent the tender, thoughtful composition to fifty women friends, starting an annual tradition that would persist for the next twenty-one years. Printed on postcards, the poems were mailed to a list of recipients that eventually grew to more than 2,500 women all over the United States. Valentines collects Kooser’s twenty-two years of Valentine’s Day Poems, complemented with illustrations by Robert Hanna and a new poem appearing for the first time.
Kooser’s Valentine poems encompass all the facets of the holiday: the traditional hearts and candy, the brilliance and purity of love, the quiet beauty of friendship, and the bittersweetness of longing. Some of the poems use the word valentine, others do not, but there is never any doubt as to the purpose of Kooser’s creations.
Ted Kooser knows my husband’s boss and stopped by the office one day to sign copies of his book for the employees. Two years ago, Rod wrote a poem for me for Valentine’s Day. This year he surprised me with a signed copy of Kooser’s book! Here are a couple of my favorites:
The Bluet
Of all the flowers, the bluet has
the sweetest name, two syllables
that form on the lips, then fall
with a tiny, raindrop splash
into a suddenly bluer morning.
I offer you mornings like that,
fragrant with tiny blue blossoms–
each with four petals, each with a star
at its heart. I would give you whole fields
of wild perfume if only
you could be mine, if you were not–
like the foolish bluet (also called
innocence) — always holding your face
to the fickle, careless, fly-by kiss
of the Clouded Sulpher Butterfly.
and
Splitting An Order
I like to watch an old man cutting a sandwich in half,
maybe an ordinary cold roast beef on whole wheat bread,
no pickles or onion, keeping his shaky hands steady
by placing his forearms firm on the edge of the table
and using both hands, the left to hold the sandwich in place,
and the right to cut it surely, corner to corner,
observing his progress through glasses that moments before
he wiped with his napkin, and then to see him lift half
onto the extra plate that he had asked the server to bring,
and then to slowly unroll her napkin and places her spoon,
her knife and her fork in their proper places,
then smoothes the starched white napkin over her knees
and meets his eyes and holds out both old hands to him.
This is a small collection that can easily be read in one sitting. I enjoyed some, but not all of the poems. I’ve read a few of Kooser’s collections and there’s usually just one or two poems that speak to me. Maybe I’m just not a big fan of poetry. I want to appreciate each and every one, but so many leave me wondering what the heck they were supposed to mean!
So, maybe I didn’t love this book. But I love the idea that my husband wanted to give it to me for Valentine’s Day. And, the funny thing is that Kooser came to my work for a book signing right around the same time he went to my husband’s office. I missed the signing, but a couple of days before Valentine’s Day, I picked up a copy and started to buy it for Rod, but then put it back, thinking he’d probably prefer a book about Winston Churchill. Wouldn’t that have been a hoot if we’d both given each other the same autographed book? I can just imagine the look on both of our faces as the first gift was unwrapped!
Oh, one final comment. In addition to Kooser’s poetry, the book is filled with wonderful line drawings by Robert Hanna
The Prince of Frogtown (Lesley)
The Prince of Frogtown
Nonfiction - Memoir
2008 Knopf
Finished on 3/30/08
Rating: 2/5 (Fair)
ARC - Due out on May 6, 2008
Book Description
In this final volume of the beloved American saga that began with All Over but the Shoutin’ and continued with Ava’s Man, Rick Bragg closes his circle of family stories with an unforgettable tale about fathers and sons inspired by his own relationship with his ten-year-old stepson.
He learns, right from the start, that a man who chases a woman with a child is like a dog who chases a car and wins. He discovers that he is unsuited to fatherhood, unsuited to fathering this boy in particular, a boy who does not know how to throw a punch and doesn’t need to; a boy accustomed to love and affection rather than violence and neglect; in short, a boy wholly unlike the child Rick once was, and who longs for a relationship with Rick that Rick hasn’t the first inkling of how to embark on. With the weight of this new boy tugging at his clothes, Rick sets out to understand his father, his son, and himself.
The Prince of Frogtown documents a mesmerizing journey back in time to the lush Alabama landscape of Rick’s youth, to Jacksonville’s one-hundred-year-old mill, the town’s blight and salvation; and to a troubled, charismatic hustler coming of age in its shadow, Rick’s father, a man bound to bring harm even to those he truly loves. And the book documents the unexpected corollary to it, the marvelous journey of Rick’s later life: a journey into fatherhood, and toward a child for whom he comes to feel a devotion that staggers him. With candor, insight, tremendous humor, and the remarkable gift for descriptive storytelling on which he made his name, Rick Bragg delivers a brilliant and moving rumination on the lives of boys and men, a poignant reflection on what it means to be a father and a son.
It’s been almost a decade since I first heard of Rick Bragg. I absolutely loved his first memoir, All Over but the Shoutin’
When Ava’s Man
So when that same friend sent me an ARC of The Prince of Frogtown, I was a little more prepared when it, too, failed to live up to All Over But the Shoutin’. However, unlike with Ava’s Man, I stuck with it, determined to read the entire book. (Which I did, although I have to admit that did skim a chapter or two.)
In water so fine, a few minutes of bad memory all but disappear downstream, washed away by ten thousand belly busters, a million cannonballs. Paradise was never heaven-high when I was a boy but waist-deep, an oasis of cutoff blue jeans and raggedy Converse sneakers, sweating bottles of Nehi Grape and Orange Crush, and this stream. I remember the antidote of icy water against my blistered skin, and the taste of mushy tomato and mayonnaise sandwiches, unwrapped from twice-used aluminum foil. I saw my first water moccasin here, and my first real girl, and being a child of the foot washers, I have sometimes wondered if this was my Eden, and my serpent. If it was, I didn’t hold out any longer than that first poor fool did. It took something as powerful as that, as girls to tug me away from this tribe of sunburned little boys, to scatter us from this place of double-dog dares, Blow Pops, Cherry Bombs, Indian burns, chicken fights, and giggling, half-wit choruses of “Bald-Headed Man from China.” Maybe we should have nailed up a sign–NO GIRLS ALLOWED–and lived out our lives here, to fight mean bulls from the safe side of a barbed-wire fence with a cape cut from a red tank top, and duel to the death with swords sliced of a weeping willow tree. I don’t know what kind of man I turned out to be, but I was good at being a boy.
And so begins The Prince of Frogtown. I love the way Bragg writes. It’s impossible to read his words and think he’s from anywhere but the South. His sentences have a cadence that make me want to read them over and over again, listening as I would to a favorite song.
It was the year I realized the TV preachers’ rants on hell were all wrong, that the devil lives in Alabama, and swims in a Mason jar. He lost his looks, drank his paychecks, wrecked his old cars, and stiffed the Tennessee Valley Electric until all they would give us was free dark.
My biggest complaint lies not in the writing, but the focus of The Prince of Frogtown. I wish Bragg had written more about his relationship with his stepson and less about his father. But obviously, as the title tells us, the book is really more about the latter, with short (2-3 page) vignettes about his stepson. And yet I wonder if I really would have liked it better if the emphasis were more on his own parenting, than the lack of his father’s. In spite of the lyrical prose, there were times I thought, I don’t really like this man (Rick, not Charles) at all. I was really put off by Bragg’s initial attitude toward his young stepson. He didn’t understand the boy, felt he was pampered and spoiled by his mother, and he doesn’t hesitate to tell the reader just how he feels about his new life as a husband and father.
I was born into a people who could cuss the horns off a bull, before revival and after dinner on the ground, but he lived in a world rated G with candy sprinkles on top.
And there were times when I though he was downright mean-spirited toward the boy. After reading the following blurb from a Kirkus review, I see I’m not the only one who had these same reservations about the book:
Alternating chapters on his unnamed stepson, by contrast, resound more with the annoyance Bragg feels at the start than the love he professes at the end, at which point the author sounds uncomfortably self-congratulatory about the maturation of his stepson, now “the man I rushed him to be.”
Personally, I’d rather be a pampered and spoiled child than grow up amongst dog-fighting, cock-fighting, gambling drunks.
Bragg’s love for the boy he calls his son begins to show itself toward the end of the book, tugging at my heartstrings in spite of myself:
I waited for him, as he got older, to torture me with rap, or heavy metal, or plastic top forty. But one day he heard Johnny Cash, and his life changed. I heard him in his room, singing “Get Rhythm” and “Folsom Prison Blues.”
He sings well. His voice is deep, strong. He sings from the backseat. He sings to the dog. I stood in the kitchen recently and watched him sing as he walked around in the yard. It was one of the finer moments in my life.
And, I couldn’t help but chuckle when he poked fun at women:
He does not like girls, yet.
“Why do they talk so fast?” he asked me. “I can’t understand what they say.”
“That’s all right, boy,” I said. “You won’t be able to understand them when they talk slow, either.”
But the sprinkles of humor and touching sentiments are few and far between. I’ll be interested to see what others think of the book once it’s published. Meanwhile, All Over But the Shoutin’ remains one of my all-time favorite memoirs. It might just be time for another reading.
Belong to Me (Lesley)
Belong to Me by Marisa de los Santos
Contemporary Fiction
2008 HarperCollins Publishers
Finished on 3/13/08
Rating: 4.5/5 (Terrific!)
ARC - Due out on April 1, 2008
Book Description
Everyone has secrets. Some we keep to protect ourselves, others we keep to protect those we love.
A devoted city dweller, Cornelia Brown surprised no one more than herself when she was gripped by the sudden, inescapable desire to leave urban life behind and head for an idyllic suburb. Though she knows she and her beloved husband, Teo, have made the right move, she approaches her new life with trepidation and struggles to forge friendships in her new home. Cornelia’s mettle is quickly tested by judgmental neighbor Piper Truitt. Perfectly manicured, impeccably dressed, and possessing impossible standards, Piper is the embodiment of everything Cornelia feared she would find in suburbia. A saving grace soon appears in the form of Lake. Over a shared love of literature and old movies, Cornelia develops an instant bond with this warm yet elusive woman who has also recently arrived in town, ostensibly to send her perceptive and brilliant son, Dev, to a school for the gifted.
Marisa de los Santos’s literary talents shine in the complex interactions she creates between these three women. She deftly explores the life-altering roller coaster of emotions Piper faces as she cares for two households, her own and that of her cancer-stricken best friend, Elizabeth. Skillfully, de los Santos creates an enigmatic and beguiling character in Lake, who draws Cornelia closer even as she harbors a shocking secret. And from the first page until the exhilarating conclusion, de los Santos engages readers with Cornelia, who, while trying to adapt to her new surroundings, must remain true to herself. As their individual stories unfold, the women become entangled in a web of trust, betrayal, love, and loss that challenges them in ways they never imagined, and that ultimately teaches them what it means for one human being to belong to another.
I loved this book. I loved the vividly depicted characters and how the author slowly allows the reader to get close to them. Even the prickly ones. I love the unique, quirky names de los Santos has chosen: Cornelia, Teo (Mateo), Deveroux, Aidan, Piper, Lake, Rafferty, and Kyle. Each name fits its respective character perfectly, and as I think back on the story, I can quickly envision each and every one.
And to think I almost gave up, sure that it was going to be nothing more than another book about women’s friendships. Not that there’s anything wrong with that sort of book, but I just finished Elizabeth Noble’s Things I Want My Daughters to Know and felt I needed something a bit more substantial. Well, I wound up getting it. Sure, Belong to Me borders on fluffy chick-lit, but the writing is oh, so beautiful. Not lyrical in the sense of Pat Conroy or Rick Bragg, but beautiful, descriptive phrases that force you to pause and go back for a second reading. And no wonder: It turns out that Marisa is also an award-winning poet.
This is a book about love & friendship, trust & loyalty, and ultimately the strength of family ties. The subplot dealing with Elizabeth’s cancer is realistic and tender, yet doesn’t dominate the entire story. The blossoming friendship between Piper and Cornelia reminded me just ever-so-slightly of Susan Sarandon and Julia Roberts’ characters in the movie Step Mom. I found myself getting teary-eyed on several occasions, yet this isn’t a depressing read. More than a guilty pleasure, this intimate and engaging read is the perfect book to curl up with on a rainy, spring afternoon and one you’ll want to share with all your girlfriends. I’d love to read a sequel, as I’m already missing Cornelia, Piper, Dev and Clare, but it may be another year or two before the author publishes another book. (And who knows if she plans to continue with Cornelia’s story.) But as luck would have it, I missed her debut title (Love Walked In
Things I Want My Daughters to Know (Lesley)
Things I Want My Daughters to Know by Elizabeth Noble
Contemporary Fiction
2008 HarperCollins Publishers
Finished on 3/7/08
Rating: 4/5 (Very Good)
ARC - Due out on April 8th
Publisher’s Blurb:
Barbara had always been the backbone of her family. Warm, funny, and loving, her four daughters adored her and relied on her. Faced with the reality of leaving them before any of them are ready, Barbara writes letters to each of them, and a journal about the things she wants them to know.
Facing their first year without her, drawing on the wisdom in the legacy she has left behind, her girls might just find a way to cope with their loss. And in coming to terms with their bereavement, can they also set themselves free to enjoy their lives with all the passion and love each deserves?
As she did in The Reading Group, The Friendship Test, and Alphabet Weekends, Elizabeth Noble pairs humor and poignancy in a tale about love, loss, and family.
Book Description:
How do you cope in a world without your mother?
When Barbara realizes time is running out, she writes letters to her four daughters, aware that they’ll be facing the trials and triumphs of life without her at their side. But how can she leave them when they still have so much growing up to do?
Take Lisa, in her midthirties but incapable of making a commitment; or Jennifer, trapped in a stale marriage and buttoned up so tight she could burst. Twentysomething Amanda, the traveler, has always distanced herself from the rest of the family; and then there’s Hannah, a teenage girl on the verge of womanhood about to be parted from the mother she adores.
But by drawing on the wisdom in Barbara’s letters, the girls might just find a way to cope with their loss. And in coming to terms with their bereavement, can they also set themselves free to enjoy their lives with all the passion and love each deserves?
This heartfelt novel by bestselling author Elizabeth Noble celebrates family, friends . . . and the glorious, endless possibilities of life.
It’s been over two years since I read Elizabeth Noble’s The Reading Group
Change of Heart (Lesley)
Change of Heart by Jodi Picoult
Contemporary Fiction
Finished on 2/20/08
Rating: 4.75 (Terrific!)
ARC (Book due out on March 4)
Book Description
The acclaimed #1 New York Times bestselling author presents a spellbinding tale of a mother’s tragic loss and one man’s last chance at gaining salvation.
Can we save ourselves, or do we rely on others to do it? Is what we believe always the truth?
One moment June Nealon was happily looking forward to years full of laughter and adventure with her family, and the next, she was staring into a future that was as empty as her heart. Now her life is a waiting game. Waiting for time to heal her wounds, waiting for justice. In short, waiting for a miracle to happen.
For Shay Bourne, life holds no more surprises. The world has given him nothing, and he has nothing to offer the world. In a heartbeat, though, something happens that changes everything for him. Now, he has one last chance for salvation, and it lies with June’s eleven-year-old daughter, Claire. But between Shay and Claire stretches an ocean of bitter regrets, past crimes, and the rage of a mother who has lost her child.
Would you give up your vengeance against someone you hate if it meant saving someone you love? Would you want your dreams to come true if it meant granting your enemy’s dying wish?
Once again, Jodi Picoult mesmerizes and enthralls readers with this story of redemption, justice, and love.
From the author’s website:
[Change of Heart] features a Death Row inmate who wants to donate his heart to the sister of his victim…which means petitioning the state for a less “humane” form of execution than lethal injection. When he starts performing miracles, the press labels him “Messiah.” After all, people are always finding Jesus in prison… what if he were really there? And what if the things he said didn’t match what you’d been told your whole life…but instead, matched verbatim the text of an ancient gospel that was excluded from the Bible as heresy?
This is a difficult book for me to review. There is the obvious connection to the situation of my family’s terrible loss. And as with most of Jodi Picoult’s novels, it’s almost impossible to discuss the plot without giving away spoilers. Here are some random thoughts and passages that will hopefully give you a sense of what Picoult has tried to achieve with Change of Heart.
I really enjoy reading a book in which the point of view alternates between multiple characters and Picoult is a master when it comes to seamlessly weaving a story between the cast. In Change of Heart we hear from four characters:
June Nealon - mother of Elizabeth and Claire; two-time widow
Maggie - ACLU attorney; single; daughter of a rabbi; atheist
Michael - Catholic priest; spiritual advisor to Shay Bourne; rides a ‘69 Triumph Trophy motorcyle
Lucius - Shay Bourne’s neighboring cell-mate; AIDS victim
My favorite character was Maggie. Her “story” provided witty humor to an otherwise depressing narrative. I would love to see more of her in another book by Picoult!
I love the way the author continued to surprise me, even when I was absolutely certain I knew what was going to happen. Again, Picoult is a master of twists and surprises. My jaw literally dropped at one point and I wound up flipping back through the previous pages, searching for a clue I might’ve missed.
When I first heard the specifics about Change of Heart, my initial thought was that nobody would understand why I would want to read this, of all books! But having read several of the author’s previous novels (understanding that she not only is a phenomenal writer who deftly researches her subject matter, but also presents it it with truth and accuracy), I knew that in less than two months, I would be able to walk into a Virginia Beach courtroom and have some idea of what would ensue. In a sense, I’ve relied on Picoult’s research expertise to prepare myself for the unknown — facing the person who killed my stepdaughter (and two other young adults) on Memorial Day Weekend almost three years ago.
Lots of sticky notes!
Miscellaneous quotes that I marked:
“I wanted to play them the answering machine message that still had their voices on it, the one I couldn’t bear to erase, even though it felt like I was being cut to ribbons every time I heard it.” “I wanted them to live my life, because that was the only way they’d really know what had been lost.”
“…lethal injection might not be as humane as everyone wanted to believe.” [Ah, but neither is murder.]
“…a thirty-three-year-old carpenter with a death sentence on his head, who was performing miracles left and right.”
“What I would like to tell Shay Bourne about the impact this crime had on my family is that it erased my family, period.” “I would like him to come with me to the bank, the day I broke down in front of the teller and told her that I wanted to liquidate the college fund of Elizabeth Nealon.” [or cash out savings bonds in the name of a deceased daughter...]
“If they had to die, I would have loved to have known in advance, so that I could take each second spent with them and know to hold on to it, instead of assuming there would be a million more. If they had to die, I would have loved to have been there, to be the last face they saw, instead of his.”
“…he spoke, words that at the time felt as solid and square as bricks, layered sentence upon sentence to build a wall between life as I’d known it and the one I would now be forced to lead.”
“Some people say that the reason we have a death penalty in this country is because we need to punish certain inmates. It’s said to be a deterrent–but in fact, murder rates are higher in death penalty jurisdictions than in those without it. It’s said to be cheaper to execute a man than keep him in prison for life–but in fact, when you factor in the cost of eleven years of appeals, paid for with public funds, it costs about a third more to execute a prisoner than to sentence him to life in prison. Some people say that the death penalty exists for the sake of the victims’ family–that it offers closure, so that they can deal, finally and completely, with their grief. But does knowing that the death toll has risen above and beyond their family member really offer justice? And how do we explain the fact that a murder in a rural setting is more likely to lead to a death sentence than one that occurs in the city? Or that the murder of a white victim leads to the death penalty three and a half times more often than the murder of a black victim? Or that women are sentenced to death only two-thirds as often as men?”
After studying similar death penalty stats in a sociology course many years ago, I became a firm believer that life in prison (with no chance of parole) was the right course of action to punish the guilty. However, my opinion took a complete 180 on May 28, 2005 after our daughter was violently murdered. And now, after reading Change of Heart, I’m beginning to reconsider my stand once again. Picoult’s books force you to examine your beliefs and opinions about society and the world at large. We all know that life is never simply black and white. There are no absolutes.
One thing I do know for certain — I’m glad I’m not serving on a jury, faced with the decision of whether another individual lives or dies.
Dreamers of the Day (Lesley)
Dreamers of the Day by Mary Doria Russell
Historical Fiction
Copyright 2008
Finished on 1/22/08
Rating: 4.5/5 (Terrific!)
Book Description
“I suppose I ought to warn you at the outset that my present circumstances are puzzling, even to me. Nevertheless, I am sure of this much: My little story has become your history. You won’t really understand your times until you understand mine.”
So begins the account of Agnes Shanklin, the charmingly diffident narrator of Mary Doria Russell’s compelling new novel, Dreamers of the Day. And what is Miss Shanklin’s “little story?” Nothing less than the creation of the modern Middle East at the 1921 Cairo Peace Conference, where Winston Churchill, T. E. Lawrence, and Lady Gertrude Bell met to decide the fate of the Arab world—and of our own.
A forty-year-old schoolteacher from Ohio still reeling from the tragedies of the Great War and the influenza epidemic, Agnes has come into a modest inheritance that allows her to take the trip of a lifetime to Egypt and the Holy Land. Arriving at the Semiramis Hotel just as the Peace Conference convenes, Agnes, with her plainspoken American opinions—and a small, noisy dachshund named Rosie—enters into the company of the historic luminaries who will, in the space of a few days at a hotel in Cairo, invent the nations of Iraq, Syria, Lebanon, Israel, and Jordan.
Neither a pawn nor a participant at the conference, Agnes is ostensibly insignificant, and that makes her a welcome sounding board for Churchill, Lawrence, and Bell. It also makes her unexpectedly attractive to the charismatic German spy Karl Weilbacher. As Agnes observes the tumultuous inner workings of nation-building, she is drawn more and more deeply into geopolitical intrigue and toward a personal awakening.
With prose as graceful and effortless as a seductive float down the Nile, Mary Doria Russell illuminates the long, rich history of the Middle East with a story that brilliantly elucidates today’s headlines. As enlightening as it is entertaining, Dreamers of the Day is a memorable, passionate, gorgeously written novel.
About the Author
Mary Doria Russell is the author of The Sparrow, Children of God, and A Thread of Grace. Her novels have won nine national and international literary awards, including the Arthur C. Clarke Award, the James Tiptree Award, and the American Library Association Readers Choice Award. The Sparrow was selected as one of Entertainment Weekly’s ten best books of the year, and A Thread of Grace was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize. Russell lives in Cleveland, Ohio.
When I heard that Mary Doria Russell had a new book coming out this spring, I did a Snoopy-dance for joy! I met Mary (yes, I like to think that we’re on a first-name basis, although I highly doubt she would recognize me in a crowd) ten years ago this summer at a small book conference in Cleveland. I had just read her first novel, The Sparrow
I began the book a couple of nights before our departure, not wanting to start en route, as that’s always a bit distracting and I wanted to be eager to resume my reading once we took off. I was far enough along to feel a sense of anticipation as we boarded the plane in Omaha, anxious to settle into my seat and my book! My poor husband. Throughout the entire flight to Dallas and then on to Norfolk, I kept interrupting his own reading with exclamations of enthusiasm: “This is such a good book!” “What a great read!” “Have I told you how wonderful this book is?” “Did you know this?” “Were you aware of that?” “Hey, you’ve got to read this passage!” And on and on and on.
I must confess, I’m a bit relieved that I wound up enjoying this book as much as I did. When I first read the plot description (and Mary’s comments in her email to me), I was a bit intimidated by the subject matter. I am not well-versed in the history of the Middle East history or in its politics. As a matter of fact, I’m quite ignorant of most of the history of that region. However, I got so wrapped up in Agnes’ story, I found myself zipping along through all the factual information, eager to learn and understand more about the 1921 Cairo Peace Conference. Of course I had heard of T.E. “Lawrence of Arabia”, but had no idea he’d been involved in the creation of the modern Middle East (along with Winston Churchill and Lady Gertrude Bell). There were a few instances in which I felt a bit confused by some of the historical facts, but I decided to sit back, continue reading, and not try to turn the reading into a history lesson. Having said that, my copy of the book is full of Post-It flags and highlighted passages. I am actually considering a re-read of the novel when it comes out in hardcover, as I’d love to own a real copy of the book. Now that I know the fictional side of the book, I’d like to focus more on the facts. In addition to a re-read, I plan to read Janet Wallach’s bio of Gertrude Bell, Desert Queen
Dreamers of the Day has a bit of everything: history, romance, humor, even a bit of mystery. As with The Sparrow, the characters and situations will remain in my memory for years to come. Kudos, Ms. Russell! You’ve got yourself another winner! Nice to see I have something for my Top Ten of 2008 so early in year.
To read an excerpt from the book or for book tour information, go here.
The Middle Place (Lesley)
The Middle Place by Kelly Corrigan
Memoir
Finished 12/3/07
Rating: 4/5 (Very good)
ARC - Book due out on January 8, 2008
Publisher’s Blurb:
In humorous, incandescent prose, Kelly Corrigan alternates tales of growing up Corrigan with the story of her life and her father’s today as they each–successfully, for now–battle cancer. A book that reminds us of the good things in life, The Middle Place examines the universal themes of family, adulthood, and how we all must, inevitably, make the leap to the other side and grow up.
Book Description:
For Kelly Corrigan, family is everything. At thirty-six, she had a marriage that worked, a couple of funny, active kids, and a weekly newspaper column. But even as a thriving adult, Kelly still saw herself as George Corrigan’s daughter. A garrulous Irish-American charmer from Baltimore, George was the center of the ebullient, raucous Corrigan clan. He greeted every day by opening his bedroom window and shouting, “Hello, World!” Suffice it to say, Kelly’s was a colorful childhood, just the sort a girl could get attached to. Kelly lives deep within what she calls the Middle Place — “that sliver of time when parenthood and childhood overlap” — comfortably wedged between her adult duties and her parents’ care. But she’s abruptly shoved into a coming-of-age when she finds a lump in her breast — and gets the diagnosis no one wants to hear. And so Kelly’s journey to full-blown adulthood begins. When George, too, learns he has late-stage cancer, it is Kelly’s turn to take care of the man who had always taken care of her — and show us a woman as she finally takes the leap and grows up. Kelly Corrigan is a natural-born storyteller, a gift you quickly recognize as her father’s legacy, and her stories are rich with everyday details. She captures the beat of an ordinary life and the tender, sometimes fractious moments that bind families together. Rueful and honest, Kelly is the prized friend who will tell you her darkest, lowest, screwiest thoughts, and then later, dance on the coffee table at your party. Funny, yet heart-wrenching, The Middle Place is about being a parent and a child at the same time. It is about the special double-vision you get when you are standing with one foot in each place. It is about the family you make and the family you came from — and locating, navigating, and finally celebrating the place where they meet. It is about reaching for life with both hands — and finding it.
Two years ago, at the age of 41, my younger brother was diagnosed with rectal cancer. We had just experienced the absolute worst loss of our lives, only to learn of Chris’ cancer 6 weeks after Rachel’s death. We were stunned beyond belief. After two rounds of chemo, radiation, and radical surgery, Chris is now, thankfully, cancer-free. Somewhere along the line, in my quest to become more knowledgeable about this particular cancer (to learn how to help my brother emotionally, as well as educate myself about my increased risk as a sibling), I stumbled upon a particularly informative website. While CircusOfCancer is a site for those seeking information about breast cancer rather than colo-rectal cancer, it provided me with an insider’s view to chemo, radiation, how to talk to friends with cancer, etc. I was moved by the story behind the website and read everything posted, including the photo essays. Little did I know, two years down the road I’d pick up an Advanced Reader’s Copy of Kelly Corrigan’s memoir, only to discover that she was the creator of CircusOfCancer! What a small world.
Corrigan is a marvelous storyteller, drawing you into her family and home with the ease of a seasoned writer. When I finished the book, I felt as if I’d met her in person, trading stories about family and love and fear and loss. In typical fashion, I read with a packet of sticky notes in hand and wound up with a dozen or so pages marked for a second reading. This first passage is from the Prologue:
…I called my parents from the maternity ward and cried through the following: “Mom, Dad, it’s a girl, and Dad, we named her after you. We named her Georgia.”
Three years after that, almost to the day, I called home to tell my parents that I had cancer.
And that’s what this whole thing is about. Calling home. Instinctively. Even when all the paperwork–a marriage license, a notarized deed, two birth certificates, and seven years of tax returns–clearly indicates you’re an adult, but all the same, there you are, clutching the phone and thanking God that you’re still somebody’s daughter.
I especially like this brief passage:
I get another e-mail from a particularly grown-up friend of mine, Jen Komosa. She just says, “You are stronger than you think. You are strong enough.”
Such truth in these simple words. I never thought I could survive the loss of one of our children and I’m sure there were times when my brother thought he couldn’t survive the rigors of cancer treatment. But it’s amazing what the heart and mind and body can endure. We are all stronger than we think.
I like the cadence of these particular paragraphs:
There is fear, like the moment before a car accident or the jolt that shoots through you when you see your baby slip under water, and there is pain, like whacking your head into a cabinet door left open or the quiver in your shoulders as you carry your end of the sofa up those last few stairs, fingers slipping. And then there is pain and fear together, like delivery a baby or standing up for the first time after surgery. Until they tell you it’s working, chemo is like that, pain and fear, fear and pain, alternating relentlessly.
Yesterday, I took eighteen pills in twenty-four hours for everything from the well-known side effects like nausea and fatigue to the secret ones like runaway infections and tear-jerking constipation. Each side effect can be treated with medication, which usually has its own side effect. For nausea: Zofran. For the constipation caused by Zofran: laxatives and stool softeners. To ward of infection and stabilize your white blood cell counts: Neupogen. For the deep bone pain caused by Neupogen: Vicodin, which in turn causes nausea and drowsiness. And there you are, right back where you started.
I nodded my head in agreement when I read this:
I envy my dad his faith. I envy all people who have someone to beseech, who know where they’re going, who sleep under the fluffy white comforter of belief.
I remember feeling this way after Rachel died. And I remember feeling like this, too:
I feel different from everyone these days. Words are loaded now–people who were “so sick they wanted to die,” who ate “so much they wanted to puke,” who hope someone will “take them out back and shoot them” before they get old and infirm.
And yet, as I relate to quite a bit of Kelly’s thoughts and feelings, I became annoyed when I read the following passage (her response to learning she would need to begin hormone therapy in order to temporarily eliminate estrogen from her system, thus postponing the possibility of any more children for five more years):
I shake my head. “They talked about cancer like it was something to get through, to treat, to beat.” They never said it was going to change everything, all my plans, and take things away from me that I have wanted since I was a child. “They said it was gonna be a bad year. So doesn’t that mean when the bad year is over, when you do everything you are told to do–and with a goddamn smile no less–you get to go back to the life you had?”
Finally, I just stare ahead. I’m so mad and so tired at the same time.
“I thought that was what I was here for–to raise a bunch of kids,” I say as we get closer to home.
I wanted to reach through the pages and past and shake this young woman and tell her she should be thankful to be alive. Thankful to have two beautiful daughters, a loving husband, devoted parents and friends and relatives who love her deeply. I wanted to tell her that while my brother is also a cancer survivor, he didn’t get to go back to the life he once had either, but he’s deeply grateful for his life, physically altered though it may be.
I can’t begin to imagine how I’d personally handle the diagnosis and treatment of cancer, but I did watch my brother ride the emotional rollercoaster for the longest year of his life. I’d like to think that Kelly’s reaction to the hormone therapy was exacerbated by the stress and emotional fragility of that long year in her life and that she can now appreciate how truly blessed she is to have what she has.
And now to jump on my soap box — Many, many cancers are treatable, if detected early. If you are 50 or older, get a colonoscopy! I had one two years ago (six years sooner than normal, but highly recommended due to the hereditary risk as a sibling), and quite honestly, it’s not a big deal. I was alseep through the entire procedure and the prep the day before was certainly tolerable. I’d gladly have that test once every five years if it prevents the ill effects of chemo (nausea, chemo brain, neuropathy, mouth sores, etc.), not to mention prolonging my life.
The Winter Rose (Lesley)
The Winter Rose by Jennifer Donnelly
Fiction/Historical Romance
2008 Hyperion
Finished on 2/27/08
Rating: 3.5/5 (Good)
What’s In A Name Challenge
Publisher’s Blurb:
Every now and again, a storyteller comes along who can take us completely into her world and make us wish we never had to leave it. Jennifer Donnelly is such a writer.
When India Selwyn Jones, a young woman from a noble family, graduates from the London School of Medicine for Women in 1900, her professors advise her to set up her practice in London’s esteemed Harley Street. Driven and idealistic, India chooses to work in the city’s East End instead, serving the desperately poor.
In these grim streets, India meets–and saves the life of–London’s most notorious gangster, Sid Malone. A hard, wounded man, Malone is the opposite of India’s aristocratic fiancé, Freddie Lytton, a rising star in the House of Commons. Though Malone represents all she despises, India finds herself unwillingly drawn ever closer to him, intrigued by his hidden, mysterious past.
Though they fight hard against their feelings, India and Sid fall in love, and their unpredictable, passionate and bittersweet affair causes destruction they could never have imagined. Sweeping from London to Kenya to the wild, remote coast of California, The Winter Rose is a breathtaking return to the epic historical novel, from a masterful writer with a fresh, richly vivid, and utterly electrifying voice.
It was with great anticipation that I finally sat down and read Jennifer Donnelly’s second installment in The Tea Rose trilogy. And settle down I did. This book weighs in at a hefty 720 pages (hardcover); it took me nearly three weeks to read. As with The Tea Roseromp saga. While it never felt plodding or dull, I did find myself a little impatient to reach the end of the story. I loved The Tea Rose; it made my 2004 Top Ten list. I wasn’t disappointed in this sequel, but it doesn’t rate as high as its predecessor. (As I read, though, I couldn’t help but think it would make a wonderful movie. Clive Owen would be my choice for Sid Malone. Not sure about any of the other characters. Maybe Helena Bonham Carter as India. But I digress.)
The Winter Rose is certainly an entertaining read, with its vivid settings and memorable characters; perfect for a long flight or a week at a beach resort! Be sure to read Heather’s review, as well as her excellent interview with the author at Estella’s Revenge.
River (Lesley)
River by Lowen Clausen
Contemporary Fiction
2008 Silo Press
Finished on 2/3/08
Rating: 4/5 (Very Good)
Book Description
From a remote corner of a vanishing American landscape, a bereaved father begins a journey down the river that has been all but inseparable from his life. At the river’s origin the shallow stream courses through the ranch where he was born. It is where he fell in love the first time and where the ashes of his son have been poured.
“Now, before it’s too late, before I lose the will to do anything, I am leaving this land to follow the sticks I dropped into the river so long ago.” But this man’s passage along the interlacing rivers to the ocean will not be simple or disconnected from the life he leaves behind. His estranged son’s last angry words echo in his memory, and despite moments of pure concentration on the waters ahead, the solitary voyager finds the past seeping into his thoughts and dreams.
In River, novelist Lowen Clausen has created a story of deep beauty and seriousness, in which he weaves together the complex threads of one man’s search for wholeness. Clausen’s rich, elegiac prose becomes its own landscape and river, transporting the reader on a journey through despair and doubt into discovery.
I have lived in Nebraska since 1992 and I have yet to see the Sandhills. However, as I read Lowen Clausen’s evocative novel, I came to know those Sandhills like I know the beaches of San Diego, as though I’d been born and raised in western Nebraska instead of in Southern California.
Like Clausen’s main character, John, I too have lost a child. And, I too own a kayak. But I have never once contemplated a trip down a series of Midwestern rivers, ultimately winding up in the Gulf of Mexico! The dangerous currents, barges, and weather are enough to keep me on the calm waters of our local lakes. Yet I still enjoyed this remarkable story. If 19 sticky notes is an indication of a good book, this one certainly qualifies.
The sunrise is long in coming. First there is a softening of the darkness, a gray tinge that dims the stars above the eastern horizon, then a pink glow that seeps through. It turns into a swath of yellow as if the sun will fill the whole sky, but it doesn’t. It concentrates into a sphere of gold that rises above the sandhills and hurts my eyes.
Weariness weighs down my body as I get up from the riverbank and drag the kayak closer to the water. Her name is Gloria, and the idea of a journey with her has gotten me through one day after another. For months I’ve been planning this trip, buying equipment and supplies and storing them in the barn beside Gloria. Now that the day is here, the anticipation of leaving is gone and I feel empty.
Once more I look across the river into the hills as if I won’t see them again. The coarse grasses along the bank of the river are green, but the rolling sandhills hold the dead brown of last year’s growth. There are no trees on the hills and few even beside the river except at this place where the creek wanders down from the beaver dam to join it. Here willows cling to the bank and cottonwood trees have rooted in the low spots behind them. The willows are beginning to form new leaves, but the cottonwoods wait for more certain weather.
I push Gloria into the water and draw her close to the bank. The current pulls impatiently.
Clausen kept my interest in spite of the necessarily introspective tale of one’s man’s journey. The narrator’s story slowly unwinds, keeping pace with the current of the rivers, slowly revealing the past through memories and thoughts. As John travels down Nebraska’s Loup and Platte Rivers, picking up the Missouri and finally the Mississippi, I found myself recognizing various points of interest throughout his voyage: Brownville, NE (“This is a nice little town, but there ain’t much here. We’re getting a new bookstore though. Got a Greek name I can’t pronounce. It’s mostly for the tourists, I guess.”) — Rod and I visited the Lyceum Bookstore last summer; Indian Cave State Park, NE; Lexington and Saint Louis, MO; Memphis, TN; Vicksburg, MS (a fellow book-blogger lives here!). While I enjoyed my armchair-view of this journey, I can’t begin to imagine the physical (and emotional) toil one must endure to travel such a distance with only a few changes of clothing, food fit only for Boy Scouts, and virtually no companionship. Clausen’s vivid, yet at times elegiac, prose will appeal to fans of Charles Frazier’s Cold Mountain
This is a leisurely read, yet one that has made me anxious for warmer kayaking weather. Quite a joy to read!