3.5 Stars!
“If none of my books turn out to be among that bright remnant because I allowed my children to steal my time, narrow my compass, and curtail my freedom, I’m all right with that. Once they’re written, my books, unlike my children, hold no wonder for me; no mystery resides in them. Unlike my children, my books are cruelly unforgiving of my weaknesses, failings, and flaws of character. Most of all, my books, unlike my children, do not love me back.”
This is a quote from the opening recollection, where Chabon recalls an encounter at a party with a famous, though unnamed Southern writer, who gives him some life advice. The first thing to notice about this book, is that it is a lean offering at 127 small pages. It’s one of those diminutive hardbacks that rely on some aesthetically pleasing trickery to try and distract you from the lack of pages, cushioning the blow of the low word count by focusing more on the presentation. So basically that means that a full page is given over to announce each essay title and the back of that same page is blank, all to pad it out just that bit more, visually pleasing yes, but also a wee bit cheeky and mean too.
But of course the most important thing here is the quality of the writing, and Chabon does not disappoint. He is good company. This is a follow up of sorts to his “Manhood For Amateurs”, this would be an EP to that LP. He focuses on many aspects of fatherhood. Whether in Paris for fashion week with his 13 year old son, watching his son play Little League Baseball or telling bedtime stories, his writing is always smooth and compelling. These are deeply personal essays, and are told with restraint, sensitivity and great economy. At various points these are touching, intimate, confessional and powerful.