Chris Bohjalian's Blog, page 30
June 23, 2012
"The Sandcastle Girls" -- the prologue
We have now added a preview of "The Sandcastle Girls" to www.chrisbohjalian.com .
I would share it right here on goodreads, but it's a PDF file. Sorry about that.
In any case, follow this link and then click on the "Excerpt" link to read the Prologue and a sizable section of the first chapter.
http://www.chrisbohjalian.com/the_san...
Thanks so much for your faith in my work: I am indeed very, very grateful.
I would share it right here on goodreads, but it's a PDF file. Sorry about that.
In any case, follow this link and then click on the "Excerpt" link to read the Prologue and a sizable section of the first chapter.
http://www.chrisbohjalian.com/the_san...
Thanks so much for your faith in my work: I am indeed very, very grateful.
June 21, 2012
The Proustian Madeleines that Inspired a Novel
Below is a brand new essay about a part of my childhood that inspired "The Sandcastle Girls" -- as well as a moment from my recent visit to Armenia and Lebanon. I was asked to write it by BookPage, which is where it originally appeared.
* * *
When I was a boy and trying desperately to give a wide berth to the latest culinary travesty my Swedish mother had scooped onto my dinner plate—my mother was a well-intentioned cook, but far too interested in conversation to squirrel herself away in the kitchen and become a good one—she occasionally said, “Eat. You of all people should think of the starving Armenians.”
At least once I recall my Armenian father sitting back in his chair after my mother had said that and asking rhetorically, “Why is it that no one ever says, ‘Eat. Think of the starving Bangladeshis?’ Or the starving Cambodians? Honestly, I don’t know of any starving Armenians.”
He was the son of Armenian immigrants and he grew up in the impressive brick monolith his father had built in a suburb of New York City. Even as a child, when I thought of my grandparents’ house, instantly I would think of food: The platters of warm cheese boregs, the filo dough oozing butter. The rice pilaf rich with the aroma of chicken broth. The grape leaves stuffed with vegetables. And, of course, the lamb, marinated and tender. I have been a vegetarian for well over a quarter-century, but I know I would be in danger of backsliding if I were transported back to my Armenian grandmother’s kitchen. I had a sense that the phrase had something to do with genocide, but my family never discussed the systematic slaughter of 1.5 million Armenians in the Ottoman Empire during the First World War.
The expression, I’d learn much later, was most likely coined by Clara Barton. Although the genocide had faded into history for most of the world by the early 1970s, the massacres (and, yes, the starving Armenian orphans) had once been common knowledge among Americans and Europeans. During the genocide, the New York Times published 145 stories about the atrocities. Among the most poignant images for Westerners were the photographs and the stories of the children. The orphans. In 1915, first the men and then the women were killed; as a result, thousands and thousands of orphans were scattered across what is now Syria and Lebanon and Egypt.
"Even as a child, when I thought of my grandparents' house, instantly I would think of food."
Consequently, when I decided that it was time to write a novel about the genocide—what my novel’s narrator calls glibly, “The Slaughter You Know Next to Nothing About”—I found myself focused on children and food. Because of the Proustian madeleines from my own childhood, this seemed a viable entry into a story that might otherwise be one mind-numbing horror after another. The novel moves back and forth in time between an Armenian-American novelist at midlife—a female version of me—and a sweeping love story set against the cataclysm of 1915 in the eastern edges of the Ottoman Empire. It is, in part, the tale of Elizabeth Endicott, a 1922 graduate of Mount Holyoke College who travels to the Syrian desert as part of an American relief mission, and her love affair with Armen Petrosian, an Armenian engineer who has already lost his young wife and infant daughter.
There is also a lot of my childhood in the book—and a lot of my grandparents’ house. And, yes, there are orphans in the scenes set in 1915, including one of my favorite characters ever: a quiet, watchful, intense little girl named Hatoun.
Was there a real Hatoun? There were tens of thousands of real Hatouns. (The Near East Relief organization cared for more than 100,000 children between 1915 and 1930.) When I visited Lebanon and Armenia earlier this year, trying to ground myself emotionally as the publication of The Sandcastle Girls neared, among the places I went was an orphanage in the Lebanese city of Byblos. The town sits on a hillside above the Mediterranean and is known best for its remarkable Phoenician ruins, including a citadel and an amphitheater at the edge of the cliff. Also there, however, is the Bird’s Nest, the orphanage founded after WWI by Danish missionary Maria Jacobsen. Jacobsen saved no fewer than 3,600 children herself when she converted a villa into an emergency shelter.
And how did the orphanage get its name? One afternoon when she was handing out candy to the children, they surrounded her, calling out “Mama, Mama!” Jacobsen looked at the hungry throng and imagined the orphans were like baby birds and she was their mother.
When a nun at the orphanage told me this story, I thought of Hatoun and I felt a tremor of sadness ripple across my skin. But I thought also of the structure of my novel and experienced a small swell of relief. There it was, once again: Children and food.
* * *
Chris Bohjalian is the author of 14 novels, including the bestsellers "Midwives," "The Night Strangers" and "Skeletons at the Feast." "The Sandcastle Girls" was inspired by his own heritage—and reader requests for his take on the Armenians’ tragic history. You can visit him at chrisbohjalian.com, or look for him on Facebook, Twitter, and right here on Goodreads.
* * *
When I was a boy and trying desperately to give a wide berth to the latest culinary travesty my Swedish mother had scooped onto my dinner plate—my mother was a well-intentioned cook, but far too interested in conversation to squirrel herself away in the kitchen and become a good one—she occasionally said, “Eat. You of all people should think of the starving Armenians.”
At least once I recall my Armenian father sitting back in his chair after my mother had said that and asking rhetorically, “Why is it that no one ever says, ‘Eat. Think of the starving Bangladeshis?’ Or the starving Cambodians? Honestly, I don’t know of any starving Armenians.”
He was the son of Armenian immigrants and he grew up in the impressive brick monolith his father had built in a suburb of New York City. Even as a child, when I thought of my grandparents’ house, instantly I would think of food: The platters of warm cheese boregs, the filo dough oozing butter. The rice pilaf rich with the aroma of chicken broth. The grape leaves stuffed with vegetables. And, of course, the lamb, marinated and tender. I have been a vegetarian for well over a quarter-century, but I know I would be in danger of backsliding if I were transported back to my Armenian grandmother’s kitchen. I had a sense that the phrase had something to do with genocide, but my family never discussed the systematic slaughter of 1.5 million Armenians in the Ottoman Empire during the First World War.
The expression, I’d learn much later, was most likely coined by Clara Barton. Although the genocide had faded into history for most of the world by the early 1970s, the massacres (and, yes, the starving Armenian orphans) had once been common knowledge among Americans and Europeans. During the genocide, the New York Times published 145 stories about the atrocities. Among the most poignant images for Westerners were the photographs and the stories of the children. The orphans. In 1915, first the men and then the women were killed; as a result, thousands and thousands of orphans were scattered across what is now Syria and Lebanon and Egypt.
"Even as a child, when I thought of my grandparents' house, instantly I would think of food."
Consequently, when I decided that it was time to write a novel about the genocide—what my novel’s narrator calls glibly, “The Slaughter You Know Next to Nothing About”—I found myself focused on children and food. Because of the Proustian madeleines from my own childhood, this seemed a viable entry into a story that might otherwise be one mind-numbing horror after another. The novel moves back and forth in time between an Armenian-American novelist at midlife—a female version of me—and a sweeping love story set against the cataclysm of 1915 in the eastern edges of the Ottoman Empire. It is, in part, the tale of Elizabeth Endicott, a 1922 graduate of Mount Holyoke College who travels to the Syrian desert as part of an American relief mission, and her love affair with Armen Petrosian, an Armenian engineer who has already lost his young wife and infant daughter.
There is also a lot of my childhood in the book—and a lot of my grandparents’ house. And, yes, there are orphans in the scenes set in 1915, including one of my favorite characters ever: a quiet, watchful, intense little girl named Hatoun.
Was there a real Hatoun? There were tens of thousands of real Hatouns. (The Near East Relief organization cared for more than 100,000 children between 1915 and 1930.) When I visited Lebanon and Armenia earlier this year, trying to ground myself emotionally as the publication of The Sandcastle Girls neared, among the places I went was an orphanage in the Lebanese city of Byblos. The town sits on a hillside above the Mediterranean and is known best for its remarkable Phoenician ruins, including a citadel and an amphitheater at the edge of the cliff. Also there, however, is the Bird’s Nest, the orphanage founded after WWI by Danish missionary Maria Jacobsen. Jacobsen saved no fewer than 3,600 children herself when she converted a villa into an emergency shelter.
And how did the orphanage get its name? One afternoon when she was handing out candy to the children, they surrounded her, calling out “Mama, Mama!” Jacobsen looked at the hungry throng and imagined the orphans were like baby birds and she was their mother.
When a nun at the orphanage told me this story, I thought of Hatoun and I felt a tremor of sadness ripple across my skin. But I thought also of the structure of my novel and experienced a small swell of relief. There it was, once again: Children and food.
* * *
Chris Bohjalian is the author of 14 novels, including the bestsellers "Midwives," "The Night Strangers" and "Skeletons at the Feast." "The Sandcastle Girls" was inspired by his own heritage—and reader requests for his take on the Armenians’ tragic history. You can visit him at chrisbohjalian.com, or look for him on Facebook, Twitter, and right here on Goodreads.
June 20, 2012
"The Sandcastle Girls:" The first giveaway here on Goodreads
"The Sandcastle Girls" doesn't arrive for 27 days...but you can win one of 50 free copies right now. Thanks to Doubleday Books for giving them away here on Goodreads. Click below to enter.
http://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/sho...
http://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/sho...
June 17, 2012
Big thanks to some hill country pops
I had a terrific father and certainly I will raise a glass to him today — the first Father’s Day when he is not with me on this great spinning blue gumball somewhere in the midst of the Orion Arm of the Milky Way galaxy. It has dawned on me, however, that while my father was an important role model for me when I was boy (for good and ill, if I am honest), there have been others as I’ve grown up and old. Among the profound blessings in my life was winding up in a hill town halfway up Vermont’s third highest mountain when I was a very young man. Here, in honor of Father’s Day, are a few other role models to whom I owe thanks. What do all these men have in common? They live in —or lived in — the tiny Green Mountain hamlet of Lincoln.
• The late Fletcher Brown. It was Fletcher who, one unexpectedly warm Sunday in November, saw my wife and me sitting on our front porch across from the church. He ambled over to us, eyeballed the scant fifty yards that separated our house from the sanctuary, and said with laconic charm and a wry smile, “Ain’t no excuse not to go to church now, is there?” There wasn’t, so we did. The rewards have been immeasurable.
• Rudy Cram. Rudy has taught me two things about owning a house that was built in 1898: The clapboard and slate and that very scary basement could become a fulltime job if I let them, so it’s important sometimes to chill and have a beer. The other thing? A neighbor is always a priority: If someone needs assistance breaking an ice jam on the roof in a rainstorm in January, you drop everything and help.
• The late Ron Rood. Yes, he was an immensely gifted writer and a storyteller. But he was also very funny. Among the best lines he left behind (and Ron left behind many) was this. When he was asked by a reader what drives him to write, he pondered the question long and hard before answering, “The mortgage. That’s what drives me to write. The mortgage.”
• David Wood. David is not simply my pastor and a great friend; he doesn’t simply have an unerring moral compass. He can also be frank and he can be frustrated when people are callous or judgmental. In the end, however, he tends to see the best in us in ways that all too often I miss.
• The late Fred Thompson. I was likely to disagree with Fred on a fair number of local and national political issues. But at town meetings he was brilliant and he sure did love Lincoln. When Tari Shattuck, a neighbor often on the other side of the political aisle from Fred, passed away, his remarks at her funeral were poignant and powerful and left those of us in the church nodding and smiling through our tears.
• Fred Danforth. How good a dad was this guy when he wasn’t designing beautiful pewter and running a business with his wife? He and his wife’s two grown daughters now live in Lincoln and are raising their children here. If you’re a dad, that’s an indication you’ve done something right.
• The late Paul Goodyear. He helped to raise two sons and four daughters, including my daughter’s godmother, and the six children always seem to have a twinkle in their eye. That’s something to be celebrated – and, perhaps, a testimony to how they were brought up.
• Andrew Furtsch. First of all, he is probably livid he is in this column. He is, no doubt, scowling at the attention. I like that. But he works tirelessly behind the scenes for the Lincoln Community School. In addition, at least as of this Sunday, he has kept me from accidentally killing myself while weightlifting at the gym.
There are many others I could have added from right here in Lincoln. This is just a sampling. So, to these dads — and to dads everywhere, the living and the dead — I say thank you.
Happy Father’s Day.
* * *
This column originally ran on June 17 in the Burlington Free Press. Chris's new novel, "The Sandcastle Girls," arrives on July 17. To add it to your Goodreads "To Read" cue. click here:
http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/13...
• The late Fletcher Brown. It was Fletcher who, one unexpectedly warm Sunday in November, saw my wife and me sitting on our front porch across from the church. He ambled over to us, eyeballed the scant fifty yards that separated our house from the sanctuary, and said with laconic charm and a wry smile, “Ain’t no excuse not to go to church now, is there?” There wasn’t, so we did. The rewards have been immeasurable.
• Rudy Cram. Rudy has taught me two things about owning a house that was built in 1898: The clapboard and slate and that very scary basement could become a fulltime job if I let them, so it’s important sometimes to chill and have a beer. The other thing? A neighbor is always a priority: If someone needs assistance breaking an ice jam on the roof in a rainstorm in January, you drop everything and help.
• The late Ron Rood. Yes, he was an immensely gifted writer and a storyteller. But he was also very funny. Among the best lines he left behind (and Ron left behind many) was this. When he was asked by a reader what drives him to write, he pondered the question long and hard before answering, “The mortgage. That’s what drives me to write. The mortgage.”
• David Wood. David is not simply my pastor and a great friend; he doesn’t simply have an unerring moral compass. He can also be frank and he can be frustrated when people are callous or judgmental. In the end, however, he tends to see the best in us in ways that all too often I miss.
• The late Fred Thompson. I was likely to disagree with Fred on a fair number of local and national political issues. But at town meetings he was brilliant and he sure did love Lincoln. When Tari Shattuck, a neighbor often on the other side of the political aisle from Fred, passed away, his remarks at her funeral were poignant and powerful and left those of us in the church nodding and smiling through our tears.
• Fred Danforth. How good a dad was this guy when he wasn’t designing beautiful pewter and running a business with his wife? He and his wife’s two grown daughters now live in Lincoln and are raising their children here. If you’re a dad, that’s an indication you’ve done something right.
• The late Paul Goodyear. He helped to raise two sons and four daughters, including my daughter’s godmother, and the six children always seem to have a twinkle in their eye. That’s something to be celebrated – and, perhaps, a testimony to how they were brought up.
• Andrew Furtsch. First of all, he is probably livid he is in this column. He is, no doubt, scowling at the attention. I like that. But he works tirelessly behind the scenes for the Lincoln Community School. In addition, at least as of this Sunday, he has kept me from accidentally killing myself while weightlifting at the gym.
There are many others I could have added from right here in Lincoln. This is just a sampling. So, to these dads — and to dads everywhere, the living and the dead — I say thank you.
Happy Father’s Day.
* * *
This column originally ran on June 17 in the Burlington Free Press. Chris's new novel, "The Sandcastle Girls," arrives on July 17. To add it to your Goodreads "To Read" cue. click here:
http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/13...
June 16, 2012
The Armenian Weekly says “The Sandcastle Girls” is “compelling and powerful.”
Writing about The Sandcastle Girls in a recent issue of The Armenian Weekly, reviewer Wendy Plotkin concluded, “”The scope of The Sandcastle Girls is almost epic. . .While there are the rich personal stories that his readers connect to, what he has achieved is much larger. Bohjalian has written a compelling and powerful novel that will bring the history of the genocide to a wide audience. The Sandcastle Girls will remain ingrained in your consciousness.”
Here is her review in its entirety.
* * *
The Sandcastle Girls
By Chris Bohjalian
New York: Doubleday (July 17, 2012)
299 pages, $25.95
Reviewed by Wendy Plotkin
Chris Bohjalian’s 14th novel, The Sandcastle Girls, is a moving depiction of the tragedy of the Armenian Genocide told through the experiences of a group of very different individuals who find themselves in Ottoman Aleppo in 1915. At the heart of the novel is a love story between Armen Petrosian, a survivor of Turkish brutality, and Elizabeth Endicott, a Boston Brahmin who has traveled to Aleppo to perform relief work with her father. While the love story propels the novel forward, it is Bohjalian’s unflinching description of what happened to the Armenians during the genocide that makes this book so affecting.
The novel moves between the present day—through the musings of a novelist, Laura Petrosian, who is in the process of exploring her family’s history—and 1915, telling the story of Laura’s grandparents. Bohjalian starts with Laura’s memories of spending time in her grandparents’ suburban New York home, which her mother affectionately referred to as the “Ottoman Annex.” Throughout the book, the portions of the novel that are set in the present day are a vehicle for Laura’s internal thoughts and feelings about her Armenian identity, and how that identity is connected to the genocide.
When a friend of Laura’s tells her she saw a picture of her grandmother at an exhibit of photographs from the genocide, Laura sets out on a search to discover her family’s link to the genocide. This search will eventually lead to the revelation of a sad family secret, and it is Laura’s effort to unearth this secret that drives her to delve deeper into the story of how her grandparents met and fell in love.
Laura was disconnected from her Armenian heritage, but as she discovers her family’s history, she becomes emotionally involved in discovering how the genocide touched her family. It is likely that Laura is Bohjalian’s alter ego since Mr. Bohjalian and his heroine share a similar background, and he performed extensive research into the genocide as part of this project. Bohjalian is well known for being particularly adept at writing female narrators, and he once again succeeds here in creating a book that is most successful when told from the female perspective.
The novel quickly moves from Laura’s memories of her grandparents to the story of how they met in 1915. Elizabeth Endicott, a wealthy Bostonian, travels to Syria with her father, a banker, on behalf of “The Friends of Armenia,” a charitable organization in the Boston area. When we first meet Elizabeth she nearly faints under the Middle Eastern sun as she and her father tour the main square of Aleppo with an American diplomat, Ryan Martin. But it is not just the sun that causes Elizabeth to become faint; she is confronted with hundreds of Armenian refugees—women and children, who have been marched across the desert by the Turkish army and into the square. They have been treated brutally along the way; they are naked and most are barely alive. Elizabeth is shocked, saddened, and feels helpless as to what she could possibly do to help these women. Through Elizabeth’s interactions with these refugees Bohjalian brings out the personal stories of the genocide—the starvation, the beatings, the rapes, and the murdered husbands, brothers, and sons.
Shortly after her arrival in Aleppo, Elizabeth meets Armen Petrosian, an Armenian engineer who is working with two sympathetic German army engineers. The Germans have been photographing the Armenian refugees in an effort to document the situation. Although it sounds (and to some extent reads) cliché, there is an instant connection between Elizabeth and Armen, and amidst the horrors of the war and the genocide, Bohjalian creates a classic romantic love story. Armen and Elizabeth are drawn to each other’s “differentness”—Elizabeth is taken with Armen’s dark eyes and long eyelashes, and Armen is taken with Elizabeth’s hair. They form a quick bond and when Armen leaves to join the British Army in the Dardanelles, they write letters to each other regularly. It is in his letters that Armen is able to share with Elizabeth his genocide story, how his wife and daughter were likely killed during a forced march from Eastern Turkey to Syria (it was his search for his family that had brought him to Aleppo). It is only through his letters than Armen can open up to Elizabeth and share this tragedy and the violent actions he was driven to take in response.
The portion of the novel set in 1915 is told from many perspectives—Elizabeth, Armen, the German engineers, a Turkish soldier. In addition the story is told through the eyes of two Armenian females Elizabeth meets and befriends in the Aleppo square, a widow, Nevart in her early 30′s, and an orphan girl, Hatoon. Nevart and Hatoon become surrogate family to each other, and Elizabeth becomes so close with them that she insists they live with her at the American Embassy despite the protestations of her father and other missionaries. What Bohjalian achieves by presenting the story through these multiple voices is a complete portrait of the genocide that is rich in personal detail. The most meaningful and devastating portions of the story are those that are told from the perspective of the young orphan girl Hatoon, who witnessed her whole family brutalized and murdered by Turkish soldiers. Hatoon is deeply damaged by her experiences and her tale is heartbreaking, but her survival and ability to form connections with other survivors and non-Armenians injects some hope into the story.
This book is about many things—a love story, a war, a woman’s independence and coming of age. But more than anything this novel is about the genocide.
Bohjalian’s fans will find this book different from many of the books in his catalogue, which focus on a hot progressive issue of the day such as midwifery, holistic medicine, transgender identity, and homelessness. The scope of The Sandcastle Girls is almost epic in comparison. While there are the rich personal stories that his readers connect to, what he has achieved is much larger. Bohjalian has written a compelling and powerful novel that will bring the history of the genocide to a wide audience.
The Sandcastle Girls will remain ingrained in your consciousness.
________________
Wendy Plotkin is a litigation attorney at a Boston area biotechnology company. Her book review and cooking blog can be found at www.bookcooker.blogspot.com .
To add "The Sandcastle Girls" to your Goodreads "To Read" cue, click here:
http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/13...
.
Here is her review in its entirety.
* * *
The Sandcastle Girls
By Chris Bohjalian
New York: Doubleday (July 17, 2012)
299 pages, $25.95
Reviewed by Wendy Plotkin
Chris Bohjalian’s 14th novel, The Sandcastle Girls, is a moving depiction of the tragedy of the Armenian Genocide told through the experiences of a group of very different individuals who find themselves in Ottoman Aleppo in 1915. At the heart of the novel is a love story between Armen Petrosian, a survivor of Turkish brutality, and Elizabeth Endicott, a Boston Brahmin who has traveled to Aleppo to perform relief work with her father. While the love story propels the novel forward, it is Bohjalian’s unflinching description of what happened to the Armenians during the genocide that makes this book so affecting.
The novel moves between the present day—through the musings of a novelist, Laura Petrosian, who is in the process of exploring her family’s history—and 1915, telling the story of Laura’s grandparents. Bohjalian starts with Laura’s memories of spending time in her grandparents’ suburban New York home, which her mother affectionately referred to as the “Ottoman Annex.” Throughout the book, the portions of the novel that are set in the present day are a vehicle for Laura’s internal thoughts and feelings about her Armenian identity, and how that identity is connected to the genocide.
When a friend of Laura’s tells her she saw a picture of her grandmother at an exhibit of photographs from the genocide, Laura sets out on a search to discover her family’s link to the genocide. This search will eventually lead to the revelation of a sad family secret, and it is Laura’s effort to unearth this secret that drives her to delve deeper into the story of how her grandparents met and fell in love.
Laura was disconnected from her Armenian heritage, but as she discovers her family’s history, she becomes emotionally involved in discovering how the genocide touched her family. It is likely that Laura is Bohjalian’s alter ego since Mr. Bohjalian and his heroine share a similar background, and he performed extensive research into the genocide as part of this project. Bohjalian is well known for being particularly adept at writing female narrators, and he once again succeeds here in creating a book that is most successful when told from the female perspective.
The novel quickly moves from Laura’s memories of her grandparents to the story of how they met in 1915. Elizabeth Endicott, a wealthy Bostonian, travels to Syria with her father, a banker, on behalf of “The Friends of Armenia,” a charitable organization in the Boston area. When we first meet Elizabeth she nearly faints under the Middle Eastern sun as she and her father tour the main square of Aleppo with an American diplomat, Ryan Martin. But it is not just the sun that causes Elizabeth to become faint; she is confronted with hundreds of Armenian refugees—women and children, who have been marched across the desert by the Turkish army and into the square. They have been treated brutally along the way; they are naked and most are barely alive. Elizabeth is shocked, saddened, and feels helpless as to what she could possibly do to help these women. Through Elizabeth’s interactions with these refugees Bohjalian brings out the personal stories of the genocide—the starvation, the beatings, the rapes, and the murdered husbands, brothers, and sons.
Shortly after her arrival in Aleppo, Elizabeth meets Armen Petrosian, an Armenian engineer who is working with two sympathetic German army engineers. The Germans have been photographing the Armenian refugees in an effort to document the situation. Although it sounds (and to some extent reads) cliché, there is an instant connection between Elizabeth and Armen, and amidst the horrors of the war and the genocide, Bohjalian creates a classic romantic love story. Armen and Elizabeth are drawn to each other’s “differentness”—Elizabeth is taken with Armen’s dark eyes and long eyelashes, and Armen is taken with Elizabeth’s hair. They form a quick bond and when Armen leaves to join the British Army in the Dardanelles, they write letters to each other regularly. It is in his letters that Armen is able to share with Elizabeth his genocide story, how his wife and daughter were likely killed during a forced march from Eastern Turkey to Syria (it was his search for his family that had brought him to Aleppo). It is only through his letters than Armen can open up to Elizabeth and share this tragedy and the violent actions he was driven to take in response.
The portion of the novel set in 1915 is told from many perspectives—Elizabeth, Armen, the German engineers, a Turkish soldier. In addition the story is told through the eyes of two Armenian females Elizabeth meets and befriends in the Aleppo square, a widow, Nevart in her early 30′s, and an orphan girl, Hatoon. Nevart and Hatoon become surrogate family to each other, and Elizabeth becomes so close with them that she insists they live with her at the American Embassy despite the protestations of her father and other missionaries. What Bohjalian achieves by presenting the story through these multiple voices is a complete portrait of the genocide that is rich in personal detail. The most meaningful and devastating portions of the story are those that are told from the perspective of the young orphan girl Hatoon, who witnessed her whole family brutalized and murdered by Turkish soldiers. Hatoon is deeply damaged by her experiences and her tale is heartbreaking, but her survival and ability to form connections with other survivors and non-Armenians injects some hope into the story.
This book is about many things—a love story, a war, a woman’s independence and coming of age. But more than anything this novel is about the genocide.
Bohjalian’s fans will find this book different from many of the books in his catalogue, which focus on a hot progressive issue of the day such as midwifery, holistic medicine, transgender identity, and homelessness. The scope of The Sandcastle Girls is almost epic in comparison. While there are the rich personal stories that his readers connect to, what he has achieved is much larger. Bohjalian has written a compelling and powerful novel that will bring the history of the genocide to a wide audience.
The Sandcastle Girls will remain ingrained in your consciousness.
________________
Wendy Plotkin is a litigation attorney at a Boston area biotechnology company. Her book review and cooking blog can be found at www.bookcooker.blogspot.com .
To add "The Sandcastle Girls" to your Goodreads "To Read" cue, click here:
http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/13...
.
June 12, 2012
Five weeks from today
"The Sandcastle Girls" arrives only five weeks from today. The following is from Chapter 13.
* * *
Why, she wonders, is she so lonely here – and yet why is she so determined to stay?
She could simply complete the sentence as it is. Drop a small dot after the k in back. She retrieves the pen and dips it into the inkwell, holding the nib perhaps two inches above the paper. In the end, however, she does not add a period. Instead she writes the two words, to me.
She studies the sheer nakedness of the sentence and the meaning in those four brief syllables:
Come back to me.
The words leave her wistful and satisfied at once. When a life is stripped down to tending the starving in the square and the sick in the hospital, why should propriety matter at all? It shouldn’t. Besides: She doubts Armen will ever read a single word she has written tonight.
* * *
Why, she wonders, is she so lonely here – and yet why is she so determined to stay?
She could simply complete the sentence as it is. Drop a small dot after the k in back. She retrieves the pen and dips it into the inkwell, holding the nib perhaps two inches above the paper. In the end, however, she does not add a period. Instead she writes the two words, to me.
She studies the sheer nakedness of the sentence and the meaning in those four brief syllables:
Come back to me.
The words leave her wistful and satisfied at once. When a life is stripped down to tending the starving in the square and the sick in the hospital, why should propriety matter at all? It shouldn’t. Besides: She doubts Armen will ever read a single word she has written tonight.
June 10, 2012
Don't let the sun set on your summer.
We are now in the midst of that glorious three-week period when the days are longest – and for another ten days, they will be growing longer still – and we can watch the sunset hours after finishing dinner. And while Key West’s Mallory Square takes justifiable pride in the phosphorescent beauty of the sun slipping beneath the surface of the Gulf of Mexico, I will always prefer watching the sun slide behind the Adirondacks from almost anywhere along Vermont’s Lake Champlain shoreline. I may have that classic male, red-green color blindness, but even I can appreciate the shades of electric terra-cotta, lustrous melon, and Day-Glo aubergine that are brushed across the horizon and distant New York state ridgeline at sunset.
Summer is clearly my favorite season here in the Green Mountains, and in June it stretches out before us like a rainbow. For my friends who are farmers, these longer days mean longer hours. But for me? By now the heavy lifting (and I use that term with my tongue firmly in my cheek) of planting the vegetable garden is behind me. My wife and I have the flower gardens more or less under control. Yes, I’ll stack some wood and throw some paint (badly) on one wall or another of the house or the barn, but now it’s time to savor the season.
Just for the record, I do enjoy painting the house or the barn. It offers instant gratification and unlike most home improvements, it doesn’t involve measuring, plumbing, or a table saw. In other words, even I can’t screw it up. I also find stacking wood incredibly relaxing and therapeutic. I like that chore, too. Make no mistake: I don’t like stacking wood enough to stack yours. Sorry. But a cord of wood and a ballgame on the radio? Not a bad way to spend a Saturday afternoon
Taking advantage of the coming months is especially important here in Vermont. Summer is priceless in northern New England precisely because it can be so very short – even, of course, in a world being transformed before our eyes by global climate change. I have seen it snow on the Friday of Memorial Day Weekend here in Lincoln. I have seen killing frosts in early September.
And yet its brevity makes it all the more precious. Not counting this afternoon, we have twelve weekends between now and Labor Day. That number is big when you’re talking donuts, but even bakers throw in a thirteenth; it’s small when we conjure in our minds all of the things we were looking forward to doing this summer back in February or early March, when the world was starting to unlock and we were being teased by the first thaws and glimpses of spring.
How quickly can July and August disappear? There have been summers when travel and rain and the speed with which even the longest days pass have conspired to keep me from spending an afternoon at Button Bay State Park in Ferrisburgh. Or hiking to the top of Mount Abraham. Or wandering aimlessly through the buildings and exhibits that comprise the Shelburne Museum.
Or – given my love of baseball – taking in a Lake Monsters game at Centennial Field. (Note to self: Opening day is June 18, a week from Monday.)
I’m not proud of this admission. But I also know that I’m not alone. I have had far too many conversations over Labor Day Weekend that have begun with someone saying to me something along the lines of, “Where did the summer go? I never even put a toe in Lake Champlain.”
So, while the summer is still young, mark your calendars. Plan ahead. Get to the lake (you know which one I mean) and watch the sunset. Before you know it, you will be caulking windows for the winter and wondering how in the world it got to be Halloween.
* * *
This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on June 10, 2012. To add Chris's new novel to your "To Read" cue here at Goodreads, click here:
http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/13...
.
Summer is clearly my favorite season here in the Green Mountains, and in June it stretches out before us like a rainbow. For my friends who are farmers, these longer days mean longer hours. But for me? By now the heavy lifting (and I use that term with my tongue firmly in my cheek) of planting the vegetable garden is behind me. My wife and I have the flower gardens more or less under control. Yes, I’ll stack some wood and throw some paint (badly) on one wall or another of the house or the barn, but now it’s time to savor the season.
Just for the record, I do enjoy painting the house or the barn. It offers instant gratification and unlike most home improvements, it doesn’t involve measuring, plumbing, or a table saw. In other words, even I can’t screw it up. I also find stacking wood incredibly relaxing and therapeutic. I like that chore, too. Make no mistake: I don’t like stacking wood enough to stack yours. Sorry. But a cord of wood and a ballgame on the radio? Not a bad way to spend a Saturday afternoon
Taking advantage of the coming months is especially important here in Vermont. Summer is priceless in northern New England precisely because it can be so very short – even, of course, in a world being transformed before our eyes by global climate change. I have seen it snow on the Friday of Memorial Day Weekend here in Lincoln. I have seen killing frosts in early September.
And yet its brevity makes it all the more precious. Not counting this afternoon, we have twelve weekends between now and Labor Day. That number is big when you’re talking donuts, but even bakers throw in a thirteenth; it’s small when we conjure in our minds all of the things we were looking forward to doing this summer back in February or early March, when the world was starting to unlock and we were being teased by the first thaws and glimpses of spring.
How quickly can July and August disappear? There have been summers when travel and rain and the speed with which even the longest days pass have conspired to keep me from spending an afternoon at Button Bay State Park in Ferrisburgh. Or hiking to the top of Mount Abraham. Or wandering aimlessly through the buildings and exhibits that comprise the Shelburne Museum.
Or – given my love of baseball – taking in a Lake Monsters game at Centennial Field. (Note to self: Opening day is June 18, a week from Monday.)
I’m not proud of this admission. But I also know that I’m not alone. I have had far too many conversations over Labor Day Weekend that have begun with someone saying to me something along the lines of, “Where did the summer go? I never even put a toe in Lake Champlain.”
So, while the summer is still young, mark your calendars. Plan ahead. Get to the lake (you know which one I mean) and watch the sunset. Before you know it, you will be caulking windows for the winter and wondering how in the world it got to be Halloween.
* * *
This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on June 10, 2012. To add Chris's new novel to your "To Read" cue here at Goodreads, click here:
http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/13...
.
June 5, 2012
Library Journal says "The Sandcastle Girls" is "simply astounding."
Big thanks to Julie Kane, librarian at Virginia's Sweet Briar College, for her review of "The Sandcastle Girls" -- and to "Library Journal" for starring the review.
Julie's verdict?
"Bohjalian powerfully narrates an intricately nuanced romance with a complicated historical event at the forefront. With the centennial of the Armenian genocide fast approaching, this is not to be missed. Simply astounding."
Here is the review in its entirety:
"Bohjalian, Chris. The Sandcastle Girls. Doubleday. Jul. 2012. Starred Review
Repeatedly (and embarrassingly accurately) referred to here as “The Slaughter You Know Next to Nothing About,” the Armenian genocide of 1915–16 takes center stage in Bohjalian’s (The Night Strangers) intergenerational novel. Elizabeth Endicott, a recent Mount Holyoke graduate, accompanies her Bostonian banker father on his philanthropic mission to Aleppo, Syria, to aid Armenian refugees fleeing atrocities committed by the Ottoman government. Her friendship with Armenian engineer Armen, who has lost his wife and baby daughter, flourishes when they are apart and can only communicate in letters. Years later, Laura Petrosian, seeking out a photograph of a woman rumored to be her Armenian grandmother, uncovers these letters among a wealth of documents—a treasure trove for an Armenian American novelist searching for pieces of her family history. VERDICT Bohjalian powerfully narrates an intricately nuanced romance with a complicated historical event at the forefront. With the centennial of the Armenian genocide fast approaching, this is not to be missed. Simply astounding.—Julie Kane, Sweet Briar Coll. Lib., VA"
To add "The Sandcastle Girls" to your Goodreads "To Read" cue, click here:
http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/13...
.
Julie's verdict?
"Bohjalian powerfully narrates an intricately nuanced romance with a complicated historical event at the forefront. With the centennial of the Armenian genocide fast approaching, this is not to be missed. Simply astounding."
Here is the review in its entirety:
"Bohjalian, Chris. The Sandcastle Girls. Doubleday. Jul. 2012. Starred Review
Repeatedly (and embarrassingly accurately) referred to here as “The Slaughter You Know Next to Nothing About,” the Armenian genocide of 1915–16 takes center stage in Bohjalian’s (The Night Strangers) intergenerational novel. Elizabeth Endicott, a recent Mount Holyoke graduate, accompanies her Bostonian banker father on his philanthropic mission to Aleppo, Syria, to aid Armenian refugees fleeing atrocities committed by the Ottoman government. Her friendship with Armenian engineer Armen, who has lost his wife and baby daughter, flourishes when they are apart and can only communicate in letters. Years later, Laura Petrosian, seeking out a photograph of a woman rumored to be her Armenian grandmother, uncovers these letters among a wealth of documents—a treasure trove for an Armenian American novelist searching for pieces of her family history. VERDICT Bohjalian powerfully narrates an intricately nuanced romance with a complicated historical event at the forefront. With the centennial of the Armenian genocide fast approaching, this is not to be missed. Simply astounding.—Julie Kane, Sweet Briar Coll. Lib., VA"
To add "The Sandcastle Girls" to your Goodreads "To Read" cue, click here:
http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/13...
.
June 3, 2012
Greenhouse gases? More than meats the eye.
It’s June, which means we are well into the barbecue season even here in the Land of the Polar Tomato. When I was a boy – yes, those are the five most annoying words any middle-aged person can string together – the only time my dad was likely to cook was when he would throw some animal flesh on the barbecue.
In all fairness, it was far more elaborate than simply tossing the dead remnants of a petting zoo over some hot coals. (By now you’re probably beginning to suspect I might have become a vegetarian since then. Yup.) First, my father would create the sort of bonfire that would have made a dead Viking proud: Some newspaper scraps in the bottom of the three-legged metal saucer we’d bought at the hardware store, a pyramidal pile of charcoal briquettes, and enough lighter fluid to burn down Rome. We’re talking the belching roar and phantasmagoric flame of the rockets that used to launch space shuttles. My job was to stand by with a bucket of water – though in hindsight, I think that bucket would have been like spitting at a wildfire if the nearby willow trees had ignited or the blaze had gotten so hot that the metal had started to melt.
There was a lot about the backyard barbecue that fascinated me, beginning with the reversal of my parents’ usual, gender-driven division of labor. But there was also the bacchanalian aura that enveloped the grill and the aroma of the sizzling meat. But the main thing that intrigued me – in the same way it interests most little boys – was the fire. It was awesome. I had a sense even then that dads barbecued not because they were trying to channel their inner cavemen, but because it was a socially acceptable excuse to play with fire. I couldn’t wait to grow up and start incinerating dinner.
Then, of course, I gave up meat. And while grilled vegetables are mighty tasty, let’s be honest: There is no testosterone rush from turning asparagus. No green pepper has ever dripped animal fat into the flames and scolded the dad with the barbecue tongs.
I became a vegetarian for a pretty basic reason. I didn’t wish to inflict pain on an animal with a sufficiently developed nervous system to feel it. I was, as preposterous as this sounds, the eighteen-year-old seafood cook at a mediocre surf and turf restaurant in the White Mountains, and among my responsibilities was cleavering the live lobsters and baking them. It turned out I was efficient and fast: I was the Hannibal Lecter of crustaceans. Even though I viewed lobsters as earwigs on steroids, by the end of the summer I was so disgusted by the number I’d killed that I was on my way to vegetarianism. As I grew older, I realized that by not eating meat I was also doing my heart a world of good.
Lately, however, I’ve learned that there are benefits to vegetarianism that transcend animal rights or my desire to avoid an angioplasty. Moreover, these are benefits that aren’t merely in my interest. They’re in our planet’s interest. Last month in the “New York Times,” columnist Mark Bittman cited a United Nations Food and Agricultural Organization report suggesting that almost one-fifth of the greenhouse gases triggering global climate change stem from livestock activities. That’s a high price to pay for a burger. Bittman added that it may take as much as 100 times more water to bring us a pound of beef than it does to grow a pound of wheat. Vegetarianism alone won’t reverse global climate change, but he argues convincingly how much it can help: “It’s seldom that such enormous problems have such simple solutions, but this is one that does. . .We can begin eating less meat tomorrow.”
My childhood memories of the barbecue – those savory Proustian madeleines –involve meat. But this summer I’ll see how my inner caveman does when the fire is charring only vegetables. I’m sure I can still build the sort of towering inferno that would have made my dad smile.
* * *
This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on June 3, 2012. Chris’s new novel, “The Sandcastle Girls,” arrives on July 17. To add it to your Goodreads To-Read cue, click here:
http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/13...
.
In all fairness, it was far more elaborate than simply tossing the dead remnants of a petting zoo over some hot coals. (By now you’re probably beginning to suspect I might have become a vegetarian since then. Yup.) First, my father would create the sort of bonfire that would have made a dead Viking proud: Some newspaper scraps in the bottom of the three-legged metal saucer we’d bought at the hardware store, a pyramidal pile of charcoal briquettes, and enough lighter fluid to burn down Rome. We’re talking the belching roar and phantasmagoric flame of the rockets that used to launch space shuttles. My job was to stand by with a bucket of water – though in hindsight, I think that bucket would have been like spitting at a wildfire if the nearby willow trees had ignited or the blaze had gotten so hot that the metal had started to melt.
There was a lot about the backyard barbecue that fascinated me, beginning with the reversal of my parents’ usual, gender-driven division of labor. But there was also the bacchanalian aura that enveloped the grill and the aroma of the sizzling meat. But the main thing that intrigued me – in the same way it interests most little boys – was the fire. It was awesome. I had a sense even then that dads barbecued not because they were trying to channel their inner cavemen, but because it was a socially acceptable excuse to play with fire. I couldn’t wait to grow up and start incinerating dinner.
Then, of course, I gave up meat. And while grilled vegetables are mighty tasty, let’s be honest: There is no testosterone rush from turning asparagus. No green pepper has ever dripped animal fat into the flames and scolded the dad with the barbecue tongs.
I became a vegetarian for a pretty basic reason. I didn’t wish to inflict pain on an animal with a sufficiently developed nervous system to feel it. I was, as preposterous as this sounds, the eighteen-year-old seafood cook at a mediocre surf and turf restaurant in the White Mountains, and among my responsibilities was cleavering the live lobsters and baking them. It turned out I was efficient and fast: I was the Hannibal Lecter of crustaceans. Even though I viewed lobsters as earwigs on steroids, by the end of the summer I was so disgusted by the number I’d killed that I was on my way to vegetarianism. As I grew older, I realized that by not eating meat I was also doing my heart a world of good.
Lately, however, I’ve learned that there are benefits to vegetarianism that transcend animal rights or my desire to avoid an angioplasty. Moreover, these are benefits that aren’t merely in my interest. They’re in our planet’s interest. Last month in the “New York Times,” columnist Mark Bittman cited a United Nations Food and Agricultural Organization report suggesting that almost one-fifth of the greenhouse gases triggering global climate change stem from livestock activities. That’s a high price to pay for a burger. Bittman added that it may take as much as 100 times more water to bring us a pound of beef than it does to grow a pound of wheat. Vegetarianism alone won’t reverse global climate change, but he argues convincingly how much it can help: “It’s seldom that such enormous problems have such simple solutions, but this is one that does. . .We can begin eating less meat tomorrow.”
My childhood memories of the barbecue – those savory Proustian madeleines –involve meat. But this summer I’ll see how my inner caveman does when the fire is charring only vegetables. I’m sure I can still build the sort of towering inferno that would have made my dad smile.
* * *
This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on June 3, 2012. Chris’s new novel, “The Sandcastle Girls,” arrives on July 17. To add it to your Goodreads To-Read cue, click here:
http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/13...
.
June 1, 2012
Booklist says “The Sandcastle Girls” is “powerful and moving.”
Booklist weighed in on “The Sandcastle Girls” this week, calling the novel “powerful and moving,” and concluding, “It will leave you reeling.”
So, big, big thanks to Booklist and to reviewer, Elizabeth Dickie -- who is, yes indeed, a part of Goodreads, too.
See below: Here is a link to the review in its entirety:
http://chrisbohjalian.wordpress.com/2...
The book arrives next month. To add it to your Goodreads To-Read cue, click here:
http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/13...
So, big, big thanks to Booklist and to reviewer, Elizabeth Dickie -- who is, yes indeed, a part of Goodreads, too.
See below: Here is a link to the review in its entirety:
http://chrisbohjalian.wordpress.com/2...
The book arrives next month. To add it to your Goodreads To-Read cue, click here:
http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/13...
