Julie has
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| # | cover | title | author | isbn | isbn13 | asin | num pages | avg rating | num ratings | date pub | date pub (ed.) | rating | my rating | review | notes | recommender | comments | votes | read count | date started | date read |
date
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date purchased | owned | purchase location | condition | format | ||
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| 1932887172
| 9781932887174
| 4.72
| 79
| Mar 15, 2007
| Mar 15, 2007
|
David Whyte spoke at Town Hall, Seattle on December 2, 2011. I had never heard of him, but a dear friend insisted that my husband and I attend with he...more
David Whyte spoke at Town Hall, Seattle on December 2, 2011. I had never heard of him, but a dear friend insisted that my husband and I attend with her and her daughters. She so believed in David's poetry and his message that she bought our tickets and made certain our calendars were free so we had no excuses. I will be forever grateful to this loving friend. I sat transfixed for the two hours David spoke, recited his poems and a handful of others that have inspired him through the years. He recited each poem from memory, repeating phrases and stanzas during the poem, then repeating the entire poem. It was a powerful way to experience poetry. He emphasized different words each time, paused a different points, allowing you to fully absorb the words, their meaning and effect. And the poetry itself? I began to cry as he recited the first poem of the evening, "Brendan", written in honor of his son (it wasn't until I returned home that night with a copy of River Flow that I learned the poem was entitled Brendan, my husband's name). I cried through every poem after that. The tears were a visceral reaction; it's as if something deep in my psyche and in my physical self is responding to the power and beauty of the art. I often cry at the symphony for the same reason. His poems are at once grounded and ethereal, fully of this world, yet soaring above. David is a native of Yorkshire, with Irish and Welsh roots, but he has lived for many years on Whidby Island in the Puget Sound. His language is lyrical but clean, expressive but not dramatic. His poems have a deep connection to nature and there is a tremendous sense of place, whether that place is the nook in the stairwell where his writing desk sits or kayaking in the the ocean: Out on the Ocean In these waves I am caught on shoulders lifting the sky each crest breaks sharply and suddenly rises in each steep wall my arms work in the strong movement of other arms the immense energy each wave throws up with hand outstretched grabs the paddle the blades flash lifting veils of spray as the bow rears terrified then falls with five miles to go of open ocean the eyes pierce the horizon the kayak pulls round like a pony held by unseen reins shying out of the ocean and the spark behind fear recognized as life leaps into flame always this energy smoulders inside when it remains unlit the body fills with dense smoke. And one line - in a section of poems about Ireland, that speaks so loudly in its simplicity - it shatters the heart: Ireland; joy when uttered, grief when heard People form no less a vital center of David Whyte's poetry, whether in loving memory of his mother, as an expression of love to his partner, a poem of renewal and encouragement to a friend going through a divorce, or in astonishment at the birth and growth of his children: From, "My Daughter Asleep" Carrying a child, I carry a bundle of sleeping future appearances. I carry my daughter adrift on my shoulder, dreaming her slender dreams and I carry her beneath the window, watching her moon lit palm open and close like a tiny folded map, each line a path that leads where I can't go .... Like an transformative book of poetry, there is no "I read" conclusion to the journey. Only "I am reading, re-reading." (less) | Notes are private!
| none
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1
| Dec 03, 2011
| Dec 11, 2011
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Dec 03, 2011
| Hardcover
| |||||||||||||||
| 0439023521
| 9780439023528
| 4.44
| 1,578,876
| Sep 14, 2008
| Jul 01, 2010
|
Color you and me surprised. I loved this. Start to finish (which took about 3 hrs). Couldn't put it down. Will buy the rest of the series this weekend...more
Color you and me surprised. I loved this. Start to finish (which took about 3 hrs). Couldn't put it down. Will buy the rest of the series this weekend. Brilliant. (less)
| Notes are private!
| none
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1
| Nov 30, 2011
| Nov 30, 2011
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Nov 30, 2011
| Paperback
| |||||||||||||||
| 0060507829
| 9780060507824
| 4.00
| 77
| Apr 13, 2004
| Apr 13, 2004
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Beautiful presentation featuring simple, classic recipes that are authentic, yet don't require exotic ingredients. Because of their simplicity, the re...more
Beautiful presentation featuring simple, classic recipes that are authentic, yet don't require exotic ingredients. Because of their simplicity, the recipes require the freshest of ingredients. They are inherently healthy and balanced. In the two days I've had the cookbook, I've made three recipes. Each beautiful! I can easily envision cooking my way through the entire book. Wonderful introductions to each recipe, describing its origins and/or significance to Wells. Fantastic wine recommendations. So, true confession: The Provençal Cookbook features recipes from my most cherished spot on the planet; I'm predisposed to love anything Provençal. But Wells has captured its magic without playing on cliches or trivializing traditions.(less) | Notes are private!
| none
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1
| not set
| not set
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Nov 20, 2011
| Hardcover
| |||||||||||||||
| 1555973515
| 9781555973513
| 4.31
| 179
| 1962
| Oct 01, 2001
|
On this final day of 2011, I share a transcendent poem: From March '79 Being tired of people who come with words, but no speech, I made my way to the s...more On this final day of 2011, I share a transcendent poem: From March '79 Being tired of people who come with words, but no speech, I made my way to the snow-covered island. The wild does not have words. The pages free of handwriting stretched out on all sides! I came upon the tracks of reindeer in the snow. Speech but no words. As we look back on a year of increased political polarization and as we anticipate the propagandizing and muck-racking misery of Campaign 2012 to come, Tomas Tranströmer's beautiful imagery has particular resonance. To escape from the miserable nothingness of punditry to the exquisite fullness of nature. To seek out silence, away from our Tower of Babel. What a dream. What a goal. And another that struck deep, as I accept growing older and giving up on hopes and dreams because it is, it just is, too late. Black Postcards I. The calendar all booked up, the future unknown. The cable silently hums some folk song but lacks a country. Snow falls in the gray area. Shadows fight out on the dock. II. Halfway through your life, death turns up and takes your pertinent measurements. We forget the visit. Life goes on. But someone is sewing the suit in silence. What a powerful, chilling image. To acknowledge that somewhere, someone is quietly sewing your death suit. Not in malice, not for revenge, but because it is the way of mortality. This slim volume, subtitled 'The Best Poems of Tomas Tranströmer' is extraordinary. I am grateful to the Nobel Committee for awarding Tranströmer its 2011 Prize in Literature. I'm a poetry ignoramus and would never have discovered Tranströmer but for the award. The poems are short and the language simple, but therein lies the power. The stanzas are crystalline, they shimmer with light, they reflect with brilliant clarity, but quietly, sparely, like winter, like an icicle, like a lake. This is beautiful stuff. And to end the year on a note of life and hope, from Vermeer ...Passing through walls hurts human beings, they get sick from it, but we have no choice. It's all one world. Now to the walls. The walls are a part of you. One either knows that, or one doesn't; but it's the same for everyone except for small children. There aren't any walls for them. The airy sky has taken its place leaning against the wall. It is like a prayer to what is empty. And what is empty turns its face to us and whispers: "I am not empty, I am open." (less) | Notes are private!
| none
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1
| Dec 12, 2011
| Dec 31, 2011
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Oct 07, 2011
| Paperback
| |||||||||||||||
| 0679444327
| 9780679444329
| 4.30
| 10,612
| Sep 02, 2010
| Sep 07, 2010
|
The Warmth of Other Suns is a transformative book, one that can profoundly change and shape the way we view American history. The list of awards and a...more
The Warmth of Other Suns is a transformative book, one that can profoundly change and shape the way we view American history. The list of awards and accolades is so long the book does not need my imprimateur, but I will echo each and every one by saying, "Read this." From 1915 to 1970, thousands of black Americans undertook a pilgrimage of hope and determination that led them from cotton fields, rice and tobacco plantations, from villages and towns in Alabama, Arkansas, Florida, Georgia, Kentucky, Louisiana, Mississippi, North Carolina, Oklahoma, South Carolina, Tennessee and Virginia to a new world in the north. They followed the trails and tracks of the Underground Railroad laid down by generations of escaped slaves and abolitionists before them, settling primarily in Chicago, Milwaukee, Gary, IN, New York, Newark and Philadelphia, Los Angeles and Oakland. It was, as the author states, "...the first mass act of independence by a people who were in bondage in the country far longer than they have been free." (p. 10) It was an act of individuals and families - breaking free of the cruel grip of Jim Crow - that grew into an extended social revolution. It was perhaps the most significant event of 20th century America and few of us know anything about it. That Isabel Wilkerson is an award-winning journalist is evident in her intense, encompassing and rigorous research. She conducted over twelve hundred interviews and spent several years examining primary source documents, scholarly and literary works that witness, analyze and recount the beginnings of Jim Crow South in the 1880's, through the end of the Great Migration in the 1970's. But Ms. Wilkerson is also a consummate story-teller. The Warmth of Other Sons is one of the finest pieces of narrative non-fiction I have read. She takes the very difficult subject of Jim Crow - one that is so horrifying it is hard to absorb and accept- and humanizes it by telling the stories of three participants in the Great Migration. We ride a train north in the late 1930's from Mississippi to Milwaukee with pregnant Ida Mae Gladney, her husband and two small children, who abandon their lives as cotton sharecroppers and eventually make a home in Chicago's South Side. We escape from Florida's citrus groves to Harlem in 1945 with George Swanson Starling, who risks lynching by organizing his fellow fruit pickers to strike for higher wages. We travel the long highway miles between Monroe, Louisiana to Los Angeles, California with Dr. Robert Joseph Pershing Foster in 1953 and imagine a life of respect and glamour that surely awaits an educated, handsome, well-spoken black man- in diverse, liberal Southern California. Wilkerson weaves these narratives along parallel lines, taking us through each stage of the migrants' journeys concurrently, pausing to describe the social and political conditions that existed in the region or the era. Rarely have I read a non-fiction work that provides so complete a foundation and builds a structure without overwhelming the narrative in detail. The author tells these migrants' stories with grace and empathy, but does not sentimentalize or over-dramatize history. She presents the ugliness and horror of Jim Crow and the racism that existed in the North - where discrimination could not be identified by a set of written rules and laws, but was as prevalent and cruel as in the South - without making caricatures of its heroes and villains, as too often happens in literary works. One of the vital outcomes of studying history is compassion developed through greater understanding and knowledge. Although the Great Migration nominally ended in the 1970's, after the Civil Rights Movement of the previous decade tore away the Jim Crow curtain from the South, it is a story without end. We are a nation of immigrants, celebrating the American promise of life, liberty, and happiness, yet we remain divided by class, color, economics, education, and vision. We are largely integrated, but not always comfortably. Isabel Wilkerson offers a transcendent work that is epic in scope but relayed in the most personal, relevant way. It is the quintessential American story - perseverance and hope in the face of injustice and hate. With works as fine as Isabel Wilkerson's, it is my hope that history can light a way to a better future for all. (less) | Notes are private!
| 1
| Nov 12, 2011
| Nov 26, 2011
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Sep 15, 2011
| Hardcover
| ||||||||||||||||
| 1590514440
| 9781590514443
| 3.29
| 586
| Jun 21, 2011
| Jun 21, 2011
|
"On March 14, 1885, a body is floating in the old Marshall Reservoir, in a light snow, and then under a waxing moon." From its opening sentence, The R...more
"On March 14, 1885, a body is floating in the old Marshall Reservoir, in a light snow, and then under a waxing moon." From its opening sentence, The Reservoir draws in the reader with harsh details rendered in shapely language. This is historical fiction at its entertaining, dramatic, and authentic best. Historian and short story writer John Milliken Thompson read a paragraph in a history of Richmond, VA that sparked his curiosity. His research took him deep into 1880's Virginia, into the death of a single, pregnant woman and the sensational trial of a promising young lawyer. He emerged with a classical Greek tragedy that is rich with period detail and crime noir suspense. It's all here: passion and lust, brotherly love and rivalry, trust and betrayal, tenderness and violence. But murder? You be the judge... This is not a page-burner. The suspense builds slowly, as the story winds back and forth in time and the details of the dead woman's final days, as well as her childhood, are reconstructed. It's like sipping a few fingers of small batch bourbon, not tossing back a belt of Wild Turkey. You'll want to savor the nuance and the smoldering tension as the characters' true natures emerge and you piece together the clues. Milliken Thompson does a masterful job of giving his characters multiple dimensions. No one wears shining armor or angel's wings, but neither is anyone completely black of heart. Well, almost no one... I was also impressed by the way the author shows the South struggling to adapt in this generation after the Civil War. The societal contrasts are striking: Slavery may be abolished but racial oppression is deeply rooted; cities are rapidly modernizing, but the South is still an agrarian region; most women have little say in their social or economic futures, but some are finding their way into higher education and white collar employment. The latter third of the book is a gripping courtroom drama that will have you racing to the end. What you discover in the final pages may not be at all what you'd expected. It is not an easy ending, but it is perfectly executed. What you can be certain of is a brilliantly written drama that brings immediate life to a long-ago tragedy. (less) | Notes are private!
| Jeanette,
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1
| Oct 16, 2011
| Oct 23, 2011
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Sep 13, 2011
| Paperback
| |||||||||||||||
| 1590514157
| 9781590514153
| 3.48
| 99
| Aug 16, 2011
| Aug 16, 2011
|
Like a flame to moths, philandering philosopher Oliver Vice is irresistible. He is also enigmatic, inscrutable, and narcissistic. But is he suicidal? T...more Like a flame to moths, philandering philosopher Oliver Vice is irresistible. He is also enigmatic, inscrutable, and narcissistic. But is he suicidal? The Vices opens with Oliver's death, a dramatic finish in the swirling waters of the north Atlantic into which Oliver pitched, or was pitched, from the Queen Mary II. Oliver's final days are investigated by the narrator, who remains cleverly unnamed, though he is at the story's heart. Indeed, his is the heart that pulses for Oliver's for the length of this story, as he explores Oliver's life in search of an explanation for his death. It is also an examination of obsession and identity, of forgery and fraud. And it's wrapped up in a delicious package of bright language and fascinating characters, chock full of wit and thrills, layered with humor and melancholy. It was a pleasure to partake of this sometimes zany, sometimes poignant work of fiction. Lawrence Douglas is a writer new to me. His style brings to mind the precisely-crafted novels of Michael Frayn, Kate Atkinson, Ian McEwan, and Russell Banks. I love his way with words, the economy of phrase that turns smartly on a crisp heel, yet provides rich imagery "...a bald homunculus crawled toward her on the concrete floor...and curled nautiluslike at her feet.." Yes, I had to look up "homunculus." I dig learning new words. I dig this book. (less) | Notes are private!
| none
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1
| Aug 21, 2011
| Aug 23, 2011
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Aug 21, 2011
| Paperback
| |||||||||||||||
| 0307700119
| 9780307700117
| 3.59
| 10,667
| Aug 30, 2011
| Oct 04, 2011
|
Read this quiet, poignant book for the quality of its prose, but prepare to be surprised by the force of its plot. The Cat's Table is the story of a t...more
Read this quiet, poignant book for the quality of its prose, but prepare to be surprised by the force of its plot. The Cat's Table is the story of a three-week sea voyage on the ocean liner Oronsay, as seen through the eyes of 11-year old Michael. It is 1954 and Michael has set sail from his native Colombo, Ceylon (now Sri Lanka) en route to London, where his mother awaits. It is not unlike the voyage the author took in the same era, at the same age as his main character, though the author's end notes assure the reader that this is a work of fiction. Although Michael makes the journey alone, he is monitored lightly by an aunt who is keen to keep her distance from the lower class passengers (Michael is traveling, if not in steerage, then at the lower end of second class) and lovingly by an older cousin, Emily, whose secrets Michael stumbles upon in the course of this brief but life-altering journey. The ship, Oronsay, is a universe in Limbo, an in-between world. Its passengers tarry there, being slowly transported between continents, through several seas, into uncertainty and new lives, or perhaps returning to former lives after many years away. It is a complete world, with social classes, economics, politics, geography, love, crime and death. It is at the "Cat's Table"- the dining room assignment that is farthest from the enviable situation of the Captain's Table- that Michael, nicknamed Mynah, befriends Cassius and Ramadhin, two boys also traveling alone from Ceylon. The three boys do what comes naturally to pre-teens confined to large boat for weeks on end: they mischieve with gusto. Their insignificance as passengers renders them nearly invisible to the ship's crew, so they explore at all hours of the night, discovering a shackled prisoner who is brought the deck late every night, a young women who trains on her roller-skates in the pre-dawn stillness of the dining room, a mural of naked women gracing the engine room. Michael even aids robbery in the high seas when he is coated in motor oil and sent slithering through a small window to open the door to a well-mannered thief. The boys risk several lives in their greatest shenanigan, which occurs during a raging storm. While the rest of the passengers are focused on the end of their journey and the start of their new lives in Europe, the trio of boys lives entirely in the present. It is through Mynah's keen awareness of the now that we come to know a host of fascinating and bizarre characters. And it is through the voice of the narrator, Michael/Mynah as an adult, that we realize the profound importance these three weeks and these characters have on Michael's intellectual and emotional development. As the Oronsay advances toward England, the narrative shifts more often from the voyage to Michael's teenage years and young adulthood. He reveals gradually what happens to his partners in adventure, Cassius and Ramhadin, and leads us into his middle years and the present. It is as gentle a transition as sailing on a calm sea. At first it seems as if the scenery never alters until suddenly land looms ahead. You realize a tremendous shift has taken place, that cultures and climates have been transformed in the slow change of latitude. Ondaatje's writing is so beautiful; it is contemplative, effortless, supple and elegant. Not a word feels superfluous. No emotion is overwritten, no scene overly-dramatized. He moves quietly but steadily forward, never leading, just merely taking the first step that you willingly follow. Flawless. (less) | Notes are private!
| none
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1
| Nov 07, 2011
| Nov 10, 2011
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Aug 20, 2011
| Hardcover
| |||||||||||||||
| 0061704237
| 9780061704239
| 3.59
| 32
| Jul 01, 2011
| Jun 28, 2011
|
Once upon a time, in the fabled Land of Milk and Honey (1970's California), the Knights (and a few Maidens) of Vitis Vinifera vowed to champion beauti...more
Once upon a time, in the fabled Land of Milk and Honey (1970's California), the Knights (and a few Maidens) of Vitis Vinifera vowed to champion beautiful wines that would express the true nature of the golden slopes and coastal valleys they called home. They armed themselves with degrees from the UC Davis Department of Viticulture and Enology, they pulled stints in wine shops and wineries, they met to taste the great wines of the world, sharpening their palates on Bordeaux and Burgundies, Rieslings and Champagnes. They shared and stumbled together, battling the dragons of weather, pestilence, fungus, financial woes, burnout and poor judgment to create a stunning array of wines that would be celebrated across the world (I write of the legendary Judgment of Paris, at which a host of California wines bested French labels in a blind tasting in 1976). Then one day a great shadow fell over the land. A cunning sorcerer - bearing the benign moniker of Robert Parker - and his sipping sycophants - writers for Wine Spectator - sidled on to the scene. Slinging arrows in the shape of 100-point scale scores, these sorcerers cast a spell over the land, causing the people to believe that quality wine was plush, plummy, velvety, overripe, oak-laden, high-alcohol jam that bore no distinguishing characteristics of the terroir from whence it came. The people were deceived and began to shell out premium coin for ripe and fruity plonk. The Knights of Vitis Vinifera fell to their knees, proclaiming allegiance to the Dark Lords of High Scores. They were rewarded with riches beyond imagination. The Court Jester, Randall Grahm, and the Court Wizard, Leo McCloskey become the central characters in this tale. The former, the iconic proprietor of Bonny Doon Vineyard and erstwhile owner of Pacific Rim, Cardinal Zin and Big House wines, took a tangled route through the California wine industry. He baffled and beguiled his counterparts, critics and devotees by reaching for the sun with his wings barely glued to his back. He grew everything, everywhere, experimenting with varietals, sites and techniques in an astonishing display of fearlessness. His odd pockets of vineyards grew into an empire of brands and Grahm - through his prolific newsletters and showboat style- became the tail that wagged the dog. A master of marketing which grossly overshadowed the quality of his wine in the heady days the 90's, Grahm at last returned to his original, earnest goal of creating artisanal wines that speak of the true terroir of California. He is now a champion of biodynamic processes, committed to restoring winemaking to a craft of nature respectfully managed- not manipulated- by man. Leo McCloskey, a contemporary of Grahm's, was a young, gifted scientist and winemaker who guided storied Ridge Vineyards to worthy acclaim. He pursued a doctorate in chemical ecology at UC Davis and Santa Cruz, and earned his reputation as a skilled winemaker and consultant. McCloskey recognized early that the rapid and massive growth of the California wine industry needed savvy businesspeople to manage the aspirations of idealistic entrepreneurs. He studied the ascending importance of Robert Parker, editor of The Wine Advocate and the world's most renowned wine critic, and of the luxury magazine Wine Spectator, which copied Parker's 100-point rating scale. McCloskey's genius revealed itself in the creation of a service that winemakers had no idea they needed: Enologix. Enologix is founded on the principle that wine quality can be measured empirically, therefore crafted chemically. He has created a metric which takes into account the tastes of Robert Parker and critics from Wine Spectator, Wine Enthusiast and other noted wine and spirits publications. The algorithms analyze a wine's flavor components at every stage of production, from growing, harvesting, and fermentation to aging and bottling. Used in conjunction with a market analysis, the Enologix metric is designed to ensure a wine will reach a target price, volume and critic score. In An Ideal Wine, David Darlington pours out a sweeping history of the modern California wine industry, the one that began with idealists in blue jeans in the late 60's, through today's corporate megalopolises. Dozens of winemaking and kingmaking scions are introduced, though the two principals- Grahm and McCloskey- are featured as the Yin and Yang of the vast and complicated pursuit of the "Ideal Wine." Darlington is comprehensive and fair, respectful of the access McCloskey and Grahm provided to their businesses and personal lives. He does not spare us Grahm's cringe-worthy self-absorbed silliness nor does he glide over McCloskey's obvious love of beautiful wine. But despite his journalist's quest for balance, it is clear which approach he favors: the artisan's, over the industrialist's. And it is not hard to determine why. To the industrialist, the vine and its fruit are commodities. Remedial techniques, such as micro-oxygenation, spinning cone, reverse osmosis, and oak chips are regularly employed to correct what nature has wrought. The artisan has a "less is more" approach, adapting viticultural and oenological processes to the prevailing climate and terrain. Of course, nothing is so black and white- there are no true villains or heroes. If one hopes to make a living making wine, business principles that recognize consumer demand must be respected. The wine artisan's quixotic mission is to refine the consumer's palate; the wine industrialist admits that an American populace raised on high-sugar treats that are silky with fat will clamor for a wine that offers these qualities, year in-year out. Many will pay top-dollar if popular critics tell them so; otherwise bulk juice bottled by discount retailers or mammoth wineries will suit just fine. An Ideal Wine is a ripe blend of anecdotal, wizard-revealing dish-outs and technical information, which will satisfy the wine geek without overwhelming with jargon. Sadly, it is probably too intense and in-depth to appeal to the consumer targeted by Enologix- the one who wants to be pleased without having to reflect on how the substance in their glass came to be. I toast Darlington for revealing the reality behind the romance of winemaking, for underscoring the idea that winemaking is an incredible marriage of art and science, perhaps the greatest collaboration of man and nature that we know. It is also a partnership still in its infancy in the United States. Winegrowers and winemakers are yet in the early days of exploring the micro-climates and micro-terrains of California and the Pacific Northwest and defining and working within the terroir of each. Exciting, beautiful wines are being crafted throughout the region and there is a slight but growing shift away from the mammoth mouthfuls advocated by popular critics. During a trip to the Languedoc region of southern France last spring, my husband and I spent a couple of days with biodynamic farmer and winemaker, Jean-Pierre Vanel (Domaine LaCroix-Vanel). We visited two vineyards that he had just purchased. The vineyards had been conventionally farmed and resembled moonscapes: the soil was brittle and dead, the vines were tired, flat, and gray. Jean-Pierre caressed the vines, lamenting over their poor state like a nursemaid with a cherished charge. We then visited vineyards he has tended biodynamically for several years. They were green and lush in the early days of their ripening. Grasses grew underfoot, the soil was thick and richly-colored, flora and fauna abounded in harmony. Vanel's wines- blends of the region's signature grenache, mourvedre, syrah, cinsault, carignan (reds) and grenache blanc, roussanne, terret (whites) are fine and pure, with angles and tannins, acids and structure: wines that fully express their terroir. Vanel's vision is to be a steward of his land, to allow the vines to create the wine. Not unlike the vision of that long ago, once upon a time, California. (less) | Notes are private!
| none
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1
| Oct 25, 2011
| Nov 04, 2011
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Aug 11, 2011
| Hardcover
| |||||||||||||||
| 0385669852
| 9780385669856
| 3.65
| 6,826
| Jul 05, 2011
| Jul 05, 2011
|
Dr. Jennifer White is losing her mind. Literally. Her brain's cells and blood vessels are decaying, coating the vibrant organ of her consciousness wit...more
Dr. Jennifer White is losing her mind. Literally. Her brain's cells and blood vessels are decaying, coating the vibrant organ of her consciousness with clumps of dying and dead tissue. This brilliant woman - an orthopedic surgeon, mother of two grown children, and a recent widow - is losing her mind to dementia. I began Turn of Mind an hour before bedtime and finished it shortly after breakfast the next day. In between I slept, swam, showered, and ate my oatmeal, but all other moments were devoted to turning the pages of this astonishing, wrenching book. The narrative is relayed through Jennifer and via the notebook in which her caretaker, Magdalena, her children Mark and Fiona, and her friends and colleagues record their conversations with and observations of this vibrant woman whose light is dimming under the cloud of Alzheimer's. In the first pages, the novel's structure was off-putting. When I flipped through and saw that the entire book was a series of short paragraphs at most, with pages of one line sentences, I doubted its ability to hold me with a story of complete characters and compelling plot. But that doubt was quickly dispelled. Alice LaPlante displays masterful writing by using her primary character's point of view to show the horror of dementia. As readers we are not passive observers of Jennifer's disintegration. We are in her head, seeing through her eyes, feeling her confusion as reality wavers like a room filled with funhouse mirrors. LaPlante allows us to laugh, as Jennifer pokes fun at her disease (Top 10 Signs You Know You Have Alzheimer's, #2: You keep discovering new rooms in your house). We are Jennifer as she cunningly slips past her minders to have barefoot adventures in her Chicago neighborhood, not feeling the cold, not fearing strangers who loom from the darkness, not minding that we don't have money to pay for the meal we have somehow eaten at an Italian restaurant. We feel both outrage at and empathy for her children, who take advantage of their mother's diminished awareness, yet who also try to protect her. The conversations Mark and Fiona have with Jennifer, when they know she will not remember what was said, are sometimes terrible, sometimes hilarious, and always heartbreaking. Propping up the story like a cold steel bar is its central plot conflict: the unsolved murder of Jennifer's neighbor and best friend, Amanda. The investigation of Amanda's death is never far from anyone's mind, except Jennifer's, who has to be told over and over that Amanda is dead. Their history unfolds in fleeting memories that knit together to show a complicated, often adversarial, relationship between two intelligent and strong-willed women. I am in awe of a writer who can combine a complicated topic that demands extensive research with a classic murder mystery, present it in a jarring, atypical format using the voice of an unreliable narrator, and still create a multi-dimensional story of fully realized characters in a mere 300 pages. I can't wait to see where Alice LaPlante takes us next. (less) | Notes are private!
| The
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1
| Sep 19, 2011
| Sep 20, 2011
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Jul 11, 2011
| Hardcover
| |||||||||||||||
| 0061491349
| 9780061491344
| 3.64
| 3,644
| Jun 30, 2007
| Jun 30, 2009
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I love being drawn in and surprised by a great story. And when the writing is as beautiful as Ms. Adamson’s, a celebrated Canadian poet, it becomes an...more
I love being drawn in and surprised by a great story. And when the writing is as beautiful as Ms. Adamson’s, a celebrated Canadian poet, it becomes an all-too-rare treat: a book I must tear myself away from as the clock ticks into the start of my work day. The text of The Outlander is followed by a conversation between the author, Gil Adamson, and the writer Michael Ondaatje. Ms Adamson describes an image that came to her unbidden, one which she set to paper. She saw a young woman in a black dress fleeing an unseen pursuer. The image became the opening scene of this powerful historical suspense. This is a thriller, not a mystery. We know who committed the crime, and as the story unfolds, we learn why. But the chase grabs us from the first sentence and holds us to the story’s final words, “Find me.” At times the followed become the pursuers; at times they become the left behind. The thrills are woven into a rich and deeply satisfying tale set in the Alberta Rockies at the turn of the 20th century. In the author’s gorgeous prose, the awesome and dreadful beauty of the setting is revealed. We are presented with a host of vivid, unforgettable characters: grim, ginger-haired twins bent on revenge; a Jeremiah Johnson-like recluse who runs from the shelter of love; a pugilistic preacher and an enterprising dwarf who provide moral guidance and whisky to exhausted miners; and the protagonist, Mary, a beautiful runaway, driven nearly mad with grief and terror. Her Odyssey through the mountains and plains of central Canada holds us captive. We shrink as she slowly starves, we soar when she is saved by strangers, we will her to survive as tragedy crushes her hope. There are dark and terrible images, balanced by sweet moments of humor and grace. Ms. Adamson has created a thing of magic in The Outlander- a literary Western deeply connected by careful research and intricate details to the history of its setting that is also a wonderfully imaginative thriller you cannot put down. (less) | Notes are private!
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1
| Jul 09, 2011
| Jul 11, 2011
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Jul 09, 2011
| Paperback
| |||||||||||||||
| 0385534639
| 9780385534635
| 3.99
| 153,517
| Sep 01, 2010
| Sep 13, 2011
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As I turned the final pages of this rare and magical read, I was filled with melancholy and longing. Ordinary life seems so, well, ordinary. I ached t...more
As I turned the final pages of this rare and magical read, I was filled with melancholy and longing. Ordinary life seems so, well, ordinary. I ached to remain a rêveur - a devotee of Le Cirque des Rêves - lost in the black and white gloaming of this circus of illusion and wonder. This is a story for romantics. It is about the power of magic over fate, of love over destiny, of community over individual will. It is told in a dream-like narrative that unfolds within the vault of your imagination as it intersects with Morgenstern's vivid descriptions. The third person omniscient voice and the present-tense setting work in deliberate contretemps, as you move both with the action and yet above it all. Morgenstern also shifts the setting between chapters (the story takes place in lush, late Victorian Gothic between 1873 and 1903, with present-day making a cameo appearance), allowing sleight-of-hand foreshadowing and memories to tilt her parallel worlds even more off-center. The book jacket description is deceptive and is perhaps partly to blame for the perceived weakness of the story: that this is a book of settings, not plot. The action is muted, the competition between the two skilled "illusionists" slow to unfold and rarely heated. Do not embark upon this journey thinking you will see sparks fly between dueling wizards, or swoop into a tundra with angels and polar bears chasing mad scientists, or follow the quest of elves and hobbits seeking a cursed ring. You will, however, be mesmerized by a world that seems sinister and pure at the same time. Morgenstern's allegories do not have the weight of Lewis, Pullman, or Tolkien nor does her story have the addictive immediacy of J.K. Rowling's creations. At times she lets slip a modern colloquialism that rings trite, but on the whole her writing is enchanting. She pays homage to the greatest literary fairy tales and fantasies in her own fashion, creating heroes out of ordinary folk, making burdens out of gifts, and allowing her characters just enough free will to undo what nature has set in motion. It was a joy to lose myself in her beautiful writing, in her unique and colorful world, and in the souls of her tender characters. This was a reminder of why I love to read: for pleasure, to be delighted, to wander away from reality. Too bad I have to be jolted awake. There are some dreams you wish would never end. (less) | Notes are private!
| 1
| Oct 02, 2011
| Oct 09, 2011
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Jul 07, 2011
| Hardcover
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| 4.43
| 10,107
| 1988
| Jun 18, 1989
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I can't do justice to this collection with a review. I can only reread its stories and hope unlock the secrets of writing perfection.
| Notes are private!
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1
| Jun 20, 2011
| Jun 30, 2011
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Jun 20, 2011
| Paperback
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| 031604279X
| 9780316042796
| 3.65
| 5,961
| 2010
| Feb 01, 2010
|
It would be easy to begrudge Elizabeth Bard her lovely life. As New Yorker living in London in the early 2000's, she met a nice French man at a confer...more
It would be easy to begrudge Elizabeth Bard her lovely life. As New Yorker living in London in the early 2000's, she met a nice French man at a conference in Paris. They had lunch and fell in love. Ten years on, she is married to that French man and they split their time between a Parisian pied-a-terre and a home in the south of France. In between, Bard became fluent in the French language and French cookery, penned a best-selling memoir/cookbook, her husband launched a successful digital film company, and they have a beautiful young son. Her blog is rainbow of food porn, lit by Provençal sunshine and Parisian lights. Scroll past vivid photos of heirloom tomatoes, fresh figs, haricots verts, cheeses weeping from their casements and naked beasts ready for roasting and you will be seduced by a life that seems the stuff of dreams. Envy as green as those fresh beans would be perfectly understandable. But instead you just want to curl up on a sofa with Elizabeth to share a pot of tea, nibble her chocolate chip cookies, and giggle like schoolgirls over the photos of Daniel Craig in Le Figaro: Madame. She writes with unselfconscious charm and honesty that makes Lunch in Paris pure pleasure. It is like reading a series of letters from a dear friend. This is not always a light-hearted memoir, though Bard's breezy style often belies the very serious nature of her acculturation to France, the challenge of a cross-cultural marriage, and the loneliness of living in a city without friends or gainful employment. I have a sense that she made a deliberate decision to put the most positive "atta girl" spin on her period of solitude as she learned her way around the French language and culture and said goodbye to the career of her dreams for the man of her heart. She allows sparks of frustration and anger to glow brightly when she writes of the diagnoses and treatment of her father-in-law's cancer and of her determination to see her husband succeed in his business venture. There are a few jangly notes, mostly around the issue of money. Although Bard takes pains to show that the advantages she enjoyed in childhood were the result of a resourceful mother, she has the means to attend graduate school in London, then to travel every weekend from London to Paris in the year before she moves to Paris for good. Her mother and stepfather visit frequently from New York and she to see them. At one point, she withdraws around $20k from an ATM (Her stash? Her parents?) to make a down payment on an apartment in the 10eme arrondissement. It's a bit of perspective that sets her apart from your average late 20s/early 30s-something single gal. Bard centers her memoir around the theme of food and cooking as a means of discovering and falling in love with a country- hardly new ground, particularly when the country in question is France. But her bright writing keeps this well free of cliche territory. Bard does a lovely job of addressing her attitudes toward eating and body image, in a land where women maintain slim physiques on petite frames well into middle age. She uses gentle but candid humor and relates some painful stories of fitting her curves into French expectations. I have since read an essay Bard wrote for Harper's magazine about her struggles with her weight and emotional eating, a struggle that seemed to dissipate in a culture that regards food and mealtimes with reverence. The recipes at the end of each chapter will make this book a permanent part of my cookbook library. She offers up an array of French home cooking, culled from her imagination, from meals at favorite restaurants and from French friends and in-laws who readily shared their culinary traditions. I am now addicted to Elizabeth Bard's blog. Seeing her happy life unfold in living color makes my dreams seem full of possibility. (less) | Notes are private!
| 1
| Sep 20, 2011
| Sep 22, 2011
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Jun 12, 2011
| Hardcover
| ||||||||||||||||
| 0670021040
| 9780670021048
| 3.77
| 22,740
| 2011
| May 03, 2011
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Geraldine Brooks has a way of infusing vivid color, texture, sound, and aroma to little-explored slices of history, breathing new life into facts cull...more
Geraldine Brooks has a way of infusing vivid color, texture, sound, and aroma to little-explored slices of history, breathing new life into facts culled from microfiche and special library collections. She is a sublime storyteller, one whose prose leads you to curl up on the sofa at any possible opportunity, or sends you early to bed, so you can lose yourself again in her narrative. The setting of Caleb's Crossing is the island Noepe (now known as Martha's Vineyard), and Cambridge, Massachusetts Bay Colony, in the 1660's. Although the novel is based on the true account of Caleb Cheeshahteaumauk, the first Native American to graduate from Harvard, the voice of the story belongs to fictional Bethia Mayfield, daughter of the island settlement's minister and childhood friend of Caleb. Through Bethia's wanderings, we fall in love with the wild, sparkling beauty of Noepe. We witness the tension and the tenderness between the recently-landed English settlers and the Wampanoag tribe that have served as the island's stewards for centuries. We become a part of the challenging daily lives of America's earliest immigrants as they learn to adapt their crops, animal husbandry, housekeeping, and their religion and philosophical lives to the demands of a new land. Bethia receives some schooling from her father, a significant exception in an era where women marry young and devote their lives to their hearth and family. Her intelligence, curiosity, and courage make her an ideal companion to Caleb, the son of a Wampanoag chieftain. He matches her wit for wit, learning English, Latin, Hebrew, and Greek in his quest to ensure his own culture's survival by learning the ways of the English invaders. As the story moves from Noepe to Cambridge and Harvard College, the narrative focuses more on Bethia as she grows into womanhood, than on Caleb as he undertakes his studies. Again, through Bethia's eyes, we witness the growth of a settlement into a town and the early days of American academe. I wonder if Brooks considered using Caleb as narrator and what made her choose to tell the story through the voice of a young Protestant woman. Bethia's character is strong and nuanced. I think Brooks was wise to use a voice to which she could lend the greatest amount of empathy, one that could comprehend and explain the cultures she encounters with authenticity and clarity. Caleb's Crossing is a fascinating melding of the ancient- Native American culture, the old- English traditions, and the new- a nation in the making. Geraldine Brooks remains one of my favorite writers of historical fiction. From painstaking research, she weaves nuanced novels with rich characters and fascinating plots that are as engaging as they are informative. (less) | Notes are private!
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| not set
| Jul 07, 2011
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May 05, 2011
| Hardcover
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| 0307408841
| 9780307408846
| 3.75
| 54,252
| May 10, 2011
| May 10, 2011
|
Erik Larson assigns himself a Herculean task: to tunnel through the mountain of research on Hitler's regime and the circumstances that led to World Wa...more
Erik Larson assigns himself a Herculean task: to tunnel through the mountain of research on Hitler's regime and the circumstances that led to World War II and emerge with a singular, simple premise: What was Berlin like during the first year of Hitler's chancellery? Overshadowing this relatively narrow context are the questions that plague anyone confounded and horrified by the Holocaust: How did things go so horribly wrong in Germany, in plain view of its citizens, and why were Europe and the United States so slow to respond? Larson shows us, through the eyes of the U.S. ambassador to Germany, William Dodd, and his grown daughter Martha, the events, the atmosphere, the characters, and the behavior of Berlin's citizens in the early days of Hitler's ascendency. The principal narrative takes place from the summer of 1933, when Dodd arrives with his family to assume the role of ambassador, to the summer of 1934 and the "Night of the Long Knives", Hitler's brutal purge of perceived enemies within the Nazi Party. The perspectives of the mild, scholarly and overwhelmed Dodd (Roosevelt's last pick, after several others turned down the post, recognizing the storm clouds brewing in fractured Germany) and his intelligent but flighty daughter were unique and fascinating. Dodd was completely out of his element. He was an academic, not a politician, businessman, or social climber- the usual State Department profile for an important ambassadorial post. He shied away from confrontation, unless it regarded the administrative duties of embassy employees or the profligate use of embassy dollars on extravagant parties and overlong overseas telecommunication. Martha, who adored men to the point of idiocy, tumbled into German high society with glee. She loved Berlin and defended its nationalistic attitudes (while seemingly ignoring the violent acts against Jews, Communists, and other undesirables) as Germany's legitimate reaction to the stranglehold of the Treaty of Versailles. We witness the dawning horror of Dodd and his daughter as Hitler's true ambitions come to light. We see the facade of graceful, elegant Berlin cracking under the increasing violence. We learn of the machinations within the Nazi Party as a host of men vie for their place within Hitler's inner circle. We cringe as the ridiculous Nazi salute and its accompanying "Heil Hitler" become the required greeting in hallways, in schoolrooms, restaurants, the street- and woe to the hapless or willful tourist who does not comply. And we are given the first glimpses into the hell of Dachau, among the first of concentration camps Hitler established soon after his appointment to the chancellery. Larson does not attempt to answer how the Nazi regime soared to power with such monstrosity and to such public acceptance and acclaim. He does take us, in a real-time unfolding of events, to the heart of a city as it moves toward its destruction. I was annoyed by and impatient with Dodd and his daughter- they were not empathetic characters, but perhaps my frustration was unfair. With the hindsight of history, I wanted to shake them out of their malaise and trip up their missteps, to shout "Can't you see what is happening?!" Yet, their roles in the course of history were largely insignificant. Dodd was a pawn in the game of international relations. At least he survived his ordeal. Millions of innocents did not. Larson has the amazing ability to breathe suspenseful, vivid narrative life into his characters. Although not as gracefully rendered as his other non-fiction, In the Garden of Beasts is bold, brilliant, and unforgettable. (less) | Notes are private!
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1
| May 14, 2011
| May 15, 2011
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Mar 25, 2011
| Hardcover
| |||||||||||||||
| 0316066745
| 9780316066747
| 3.85
| 9,228
| 2010
| Oct 06, 2011
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Kate Atkinson does this thing that I love, it's a thing director Alexander Payne ("The Descendants" "Sideways" "About Schmidt") and my favorite girl,...more
Kate Atkinson does this thing that I love, it's a thing director Alexander Payne ("The Descendants" "Sideways" "About Schmidt") and my favorite girl, Jane Austen, do that I just eat up. These artists excel at creating anti-heroes, be it Atkinson's Jackson Brodie, Payne's Miles (though lion's share of credit should go to writer Rex Pickett for Sideways), or Austen's Elizabeth and Darcy, who aren't afraid to mock their own bad luck and bad moods. There is always a steady stream of wit and irony coursing through the narrative that keeps grim circumstance from becoming maudlin. Of course, a deeply-flawed protagonist in crime fiction - whether she be a private dick or he a DI - is par for the course. What makes Kate Atkinson's Jackson Brodie series so compelling is the author's brilliant prose. She takes the rote scenario - a tossed-about, lonely, erudite investigator solving mysteries more through happenstantial coincidence than skill - and injects it with unexpected but delicious detail in syntax that delights. It's like being told grilled cheese is for lunch and being presented with just-melted burrata, fresh tomato and basil on grilled pagnotta. Comfort food with panache. Started Early, Took My Dog - Atkinson's fourth featuring former solider and policeman Jackson Brodie - offers far more in the satisfying character department than handsome, lovelorn, brooding Brodie. I will fully own my sucker's heart for The Ambassador, Jackson's foil who doesn't object to being trundled about in a large sack. Senile actresses, slimeball cops, meth-ed out prozzies are vivid and compelling fodder. We are introduced to mall security guard Tracy Waterhouse, she of size extra-large slacks and size extra-large heart. I hope like hell we see more of brave and hilarious Tracy. She is more than Jackson's match in ironical survival. And her small but fierce appendage will break your heart a hundred times over: "Courtney, on the other hand, had made more of an effort, dressing herself from a selection of yesterday's new clothes. Some of them were on backwards but she had got the general idea right. Tracy's efforts at hairdressing the previous evening weren't entirely successful. In the cruel light of day the kid looked handmade. She had finished her cereal and was staring, Oliver Twist-like, at the empty bowl." I did feel a twinge of annoyance at the messy nature of Jackson's personal relationships; he is too easily cowed by the women he has loved and with whom there is a history of mutual neglect. Jackson has a hard time moving on, but Atkinson uses these relationships as a plot device to give her characters context and to ground them in the present. As important of features as wit and irony play in Atkinson's narrative, they do not overshadow the intelligence and humanity that run deeply through her stories. Perhaps more than the three novels that preceded it, Started Early... challenges the moral centers of its characters and readers. They and we are compelled to question the rights of parents vs. the welfare of children, the nature of identity and family, and the true victims of drug dependency and prostitution. The crimes and misdemeanors at the heart of Started Early... stand alone for those uninitiated to Ms. Atkinson's Jackson Brodie oeuvre. But do yourself a favor, partake of the whole rich banquet. And how could I not love this story, when its title was inspired by Emily. Dickinson, that is: I started Early – Took my Dog – (656) BY EMILY DICKINSON I started Early – Took my Dog – And visited the Sea – The Mermaids in the Basement Came out to look at me – And Frigates – in the Upper Floor Extended Hempen Hands – Presuming Me to be a Mouse – Aground – opon the Sands – But no Man moved Me – till the Tide Went past my simple Shoe – And past my Apron – and my Belt And past my Boddice – too – And made as He would eat me up – As wholly as a Dew Opon a Dandelion's Sleeve – And then – I started – too – And He – He followed – close behind – I felt His Silver Heel Opon my Ancle – Then My Shoes Would overflow with Pearl – Until We met the Solid Town – No One He seemed to know – And bowing – with a Mighty look – At me – The Sea withdrew – Source: The Poems of Emily Dickinson Edited by R.W. Franklin (Harvard University Press, 1999) (less) | Notes are private!
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1
| Nov 26, 2011
| Nov 29, 2011
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Mar 17, 2011
| Paperback
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| 1439156816
| 9781439156810
| 4.23
| 65,355
| 2000
| Jul 06, 2010
|
100 percent loved this. I may even knock it up to "It was amazing" as its treasure trove of advice sinks in. Here's the thing: Stephen King knows how...more 100 percent loved this. I may even knock it up to "It was amazing" as its treasure trove of advice sinks in. Here's the thing: Stephen King knows how to tell a story. From the early to late 80s- junior high through mid-university years- I read nearly everything he'd written. His novels are the only of the horror-genre that I've read; it's never been my cup of tea, either in print or film, but King's writing has always been a cut above. He is the literary equivalent of Bruce Springsteen. I don't own a Springsteen album, but when I hear one of his songs, from any era, I know I am hearing pure genius. Story-telling genius. I believe King's mainstream success has little to do with his ability to scare the bejesus out of his readers and everything to do with the emotional chords he twangs with his characters, his dialogue, his everyman dilemmas that arise from the most bizarre circumstances. As he counsels in On Writing, don't worry about writing what you know, write what you love to read. So, King loves sci-fi and scary stuff. And he is able to write about with such astonishing skill that even the most avowed detractor of popular fiction is held captive by his pen. This writing guide is divided in two parts. In the first, King takes you through his hard-scrabble childhood, focusing on the events that shaped him as a writer. I enjoyed the heck out of this. He recounts his past in a sweet, sad, funny, and completely natural voice. I didn't know anything about his personal life, which included years as an alcoholic and coke addict. Then he turns to offer practical writing advice, which can be summed up as: Read A LOT; Write A LOT; Create a space of your own; Blow up your television; Use the active voice; Limit adverbs; Watch out for dialogue attribution; and, above all, Write stories. Not plots. Not themes. Just Stories. King believes that if you have a good story, the rest - character development, plot, theme- will take care of itself. King presents his advice with such clarity and conviction that you believe it's all possible. I have to contrast this concise set of advice with another masterful work on the art of storytelling: Robert McKee's Story. McKee's guide is 466 pages. I took a couple of months to read Story and used a ream of post-its to mark the meaningful passages. McKee's approachs is the antithesis of King's. He advocates careful plotting and sub-plotting, character studies, outlines, and a tried-and-true structure that respects the desires of the audience. True, McKee writes about the craft of scriptwriting, but his directives are relevant to literary stories, as well. As different as these two approaches are- King's organic, McKee's structured- their bottom line is identical: Write a story that people want to read. King loathes adverbs. This hits home because I am decidedly guilty (see!) of using adverbs copiously (see!!). I've just finished reading James Joyce's The Dead, which is often cited as the best short story ever written (and lauded by King). Here is its final sentence: "His soul swooned softly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead." Delicious irony. Well, to adverb or not to adverb? Only one way to find out... (less) | Notes are private!
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1
| Mar 13, 2011
| Mar 14, 2011
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Mar 13, 2011
| Paperback
| |||||||||||||||
| 097496090X
| 9780974960906
| 4.16
| 4,666
| 1914
| May 17, 2011
|
The volumes of literary analysis of The Dead proclaim this as the perfect short story ever written. The instructor of a short-story writing workshop I...more
The volumes of literary analysis of The Dead proclaim this as the perfect short story ever written. The instructor of a short-story writing workshop I attended recently made the same proclamtion. He admonished our gathering to read this at once and to reread it at least once a year, as an example of writing at its most sublime. Hyperbole? I don't know that it matters. It moved me to tears. I knew nothing of the story, nor have I read Joyce beyond an aborted attempt a dozen years ago at "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man." I expected to slog through complicated language and dry prose. Instead I slipped quietly in the door of an early 20th century Dublin home, as an unseen guest at a party held by two aging aunts for their petite bourgeoisie friends and family. The scene unfolds gently, in the glow of the Epiphany and lantern light. There is dancing, drinking, feasting, a few social gaffes...It is the latter where Joyce balances on the razor's edge between social satire and devastatingly keen observation. This seemingly innocuous setting has aching scenes of lust, love, and longing. In a few short paragraphs, Joyce shows a marriage laid bare, infected by disillusionment and disappointment; it is as honest a portrayal of modern love as any I have read. It is a moment of self-awareness and revelation of perception that we would do well to hope never happens to us. Ignorance is bliss.(less) | Notes are private!
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1
| Mar 07, 2011
| Mar 07, 2011
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Mar 06, 2011
| Paperback
| |||||||||||||||
| 0743234413
| 9780743234412
| 3.99
| 5,882
| 1991
| Apr 30, 2002
|
Tim Winton is a most spiritual writer. It's shameful in a world of bloated, overachieving prose that screams to the top of best-selling lists that som...more
Tim Winton is a most spiritual writer. It's shameful in a world of bloated, overachieving prose that screams to the top of best-selling lists that someone as connected to the forces of nature and the foibles of man should be so little known. Cloudstreet chronicles the aching, bitter, crude, and sweet fortunes of two Australian families, the Lambs and the Pickles, from 1944-64. Brought together by need, greed, tragedy and a mysterious Other, the families' stories collide and spring away over the years. They live in the same rotting mansion, separated by thin walls and different ambitions. The families' regard for each other alternates between disgust and wonder, passion and forgiveness as their children and their backwater state of Western Australia grow up and away. Winton tells the classic tale of messy, intolerable families- how each is a unique disaster and a treasure. But this is no ordinary familial saga. Winton's writing is in a class of its own. He is fearless -- calmly and confidently taking the reader from literal, linear storytelling to a subtle state of magical realism. This is an unforgettable book, both for its content and its style. I was struck by the universality of his themes and the recognizable nature of his characters. These working class families would be at home in Appalachia, the timber forests of Oregon, the fishing villages of the north Atlantic Coast. Mr. Winton must be a national treasure in Australia. We'd do well to show him a larger welcome mat here in North America. (less) | Notes are private!
| Brendan
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1
| Feb 2011
| Feb 15, 2011
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Feb 01, 2011
| Paperback
| |||||||||||||||
| 1402777302
| 9781402777301
| 4.50
| 6
| Jun 01, 2010
| Jun 01, 2010
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This is my new favorite wine guide- the one I am turning to when I need to escape the dry, rote tone of my WSET textbook. I'm a huge believer that in...more This is my new favorite wine guide- the one I am turning to when I need to escape the dry, rote tone of my WSET textbook. I'm a huge believer that in order to appreciate and evaluate wine, you must know the characteristics of the grapes that are in your glass and how different wine styles use those characteristics. For example, syrah/shiraz is redolent of black fruit: blackcurrant, blackberry, black raspberries; it also contains notes of smoke, leather, chocolate, tobacco. All good and well, but an Australian shiraz and a Côte Rôtie are horses of different breeds. Not to mention what happens to syrah when you add in a dash of grenache, a smidgen of mourvèdre- blends are most common in the south of France and among the New World's Rhône Rangers. How can you tell the difference? What makes a good syrah good? And what in the heck should you eat with it? Well, renowned wine writer Oz Clark has many answers and heaps of suggestions, in a style that's welcoming without stooping to "Wine for Dummies" silliness. In an A-Z format, with gorgeous photos and illustrations, he presents 300+ varietals. Seventeen classic grapes are covered in depth, with extended information on an additional 15 varietals and paragraphs offered for dozens and dozens more (know anything about Negru de Dragasini? Len de L'El? Schiava? You will after spending some quality time with Oz). There is a fantastic introductory section about vineyard management and wine production- all presented clearly, for the armchair viticulteur and oenologue. (less) | Notes are private!
| none
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1
| not set
| Jan 24, 2011
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Jan 25, 2011
| Paperback
| |||||||||||||||
| 0060891548
| 9780060891541
| 4.15
| 6,797
| 1976
| May 09, 2006
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None
| Notes are private!
| none
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1
| Jan 16, 2011
| Jan 23, 2011
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Jan 16, 2011
| Paperback
| |||||||||||||||
| 0679776591
| 9780679776598
| 3.95
| 5,924
| May 11, 1996
| May 26, 1998
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“I did not witness the most important events of my life. My deepest story must be told by a blind man, a prisoner of sound. From behind a wall, from u...more
“I did not witness the most important events of my life. My deepest story must be told by a blind man, a prisoner of sound. From behind a wall, from underground. From the corner of a small house on a small island that juts like a bone from the skin of sea.” Early in her brooding, shadowy, aching novel, Anne Michaels sets out the central conflict of her principal character, Jakob Beer. Jakob’s family is slaughtered one winter night in 1940; the seven-year-old boy hides in a hollow in the wall, then escapes into his Polish city, burying himself in the mud of an archeological dig. He is saved by Athos, a Greek geologist, who spirits Jakob away to a remote island in the Greek archipelago. During the years in Greece, when Jakob is forced to hide within his savior’s home, Athos fills the long hours with millennia of history, geology, geography, and literature. Four years later, as the German army flees Greece, Jakob is allowed to emerge from the protection and seclusion of Athos’s home into a world broken by war. As Jakob rejoins the world and grows into adolescence, the horror of the Holocaust is revealed to him. These are the events which he has survived but to which he did not bear witness. Athos and Jakob immigrate to Toronto, where a geology professorship awaits Athos. Jakob adapts once again, adding English to his linguistic library of Polish, Yiddish, and Greek. He becomes a poet, a husband, but he never settles comfortably into the leafy ravines and changeable climate of his Canadian home. For nearly the whole of his life he is haunted by guilt and crippled by depression. Yet Jakob is also redeemed by pure, profound love. The bond between Athos and Jakob is beyond father and son, it is deeper than brothers. It is of two souls intertwining in a search for salvation, in a quest for meaning that can be found only by loving another so much that their needs and desires become indistinguishable from your own, that the story of your life would be unimaginable without their own role playing out. This is a lyrical novel, where tangents on Antarctic exploration and palindromes, explications on the nature of history, irony, language, music, are woven into an atmospheric narrative. I felt dull and morose in the cold, hard cement and steel of Toronto, uplifted when released into the warm, lemon-scented air of Greece. Michaels does not follow a traditional plot structure -- the narrative flow jumps and twists, characters fall in and out, subplots are left on paths unpursued. She is a poet, first and foremost, and surrenders willingly her pen to the force of the story and the power of language. Michaels adores stringing together sets of words that shimmer with polar magic: “The winter street is a salt cave. The snow has stopped falling and it’s very cold. The cold is spectacular, penetrating. The street has been silenced, a theatre of whiteness, drifts like frozen waves. Crystals glisten under the streetlights.” Or autumnal splendor: “It’s a clear October day. The wind scatters bright leaves against the blue opalescence of air.” But just as you are lulled by the grace of her metaphors and the energy of her phrases, she wrenches your gut with the brutality of fact: “I think of the Lodz ghetto, where infants were thrown by soldiers from hospital windows to soldiers below, who “caught” them on their bayonets. When the sport became too messy, the soldiers complained loudly, shouting about the blood running down their long sleeves, staining their uniforms, while the Jews on the street screamed in horror, their throats parched with screaming.” Michaels’s supreme skill is using passionate language to reveal the gross burden borne by survivors of genocide: to relive the nightmare and to retell its details so that the slaughtered will not be forgotten. (less) | Notes are private!
| Jeanette,
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1
| May 22, 2011
| May 26, 2011
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Jan 08, 2011
| Paperback
| |||||||||||||||
| 0739384252
| 9780739384251
| 3.89
| 14,793
| 2009
| May 26, 2009
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Two cities existing in the now and in the beyond; two cities existing side-by-side and within each other, on a parallel plane of time and space but di...more
Two cities existing in the now and in the beyond; two cities existing side-by-side and within each other, on a parallel plane of time and space but divided by a membrane of rumor, history, and politics, and monitored by invisible forces that hold the citizens of both worlds in a grip of Big Brother fear. This is a novel that challenges the reader to let go of "Why?" and accept what is: that history can become so distorted it no longer matters; that the present is too much to process, so we condition ourselves to see only what we want; that we follow willingly in the footsteps of the masses before us, because acceptance is easier and resistance seems futile. Imagine driving down a busy road, encountering cars and pedestrians that you must pretend are not there, but that you must avoid striking; imagine seeing a lover only inches from you whom you cannot look in the eye, whom you cannot touch because they are not meant to exist in the world where you are walking. Unseeing, untouching, unsmelling, unnoticing is life in the cities of Beszel and Ul Qoma- the former a Balkanesque, drab, downtrodden post-Communist burg of concrete blocks; the latter, a revived and lively secular Muslimesque city of glimmering towers and ancient ruins. They are one and the same but separate, their borders interwoven with crosshatches that are in constant danger of being breached by the innocent, the curious, the ignorant, and the sinister. In this metaphysical swirl lives the story's anchor and its sanity: Inspector Borlú, of the Beszian Extreme Crime Squad. Borlú, a calm and resigned protagonist without annoying tics or hazardous vices, is called upon to investigate the murder of a young woman, a crime which may or may not have occurred in his home city. Mieville presents a fairly pedestrian crime drama, involving the familiar plot devices of rival police squads, a plucky partner, red herrings, thugs and corporate hijinks. It is the possibility of a greater evil, the certainty of disaster, and the bends your brain must take to allow for this parallel world, which so closely resembles our own, that keep the suspense at the boil point. This is not my usual fare- modern crime drama with a science fantasy theme- but Good Golly, if it's this well done, I could become an aficionado. (less) | Notes are private!
| Queen
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1
| Jan 12, 2011
| Jan 16, 2011
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Jan 02, 2011
| Audio
| |||||||||||||||
| 0743279794
| 9780743279796
| 4.02
| 1,180
| 2004
| Oct 10, 2006
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This collection of seventeen stories, set in the fictional Western Australia whaling town of Angelus, shows ordinary people searching for redemption i...more
This collection of seventeen stories, set in the fictional Western Australia whaling town of Angelus, shows ordinary people searching for redemption in their broken, mismatched, violent, tedious lives. Tim Winton, with raw and beautiful prose, asks you not to flinch or to forgive but to witness these characters, their choices, and the circumstances, and to draw your own conclusions about the future of their souls. Nine of these stories focus on the Lang family. In no chronological order, we see the turmoil that besets the Langs, mostly through the eyes of Vic, as an adolescent, a young man, a father and husband. By shifting chronology, narrative voice, and character perspective, Winton gives us a 360 view of a community, a family, and a man. Other stories intertwine, as well. The gut-twisting The Turning show us characters as adults- the broken bully Max Leaper and his wife, Raelene, who is searching for a way out of herself. We then encounter Max and his brother as boys in Sand, and again as adults in Family, where redemption arrives in a flash of copper hide and gnashing teeth. It's difficult to recommend individual stories, particularly when so much is to be gained from reading the sum. I was moved by each, though the longer stories, such as Boner McPharlin's Moll; Small Mercies; Long, Clear View and Commission resonated more deeply because of greater character development. Tim Winton, in novel and in short story, writes about families. He is interested neither in politics nor in history lessons. He is concerned with showing the extraordinary within the most ordinary. He has a particular brilliance with the perspectives of children, capturing their wisdom and sensitivity and showing them at play and in pain, with tenderness and clarity. The writing in this collection is more personal than Cloudstreet, his epic family tale, and is completely absent of the mysticism that shimmers at the edges of The Riders and Cloudstreet. It is natural, flowing, and flawless. (less) | Notes are private!
| 1
| Mar 26, 2011
| Apr 02, 2011
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Nov 09, 2010
| Paperback
| ||||||||||||||||
| 0670034312
| 9780670034314
| 4.27
| 5,321
| May 05, 2005
| May 05, 2005
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Xavier Bird, a young Ojibwa from the Moose Cree tribe in northern Ontario, returns to Canada from the Europe's Western Front in the summer of 1919. He...more
Xavier Bird, a young Ojibwa from the Moose Cree tribe in northern Ontario, returns to Canada from the Europe's Western Front in the summer of 1919. He is alone, in unimaginable pain from an amputated leg, addicted to morphine, and dying from a spirit broken by the nightmare of war. Carrying him home in her dugout canoe is his aunt Niska, an elderly medicine woman who has lived on her own in the bush since escaping a Catholic boarding school in her teens. Through a twisting, dreamlike journey of words and images we follow Xavier and Niska on a three-day river trail home. The journey takes us through the years of these characters' lives. To distract Xavier from his pain and to quell her own anxiety over his addiction and the emotional wounds that she cannot heal, Niska recounts her childhood as European settlers closed in on her tribe's ancestral territories. She reveals how she survived and thrived on her own, fell in love with a French trapper, learned to use her healing and divining powers, and how she saved Xavier from subjugation at the hands, whips and rum of the white settlers. Xavier crossed the Atlantic as a Canadian Army private with his best friend, Elijah Weesageechak ("Whiskeyjack" to non-Cree speakers). Elijah had spent his early years at a Catholic boarding school and is fluent in English, but ignorant of his tribe's hunting, tracking and survival skills. He is reclaimed by the Cree forest and comes of age with Niska and Xavier. Xavier is a patient teacher and Elijah a crack student. By the time the young men arrive in Europe, their marksmanship skills are renowned. They are selected to train with an elite group of snipers. Xavier is soon overshadowed by Elijah's charisma and ego but the two remain a team during their nearly two years on the battlefields of France and Belgium. Why Xavier returns to his homeland alone becomes the thread of tension that reverberates keenly to the final pages. This is a beautifully written yet brutal novel. Each modern war has its unique horrors. Three Day Road mires the reader in the muck of World War I trench warfare as bodies pile in corners, lice pulse in clothing seams, and toes rot black with trench foot. Boyden spares no detail of hand-to-hand combat, of the blood-lust that becomes the sole means of emotional survival for some soldiers, of the ache for the relief of morphine. The devastation is so relentless, you understand any soldier's break with reason, you feel their uncontrollable rage and their sense of hopelessness as they accept that each moment may be their last. It is Boyden's storytelling ability and his skills in pacing and tension that keep the gore from overwhelming the narrative. The characters who ripple through bring life and dimension to the battlefields, farmland, forest and hearths of Europe and Canada. This is historical fiction at its finest: a scholar's command of factual detail balanced by a storyteller's heart and passion. Niska provides us with historical context, telling the story of northern First Nations in the early part of the 20th century. Xavier's story is eternal lesson that nothing good comes of war, a lesson we seemed destined to repeat and fail at least once each generation. I'm glad I waited a few more days to compile my Best Reads of 2011 list. Three Day Road will surely appear in the top ten. (less) | Notes are private!
| 1
| Dec 21, 2011
| Dec 25, 2011
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Oct 28, 2010
| Hardcover
| ||||||||||||||||
| 1400079985
| 9781400079988
| 4.05
| 78,618
| 1869
| Oct 05, 2011
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How does one review War and Peace. One does not. But one shall collect her thoughts and report back on the experience. Astonishing read.
| Notes are private!
| none
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1
| Jul 11, 2011
| Nov 06, 2011
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Jun 04, 2010
| Paperback
| |||||||||||||||
| 067976156X
| 9780679761563
| 3.61
| 160
| 1985
| Nov 07, 1995
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This is a rare gem of a book. It is so perfect in its depiction of traveling and falling in love with another country that, not only would I not chang...more
This is a rare gem of a book. It is so perfect in its depiction of traveling and falling in love with another country that, not only would I not change a word, I found section after section I wanted to absorb into my skin. Although written sixty years ago and set just after World War II, the interactions and reactions of a young American couple with the French and in France remain relevant, painful, hilarious, and true. Its peaceful pace belies the profound transformation of its principal characters, Harold and Barbara, and of the painful recent history from which the French were so eager to shake loose in the fragile years of the late 1940’s. It is counter to French nature to turn away from history and move on with assertive hope; Barbara and Harold arrive at the border just as France accepts that breaking the habit of reflection and debate and marching in concert with their European neighbors- including Germany- is the only way out of the post-war depression. Whether or not it was the writer's intention, Maxwell’s characters personify specific national characteristics or conditions that were present in France during this tender and uncertain time. Mme Viénot is the face of dignity. She endeavors to preserve the gentility of the rapidly disappearing class of landed gentry. Hers is the eponymous château, which suffers the indignities of no hot water, no heat, and a larder limited by ration coupons. She is wily, a survivor, one foot trailing in the France’s past, the rest of her thrust forward, ready to grasp what she can to keep her home and legacy intact. Eugène Boisgaillard encapsulates a nation emasculated by war, and its co-conspirators helplessness, guilt, and frustration. He runs hot and cold- a character you don’t trust and but somehow you come to understand. He is surely suffering some sort of post-traumatic stress disorder, a condition not spoken of in a nation that had lost so many of its young men to war. He resents the vitality and hope of the American naïfs as he comes to terms with the loss of his gracious pre-war lifestyle. Mme Straus-Muguet is a reminder that all is not as good as it seems in the land of your dreams. Pulling back the curtain of Emerald City to see an insignificant blunderbuss at the controls is a keen disappointment. But once you accept the flaws and the ordinariness of it all, you also begin to feel more at home. Her awkward social status is also a painful but unspoken reminder that, although united during the war by hunger, fear, resistance, or mere survival, the different social classes would sort themselves out in peacetime. Peace means never having to say “I’m sorry,” to someone beneath your standing. Sabine and Alix are the face of the new France: young, strong, independent women. Sabine is blazing her career path without the help of her connected family or a paramour; Alix is a busy mother in a passionate but difficult marriage with the mercurial Eugène. These women realize there is no time to stop and reflect on all that was lost in two generations of war; their lives are rich and full, the demands on their intelligence and heart too great to tarry. It often feels that Harold and Barbara are more conduits than characters, particularly the winsome and vague Barbara. Harold works so hard to understand and to be understood, to fit in, get along, adapt; he wants desperately to be French, but understands that he is the quintessential American. The passages showing Harold falling helplessly in love with France, encountering the inexplicable and the maddening, and finally, saying goodbye to Paris are heart-wrenching to any one who has known and loved that beautiful, proud, contrary, gracious country. The Château is a love letter to France, and an homage to the baffling, intoxicating experience of traveling abroad. It is also an astute portrayal of post World War II Europe, of a country that was on the losing side of the victorious. (less) | Notes are private!
| none
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1
| not set
| Jun 19, 2011
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Feb 07, 2010
| Paperback
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| 0670018708
| 9780670018703
| 4.24
| 31,154
| Jan 01, 2008
| May 15, 2008
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City of Thieves is so technically astute, I could almost see a watermark of the author's story outline showing faintly on the pages. The two central c...more
City of Thieves is so technically astute, I could almost see a watermark of the author's story outline showing faintly on the pages. The two central characters, Kolya, a Red Army deserter with a movie star visage and Lev, a teenage Jew caught looting a German soldier’s corpse, meet cute in a prison cell in Leningrad. The city is under siege, bombed nightly by Luftwaffe, and cut off from all outside assistance. Many of its women and children fled when they could months earlier. The remaining residents starve and freeze to death in such numbers that their bodies pile up in the streets, stripped of valuables and edible flesh. The two prisoners are set free by a high-ranking Russian army official after one night in prison, but he gives the hapless pair a mission in exchange for their release. Their quest is simple, but seemingly impossible in this city where dirt and glue are primary food groups: Lev and Kolya have one week to find one dozen eggs for a wedding cake. The consequence of failure is death. The novel becomes the near-surreal Odyssey of the Eggs. Lev and Kolya make it out of Leningrad (only after a narrow escape from cannibals) and enter the heaven and hell of occupied Russia in the depths of winter. Benioff’s writing is deft. The novel is presented as a retelling of events by a grandfather (Lev) to his writer-grandson, but the modern world slips away the moment the narrative begins in Leningrad. Benioff quickly introduces the central conflict- a hunt for eggs- and we are drawn into the quest. The near-deadly obstacles that prevent Lev and Kolya from resolving their conflict - the harsh weather, their weakness from lack of food and adequate shelter, the constant terror of being caught by the German army- roll out from Benioff’s pen until he introduces a sub-plot that nearly derails the egg hunt. The sub-plot is resolved in the nick of time and Lev and Kolya are once more set upon their path. There is an additional meet-cute that is wrapped up with a bow in the novel’s final pages, in a bittersweet ending that provides both resolution and loss. A full cast of characters drift in or crash through the pages, providing contrasts of evil and good, sometimes in the same person. And isn’t this the classic theme of war? It is the ultimate setting for showing the best and the worst of humanity. Tight, taut, clean and sharp is Benioff’s narrative structure. But his story is full of blood, guts, and passion. Benioff does a masterful job of balancing our need to feel for the characters by giving them dimension and emotional depth but resists sentimentality by injecting black humor and bizarre events. The gallows humor struck a chord with me. For it is humor, even this coarse and black, that allows us to acceptably articulate the most horrific of circumstances. And I will vouch for Kolya’s obsession with his bowels. As a former Peace Corps volunteer in Central Africa, where our cohort subsisted on rice and goat meat, the condition of our intestines was a hot topic of conversation, second only to the foods from home we missed. Sex, or the lack thereof, was a decided third. We were obsessed with conquering constipation. There are qualities of the absurd and the fantastic to Benioff’s story, but I did not have the sense that he was after a factual account. He tells a story- a strange and terrible, wonderful and heartbreaking fable- that is part coming-of-age, part buddy tale, part witness to the insanity of war. The larger-than-life characters, the gruesome scenes that are juxtaposed with the hysterically funny, even the absurdity of the quest for the eggs, keep novel from becoming a self-serious sermon posing as fiction. I sense Benioff has a screenplay in the works- he is an accomplished screenwriter- and this is ready-made for the big screen. I’ve already pegged Brad Pitt for blond-haired, blue-eyed beautiful Kolya, (though Brad may be getting on in years- I’m showing my own age, I know); Lev would have to be a relative newcomer ripped from the cast of “Glee”… I will not soon forget this story and I tip my hat to Benioff as a writer, a storyteller, and a student of the craft. Bravo. (less) | Notes are private!
| none
|
1
| Jan 21, 2011
| Jan 22, 2011
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Jun 19, 2009
| Hardcover
| |||||||||||||||
| 014119247X
| 9780141192475
| 3.96
| 230,348
| 1815
| Oct 26, 2010
|
"I cannot make speeches, Emma . . . If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more." Can any literary lover make us swoon more than one of...more "I cannot make speeches, Emma . . . If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more." Can any literary lover make us swoon more than one of Austen's creations? Oh, Mr. Knightley, I was lost the moment you stepped into the parlour with your spotless shoes and disrupted the backgammon game. I purchased this beautiful Penguin Classics edition of Emma two years ago (it fits so perfectly in the hand, the font precisely the right shape and size. Such pleasure to hold a lovely book). It remained until now the only Austen novel I had not read. I began the practice of reading an Austen every year some time ago, but I've put this off because it meant accepting that "discovering" Jane would be no more. What sweet sorrow to end my journey with Jane in the Surrey countryside, at the Hartfield estate, wandering its groomed gardens and golden fields, curled in a chair beside a roaring fire or on a blanket in the shade of a willow tree, scheming with the well-intentioned but wretchedly mis-guided Emma. And what sweet joy to know that the Woodhouses, the Knightleys, the Churchills, the Eltons and the Martins will sit quietly on my bookshelf, patiently awaiting my return to their pastoral idyll. In Emma, Austen offers the reader a perfectly-crafted piece of social satire. Each character is flawed - our heroine most of all - (oh, but perhaps the regal Mr. Knightley may be allowed near-perfection status!) but she doesn't so obviously strip everyone of their dignity. Even the society-grasping Mrs. Elton shows warmth of heart. Emma embodies Austen's brilliance: through popular prose, she exposes the self-indulgent lifestyle of the landed gentry, their classism and snobbery, their boredom and limited world view; she takes on the objectification of women in a society that offers them little choice and limited futures, regardless of class; she pokes fun at the vagaries of romance. Yet, Austen is the consummate storyteller. She excels at brewing tempests in teapots, at creating solid plots from the floss of country gentility. And, although her internal cynic is strong, she has the tenderest of hearts. Redemption and tidiness rule in the end; Austen leaves the slapstick and supernatural to her contemporaries. The pleasures of Emma were not immediate for me. It it slow to start and I wondered if I could endure endless episodes of Emma's supercilious meddling. But Austen knows exactly the point at which she must turn away from showing Emma's single-minded superiority to revealing her deeper character and vulnerabilities. At the same time, she widens the ripples of her plot, creating shadows behind her characters that lend mystery and possibility to destiny. Few pleasures are as pure or as timeless as reading a novel by Jane Austen. Brava, Jane. (less) | Notes are private!
| none
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1
| Nov 30, 2011
| Dec 14, 2011
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Jun 21, 2008
| Hardcover
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