Category: Books

In the past week I read Helen MacDonald's H is for Hawk. It is a hauntingly beautiful book that is also deeply painful, often mesmerizingly so, in its exploration of the depths of grief and the accompanying loss of self.  By the writing the book as an interleaving of three stories, the loss of her father, the training of a hawk, and a thread about TH White's life and similar book on training a goshawk she manages to touch on the darker side of grief, the part we don't really want to talk about: the wild, feral aspects of our own emotions and the foundations of our own sense of self.  Yes, the book can be read on several levels, and at times the connections between the different threads seem disjointed and almost jarring, but then so is the experience of grief, so is the process of redefining oneself in terms of a newly perceived reality, and in this book that swirling maelstrom of loss and despair is never far beneath the surface.  Nor is it neatly resolved at the end of the book, and this may indeed be discomfiting for some readers.

There were so many things that struck me as "true" about this book: the way the loss of a defining person in one's life takes one back to the very essence of how one became one's own self; the wonderful details of environmental, natural, and social history and how they combine to create the background in which we all live; the itemization and details of hawking which remind me of the Medieval penchant for list-making and the way these lists both jar the reader as they seem out of context while at the same time their very existence points to the fractured nature of existence and the way we piece our perceptions together;  the exploration of the author's own conversation with TH White's book and how the process of reading closely changes with age and life experiences but how deep reading can alter and enhance our own understandings of both ourselves and the world.  But there were also portions of the book where I wished I could just shake the author and knock some sense into her, even as I realize that of course this is not possible, not because I am reading a book, but because no one can knock anyone else to their senses.  It is not only fruitless, but ultimately more damaging, to try.  

 

I like the way the book ends, just ends.  Simply and bluntly without apology.  Well, that is not completely true.  There is a postscript. The author seeks out more information about White, and she goes to his cottage.  The book ends with the author watching, as she often does, but with a sense of acceptance.  The closing paragraph, in many ways less beautiful and meaningful than so many things I underlined and commented upon in my own personal notes while reading this book, continues to resonate, as it points to, and almost shimmers with, a sense of acceptance, and the appreciation of one's solitary walk through this life, that comes on the far side of clawing one's way out of the pits of grief.  The closing paragraph is in fact a closure of sorts, an acknowledgement of the solitude and acceptance, and yes, concern, of the process of becoming more than just a person, of becoming more fully human.

 

But then I put that thought aside.  I put it down, and the relief was immense, as if I had dragged a half-tone weight from myself and cast it by the grassy road.  White is gone.  The hawk has flown.  Respect the living, honor the dead.  Leave them be.  I saluted the man, though he could not see me.  It was a silly, wobbly salute, and even as I did it I felt foolish.  And then I turned and walked away.  I left the man who was not a ghost, and I walked south.  Over the bright horizon the sky swam like water.

 

 

 

 

 

"But the trouble is, maps are always last year's. England is always remaking herself, her cliffs eroding, her sandbanks drifting, springs bubbling up in dead ground.  They regroup themselves while we sleep, the landscapes through which we move, and even the histories that trail us; the faces of the dead fade into other faces as a spine of hills into the mist."

Reading Hilary Mantel's Wolf Hall has been a singular pleasure this past month, a pleasure savored slowly as if this book and I were having an extended conversation that would ebb and flow, but which always remained engaging and often thought provoking.

I only began the novel in early April, after it languished on my reading list for some years.  What kept me from beginning? Surely had I known how thoroughly engaging I have found the book, I would have started sooner. Or perhaps not. Perhaps this was the right time.  It was Masterpiece that prompted me to pick up the book; I watched the first episode of the mini-series and realized the entire production was too dark for me to watch while knitting.  I watched, and although I enjoyed that first episode, I also recognized that I was far more likely to enjoy time spent raptly enthralled by a book than by any film or television production. No judgment intended; it is simply the way my brain is wired. 

And it was a good read.  It did not go slowly because it was a difficult read, indeed it was not, but because I have been of a mind to read to slowly, to engage, and this engagement suited both myself and the multi-layered and multi-faceted nuances of this novel which is rich with detail, rich with the both the subtlety and complexity that makes its characters all so human.

Of course those characterizations also mark these characters, this Tudor England, as simultaneously far too close to home and far to distant from the way we prefer to imagine it.  I finished the book early in May, and I have had time to read the reviews of readers on Amazon, on Goodreads, etc.  They have not really changed my perceptions at all other than to point out how invested we are in our own shifting sands of perception, the shifting sands of our view of history and our view of our place in the world. 

Mantel's novel is told from the perspective of Thomas Cromwell, a man who is not the golden boy in popular perceptions of the period.  But perhaps this is at least in part because he is so hard to pin down, and we like our heroes to be heroic and our villains to be villainous.  Thomas More took a stand, has become a saint.  We expect our saints to be saintly, it is easier that way, if the saints are all good and the villains are not, preferably are not good at all.  But who is a saint and who is a villain, and is it within human comprehension to parse out the differences? Or is it possible, God forbid, that each of us has the potential to be one or the other?  Or both? Or neither?  That is not so neat either.

I enjoyed this book simply because it was not simple, because it captures the complexities of history, of human nature, and the way we react, or fail to react, to the circumstances in which we live.  I like the book because it does all this and tells a story and tells a story well. I like the book because there is so much more there, if you allow yourself to have that conversation, the conversation the author wants to have with the reader.

"He knows different now.  It's the living that turn and chase the dead.  The long bones and skulls are tumbled from their shrouds, and words like stones thrust into their rattling mouths: we edit their writings, we rewrite their lives.  Thomas More had spread the rumor that Little Bilney, chained to the stake, had recanted as the fire was set.  It wasn't enough for him to take Bilney's life away; he had to take his death too."

 Both of these quotes are from the very end of the book.  I read it on my Kindle and I do not have the page numbers.  But there are others that I wish I could share, other things I could say about this book, other things I might say on a different day. I finished this book over 10 days ago, and my perceptions have shifted with time.  I wrote some notes in my journal, notes that are currently spread out upon my desk, virtually illegible, the victims of an accident involving a dog, a cat, and an upturned vase of Mother's Day flowers.  Such are the risks incurred with the use of a fountain pen, and paper, and anything, in fact, which is impermanent in life.  Would I have written the same post 9 days ago? Probably not.  Would this be the review I would write, were I writing it tomorrow instead of today? Probably not.  The next time I read this book, will my perceptions remain the same? Undoubtedly not.

We constantly rewrite our history, our stories, ourselves.  We might tell ourselves that we do not, or that our revisions are only in the name of "truth", but history, given the chance, might prove us wrong.  As for my lost words, now existing as but a blur on rippled paper scattered across my desk, do they matter, except as a reminder of the shifting sands of my own engagement with the world? Probably not. 

I suspect Thomas Cromwell would approve.  Or at least Hilary Mantel's Thomas Cromwell would approve.

 

 

 

March was a busy month, and yet I managed to read more than I had in the previous two months. Once again, my reading was mostly light escapist/entertainment, and that worked well given my time constraints and lack of focus.  Despite my best intentions I only started one book that was on the reread pile, and once again I did not finish, not because the book is not excellent, not because I didn't want to read it, but because of a toxic combination of time constraints and sinus issues that left me feeling like I could not devote adequate attention.   A book I read this month also got added to that pile, but I shall go ahead and list it, with the indication that a review will be forthcoming but not probably for a few months. This list, after all, serves mostly an accounting function.

Books in the order read:

Jeffrey Archer, A Prisoner of Birth. This was the first novel I have read by Archer and I found it to be a rather gripping read.  The reader knows what happened from the beginning; the question is how is the man who is falsely convicted going to prove his innocence?  I particularly enjoyed the court scenes and struggled with a few of the antics surrounding the mistaken identity portion of the novel, but this was not enough to make the novel less enjoyable.  I also like the way this book is both riveting thriller about injustice and revenge, and also about our ability to change, the potential everyone is born with, the ways in which we categorize and misjudge people based on appearances, and the ways we are all prisoners of our birth and circumstances.

Suzanne Munshower, Younger.  A Kindle First book. It was listed as an espionage/thriller, and although that may be technically true, it didn't measure up.  I read it because I had a bad sinus headache and could hardly move. Not recommended.

Alan Furst, The Spies of Warsaw.  Another first-time author for me.  It is really not a spy novel in the modern spy/thriller sense.  It is more of a novel of espionage and the politics surrounding the fear of and preparation for war.  The scale is small and nuanced, with a sense of restraint. Although the book is not particularly gripping, not particularly suspenseful, the reader becomes wrapped up the story and regrets having to leave. I felt the book, and the character's actions had a work-a day realism that really emphasized a sense of the tension and dread, denial and suspicion that existed in Europe in the late 30's. I will read more by this author. 

Tom McCarthy, Satin Island.  Fascinating novel despite its lack of plot or traditional characterizations.  Intelligent and thought provoking study of modern life, its connections and disconnections.  I was especially struck by the way the narrator accumulates data on things that might be interesting (I have been known to do that), but especially by the way this obsession with data and information both overwhelms and obscures, and the way we are both more informed and yet less connected, and perhaps even less knowledgeable.  I waffled back and forth over this novel and in the end can state that I find it unsettling, but not necessarily something I wish to read again.  

Nick Hornsby, Funny Girl, A Novel. Shallow.  Although I didn't think it was great as a novel, I did think it would make a great movie.

Chuck Grosser, The Gemini Effect. Thoroughly enjoyable apocalypse fantasy.  It is not realistic, and frankly better for not being realistic.  I want escapism, where hopefully some good guys win in the end, I don't want to be terrified.

Cixin Liu, The Three Body Problem. An excellent novel, heavy with science, which I wish I had been able to delve into more deeply.  This will be read again, probably over the summer, and reviewed at that time.

Lauren Bacall, By Myself and Then Some. Candid.  Better early on, but I definitely wanted to like this more than I actually did.

 

I was up a little late last night at an excellent chamber music concert at the Knoxville Museum of Art, and so am a little pressed for time this morning.  This works well because I have finished very few books so far this year.  In fact there are more books that I have read once and want to go back to for one reason or another than there are books in the "completed" pile. 

 

Most of them are fairly light reading

 

1. Scott Turow, Identical. OK.  Not Turow's best.  I kept getting a sense the author was trying for some overarching statement about twins that he wasn't quite able to pull off.

 

2. Jacques Vandroux, Heart Collector.  A Kindle First choice.  Fast paced and entertaining enough, but a little to fantastical for my taste.  It somehow bothered me that French Detectives spoke as if they were characters in a spaghetti western.  Perhaps that is a trend. 

 

3. M.L. Stedman, The Light Between Oceans.  I enjoyed reading this.  The were a few beautifully descriptive passages, and the struggles of the characters were moving and thought provoking, although often frustrating as well.

 

4. Teri Agins, Hijacking the Runway. Well written and easy to read.  I found it less satisfying than her previous book, but that may be that I am less interested in the subject matter.

 

5. Simon Wood, The One that Got Away.  Another Kindle First.  A fast read.  I think it is a pretty good portrayal of a character suffering from PTSD.  Some of the other characters needed work.

 

6. D. M. Pulley, The Dead Key.  Kindle First.  Flowery prose.  Unbelievable characters.  Some good sections.

 

7. Daniel Kehlmann, F: A novel. This was the best book of the batch, and considering how long it has stayed with me, and how often I have dipped back into it, I would say it is brilliant, although it is not a novel for the general reader.  It is not a book for a reader who wants a traditional story line, but if you are willing to engage with the book it is grippingly thought-provoking.  F is a novel about Arthur Friedland and his three sons.  Arthur is a Failed writer who takes his sons to see a hypnotist, after which he abandons his Family to pursue his craft.  The story resumes many years later when the sons are grown and Arthur has achieved Fame.  The eldest son, Martin has become a priest (Faith) although he is a Fake as he does not believe in God.  Eric is in Finance and also Fraud.  Ivan is an artist, but also a Forger. Family, Fathers, Fame, Faith, Fakery, Fraud, Forgery, Fear.  These are the subjects of this book and it is in many ways a very astute and unsettling study of modern life, especially the fear that each of these characters struggles with: the fear of being found out, the fear of not being good enough, the fear that they are each and every one a fraud, not in the external worldly sense, in which they most certainly are frauds, but deep in their inner selves. And so each character builds a life that is a Façade designed to hide their Fear that the world will discover the emptiness they each feel. 

 

 

 How quickly we forget.  I didn't read much the last three months of the year, maybe four books, two of which were rereads, and I forgot how much reading I had done in the early part of the year, when my back was bad and I was confined to bed.  I suppose it all balances it out in the end.  I enjoyed a great many of the books and there were few disappointments.  My favorites were primarily not fiction, and this is unusual, but most of my fiction reading was light genre fiction, enjoyable, but often not particularly moving or thought provoking.  

I've added links to any reviews that appeared in the blog, and added a comment here or there.  My favorite books of the year are highlighted in turquoise.  Only one is fiction.  Interestingly enough, books by siblings Deborah and Mike Madison topped my list.

1. Mike Madison, Blythe Tomato.

2. Thomas Stanley, Stop Acting Rich.

3. Brene Brown, The Gifts of Imperfection.

4. Orson Scott Card, Ender's Game.

5. Debbie Macomber, The Inn at Rose Harbor.

6. Debbie Macomber, Rose Harbor in Bloom.

7. Charles Rosenberg, Long Knives.

8. Charles Rosenberg, Death on a High Floor.

9. Gabe Lyons, The Next Christians.

10. Catherine McKenzie, Hidden.

11. Oonagh Shanley-Toffolo, The Voice of Silence.

12. William Paul Young, The Shack.

13. Julius Erving, Dr. J: The Autobiography.

14. Anthony Colpo, Whole Grains, Empty Promises.

15. Malcolm Kendrick, The Great Cholesterol Con.

16. William Goldman, The Princess Bride.

17. Elizabeth Bard, Lunch in Paris.

18. Eileen Goudge, The Replacement Wife.

19. Christopher Bryan, And God Spoke.

20. Rita Mae Brown, Sour Puss.

21. Rita Mae Brown, Catch as Cat Can.

22. Phyllis T. Smith, I Am Livia.

23. Patrick O'Keeffe, The Visitors.

24. Martin Gilbert, Churchill and America.

25. Jennifer McGruther, The Nourished Kitchen.

26. Dennis Lehane, The Given Day.

27. Alex Renton, Planet Carnivore.

28. Lawrence Block, The Burglar in the Library.

29. Lawrence Block, The Burglar in the Closet.

30. Lawrence Block, Burglars Can't Be Choosers.

31. Lawrence Block, The Burglar Who Painted Like Mondrian.

32. Lawrence Block, The Burglar Who Studied Spinoza.

33. Lawrence Block, The Burglar Who Liked to Quote Kipling.

34. Lawrence Block, The Burglar Who Thought He Was Bogart.

35. Lawrence Block, The Burglar Who Traded Ted Williams.

36. Lawrence Block, The Burglar on the Prowl.

37. Lawrence Block, The Burglar in the Rye.

38. Lawrence Block, The Burglar Who Counted the Spoons.

39. Deborah Madison, Vegetable Literacy.

40. John J. Collins, A Short Introduction to the Hebrew Bible. (Class Text.  Inconsistent and Choppy)

41. Paul Tough, How Children Succeed.

42. Christine Kling, Dragon's Triangle. (fast paced, clichéd, lacking character development)

43.  Elizabeth George, Just One Evil Act.

44. Nicole Mones, The Last Chinese Chef.

45. Julia Glass, The Whole World Over.

46. Georgette Heyer, Faro's Daughter.

47. Reza Aslan, Zealot.

48. Jonathan Stone, Moving Day.

49. Maggie Callanan, Final Gifts.

50. Karen Mack, Freud's Mistress.

51. Tish Jett, Forever Chic.

52. Tom Clancy, Command Authority.

53. Eric Metaxas, Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy.

54. Tyler Hamilton, The Secret Race.

55. Michael Connelly, The Fifth Witness. (first Michael Connelly book I've read; will read more)

56. Elvin McDonald, A Garden Makes a House a Home. (pretty pictures, not much more)

57. Jeremy Duns, Free Agent. (compelling, complex primary character)

58. Alfred Lansing, Endurance: Shackleton's Incredible Voyage.

59. America's Test Kitchen, How Can It Be Gluten Free Cookbook.

60. Miroslav Volf, Free of Charge. (Compelling enough that I plan to reread this year)

61. C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity. (reread for a class)

62. Lena Dunham, Not That Kind of Girl.

63. Eben Alexander III, Proof of Heaven.

64. Julia Reed, One Man's Folly. (review forthcoming)

65. Elizabeth Strout, Olive Kitteridge.

 

 

 

 

I started listening to Alfred Lansing's book Endurance: Shackleton's Incredible Voyage about the time I finally started walking up and down the hills in my neighborhood, rather than sticking to easier and more level paths.  The book was an incredible story of triumph over adversity and strength of character.  It was also a good choice for finally tackling comparatively small hurdle of walking up and down a few hills, for how could I tell myself that I couldn't make it up a hill, in a safe neighborhood, on a warm morning, when I was listening to the journal entries of men who were fighting for survival, struggling with frostbitten fingers and worse.  The book was gripping, not only because the story was gripping, but because it brought the human touch to history.  Through journal entries, one experiences the thoughts of the actual players in this epic battle, one sees heroes of history not as mythic creatures, but as men, men who make bad decisions, men with flaws, but men nonetheless, men who pull together and rise beyond themselves to survive dangers and conditions that seem unimaginable to us today. There were times, stopping to catch my breath or rest my muscles on a steep hill that tears would be rolling down my face, or was it the tears that forced me to stop, and catching my breath was only incidental.  A bit of both, depending on the day, as the tears would certainly complicate my breathing and slow my muscles.

 

This is how history should be taught, not as dates, not as mythic hero-worship, as the story of how we humans can be more than the sum of our weaknesses, and how great achievement comes not from being perfectly good and strong, but from digging deep into our fears and our failings and rising above them.

 

Most of us will never have to endure anything as horrific as the struggle of these men.  Most of us will never need an Ernest Shackleton to pull us together and keep us going.  And for this I for one am incredibly grateful.  And yet, by sharing the actual experience of these men, only partially, through their words and our imaginations, we can learn something more about ourselves, and perhaps strengthen our confidence in our own resolve and endurance, for battles both large and small.

I'm back from my summer travels and it is wonderful to be home even though once again I am struggling to get back into a routine. Traveling was wonderful and much time was spent with family and friends.  If less time than anticipated was spent knitting and reading, it is not such a bad thing.  A summer sweater remains unfinished, but there is ample time on the horizon for solitary knitting.    There was also little time for summer reading.  Yet, between meals and conversations, walks, visits, swims, and time spent with family culminating in my brother's wedding, a few books were completed.

 

I finally got around to reading Tish Jett's Forever Chic in early July while in Mohonk.  It seemed like a light read, a soothing balm at the end of the day, and it lived up to its promise.  The book is well written and personal; reading it is much like settling in for a cup of coffee and conversation with a friend.  Yes it does include information on rather expensive cosmetic procedures and products, but also much practical advice about common-sense approaches and the importance of a lifetime of care and attention to face, body and mind.  Yes Frenchwomen do exercise, and yes they do watch what they eat, but the emphasis here is different than the standard American approach, at least the one I grew up with.  Unlike many books it does not read as a bible of specific instructions, with the author repeatedly reminding us that each of us will find different solutions while recommending an informed approach.  I was also thrilled that the author points out that beauty, charm, and allure come not only from the surface, although this should not be ignored, but from within, noting that the French women of whom she writes are also interested, engaged, and informed about the world, and that this active engagement in the world and that this very engagement forms an important part of their allure.  This is refreshingly different from the beauty or intelligence dichotomy that still seems to plague parts of American culture.

 

On the last day of our Mohonk visit, my step-son Adam, gave me a book he had just finished, Tom Clancy's Command Authority, and I started reading it at the hotel that very evening, after a rather stressful day of driving, and I found it to be an enjoyable read.  Clancy was a great storyteller and this book is no exception.  I am not a critical-enough reader of Clancy's oevre to discuss whether this book is better or worse than his earlier novels, or the differences in approach, being more interested simply in whether or not the book was enjoyable,  Indeed it was.  Yes it is heavy on political and military minutia, as is the case in many of the Jack Ryan novels, and many readers may not have the patience for this.   Yes the involvement of Jack Sr. and Jack Jr. seems implausible at times, but then the entire Jack Ryan package is extremely implausible.  We don't look for everyman in our superheroes though, and Jack Ryan is an American superhero.  The book was engaging enough, and driving enough that it was difficult to put down, proving to be an entertaining and satisfying read.

 

Next up, a book that had been on my towering "to read" stack for a few years now, Eric Metaxas' Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy, which I started without realizing that a theme was developing:  the idolization of men as unambiguous ideolized superheroes.  And herein lies the problem; it is not that Dietrich Bonhoeffer was not a hero, a martyr, a man of deep conviction and profound courage and faith, a man whose faith carried him further than most people are willing to go in terms of standing up for truth. He was all of that and more.  The problem is that Metaxas paints a rather simplified and one-sided portrait of Bonhoeffer as a hero for the elites and although it is true that Dietrich Bonhoeffer did come from an elite background, the book plays this up consistently and to great effect.  Bonhoeffer is the hero of the educated, the hero of the upper classes fighting against the uneducated, the rude, and the crude.  This is a biography turned into a morality tale. Metaxas also grossly oversimplifies Bonhoeffer's theology and his development as a theologian, relying heavily on Bonhoeffer's writings as a young student and as well as some late writings, neatly avoiding any indications of development and inner struggle.  Of course, one would note that Theologian, is not a part of the title of the book, so it would make sense that this is no biography of Bonhoeffer as a theologian.

 

Now, given this litany of complaints, one might think that this is a bad book.  It is not, although I would deem it rather average.  It is mostly well written, with a mostly engaging style.  It is however defnitely limited.  If the book introduces Bonhoeffer to those who knew nothing of him, it has yielded something good.  If some of those readers go on to read Bonhoeffer's actual writings and learn more of the man and his theology it might even be deemed a success. It has certainly made me want to reread Bonhoeffer, with the result that, rather than reducing the size of the old "to read" pile, this book actually served to increase it.

 

Then, without conscious intention, another book from the pile popped up,  The Secret Race by Tyler Hamilton and Daniel Coyle, or a book that could be described as the a study of the hero as everyman. This book was good.  The story was well told and engaging.  Yes it is a particular story, Tyler's story, and he comes across as likeable and understandable.  It seemed, however that he made points that we should all consider, the old, well-worn mantra of "What would you do in the same situation?"  Yes he doped.  Yes he claims everyone did it, and given the statistics it seems he was correct.  But several other points come out.  Even though everyone doped, or almost everyone at least among the elite riders, those at the top, some still managed to do better than others, it took more than doping to achieve success.  Some were more honest (relatively) than others, some were not.  And the big question remains, the "what would you do".  For the truth is that we are, for the most part, all Tyler Hamiltons.  We all want to succeed, to be liked, to be in the cool crowd.  We all tell ourselves little stories and little white lies to cover our less than laudable choices.  Most of us are like the German elites who simply hoped that Hitler would go away.  Most of us are like Tyler Hamilton and the other riders who took dope because they just wanted a chance to succeed, to show what they could do, and who believed they had no other choice, even if that belief was wrong.  Most of us are not like Dietrich Bonhoeffer.  Luckily most of us are not like Lance Armstrong either.  It is true that he does not come out well in this book; it is not his book after all. At the same time, from an observer's standpoint, Hamilton never came across as particularly likable during the period of his Tour de France wins. But we don't always expect our heroes to be likeable and we sometimes confuse arrogance and confidence.  In many ways Armstrong was and is a prisoner of his own success, his need to win. As Hamilton points out, winning goes to your head. It can make you think you are better than everyone else; it can make you forget that reality is much more fragile. This is a engaging, touching and humanizing book, a reminder of the tentative nature of our own humanity, as a reminder of the toll our yearning for superheros really takes, both on those we idolize and ourselves. 

 

 

 

 

 

This morning I went to a fascinating workshop/seminar on based on the Social Styles model for working with other people in a community leadership setting.  The talk was thought provoking, and at times uncomfortably close to home.  I agree that we all have our own personalities, and we have dominant modes of thinking and relating, but I also think we all have aspects of the other types, and we can learn to channel them, or perhaps life has taught us to channel them (or not). There are other systems as well, and although they are all useful, I always want to be careful about over simplification. But smart people don't oversimplify their persepctives on other people, do they? Anyway it was interesting and I gained insight into myself and the way I relate to others. I could clearly see how there have been occasions where my own particular defensive responses have been absolutely the worst approach with particular people. I could have done better; I can do better.  

 

Then I went to McKay's, the local second-hand book store, to sell a big box of books and, yes, come home with a bag of books as well. I did not come home with nearly as many books as I sold which is a good thing. There are days I can walk around McKays and find nothing that interests me, and then there are days, like today, where books seem to be jumping into the cart.  The only solution is simply to stop looking.

 

Now I am tired, not quite mind-numbingly tired, but close, so this will hopefully be a short post.  Since I was at a bookstore and since I also bought books, it seemed like an appropriate time for another book update. Luckily, I've only read three books since my last post.

 

Final Gifts is a book about communicating with the dying.  It was recommended to me and lent to me, and I put off reading it longer than I should have before passing it on to the next person.  It is a good book, and I wish more people who are faced with the loss of a loved one could and would read it before finding themselves in that situation.  Many times we are frustrated by a sense of helplessness and loss of control when faced with the loss of someone we love, and we fear for ourselves and for them. This book helps one in learning to listen to what the dying person is saying, not just hearing them, but actually listening, and as such it is warm and wise and uplifting.

 

 

Moving Day is a thriller, a psychological thriller, about a theif who likes to annihilate his victims and what happens when he accidently choses as his next victim a man who refuses to accept his fate, a man psychologically driven by forces he himself can't fully comprehend, to fight annihilation with all of his being. This was the book I should have chosen as my Kindle First choice for May.  It is a good book, as it explores  the way the theft of all his worldy goods sends Stanley Peke, a man who literally arrived in this country as a boy with nothing after losing everything to the Nazis, a man who made a very successful life for himself, on a path into his past and parts of his psyche that he has suppressed for decades.  I thought it was compelling and for the most part well-done. I am not informed enough about psychology to know how accurately Peek is portrayed, but many parts of his story resonated with me in a way that I could see as true, at least for some people. The use of sentence fragments could at times be moving, as Peek came to terms with bits or fragments, of memory, but the author fell back on this technique far too often, so that over time, what seemed filled with meaning became simply annoying. Still I enjoyed the book, and was driven to finish. I would be surprised however if this book stood up to a second reading.

 

Freud's Mistress is a novel about an affair between Sigmund Freud and his wife's sister, Minna, who lived with the Freuds for 42 years.  The main characters actually existed.  Minna actually lived with her sister's family, and there is a large archive of letters between Sigmund and Minna which seem to indicate that she was highly intelligent and progressive for her time.  However there is no concrete evidence that an affair took place although there have been speculations.  There is also a five year period where there are no letters between the two. The novel uses the general speculation about the affair, and the absense of letters, in order to explore the possibility of an affair, an opportunity to explore an idea of the lives of these characters.   I found it entertaining and well-written, and I think Minna was very well drawn.  The author did a good job exploring Minna's conflicting emotions, and also with placing Minna thoroughly in her time and constrained by her class and the mores of her upbringing and the society in which she lived.  In short she was a smart and enlightened woman for her time, but she is not portrayed as an entirely modern woman, and this may in some ways make her a little more difficult to understand today.  

 

One of the things I particularly liked about the book were the conversations between Freud and Minna, not just about Freud's ideas, but also about literature and philosophy.  These conversatons are brimming with that excitement I recall from my own youth:  of the joy of intellectual discovery and new ideas, sometimes brash, sometimes completely wrong-headed but brimming with confidence, with the seductions of the mind and the world of ideas as an escape from mundane reality.   And of course, the seductions of the mind, of feeling needed and wanted, can lead to other seductions as well as disappointments. 

 

social style matrix from here.

All book cover photos from Amazon.