Love in a Cold Climate

Love in a Cold Climate
By Nancy Mitford (254 pages)
Published by Vintage Books
Bookish rating: 4

I selected Love in a Cold Climate for the Reader's Ink book club for the month of April, seeing as how it was my month to choose and all. I wanted something quasi-obscure, a little historical, funny, not terribly long, and likely to be in most library systems. This book fit the bill.

First published in 1949, Love in a Cold Climate is told from the perspective of Fanny, who is distantly related to the Hampton family, an old, rich, titled group of dysfunctional and self-absorbed aristocrats. As Fanny spends time at Hampton, hanging out with her cousin Polly, she gets somewhat tangled in the drama of Polly's oh so shocking scandal: engagement to a creepy older man, who just happens to be here uncle. (But hey, it's the British aristocracy. Incest is charming, no?)

Much of the novel centers on the power struggles between Polly and her larger-than-life, power-hungry mother, Lady Montdore. The plot is perfectly fine, but what makes this novel so fun to read is that it's incredibly funny. Understated wit, perfectly timed snarkiness, and very fun characters make the plot secondary. Fanny wryly watches the drama of her silly family unfold, and reports back to us readers, with some of her own commentary. It was super fun--sort of gossipy but smartly witty, all at once.

This was my first literary romp with Nancy Mitford, and I'm definitely going to read more of her work, especially The Pursuit of Love (which technically precedes Love in a Cold Climate) and Don't Tell Alfred, which is also written from Fanny's point of view.

Recommended!

Mentor: A Memoir

Mentor: A Memoir
By Tom Grimes (245 pages)
Published by Tin House Books
Bookish Rating: 4.5

In this spectacular (and no, I do not exaggerate) memoir about writing and the writing life, struggling writer-slash-waiter Tom Grimes has a chance encounter with Frank Conroy, author of the classic Stop-Time and director of the Iowa Writers Workshop (the best writing program in the country). Conroy reads a little of Grimes's work, thinks it's brilliant, and voila Grimes has a spot in next year's workshop.

Why, it's practically Dickensian, but . . . it's also true.

Grimes struggles through his writing, painstakingly selecting each word and phrase, revising and revising and revising. His classmates don't like him, especially when he develops a mentoring bond with their god, Frank Conroy.

I initially got this book from the library. Within a couple chapters, I realized I'd want to take my sweet, sweet time reading it, unencumbered by such pesky things as library due dates. I also knew that I'd want to keep a copy for my own library--and if you know me, you know I'm not someone who hangs onto books. That's a far too static dead end for them. I read them and then pass them on to friends or my mom, or I donate them to the church rummage sale that raises moolah for teens to go do some good.

But this book I'd want to keep. So, I returned my library copy and bought my own.

I let myself take eight months to read Mentor. I loved Grimes's depiction of writerly frustration, rejection, and that irritating voice in your head that tells you what you just wrote simply ain't good enough. The writing was, of course, fantastic, but particularly moving was the father-son, successful writer-struggling writer relationships depicted between Grimes and Conroy.

I ended the book with a big fat desire to read all of Conroy's work (of which I've read nada), and even Grimes's rather unsuccsessful work.

Highly, highly recommended for anyone pursuing a writing project of any kind. Sure, zero time is spent on the practical how-to of the craft of writing, but trust me. You'll be a better writer by the end of this book. You just will.

The Story of Beautiful Girl

The Story of Beautiful Girl
By Rachel Simon (368 pages)
Published by Grand Central Publishing
Bookish rating: 2.75

Eh. Perhpas my relatively low rating for this book (2.75) is due to the fact that I expected it to be so much better than it was. The novel never really delivered for me, or for most of my Reader's Ink book club folk.

The set-up is relatively decent: Lynnie, a woman who had been raped and impregnated and who, it appears, has some sort of developmental disorder, and Homan, a deaf man, escape an mental institution in the 1960s. Lynnie delivers her baby, and they show up at a retired teacher's (Martha's) house in the middle of the night. The story starts at Martha's.

The authorities catch Lynnie, but not before she begs Martha to "hide her," that is, baby. Homan escapes.

See? Decent set-up, right? Well, the book then meanders aimlessly for the next--literally--40 odd years. Why Simon focuses so heavily on particular events but not others, often jumping ahead a dozen years or killing off someone major--death mentioned merely in passing--gave the novel a jerky, uneven quality. Heavy use of flashbacks didn't help.

The character of Lynnie is the strongest, as Simon effectively captures her complexity while also making her mental disability present without taking over her character. However, as a mama, I did not buy that Lynnie spent the next couple of decades pining for Homan rather than the daughter she was forced to part with. Perhaps Simon intended to attribute the "oh well, lost my baby" to her disability, but if Lynnie can love Homan so deeply, obviously she's capable of great love. Why wouldn't she be torn up over never seeing her child again? Finally, Lynnie and especially Homan are portrayed as almost condescendingly heroic, flawless, and, of course, victimized--like it wouldn't have been politically correct for them to have had imperfections.

The ending was contrived and anticlimactic, which was disappointing after slogging through 368 pages of wandering Homan, pining Lynnie, and selfless Martha taking the baby from location to location.

Not really recommended.

Strange Saint

Strange Saint

By Andrew Beahrs (363 pages)

Published by The Toby Press

Bookish rating: 4

Strange Saint is a strange book. Unlike anything I’ve read before, and beautifully and lovingly crafted, it also took me 4 or 5 months to finish it.

Set in the early 1600s, we follow Melode, who is a servant for some Separatist Congregationalists (later known as the pilgrims), who defy the Church of England and thus must skedaddle to the New World. Melode falls in love (or at the very least, lust), gets into some trouble on the ship voyage, and faces a host of challenges in the New World.

Beahrs pulls on a rather unique background—anthropology and archaeology, along with that all-important MFA—to, in his words, find the “illiterate (and hence voiceless) people who are too often absent from existing records” (p. 370). He succeeds with Melode.

Beahrs is one of those writers who pays super close attention to each word, the cadence of each sentence, and the image of each phrase. Such care of the craft of writing is refreshing, thus I believe this novel should be more widely read than it has been. The style, dialogue, and narration aim to reflect the time period, which is of course rather difficult because nobody really knows exactly how these folks actually talked. The practical problem, though, is that, artful as it may be, the style makes for terribly slow reading.

For example, “Daniel Williams and Jonathan Hooker plot ill. Beechwood’s cabin is often empty, they whisper. It is the only space on board that is so. It is true at the stern, close by to where a pole leads from a tiller to the feck pilot. I long for sleep; a small dying of wind has opened the deck to many Saints, leaving their hold as free from their sickening swelter as it will ever be. But the murmuring rubs me, and I say in aged voice that I should not press for entrance to a captain’s cabin. These are fools, these boys who nothing of a closeroom” (p. 161).

The language is lovely, but the reader must simply slow down to absorb—and follow—it. The text also gets slowed by a complete lack of quotation marks for dialogue. Although no doubt a deliberate stylistic choice to immerse the reader more fully in Melode’s milieu, lack of quotation marks is just confusing. You must re-read to determine (a) if it’s dialogue or not, and (b) if it is dialogue, who is speaking. At worst, this stunt reeks of MFA-workshop, affected style. At best, it adds a certain tone and even cadence to the text. My view is that the confusion and necessary re-reading outweigh whatever stylistic benefit Beahrs achieves. And if he’s aiming to reflect the time period, well, the novel itself wasn’t even invented for another 120 years or so post-Melode, so it’s not like a little extra punctuation would’ve destroyed historical accuracy.

That said, Melode is a memorable, powerful character. The writing is lovingly, carefully crafted—without being overwritten. Reading Melode’s story, you can’t help but feel like you’ve gotten a glimpse into a real yet unwritten story. After finishing Strange Saint, I couldn’t but wonder how many other “voiceless” stories have been—and will forever be—silenced by graves and time.

The Hunger Games

The Hunger Games

By Suzanne Collins (384 pages)

Published by Scholastic Press

Bookish rating: 4.25

I don’t mean to toot my own bookish horn, but I could not have timed my review of The Hunger Games any better, what with the big-deal movie release and all.

Some time ago, one of Chris’s co-workers with an affinity for young adult literature, smart lady that she is, lent me the book. I hesitated reading it, aware of all the hoopla and “OMGing” going on about it. Frankly, I feared a repeat of Twilight.

And let me tell you, I can’t even hear the word twilight without rolling my eyes.

Finally, so Chris’s co-worker wouldn’t think I had gone and stolen the book, I started reading it. It moved along pretty well, but I wasn’t blown away—until our scrappy heroine Katniss entered the The Games. Dear reader, let’s just say that I might have snapped at Chris a time or two, when he interrupted me for the umpteenth time to read me another depressing news headline or show me yet another model of a barbeque online. Eventually, my wifely patience would crap out and I’d bark something like “she’s-on-fire-and-there-are-arrows-and-a-dozen-tributes-are-still-trying-to-kill-her—CAN YOU LET ME READ IN PEACE?!”

The premise, in case you dwell under a rock, is that in a futuristic world, 24 tributes are randomly picked by the government to fight to the death while the nation watches on TV. This is to remind folks that they are entirely dependent on the mercy and goodwill—or lack thereof—of the government.

It’s the ultimate in big government.

Anyhoo, The Hunger Games is not the greatest thing I have ever read, but it’s actually very, very good. Collins is a master at pacing and high-stakes plotting—you know, those things your writing instructor tells you but you ignore. To boot, the writing is very tight and strong. Words are not wasted, characters are clearly drawn, and Katniss, a teen girl, is a fantastic heroine. She narrates from the first person, which can make or break a novel (usually the latter, especially if there’s no humor), but it totally works. The novel’s tone is brisk, to-the-point, and no-nonsense—just like Katniss.

Collins also gives us a good deal of meat when it comes to implications of the role of government, the powerful and the powerless, the rich and the poor, love, and so on. As an anti-government (stay out of my body, stay out of my paycheck, let folks marry, free speech is sacred) socially liberal and fiscally conservative political anomaly, I predictably fall into the camp that views The Hunger Games as a reflection of excessive government power, especially when exerted for the people’s own good. The girl from the agricultural district most poignantly depicts this, as they must give their harvest to the government “to share” and thus live on the brink of starvation. Same thing happened in Russia, under Stalin, only it was largely German farmers who starved in this way because they were the competent farmers who actually could grow stuff. Really, you could make a zillion connections to justify your own point of view, wherever you land on the political spectrum.

My friend Lauren had a different take, finding similarities between The Games and the dynamics of pro-athletes and sports organizations and owners, and I think her view has a lot a merit. And it’s much more unique than mine.

In short, all the pieces of The Hunger Games work: plotting, pacing, point of view, character, theme. It makes for a highly entertaining, surprisingly non-crappy read. Recommended! (If, you know, you haven’t already read it.)

Balance Is a Crock, Sleep Is for the Weak

Balance Is a Crock, Sleep Is for the Weak: An Indispensable Guide to Surviving Working Motherhood

By Amy Eschliman and Leigh Oshirak (326 pages)

Published by Avery

Bookish rating: 4

I’m not sure why working motherhood is such a lonely endeavor. I mean, gazillions of us do it. I suppose we’re just too busy to discuss it during play dates because WE DON’T HAVE TIME FOR PLAY DATES.

Anyway. Balance Is a Crock is a witty parenting book devoted to working mums. It has some flaws, but I loved it. The tone is irreverent, wine drinking is encouraged, and there are no paragraphs insisting that working motherhood is the RIGHT CHOICE. Nor does it suggest that staying home is the WRONG CHOICE. It’s just accepted that working is what the reader does and moves on. And I liked that.

The pregnancy section is sort of filler, because pregnancy might affect your job somewhat, but beyond having to (1) correctly time when you tell your boss (e.g., taking into account things like long-term projects, potential promotions, the fact your stomach is taking on the shape of some sort of melon), (2) cope with morning sickness while pretending to be fully functional, and (3) plan maternity leave, your career doesn’t REALLY suffer until you have the baby—and come back.

At which point, the book becomes much better. The authors advise mommies to “fake it ‘til you make it,” and this is sage advice. My boss told me, “I’m amazed you get here as early as you do—and with make-up on.” That’s me faking it. And the authors are right: Start by trying to fool others that you’re competent and totally together despite the fact you were covered in spit-up breast milk at dawn and thus are wearing your Tuesday outfit on Monday, and you’ll eventually fool yourself and—behold!—become competent and somewhat together. You know, with time.

My favorite section dealt with sick kids: “For dual working parents there is no phone call you dread more than the sick kid bomb from school. We liken it to getting bitch-slapped. It comes out of nowhere and it hurts that bad. . . . Just seeing the school’s phone number on caller ID is enough to get our hearts racing . . . If you get the call and your kid is genuinely sick, we’re sorry. Your life is about to suck on so many levels” (pp. 176–177). Oh, the truth of these words! Nothing makes you want to throw in the towel on working more than a sick kid. The disruption of routine, needing to be two places at once, and simultaneously tending to deadlines and a sick kiddo—it’s awful. Also: “If you are lucky you won’t get sick until the kids get better. God have mercy if you all get the tummy bug at the same time” (p. 180).

Truth.

The other particularly good section covers the sad fact that your career will, in some way or form, become the “sacrificial lamb” due to your decision to procreate. No blanket statement can be made for all working moms, of course, but the authors encourage (which I appreciated) finding value in things beyond position and money, such as flexible schedules, telecommuting options, job-sharing, a position you can “leave” at work for the most part, good bosses and employers who have your back, and on and on. There’s much truth (again!) in this. For me, I’m sure my career would move forward faster without Charlotte, but that’s not something I even have room to regret. I’ve got a good schedule, occasional telecommuting, and a great boss. It works.

Still, the book is a little flawed. Like so many working-mother books, the authors are relatively high-powered, but working mothers are not just executives wearing Prada. They’re not all professional, even. They include school teachers, store clerks, doctors, nannies, receptionists, congresswomen, alligator hunters, and ship captains. The authors outsource a lot (which I TOTALLY support) and rely heavily on nannies and babysitters, with maybe a dash of daycare thrown in. This requires pretty impressive cash flow, which not all working moms have, despite being wage-earners. And the nanny thing—sigh. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Daycare presents unique challenges that need to be fully addressed in a book like this, because most young children of professional women attend daycare. In this case, an author decided daycare was too stressful and hired a nanny. Not exactly the how-to advice for those of us refusing to go down the nanny route (fun fact: with two kids in daycare, a nanny would be cheaper for us than daycare, but I’m one of about 2% of people who think daycare is superior to nanny care, at least for older toddlers and preschoolers. But that’s a post for another day, and not on Bookish!)

This book contains much good advice but mostly it’s just a fun read that reminds you, oh working mother, that you’re pretty effing amazing. For that, I highly recommend it to any working mum.

The Hottest Dishes of the Tartar Cuisine

The Hottest Dishes of the Tartar Cuisine
By Alina Bronsky (262 pages)
Translated from German by Tim Mohr
Published by Europa Editions
Bookish rating: 4.25

The Hottest Dishes of the Tartar Cuisine is a refreshingly unique novel that is simultaneously depressing and hilarious. We begin in Soviet Russia, where our narrator, Rosa, learns her teen daughter, Sulfia, is pregnant. Despite a botched abortion attempt (forced by Rosa), granddaughter Aminat (who, Rosa realizes, is actually quite pretty and thus worth keeping around) is born. We then follow Rosa, Aminat, and Sulfia for the next 20 or so years.

Rosa is the best narrator I've read in a long time. She is absolutely unreliable, evil, controlling, convinced that Her Way is the Only Way, and she's a bit of a martyr too. Why, if something must be done right, she must do it herself. For example, as Roas meddles in Sulfia's business, straightening up her closet so Aminat "doesn't live in filth," they have this little exhange:
     "Sulfia was, as always, ungrateful. All she said was, 'Just leave it mother.'
     She even screamed at me. That was after I straightened out her wardrobe. I sorted and folded the underwear, bras, and leggings, and repaired the holes in them by hand. I did all this depsite the fact that I would rather have been watching TV or reading the paper. But she shouted at me so loudly that Aminat came to the door of the room and asked, 'Mama, are you crazy?'
     Up to then Sulfia had never shouted. She had just helplessly exclaimed, 'Mother, why? Just leave it, mother. Mother, please don't touch that.'
     I let her scream. . . . But after a few minutes I also thought that enough was enough. When I decided she had gone on long enough, I picked up my boot and hit Sulfia in the face with it." (p. 60)

So that's Rosa. Bronsky expertly gives Rosa a fabulously self-absorbed, mean, yet weirdly disarming and almost charming voice. Her observations and perceptions are depicted in such a nuanced, ironic way--the text is meaty, multilayered, and brilliantly funny. I mean, Bronksy lets Rosa convince us readers that handing over her preteen granddaughter to a pedophile is not such a bad idea, and that Sulfia is, well, rather dim-witted. We discussed this in the book club--how did Bronsky get us all on Rosa's side?

The fact that the novel--hence, Rosa's narration--is translated from German makes all the more impressive. To have a voice as clear as Rosa's via translation is remarkable. Highly recommended.