The Best American Crime Reporting 2009, ed. Jeffrey Tobin: As I’ve said before, I think anthologies make perfect airline reading, and this one, with its built-in mystery and suspense, fit the bill especially well for my Thanksgiving travels (though I didn’t complete it until I returned, obviously). I found the essay on the Zankou Chicken murders especially fascinating, since it takes place in our neck of the woods and we love their food.
Tea Time for the Traditionally Built, by Alexander McCall Smith (audio): A perfectly pleasant way to while away a few commutes, though I confess I’ve already forgotten the plot.
Best Food Writing 2009, ed. Holly Hughes: For my Christmas in-flight entertainment. I read this anthology every year, and always enjoy it, particularly when it contains something new by Calvin Trillin. In general, though, I’m going to resolve to read fewer “best ___ writing” anthologies in 2010. They’re temporarily diverting, but I never feel satisfied after I’ve read them, and considering how many books I have on my reading list, I think my time could be better spent.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
BETSY-TACY AND TIB/BETSY AND TACY GO OVER THE BIG HILL/BETSY AND TACY GO DOWNTOWN
My parents gave me the second through fourth books of Maud Hart Lovelace’s Betsy-Tacy series for Christmas, thus completing my collection, and since I ended up spending a few days of my visit to Minnesota cozily snowed in, I decided I’d might as well reread them for the first time in years. Unsurprisingly, they were all charming and hugely enjoyable, following the three friends from ages eight to twelve. The girls try to learn to fly, cook “Everything Pudding” (throwing every ingredient in the kitchen into one horrible concoction; I tried this as a child myself!), form a secret society, cut off one another’s hair to make memory lockets after Tacy has diphtheria, meet Tib’s glamorous Aunt Dolly (who reappears in Betsy in Spite of Herself), write a letter to the King of Spain, explore “Little Syria,” see their first horseless carriage, hang out with sassy Winona Root (a member of the Crowd in the high-school books), befriend Mrs. Poppy (later Julia’s voice teacher), perform in a play of Rip Van Winkle, find Betsy’s long-lost actor uncle Keith (whose trunk becomes her writing desk in subsequent books), and go to a library for the first time (and meet Miss Sparrow, Betsy’s beloved librarian in the rest of the series).
But I had a weird revelation: I remember reading Betsy-Tacy and Tib over and over again as a kid, but Big Hill seemed only vaguely familiar, and I began to suspect that I’d only read Downtown once before. Given how much I loved the rest of the series, how much I loved series books in general, and what a voracious reader I was, I’m not entirely sure how this happened. It could be that I genuinely didn’t like Big Hill and Downtown, preferring to skip from the classic early books to the fascinating and sophisticated high-school ones. But I think it was more complex than that. Of course, like most children, I paid little attention to the vagaries of publication dates, bibliographies, card catalog entries, and such; I got my information about which book to read next from the order that the books appeared on the shelf, or the list of other books on the back cover. At the time, the Betsy-Tacy books weren’t being as clearly marketed as a series (Harper Collins now puts numbers on the spines), or at least the library copies I had access to were less uniform. Somehow I got it in my head that Big Hill and Downtown were simply lesser books, derivative spin-offs, rather than legitimate, chronological entries in a series. Rereading them now, I was surprised to see how many elements introduced in them reappear in the later books (as noted above), and how subtly Lovelace elevates the reading level as the characters mature. I’d always thought as the high-school books representing a huge break from the childishness of the earlier books, but now I see that these books are a natural bridge. I’m so happy to have been reintroduced to them.
But I had a weird revelation: I remember reading Betsy-Tacy and Tib over and over again as a kid, but Big Hill seemed only vaguely familiar, and I began to suspect that I’d only read Downtown once before. Given how much I loved the rest of the series, how much I loved series books in general, and what a voracious reader I was, I’m not entirely sure how this happened. It could be that I genuinely didn’t like Big Hill and Downtown, preferring to skip from the classic early books to the fascinating and sophisticated high-school ones. But I think it was more complex than that. Of course, like most children, I paid little attention to the vagaries of publication dates, bibliographies, card catalog entries, and such; I got my information about which book to read next from the order that the books appeared on the shelf, or the list of other books on the back cover. At the time, the Betsy-Tacy books weren’t being as clearly marketed as a series (Harper Collins now puts numbers on the spines), or at least the library copies I had access to were less uniform. Somehow I got it in my head that Big Hill and Downtown were simply lesser books, derivative spin-offs, rather than legitimate, chronological entries in a series. Rereading them now, I was surprised to see how many elements introduced in them reappear in the later books (as noted above), and how subtly Lovelace elevates the reading level as the characters mature. I’d always thought as the high-school books representing a huge break from the childishness of the earlier books, but now I see that these books are a natural bridge. I’m so happy to have been reintroduced to them.
JULIET, NAKED
I uniformly love Nick Hornby’s nonfiction, but after adoring High Fidelity and About a Boy but then being lukewarm about the three novels that followed (except for How to Be Good, which I actively disliked), I was relieved to feel the old warm fuzzies for Juliet, Naked. It’s not a masterpiece, but it’s a solid return to form, centering on the unlikely friendship between Tucker Crowe, a cult singer-songwriter who vanished into obscurity under mysterious circumstances 20 years ago, and Annie, a middle-aged woman stuck in a dead-end relationship with an obsessive Crowe fan. (I was pleased to see a likable female narrator take center stage in a Hornby book, though I’ll admit Tucker, an aging version of the sensitive-man-boy-struggling-to-grow-up that Hornby does best, stole my heart more than I expected.) Hornby revisits his favorite themes of music, romance, and fandom, but with a new, welcome tinge of maturity and bittersweetness.
Friday, January 15, 2010
MANHOOD FOR AMATEURS
This makes three new books from my favorite authors in a single month! It didn’t change my life, but I enjoyed Michael Chabon’s entertaining and well-crafted, if occasionally lightweight, collection of essays on being a son and a father. Best quote:
Every work of art is one half of a secret handshake, a challenge that seeks the password, a heliograph flashed from a tower window, an act of hopeless optimism in the service of bottomless longing. Every great record or novel or comic cook convenes the first meeting of a fan club whose membership stands forever at one but which maintains chapters in every city—in every cranium—in the world. Art, like fandom, asserts the possibility of fellowship in a world built entirely from the materials of solitude. The novelist, the cartoonist, the songwriter, knows that the gesture is doomed from the beginning but makes it anyway, flashes his or her bit of mirror, not on the chance that the signal will be seen or understood but as if such a chance existed.
MY LIFE IN FRANCE
My Life in France, by Julia Child with Alex Prud’homme: Oh so charming, if intermittently a bit tedious in its details. Like many inexperienced memoirists, Child occasionally devolves into unfocused, strictly chronological play-by-play, giving every occurrence equal weight rather than concentrating on what we really want to know about, which is (a) THE FOOD, and (b) her all-around awesomeness—although I cut her major slack because this is an “as told to” book based on interviews she gave later in life to her grandnephew, rather than a piece of writing she carefully crafted. But that’s a small quibble about an otherwise witty and illuminating read. How could you fail to enjoy a book that contains prouncements like these?
- “I was a six-foot-two-inch, thirty-six-year-old, rather loud and unserious Californian. The sight of France in my porthole was like a giant question mark.”
- “At Smith I did some theater, a bit of creative writing, and played basketball. But I was a pure romantic, and only operating with half my burners turned on; I spent most of my time there just growing up. It was during Prohibition and in my senior year a bunch of us piled into my car and drove to a speakeasy in Holyoke. It felt so dangerous and wicked. The speakeasy was on the top floor of a warehouse, and who knew what kind of people would be there? Well, everyone was perfectly nice, and we each drank one of everything, and on the drive home most of us got heartily sick. It was terribly exciting!”
- “Over the summer and into the fall of 1955, I finished my chicken research and began madly fussing about with geese and duck. One weekend I overdid it a bit, when, in a fit of experimental zeal, I consumed most of two boned stuffed ducks (one hot and braised, one cold en croute) in a sitting. I was a pig, frankly, and bilious for days, which served me right.”
BLAME
After loving Michelle Huneven’s first two novels, Round Rock and especially Jamesland, I’ve been waiting for her to come out with a new one ever since I moved to L.A., her home turf, so that she would do a reading and I could go see her. Well, finally she complied, and I did indeed meet her and get my copy of Jamesland signed at my local independent bookstore. The story of a thirtysomething academic who’s also a blackout drunk, wakes up in jail one morning, and is told she killed two pedestrians with her car the night before, Blame combines many of Huneven’s usual themes (specifically, addiction and recovery) with the fascinating details of Patsy’s experiences in prison (including a stint as a volunteer firefighter—California really does use convicts to fight wildfires) and as an ex-con. The plot meanders a bit and ends up spanning decades, but that’s because Huneven’s real concern is far-reaching: how people go about building meaningful lives and forging bonds with others, particularly in the midst of chaos and tragedy. As always, Huneven writes beautifully and creates compelling characters, and overall I loved the book (maybe not quite as much as Jamesland—but I need to reread it before I can make that claim definitive). As a bonus, the book is set in Pasadena and Altadena, so I got a particular thrill out of seeing my town portrayed in fiction (Pie-n-Burger, represent!).
THE CHILDREN’S BOOK
I’ve always counted A.S. Byatt as one of my very favorite writers, but after being uninspired by her last few books, I’d started to fear that either her glory days were over or my earlier passion had been a misguided youthful illusion (I first fell in love with Possession in high school, when I was more easily impressed, and The Virgin in the Garden and Still Life in the heady days of college, in the midst of studying the Elizabethans and art history, which they heavily reference). So I was relieved by how much I enjoyed The Children’s Book. Admittedly, I’m predisposed to like anything focused on the Victorian/Edwardian era, but I do think this is a good book. Basically a story of several generations of a loose group of artists and freethinkers and their tangled relationships, it’s huge (688 pages) and sprawling (spanning about 25 years and encompassing fairy tales, pottery, puppetry, theater, Fabian socialism, anarchism, the World’s Fair, the suffrage movement, World War I) and dense (in fact, parts of it read almost like nonfiction, as Byatt describes the sweeping social and political changes of the day). Luckily, it also reads like the best kind of soap opera, with romantic affairs, questionable parentage, secret pregnancies, and other dark secrets abounding. Once again, I stand amazed at how Byatt can create compelling individual characters while simultaneously summing up an entire bygone age, and make it all so pleasurable to read that no matter how long it lasts, you’re sorry when it ends and immediately want to start rereading.
Monday, January 11, 2010
JEEVES AND THE TIE THAT BINDS
Background: Published in 1971 (British title was Much Obliged, Jeeves)—when P.G. Wodehouse was 90 years old.
This is the one where: We learn Jeeves’ first name! (It’s Reginald.) (Bertie’s reaction: “It had never occurred to me before that he had a first name. I couldn’t help thinking what embarrassment would have been caused if it had been Bertie.”)
The action takes place at: Brinkley Court
Bertie accidentally gets engaged to:
Other characters include:
Jeeves disapproves of Bertie’s: N/A
First paragraph: “As I slid into my chair at the breakfast table and started to deal with the toothsome eggs and bacon which Jeeves had given of his plenty, I was conscious of a strange exhilaration, if I’ve got the word right. Pretty good the setup looked to me. Here I was, back in the old familiar headquarters, and the thought that I had seen the last of Totleigh Towers, of Sir Watkyn Bassett, of his daughter Madeline and above all of the unspeakable Spode, or Lord Sidcup as he now calls himself, was like the medium dose for adult of one of those patent medicines which tone the system and impart a gentle glow.”
Bertie fashion moment:
Jeeves: “Pardon me, your tie.”
Bertie: “What’s wrong with it?”
Jeeves: “Everything, sir. If you will allow me.”
Bertie: “All right, go ahead. But I can’t help asking myself if ties really matter at a time like this.”
Jeeves: “There is no time when ties do not matter, sir.”
Slang I’d like to start using: “one for the tonsils”; i.e., a drink: “I found him in the lobby where you have the pre-luncheon gargle before proceeding to the grillroom, and after the initial What-ho-ing and What-a-time-since-we-met-ing, inevitable when two vanished hands who haven’t seen each other for ages reestablish contact, he asked me if I would like one for the tonsils.”
Bertie gets no respect: “You must be as big an ass as you look, which is saying a good deal.”—Spode
Best Jeeves moment:
Bertie: “Shakespeare said some rather good things.”
Jeeves: “I understand that he has given uniform satisfaction, sir.”
Best bit of description: “Recent events had caused me to perspire in the manner popularized by the fountains at Versailles.”
Best bit of dialogue:
Runkle: “Girls will be girls.”
Spode: “Yes, but I wish they wouldn’t.”
My review: Four stars. As always, I love Aunt Dahlia, Madeline, and Spode, and this book might have the most satisfying ending of the whole series, in which Jeeves tears all the pages about Bertie out of the club book after they both agree that he should remain permanently in Bertie’s service. Awww.
Had I read it before? No.
Next up: The Cat-Nappers (the final Jeeves book!)
This is the one where: We learn Jeeves’ first name! (It’s Reginald.) (Bertie’s reaction: “It had never occurred to me before that he had a first name. I couldn’t help thinking what embarrassment would have been caused if it had been Bertie.”)
The action takes place at: Brinkley Court
Bertie accidentally gets engaged to:
- Madeline Bassett, “as mushy a character as ever broke biscuit, convinced that the stars are God’s daisy chain and that every time a fairy blows its wee nose a baby is born. The last thing, as you can well imagine, one would want about the home.”
- Florence Craye, “as imperious as a traffic cop”
- Madeline: Roderick Spode, aka Lord Sidcup (“Our views on each other were definite. His was that what England needed if it was to become a land fit for heroes to live in was fewer and better Woosters, while I had always felt that there was nothing wrong with England that a ton of bricks falling from a height on Spode’s head wouldn’t cure.”)
- Florence: Bertie’s friend Harold “Ginger” Winship (“He had the...poetic look, as if at any moment about to rhyme June with moon, yet gave the impression…of being able, if he cared to, to fell an ox with a single blow. I don’t know if he had ever actually done this, for one so seldom meets an ox, but in his undergraduate days he had felled people right and left, having represented the University in the ring as a heavyweight for a matter of three years. He may have included oxen among his victims.”)
Other characters include:
- Aunt Dahlia: “My Aunt Agatha, for instance, is tall and thin and looks rather like a vulture in the Gobi desert, while Aunt Dahlia is short and solid, like a scrum half in the game of Rugby football…Aunt Agatha is cold and haughty, though presumably she unbends a bit when conducting human sacrifices at the time of the full moon, as she is widely rumored to do, and her attitude toward me has always been that of an austere governess, causing me to feel as if I were six years old and she had just caught me stealing jam from the jam cupboard; whereas Aunt Dahlia is as jovial and bonhomous as a pantomime dame in a Christmas pantomime.”
- Mrs. McCorkadale, a lawyer running against Ginger in the by-election: “She had a beaky nose, tight, thin lips, and her eye could have been used for splitting logs in the teak forests of Borneo.”
- Bingley (formerly Brinkley, the violent drunken Communist temporary valet who burns down Bertie’s cottage in Thank You, Jeeves; apparently, Wodehouse renamed him to avoid confusion with Brinkley Court), “a smallish, plumpish, Gawd-help-us-ish member” of Jeeves’s Junior Ganymede club
- Magnolia Glendennon, Ginger’s American secretary, with whom he eventually elopes
- L.P. Runkle, a financier, “an extremely stout individual with a large pink face and a panama hat with a pink ribbon”
Jeeves disapproves of Bertie’s: N/A
First paragraph: “As I slid into my chair at the breakfast table and started to deal with the toothsome eggs and bacon which Jeeves had given of his plenty, I was conscious of a strange exhilaration, if I’ve got the word right. Pretty good the setup looked to me. Here I was, back in the old familiar headquarters, and the thought that I had seen the last of Totleigh Towers, of Sir Watkyn Bassett, of his daughter Madeline and above all of the unspeakable Spode, or Lord Sidcup as he now calls himself, was like the medium dose for adult of one of those patent medicines which tone the system and impart a gentle glow.”
Bertie fashion moment:
Jeeves: “Pardon me, your tie.”
Bertie: “What’s wrong with it?”
Jeeves: “Everything, sir. If you will allow me.”
Bertie: “All right, go ahead. But I can’t help asking myself if ties really matter at a time like this.”
Jeeves: “There is no time when ties do not matter, sir.”
Slang I’d like to start using: “one for the tonsils”; i.e., a drink: “I found him in the lobby where you have the pre-luncheon gargle before proceeding to the grillroom, and after the initial What-ho-ing and What-a-time-since-we-met-ing, inevitable when two vanished hands who haven’t seen each other for ages reestablish contact, he asked me if I would like one for the tonsils.”
Bertie gets no respect: “You must be as big an ass as you look, which is saying a good deal.”—Spode
Best Jeeves moment:
Bertie: “Shakespeare said some rather good things.”
Jeeves: “I understand that he has given uniform satisfaction, sir.”
Best bit of description: “Recent events had caused me to perspire in the manner popularized by the fountains at Versailles.”
Best bit of dialogue:
Runkle: “Girls will be girls.”
Spode: “Yes, but I wish they wouldn’t.”
My review: Four stars. As always, I love Aunt Dahlia, Madeline, and Spode, and this book might have the most satisfying ending of the whole series, in which Jeeves tears all the pages about Bertie out of the club book after they both agree that he should remain permanently in Bertie’s service. Awww.
Had I read it before? No.
Next up: The Cat-Nappers (the final Jeeves book!)
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