Kindred

I just finished reading this work of historical fiction written in the 1970s. It is based on the idea of a black woman traveling back in time to the 1800s, when slavery was a severe reality of life. It is interesting to try to infer how much has changed since the book was written. Perhaps the 1970s were more concerned with basic human rights than we are today. The countercultural movements of the 1960s were largely coopted by society in the 1970s, just as 21st century America has largely absorbed the gang violence of the 1980s and 1990s and made it more like an attitude that anyone can adopt. The peace movement, civil rights struggles, labor activism, and feminism were all still alive in the 1970s. Now, in the 21st century, war, racism, low wages, and sexism are still with us, but the protests seem muted compared to the enormity of the changes in the 60s and 70s. The power of activism seems focused on other things. But to get to the actual book, I really struggled to get through this one, even though the craftsmanship level is high and the subject matter is worthwhile. It felt like assigned reading. I don't think I've personally learned all the lessons this book has to teach, but I don't know if that's because of some inner struggle to empathize or just because the focus of my interests and society's interests have changed so much since the 1970s. It is a good book, ultimately, and it is relevant to today; I just wish I could give a solid reason for not liking it the way I do.

Defining the Wind

I enjoyed this book thoroughly, especially its gorgeously-written first chapter about riding out a hurricane (before Katrina). It is a copy-editor's book, written by a former copy editor, so its focus on words may be too much for some people. Still, the story is intriguing enough to keep non-word-o-philes (copy editors are cringing right now) entertained. The book explains how a description of the wind that was created during the sea-faring age, at least partly as an aid to navigation, took on a life of its own and became a kind of poem, now found only in some dictionaries. I was first introduced to the Beaufort wind scale in a modern poetry class as a "found poem," and it is truly poetry -- both concrete and abstract, both physical and spiritual. The scale also has a history of its own, and this book lovingly traces that history. The analysis of the changes over time to the actual scale itself is interesting, but the most interesting fact may be that this little nugget of fine language has survived at all into the 21st century. It is really a miracle, and this book captures that miracle. I almost wish our news reports would use this scale instead of the exact figures they purport to give us, but that might cheapen the value of the words themselves. The words are the treasure. Look in your dictionary at home under "Beaufort" to see if the wind scale is there. Many no longer have it.

the curious incident of the dog in the night-time

Mark Haddon's British novel uses the voice of a near-autistic boy to tell a story of awakening. It is a rite-of-passage story with real resonance for anyone who has ever struggled to learn something or to try something outside the box. The hero of the story uses math as a kind of language throughout the story, which is effective. The rigidness of the prose fits a character who is bound up in his head, the way all creative types can be. The novel makes me wonder if autism and its related syndromes (Asperger's) are a sign of the times. We are creating children who can think and feel in different ways than what is normal, but they are no longer trapped in institutions or unable to communicate at all. Technology and disability legislation have made societies more open to people with illnesses like autism. Still, the biggest limits real people with autism have seem to be primarily with communication. Our society doesn't really seem to connect very well any more, even for normal people, so the children who are stuck in their own minds are probably doubly stuck. This coming of age story allows one such doubly stuck character to escape both the boundaries of his own mind and the boundaries of his society, and the world is a better place because someone has imagined this possibility.

Grendel

Grendel is a 1971 masterpiece by John Gardner that retells the Beowulf story from the monster Grendel's point of view. I found it relevant to today's struggles in some ways. First of all, the novel describes a war that almost nobody wants, except perhaps Grendel. Even Grendel calls it an idiotic war, but that doesn't stop him from being a violent bully. Secondly ,the potential for the two sides of the conflict, monsters and men, to draw a truce exists in parts of the novel, but the two sides harden their positions until one side, drawing on the power of fate, is victorious. President Bush must feel a little bit like Grendel these days. He's entered into a conflict that he doesn't fully understand, and his identity is determined by the decisions he makes in that conflict. Grendel has the excuse of being a monster, but he is struggling to define himself just as we all are. In fact, the bulk of the novel is Grendel's struggle to understand himself and human society, which is built on war and conquest (and betrayal) in his eyes. I wonder how much Grendel's outsider's perspective on things is needed right now. After all, he sits outside of Western materialism in the world of myth. We need to be able to dislodge our preconceptions to get past this world war we're engaging.

1776

I found this history a lot less gripping than McCullough's previous book, John Adams. Still, it had interesting details that helped me picture the beginning of the War of Independence much more vividly. For example, the ragtag nature of the "continental army," described through first-hand accounts, was revealing. Also, the importance of disease as a condition of war but also a potential weapon -- refugees sent across the American lines by the British were isolated because of the fear of smallpox -- was surprising. The history centers on George Washington, and McCullough does not question first-hand accounts that are particularly glowing toward the general. He credits him with the ability to "see things as they are, not as how we wish them to be," which helped him make critical decisions that allowed the American army to survive a brutal first year of combat. Other than a clear contrast between the status of King George III and the head of the continental army, the book does not address the political nature of the revolution. Both Common Sense and the Declaration of Independence are mentioned, but the declaration is given little weight in the history, while the impact of Common Sense is more acknowledged than delved into. 1776 is primarily a military history, and it adds very important detail to the account of the revolutionary war, while also balancing the scales a little bit to the side of the British, who are definitely not painted as incompetent blunderers in this account. It is a worthwhile book, but not quite as well-told as McCullough's account of John Adams' life, which is interesting and fresh at every turn.

Post 9/11 Books Part 3 / Terrorist

John Updike's Terrorist made me wonder if we really are living through the end of Western civilization as we know it. The two main characters of the novel, a high school guidance counselor and his Muslim charge, represent polar opposites. The "American" side of the equation is fat, lazy, decrepit, and morally equivocal, while the Muslim terrorist-in-training is slim, ambitious, pure, and convinced he is right on moral issues. The young Muslim is vain about his appearance, he is not a saint, but he does have some ground to stand on in his condemnation of American laxness. The neglect he sees all around him, from the ashheaps that surround his home to his mother's come-and-go lovers, confirms his belief that he is on the right path. The novel leaves open the terrifying possibility that the "American way of life" is being exposed as a fraud even among our own citizens, and that these neglected citizens could act out their revenge through terrorist acts. Updike tries to get inside the head of a potential homegrown terrorist, and he succeeds in this only so far. He repeats some phrases over and over, almost like a heroic epithet, in describing the terrorist mind. Other than that, the novel succeeds in painting a terrifying picture of neglect turned into tragedy.

Post 9/11 Books Part 2 / Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

I just finished reading this book, published in 2005. It deserves a second read, so I may update this post at some point, but my first reaction is to marvel at the accomplishment of this novel. The author, Jonathan Safran Foer, weaves together three broken lives in engrossing detail, giving each character specific idiosyncracies that are both maddening and heartbreaking. The star of the show is Oskar Schell, an overly precocious, near-obsessive-compulsive eight-year-old whose father is killed on 9/11. His grandmother and grandfather also narrate portions of the novel, and their grief at losing their son, as well as their shared grief from living through the Dresden firebombing of World War II, is expressed powerfully in those chapters. But Oskar's grief and pain, together with his multifaceted attempts to put the pieces of his life back together, drive the story forward. The story centers around Oskar's quest to find a lock that fits a key he has found in secret, which he believes will tell him more about his father. The quest takes him to many places in New York, but the story doesn't dwell on the "I love NY" theme, it only uses New York as a patchwork background that adds interest in a primarily internal struggle. Oskar's quest is successful in many ways, although the key does not lead him in a direction that he expects; he makes friends, he meets people. Still, he is haunted by his father's death, and his grief is being worked out in the search for the lock. The grandfather character is another key in the story, and his presence becomes essential to Oskar working out his grief, though it is possible that in the end, neither of them achieves the emotional release they need. One very definite theme of the novel is to express the grief created by 9/11 and place it in both a personal and a historical context. The author achieves that goal while at the same time being bold and adventurous in the design and verbal inventiveness of the book. Foer is Vonnegut's heir in more ways than one here, and he is up to the challenge of taking Vonnegut's mantle on into the future.

Post 9/11 Books Part I / In the Shadow of No Towers

I've read three books that I highly recommend that address the emotional landscape created after September 11. They each stake out different territory, and they all do it with intelligence and insight. I am reviewing them in the order in which they were published.

The first is In the Shadow of No Towers, by Art Spiegelman, which came out in 2004. It is a graphic autobiography, meaning it has the look of a hardbound comic book but very personal subject matter. Spiegelman expresses the shock, horror, and outrage of someone who can't understand the attack or the policies that he feels provoked it. He feels betrayed by his country, and sees President Bush as recklessly endangering American citizens, especially New Yorkers, by launching the war on terror. The graphic book makes a gradual shift from these present-day anxieties to the ancient-seeming comics of the early 20th Century, concluding with a section that reverts back to the form of those comic strips completely. This last section is dense and difficult to get through, but overall the book is worth it because of its artistic integrity and outsider's perspective. It doesn't feel like a lecture, but it is definitely a wake-up call to those who feel safe years after the Sept. 11 attacks.

The Namesake

This Jhumpa Lahiri novel goes nowhere fast. Again, I found my attention wandering as I got into the first few chapters and never really finished the book. I bought the book because I had read and liked a version of this novel that appeared as a short story in the New Yorker. That story was a stereotypical New Yorker short story, but at least it crystallized the meandering descriptions of this novel into something resembling a plot. This novel seems to have padded that story to interminable length, delving into mysterious realms that have little bearing on real life. Sorry, but my limited attention span couldn't bear the long-windedness of this novel. Maybe if I had nothing but leisure time I could recommend this novel, but it's just not that absorbing of a novel, so maybe no matter how much time I had, it wouldn't be worth it. Not recommended (again, even though I only read the first few chapters).

Hamlet

My wife and I read this classic together for a World Lit class she was taking. It really is a meditation on death and a powerful statement about the nature of human consciousness -- we can be a vacillating, revenge-driven, half-mad species, and Hamlet exposes some of our weaknesses as well as our greatest strengths. "Conscience does make cowards of us all." The great graveyard scene is to me the emotional climax of the play, where two men compete over the memory of a beloved sister and (for lack of a better word) lover. Hamlet intentionally distances himself from Ophelia, but his "antic disposition" is overcome in the graveyard scene when he wallows in his grief. This is a true grief, not an acted one, but Hamlet is the ultimate actor's role because he is both a director and an actor within the play itself. There is an insecurity to the role that is mystifying to some but powerful to others. Hamlet can sound like a whiny teenager at times, but he is capable of showing great resolve and emotional fortitude in others. It's well worth reading this play to get back to a sense of what it means to be human and to encounter such a compelling character.

The Da Vinci Legacy

This was written before the Da Vinci Code became a big hit, but I think it's being repackaged as an answer to the Da Vinci Code. I couldn't get into it while reading it last spring, because the writing is pretty generic. The opening line, after all, is, "Killing made him happy." This kind of sociopath is a staple of 1980s movies, maybe, but it reads false to me. It sounds even more cartoonish than the bad guys in Da Vinci Code, who at least had a powerful motive besides simply enjoying killing. I can't really recommend the book or not recommend the book because I haven't read the whole thing, but based on the opening two chapters, it's a non-starter for me.

Small Avalanches and other stories

Joyce Carol Oates has an ax to grind in this set of stories, but it may be an ax worth grinding. The stories are vivid and well-imagined, and I wish some of my high school students who are girls somehow find this book and read it, because it is a valuable study in conflicts they probably feel. The collection deals mostly with early relationships between guys and girls and the potentially terrifying outcomes of those relationships, meaning sexual violence or date rape.

Taken together, the stories seem to rule out the possibility of the "good guy." Guys reading the stories are likely to be depressed or angry because guys are not presented in a good light, generally speaking.

Still, it's hard to argue that guys don't deserve this kind of treatment. Date rape is an ugly reality, and it's brave in some ways for Oates to present a collection of stories that centers around that reality.

It would be nice, though, if at least one of the stories ended well. I'm not sure if that's the case -- I didn't read through the entire collection.

The Motive

This is a murder mystery by John Lescroart that I really liked right up until the end. The plot starts with a fire in a famous San Francisco home that is being renovated, where two bodies are discovered. The first few chapters lay out the police and fire inspectors' procedures while pointing toward possible suspects. The investigation proceeds along several different avenues, eventually involving the main character, lawyer Dismas Hardy, as the case heads toward trial. I loved the mature characterization of Dismas Hardy as a veteran lawyer with a blessed family life and good friendships. I also enjoyed trying to figure out where the investigation was heading, which I'm never very good at anyway, but it was fun to try. The ending, though, was a little disappointing. It seemed too little justification for all the suspense leading up to it. I know that's vague, but I recommend reading the book, so I'm not going to give away the ending.

Da Vinci Code

I read this novel very quickly and defensively, to be honest, because it includes an attack on some fundamental aspects of Christian religion. The story is well developed, although the bad guys are an obvious caricature of a real-life Catholic sect. I love the idea of using art as a tool to solve a murder, and an alternate version of Christ's life and history would create a strong motive for the bad guys. So the book is good, if it is taken as a simple mystery story.

The book fundamentally misunderstands Christ's significance and the role of the church in society, though. Biblically speaking, the church is designed to be the body of Christ. As such, it should strive to be fundamentally open to all sinners who acknowledge the need for a savior. The church is imperfect at this mission, but it is far from being the secret mafia that the Da Vinci Code makes it out to be. Furthermore, Christ was not just a man, he was the embodiment of God on Earth, completely human and completely divine. The Da Vinci Code wants to treat Christ as if he were simply human, and substitutes any divine characteristics he might have with the pagan symbology of male and female gods and goddesses. It creates a false version of Christ, which is no different than other versions that have been around for centuries, if not millennia.

The attractiveness of the other versions of Christ is that they are different, but I know that Christ was indeed both human and divine. He is the only living God, who was made flesh, crucified for the sins of the world, and rose again. The authority he has in heaven and earth is demonstrated in the true Biblical accounts of Christ. I know this is "accepted dogma," but that doesn't make it any less true.

The Da Vinci Code, for all its inventiveness, does not fundamentally offer anything new to discredit the Christian religion. It is a good read, but I would warn against reading it anyone who has never encountered the living God or who has not read the full Biblical accounts of Christ's life, death, and resurrection. The false version of Christ in the Da Vinci Code is enough to warrant a "thumbs down" recommendation from me.

Not a Nag!

My wife has beaten me to the punch and is starting her own blog. Check out Not a Nag! for her thoughts.