Stuff I've read

Stephen's and my apartment building has this excellent culture of putting unwanted, but still usable, things at the bottom of the main stairwell. Almost always, you can find an assortment of odds and ends, including books. It's become one of my favourite things about our new home; even though we've not met many of our neighbors, they're the sort of people that are happy to recycle good reading material, and I like that.

This month's book, Sea Glass, was a stairwell find. We were on our way out one Sunday morning when the author's name caught my eye. I've read novels by Anita Shreve previously, and I really enjoy how her writing resonates. So, I picked up Sea Glass, and that was that.

It's a really great book. Sea Glass is set on the cusp of the Great Depression, chronicling the successess and downfalls of a newlywed couple, a mill-worker leading a strike, a woman whose lover left her because he went broke, and a young boy who had to leave school to support his family. Each chapter is narrated by one of these characters, allowing the reader to watch the story take shape from numerous perspectives.

It's not a coming-of-age tale; it's something more like the rise and fall of life, the allure of the perfect love, be it romantic or otherwise, and the way the world caves in on itself when real tragedy darkens your doorstep. Almost Shakespearean in its sadness, Sea Glass is light and heavy at the same time. It's one of those stories where so much is said through the saying of so little, and when it was over, I actually cried.

He thinks that she is beautiful. She isn't classically beautiful and she isn't magazine beautiful either, but she is wife beautiful. 

She finds scraps of celadon and cucumber and jade, specks of pea and powder and acquamarine. She doesn't like the browns, but occasionally she collects a topaz or a tea.

You read a word like massacre and you think, I know what that means. It means the slaughter of innocent people...But then...when it happens to you, when you live the word, you realize that the word itself means nothing. It tells you nothing at all. It doesn't begin to convey the horror, does it?

Stuff I've read

Last year, I read a book each month (sometimes two if I was lucky), and made an effort to blog about each one - compiling  a list of "stuff I've read." I thought I'd continue the trend for 2015...even though the first book blogged this year was, in fact, read last year.

December's book - and consequently the last book I read in 2014, was The Girl in the Garden, by Kamala Nair. It's Nair's first novel, the violently moving and profound story of Rakhee, whose life has been peppered with unknowns for almost as long as she can remember. It's about learning to resolve unresolvable issues, and coming to a place of acceptance for what used to seem unacceptable. It's a romance, a tragedy, a mystery of the best kind.

I read it in less than a week, needing to know how it would end. I finished it needing to share the story with Stephen, realizing it's one of the few, great stories that demands to be carried by more than one person. The Girl in the Garden left me tired, in a good way, somehow more aware of the vastness of the world around me, and of the importance of giving merit to that which seems impossible.

Nair writes with the hand of someone who cannot be silent. This story, the story of the girl in the garden and everything around her, is both terrifying and comforting, and challenges its readers to seek the very best for their societies and cultures.

Read it.

It was a funny way to put it: Muthashi is not more. Death had gathered up what was left of her in his black satchel and wandered off into the night. Muthashi had been snatched from the face of the earth. She was no more.

Life lately + Stuff I've read

 

It's been rather quiet around these parts lately, largely in part to the whole getting married, honeymooning, and flying back to Australia hullabaloo. Stephen and I arrived in Sydney a week ago, and between unpacking, organising our new home, getting back into regular schedules and leaving our laptop charger in the States, a chance to blog simply refused to appear. Naturally, part of me wants to sit and write about these precious, early days of marriage and how we're loving this life together. 

But then I remember how long it's been since I blogged about a book...

My November novel was A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, by Betty Smith. It's a title I've heard time and again, and when I saw a copy for $10 in the airport, I thought I'd give it a shot. And may I just say, it was a shot well taken.

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn is the most perfect coming-of-age story. It resonates in a way that feels far more real than much of today's popular coming-of-age literature (I think the term "literature" is used loosely), inviting the reader not only to sit in that familiar place of I've been there, but also challenging him or her to experience something new. It's a story of growing up in Brooklyn, becoming the sort of person that can flourish in any circumstance, much like a tree growing up between blocks of sidewalk, and the countless ways in which growing up feels unfinished and uncertain.

This book, it gets me. It is so many things that I have found myself being, from a young girl feeling somehow out of place to a young adult unsure if this is how everyone else feels when they reach certain milestones. Sure, Smith's novel finishes with the protagonist, Francie, turning 16 and getting ready for a date and I'm 24 and newly married, but even in the countless differences, there are gorgeous similarities.

The writing is beautiful, in a way that it so rarely is anymore. What I love most about this story is that it ends totally unfinished. Sure, there's a sense of resolution, but far greater than that sense of resolution is the sense that there is more to come, that as life progresses, so do our stories. We ought to find ourselves within these pages, but we ought not to stay there.

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn was the perfect wedding week story. It carried me to fond memories and then released me into a grand future and even though this post is obviously Stuff I've read, it's also everything that has happened lately and all the things that are about to.

I'm home now, and I hope you'll keep letting me share this adventure with you.

Most women had the one thing in common: they had great pain when they gave birth to their children. This should make a great bond that held them all together; it should make them love and protect each other against the man-world. But it was not so. It seemed like their great birth pains shrank their hearts and their souls. They stuck together for only thing: to trample on some other woman...it was the only kind of loyalty they seemed to have.

Francie was ten years old when she first found an outlet in writing. What she wrote was of little conssequence. What was important was that the attempt to write stories kept her straight on dividing the line between truth and fiction. If she had not found this outlet in writing, she might have grown up to be a tremendous liar.

My Dressember adventure is going strong and has been such fun; I'll be writing about it, and other life things, soon. In the meantime, if you'd like to make a donation to the Dressember Foundation, click here.

Stuff I've read

Truth be told, I didn't finish my book for October, but in my first seven days of being back in Georgia, I managed to finish both it and something else as well.

Flight Behavior, by Barbara Kingsolver is sort of a sci-fi meets family drama novel. It's the story of how climate change accidentally sends billions of butterflies to a tiny, backwoods town in Tennessee, where Dellarobia, who discovers them, thinks they're a sign that she shouldn't leave her husband, and the rest of the town (in spite of what scientists are saying) believes the butterflies were sent from God.

It's an intriguing story, both true and not, and while it didn't demand my attention from the beginning, by the time I reached the final chapter, I was wholly invested. I think part of why I waited so long to finish Flight Behavior is because I wasn't ready for it to end. While I usually gravitate towards books that can't be put down from page one, it was good, I think, to read something different.

The writing is good, to say the least. Kingsolver starts out simple, making it clear that the characters are basically one-dimensional, difficult to like in many ways. But they grow, as characters should, and what I like most about this book is that this necessary character growth, which makes Flight Behavior all the more well-rounded as a novel, is done through a progression of tone, syntax, and language. It's pretty cool.

What a bewildering verdict: vile. Maybe they only meant it at half-strength, in the same way they used "epic" and "heinous" and "stellar."

Last week, I read Gone Girl, by Gillian Flynn. I saw the movie a few weeks ago (a cardinal sin, I know), and when my mom said she had the novel on her nook, I thought I'd see how it delivered on paper.

While many of you have undoubtedly already indulged, let me just say, this one doesn't let go. Oddly, it's not my favorite book, but it's definitely one of my favorite stories. Flynn creates a world in which almost no one is likeable, in which redeeming qualities aren't quite enough, and in which readers will find themselves conflicted and riveted, because it's strange to read about people who are so bizarre and twisted that even the justifications seem a stretch.

As a movie, Gone Girl is quick and action-packed. It moves and so moves its audience. As a novel, it is deep and gut-wrenching. It provokes thought and creates an unfixable chasm between readers and characters, a chasm both great and terrible - one I deeply want to fix but am unwilling to approach.

It is painfully human, but somehow alien.

Two completely different novels, but both oh-so-worth the read.

Stuff I've read

September's book was The Orchardist, a novel by Amanda Coplin that details the lives of two young girls who escape a brothel and are taken in by a lonely orchardist.

This was a hard one. It was a book I would put on the shelf for days at a time, mustering up the courage to wade into it again, but once I opened it, I found myself totally submerged. Coplin writes with spectacular quality, her words firmly grounded on the page rather than leaping off of them.What I mean to say is that this book doesn't tell a story that happens around you; The Orchardist tells a story into which you disappear, completely.

William Talmadge has a history with his orchard; he started it alongside his mother and sister and cared for it after his mother died and his sister vanished. In town one day, he notices two pregnant girls nearby his fruit stand, and when they follow him back to his orchard, he feeds them, gives them a place to stay, and makes sure they're cared for as they prepare to give birth.

He raises a child for them, and the orchard becomes hers.

The Orchardist is an exquisite tale of pasts meeting presents, no matter how desperately we fight against it. How, even in the giving of second chances, we fall back into familiar tendencies. How life goes on, in spite of circumstances, and there can almost always be a hidden silver lining.

This is not a book for the fainthearted, the judgemental, or the impatient. But if you're any or all of those things (as we all so often are), read it and be changed.

It was the rapidity that overwhelmed him and bothered his sensibility. He had moved slowly all of his life. He was used to seeing things drawn out of themselves by temperature and light, not by harsh action. but this was something different. This was how people lived, now.

As soon as she realized the figures on the page meant something - could be strung together as words, and then sentences, and then paragraphs - she was covetous of the whole system. It seemed a new universe to her. And it was. Everything opened up. Some stories were meant to inform, and other were meant to entertain. And then other stories were separate from those - this the young teacher did not tell her, it was something Angelene figured out on her own, the first year, when a man visited and read them a poem out of a tome of poems - that seemed crafted to relay some secret, and even more than that, some secret about herself. Angelene was mesmerized. What was available for her to know? What secrets did the world hold? Which secrets would be revealed through soil, and which through words?

Stuff I've read

August's book was Memoir from Antproof Case, a novel by Mark Helprin. Written in the style of an autobiography, Helprin weaves the incredible recollection of memories that a man is storing up in an antproof case to leave behind for his son.

He's a certified lunatic, a war hero, a thief, an investment banker, and a murderer who is hiding, from assasins, in Brazil. It's just insane enough to remind you that it's fiction. But it's sharp enough to convince you that it's real.

I bought Memoir from Antproof Case several years ago, mostly because the narrator's most vicious battle is against coffee. Admist stories of Arnold American's life as a World War II fighter pilot, his meetings with popes and presidents, his accidental and purposeful killings of men, and his theft of the century, he rants ruthlessly about the consumption of coffee and its effects on humanity.

And I love coffee.

It took me awhile to sink my teeth into this "memoir," but it's absolutely classified now as one of my favourites, a tale of immeasurable worth because even in its fictitiousness, it wasn't meant for me. It was meant for Funio, Arnold's only son, with whom he has too little time. Books are about opening doors, building bridges from one universe to another, but this one is somehow different. Reading if feels private, as if somewhere in the world (this one or some other one) an old man had one hell of an adventure and wanted to share it with his child.

The writing is superb, bringing detail and life in the most flawless of ways, allowing the reader to be the creator of imagery as well as simultaneously showing him exactly what to see. It's a must-read. I started this book in the dog-days of a Georgia summer and finished it in the middle of a Sydney winter. Truly, a book for all seasons.

 I was once one of the richest men in the world, and once a kid who worked hard and saved his money for a sugared donut and some sheet music. I fought alongside angels high above the earth where the air is as thin as helium and defeat is an exploding sun. I have tightened my grip and narrowed my eyes, rushing toward gunfire like gravity. I have been in a great army that took years to conquer half the world. I have sailed across the ocean, rocketed into the clouds, skimmed the Hudson and cut apart its lily pads with my propeller, and I have seen the demise of nations, as new nations arise.

Had this been a quiet century and had my country been a backwater, perhaps I would have been more easily contented, but the world was swept by great and terrible things, and I was at the heart of them.

Stuff I've read

It's been a while since I've posted about a book, but don't think I've stopped reading!

July's book was Plainsong, a riveting novel by Kent Haruf that takes the reader on a journey with a pregnant high school girl, a teacher and his sons who've been abandoned by their mother, and a pair of farmers who become more and more secluded as time goes on.

My dad has had Plainsong for as long as I can remember. It was one of those books that I wanted to read, but was told I was too young. Over the years, I'd forgotten about it, but when I came back from Australia, he told me to give it a try. I was spellbound. It's one of those books that manages to be simultaneously hard to read and impossible to put down. It's sadness is overwhelming but equally matched with soulful finish that reminds us of the simple truth that in the end, everything will be okay.

Sometimes I wonder what's happening to literature. In a world of YA lit, it can be hard to find things that mean something more. Plainsong is a gem, a one in a million read, and if you like books that make you think about the world outside of the way you experience it, you should give it a go.

Plainsong - the unisonous vocal music used in the Christian church from the earliest times; any simple and unadorned melody or air.

Stuff I've read

June was another month for two books, though both of these drew me away from my run of French literature.

I started with The Light Between the Oceans, a novel by M.L. Stedman, which is a beautifully crafted story of a husband and wife who find an infant and decide to keep her, only to later discover that her biological mother is alive. It's set in Australia and depicts perfectly the landscapes and personalities, giving the reader simultaneously both a glimpse of life in Oz and a lesson about honesty and vulnerability. It's one of those books where you find yourself frustrated with the decisions of the protagonists while also weeping with them. Which, in my opinion, is the best kind of book. It demands to be experienced, rather than simply read.

In true "summer reading" form, the month's second book was a bit lighter, going down with less thought and concentration, like a bowl of chocolate chip ice cream. I read it quickly, as if taking giant bites before it could melt across my fingers, each bite better than the last, and when I had reached the end, I wanted a little bit more. One of Our Thursdays is Missing, by Jasper Fforde, takes place in the alternate universe of "book world," where written characters are employed to tell stories as they are read. It's an incredibly clever, witty book - albeit almost impossible to explain without sounding ridiculous - that chronicles that adventures of the written Thursday Next as she searches for the real Thursday Next, whose disappearance could be devastating for the book world. The author takes the use of common literary tropes to the next level and creates a story that is both exciting and familiar.

After a year of hectic schedules and full-time work, the idea of free time in abundance is almost laughable. I struggle to see the purpose in being still and alone and am often struck with the desire to have more to do. I am in an almost constant state of reminding myself that this summer vacation is such a treat, a season that will be over all too quickly, and so I'm grateful for this reading time. As I put down these two books and step into more literature, I'm reminded that our stories are built heavily on the experiences of others, and I am quite privileged to have the opportunity to soak in so many.

Stuff I've read

The last two books I've read have been French, and The Elegance of the Hedgehog makes number three.

It's tricky to know where to start with this read. It's a delicate yet weighty novel that discusses the cultural anomaly of a French concierge whose expertise stretches far beyond her job description. But it's more than that. The Elegance of the Hedgehog is both the story of Renee, the concierge trying to keep her true identity a secret from the families she serves and Paloma, the depressed genius of a 12-year-old who is debating whether or not life has meaning and subsequently planning her suicide.

The story is told from the perspectives of Renee and Paloma and lingers on small details of grammar, literature, and folly. We see the lives of the people at number 7, Rue de Grenelle change dramatically as unlikely paths cross and untold secrets are found.

The Elegance of the Hedgehog is profoundly moving, a story of humanity at its finest and the lengths to which we will go to keep things orderly. Simultaneously, it's a story that deals quite gently with the reality that in spite of our sincerest efforts, in spite of our greatest fears, life happens.

And now, because a synopsis that does this book justice is nearly impossible, some excerpts to whet your appetite.

"What is an aristocrat? A woman who is never sullied by vulgarity, although she may be surrounded by it."

"To stop destructuring yourself, you have to stop moving altogether. Either you move and you're no longer whole, or you're whole and you can't move."

"Personally I think that grammar is a way to attain beauty."

"And one thing is sure, no matter what: I won't get any better by punishing the people I can't heal."

 "Art is emotion without desire."

Stuff I've read

 

The category of favorite books has always been one with which I've struggled, due largely in part to the fact that I love far too many books to pick one that I love most, but there's a good chance that this book is the best book I've ever read.

The President's Hat chronicles the lives of a few different characters who come in contact with a hat that happens to belong to the current president of the Republic of France. It's a beautiful story, weaving together a glorious fiction with real historic events and people, and it was absolutely spellbinding. I didn't even get a chance to take a picture of it, because I sent it home for my parents to read. I read it quickly, but found myself re-reading bits here and there, if only to make it last longer.

It wasn't just that Antoine Laurain's prose is spellbinding, or that he manages to make twists and turns both comforting and breathtaking, or even that the ending is an intricately impossible marriage of not-what-I-expected to makes-perfect-sense. It was more the sense that this story was alive, and by reading it, I became alive.

Every so often, a story wakes you up. It speaks to you, reveals things about your heart and beliefs and dreams, and this was one of those rare books for me. I saw God in The President's Hat, which might sound utterly ridiculous, but the idea that our imaginations and make-believes and what-ifs are intrinsically tied to the reality surrounding us felt absolutely transcendent and holy.

You have to, have to, have to read this.

Stuff I've read

This book, one that I finished in six days, one that I pored over every chance I got, one that has made April a month for more than one book, was one of the best I have ever read.

The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles, a French novel only recently translated into English, centers around the lives of two sisters. One, a scholar; the other, a trophy wife. Both women feel that their lives are lacking, but neither is sure where she'll find what she's looking for. And so one writes a novel and the other gets the credit and, to put it bluntly, all hell breaks loose. There are side stories and minor characters and things that don't tie up quite neatly at the finish, which might account for the mixed reviews I've read for Katherine Pancol's novel. But for me, it was spellbinding. It was normalcy, enlightened. Flawed, certainly, but aren't we all?

Sometimes, you buy and book and it's a really great find. At first glance you think that there's nothing about this world, these characters, this creation, that you relate to. As the story weaves on, though, you find yourself hidden behind every turn, and it's sort of miraculous. This book did it for me. Just, everything.

To find yourself where you never thought to look. What a treasure.

"I'm starting to sound like a bad romance novel, she thought. I have to get a grip on myself."

Stuff I've read

The book for March was Wuthering Heights. It's one of those classic novels that it seems like everyone had to read in high school, but for the life of me, I don't remember ever having this particular classic assigned. I don't remember my peers ever mentioning it, and to my honest, my first exposure to this book was when, at 16, I read Twilight (I know, I know...shameful. But I was sixteen and wanted something useless to sandwich between things like The Bell Jar and The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, but I digress.).

Anyways, the protagonist of the Twilight series is a high school girl whose favorite book happens to be Wuthering Heights. When I found a beautiful hard-backed copy for $10 here in Oz, I had to have it. And in purchasing, I had to read it.

This one was a struggle for me. I've come to the decision that I never want to own a book I've not read, so I was determined to make it through, but Wuthering Heights and I did not get along. Don't get me wrong. The prose is fluid and beautiful, in a striking way, and it makes me wish that we still spoke and wrote so clearly. I'm not one to be concise, as a rule, and I loved the rich language and wordy descriptions that make up this book. It's like taking a slightly-too-big bite of pizza and getting a delicious mouthful of melted cheese; you don't always do it on purpose, but it usually ends up being just right.

In spite of the beauty of Emily Bronte's writing, I struggled to enjoy her story. It felt unnecessarily dramatic, with characters that were largely hard to love. There seemed to be little to no redemption or resolution, and by the end of it, I felt like I'd watched a really bad soap opera. Part of me felt guilty for not loving a book with such a long-standing history in literature, but if I'm being honest, I shouldn't have to. Emily Bronte's writing is timeless and close to perfect, surely. But her story? It's one that will sit on my bookshelf, looking pretty.

Stuff I've read

In January, I made a promise to myself (and consequently, the actual effort) to read more. With the holidays lasting more than halfway through the month, I had ample spare time to eat up new stories, but February got a little busier. Truth be told, I only managed to finish one novel last month, but it was good enough to hold its own.

Mother of Pearl details the intricacies of growing up, whether you're a white adolescent girl who hates her mother or a middle-aged African American man who's realizing he's fallen in love (and no, it's not a creepy love saga). Mother of Pearl is set in Mississippi, in the 50's, and the story is wrought with the delicate issues of civil rights, true love, and the friendships that can spring up as a result of either. My mom actually brought this book with her when she visited me back in November and left it for me, so not only was it an exemplary work, but I also get to share my appreciation of it with someone near and dear to my heart.

Don't be fooled by the Oprah sticker on the front; this book is for keeps. It's both hard to put down and hard to handle, and I found myself setting aside half hour periods to read a few chapters slowly, gritting my teeth over the heartbreaking moments and falling in love with the characters throughout.

“Running to catch up, feeling like he was in a constant state of chasing a shadow, he felt a drop of rain hit him square on the back of the neck. The weight of it so heavy it felt like a rock."

Stuff I've read

I grew up reading. From summer reading lists to required school texts to the latest whatever that sparked my interest, I devoured them as if they were my daily bread. Like most people, though, somewhere between college essays and scholarly journals, I lost my taste for words.

I missed it. In a deep, strange way, I missed the sense of home I'd always found in books. And so I vowed to read more and to write more and to enjoy it more. It was difficult, though. I found myself daunted by the responsibility of reading and consequently guilt-ridden when I failed. I needed a new approach.

Somewhere between moving to Australia and the beginning of 2014, my perspective changed. I discovered I genuinely missed setting aside time during the day to sit quietly and take in the voice of someone else. I started reading again, little by little, and as the new year approached, I decided that I would try my hardest not to start new books until I was finished with current ones.

So far, so good. So far this year, I've read three books. The first, an enormously marvelous novel that left me nearly in tears and reeling with appreciation. I'm still thinking about it, three weeks later. The latter two were simpler books, easy to take in in bits and pieces during swim lessons or on the beach with my friends. Now I've moved on to a history of the Tour de France, and I'm hoping to finish by the end of the month. My list of books to read is growing at a ridiculous pace, documented by pictures and journal entries, and the thought of walking into a store and buying a book rather than adding it to a list is almost too exciting to bear.

Here's the thing about reading: It's not so much about what you read as the mere fact that you're doing it. Yes, I prefer classics to young adult books, but I shamelessly read all of the Twilight books during high school, between things like Let the Great World Spin and The Patron Saint of Liars. My taste has evolved over the last several years, but I find myself returning to my old favorites time and again, soaking them in delicately and desperately. New books smell divine, but old ones smell like home.

What I've Read This Year:
Tinkers by Paul Harding
Mr. Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore by Robin Sloan
Dear Girls Above Me  by Charlie McDowell