Another stunning debut. I shake my head in wonder at these
initial offerings – that they can be so deep and moving, so complete and
polished. The Sojourn plunges us into
the unfathomable catastrophe of The Great War, and renders real the experience
of a young soldier, a trained sharpshooter in the service of Charles, the last
Habsburg emperor. This is war, as waged by a single soldier and a few of his
comrades, as directed by the foolish and obsolete powers that be. History’s
most horrific meat grinder.
Jozef is born to Czech parents in 1899, in Pueblo, Colorado,
but grows up in the “far northwestern corner” of Austria-Hungary when his
widowed father flees to the Old Country. The story of his youth, idyllic while he
works as a shepherd with his father, brutal and petty when he attends school,
reminds me strongly of Jeffrey Lent’s descriptions of bucolic labor in In
the Fall. Author Andrew Krivak employs the same unvarnished language to
describe the high refinement of a man’s skills in shaping, and being shaped by,
nature. These passages impress upon us the almost superhero heights these
skills can rise to.
The war ends all that. Deployed as a skilled marksman for a
time, Jozef at length becomes just another infantryman, fodder for cannon fire.
Mr. Krivak portrays his sojourn into Europe during its most terrifying and hopeless
war in magisterial language: he lets the carnage and waste speak for themselves
while he captures it through Jozef’s eyes. This book will take its place among
the classics that deal with this war, it has to. This is plainly why it was a
finalist for the 2011 National Book Award, and for the Julia Ward Howe Book
Award given by the Boston Authors Club. It won the Chautauqua Prize and the
Dayton Literary Peace Prize, all of which is richly deserved.
Mr. Krivak places his war-as-waste theme in the perfect
frame of young Jozef’s life. He sustains the story with a plot that never flags
and never runs into the outlandish. He exercises firm control over the elements
of the story, and never intrudes in its ghastly and memorable events. An
excellent and highly recommended debut work. Superb!
Peter Mayle tickles our imaginations yet again with The Vintage Caper, an offering that
makes good on Mr. Mayle’s ongoing promise to amuse and satisfy with a lightsome
confection set in France.
This entry features a highly valuable (worth about $3
million) cache of wine which is stolen from an L.A. entertainment lawyer. The
odious man, who craves attention and lives to gloat, raises unholy hell with the
cops, his insurance company, and eventually our hero, Sam Levitt. Sam has a
checkered past and an unfixed broken nose, which as his girlfriend reflects,
saves him from being handsome. He’s gone straight after some criminal – but never
violent! – activities, and hires out as an investigator.
The trail leads to the Bordeaux region of France, and Sam
teams up with the lovely Sophie and her cousin Phillippe to track down the
purloined goods. After the action takes us to France, the book begins to read
like a travelogue through the wine-producing regions there, with
acknowledgements to all the high-end wines from each region. The investigation
proceeds gently, as always in Mr. Mayle’s books, and Sam proves that he has a
real knack for this detecting business. The conclusion strikes me as an odd
combination of facile and abrupt, and could have used fleshing-out. Just me,
It’s no wonder that the French people have made Mr. Mayle a Chevalier
de la Légion d'honneur. Every time he writes about France, I want to go back.
His books are delectable introductions to that beautiful country and its
beguiling people. You don’t need to be a Francophile to enjoy Mr. Mayle’s
books, but if you make a practice of reading them, you’ll place yourself in
danger becoming one. Take this up for a light, merry read.
There are several salient truths about Stephen Greenblatt’s The Swerve: it serves as a highly
instructive history about remarkable events of six hundred years ago and
persuades us of the inexpressible importance of those events; from beginning to
end it presents its observations in highly engaging language, which never even
veers close to academic jargon; the combination of these and other
characteristics won for it the 2011 National Book Award for non-fiction and the
2012 Pulitzer Prize for non-fiction. I exhort you to take it up and find out
On a chill January day in 1417, an out of work scholar and
former secretary to a disgraced pope, a man named Poggio Bracciolini uncovered
a musty manuscript in a German monastery, and altered history in ways and to an
extent he could never have foreseen. For he had unearthed Lucretius’ On the Nature of Things (De Rerum Natura).
Published around 50 BCE, this long, challenging, and stunningly beautiful poem
expounds some remarkably modern-seeming concepts: matter is made up of atoms, that
these atoms cannot be destroyed, that they are constantly in motion, that
nature is always experimenting, that the universe was not created for or about
humans, and that human society began in a primitive battle for survival.
The logical ends of these ideas put Lucretius’ adherents
into some terribly hot water in the 15th and 16th centuries:
Lucretius held that the soul died, that there was no afterlife, that all
organized religions are superstitious delusions, and that nothing generates a
deeper sense of wonder than understanding the true nature of things. These
ideas would generate controversy even today, but they opened the way for and
informed the most glorious flowerings of Renaissance art, for Copernicus and Galileo,
and for Francis Bacon and Shakespeare, to mention only the merest few.
The other salient truth about this book is that it focuses
us on the recovery of a long-forgotten poet and his long-suppressed ideas and
the massive and irreversible influence they have wielded on the world. Mr.
Greenblatt’s accomplishment matches his concept: it is as grand as it is
accessible, as persuasive as it is engaging. For anyone interested in the
traditions of Western thought, this is a must read.
On the outs. One point of view dominates the novella and
five short stories of Johanna Kaplan’s Other
People’s Lives. And most often, this outside-looking-in stance results from
a combination of culture and self-imposed exile. This tension plays out with
pathos, and often laugh-out-loud humor in this remarkable collection.
The title piece is the novella, and it contains the story of
Louise, who is placed in the apartment of a famous dancer’s family. It
establishes the collection’s tone and point of view and theme right away, and
goes further: it puts the story in the consciousness of a mental patient,
Louise, who sometimes can’t trust what she sees and hears. She apparently has
hallucinations, and may have petit mal seizures. A healthy portion of the
energy of this story comes from Maria, the German wife of the famous dancer,
who manically mangles English, to terrific comic effect.
Other stories feature girls in junior high or high school,
at camp, or home sick from school, or babysitting. They have in common an
intelligent, if a little eccentric, female Jewish protagonist, who sees and
approaches the world on her own terms. Often there is a wise-cracking
vulnerability to these appealing creatures, and few have any problems speaking
up to the frequently addled adults they live with or near.
Other People’s Lives
rides a groundswell of endearing, exposed, nervous humanity. Its mouthpieces
already have a couple of strikes against them, being Jewish and female (except
for one Chinese girl in Vietnam), and they stake out their ground in ways that
range from sassy to cranky to plaintive. This is a highly assured collection for
a debut piece, was nominated for the National Book Award in 1976, and won the
National Jewish Book Award. Reading this collection was a delightful experience
and I recommend it highly.
Not everyone in Marsha Mehran’s Pomegranate Soup is sweet-tempered, but the story itself bursts
with the sweetness of family, charity, and excellent food. Capturing the
harrowing history of three Iranian sisters who just manage to escape the
country during the revolution of 1979, the narrative finds them, seven years
on, in what seems like their last chance at refuge, on the west coast of
The citizens of this town fit into some fairly straightforward
types: the town magnate/bully; an old gossip-monger, bitter and incontinent; the
friendly, nonconforming hairdresser. But these props serve the story of the
more nuanced sisters, who struggle with haunting memories and the pressures of
establishing a café. Dramatic tension builds as the pushy entrepreneur does
everything he can to run them out of town, and his dull, pushy son nearly
succeeds when he assaults the youngest sister, only 15 years old.
Characters sometimes act from motivation that strains
credulity: the middle sister runs off without a note or a call on fairly flimsy
grounds. A dim and hopeless shopkeeper believes in leprechauns because of
miscreant teenagers, and the attempted aggression against the young girl
honestly seems a bolt from the blue. But: this is a generous story about
healing; each chapter opens with a recipe for a traditional Iranian dish; the
parish priest writes a ribald and very funny play; the café’s grandmotherly
landlady looks after the girls with sage advice and minestrone.
This is a lovely confection on balance. Take it up, and
follow a small interlude in the lives of these young lovelies, one that
promises that the best is yet to come.
Since finishing The
Descartes Highlands I have been trying to feel qualified to review it. Multiple
parallel threads, set in two time periods, laden with high choler and sometimes
mysterious motivations – these are the initial challenges of this book.
Mr. Gamalinda tells the story of two young men, born to two
Philippine women but fathered by one American man, who pursue answers to their
mysterious pasts through different channels. One was adopted by married French
filmmakers, the other by a woman who operated an abortion clinic near New York.
The uncertainty of their origins, and their resulting mistrust of everyone
around them, puts them at odds with their lives. The energy generated by this
tension drives the narrative forward.
Well – it partly drives the narrative, because the most
abundant element here is rage. The anger comes through so strongly and
unremittingly that I think it can only be authorial. He directs it at American
imperialism in the Vietnam War era, state corruption and oppression under
Marcos, and the hopelessness still rampant in Manila. He also trains his anger
at the selfish modern approach to love.
The story builds in
an organic fashion, and for me, keeps the reader at a distance from the hints
that would most clearly reveal plot and thematic intent. Mr. Gamalinda has
produced a plaintive novel, dense with emotion and the high stakes of loving
someone, in which victims abound and solutions come at staggering cost. This
book focuses the reader on some demanding, timeless issues, and challenges her
to bring high energy to a story crying for resolutions. I recommend this book
to those with large, giving hearts, who can afford to spend the emotional capital