Butterflies in November

Auður Ava Ólafsdóttir; trans. Brian FitzGibbon

Butterflies in November by Auður Ava Ólafsdóttir, translated by Brian FitzGibbon, is a quirky novel unfolding in the first-person narrative of a quirky, thirty-something, unnamed female narrator. She is a whiz at learning languages but seems a bit of a scatterbrain about life. The novel opens with her lover dumping her and her husband announcing his plans to divorce her as his affair with a co-worker has led to a pregnancy. Our narrator seems totally unfazed by the news, taking it all in stride like an observer on the sidelines. Her demeanor suggests she is afloat, untethered to any person or thing in life.

When her best friend is hospitalized and has no one to take care of her four-year old son, the narrator reluctantly agrees to assume the role of caretaker. The child, Tumi, suffers from hearing loss. With their enormous winnings from a shared lottery ticket, the two of them embark on a road trip circling Iceland’s outer road. They stay in farming hotels, survive a car accident, endure horrendous weather, and are blocked by mudslides. The narrator suffers from a broken wrist and wards off her exes desperately trying to reconcile.

The road trip across Iceland takes on an almost surreal quality. They plow through deserted roads, heavy rain, mudslides, fog, and a sheep that didn’t get off the road in time. Men materialize out of nowhere to help her change a flat tire. A man looms out of the darkness to ask her for a ride. Her ex-boyfriend and then ex-husband show up wanting to take her back. She encounters people who are somewhat strange and with whom she has awkward conversations.

For the first time in her life, the narrator is obliged to take care of an individual who is totally dependent on her for survival. She experiences a profound transformation. She learns responsibility and accountability. She studies sign language to better communicate with him, and looks to him for guidance on food choices and activities. Although she knows nothing about parenting, she gradually learns to perform the role well by becoming sensitive to the child’s needs. Fortunately, Tumi is not a demanding child, so it doesn’t take them long to adapt to each other and form a strong bond.

The novel is engaging on a number of levels but primarily due to the narrator’s voice. She is funny, quirky, forgetful, and doesn’t take herself too seriously. Her attitude about marriage, relationships, sexual encounters, divorce, adultery, and children are somewhat off kilter. She eschews conventional behavior and niceties, is oblivious to the needs of others, is independent and unpredictable, and doesn’t seem invested in any relationship until she bonds with Tumi. She is baffled that men find her attractive but willingly engages in casual sex even with a complete stranger.

This is a whimsical novel that includes flashbacks of the narrator’s childhood, random events, and Icelandic food recipes. The narrative is choppy at times. One event or thought catapults to a completely unrelated item with no apparent connection. This could be due to the translation or to the vagaries of a narrator with a short attention span. In spite of this, the novel is engaging. Iceland’s topography with its lava fields and uninhabited landscape is evoked in vivid detail. And the narrator’s voice is endearing as she deals with various mishaps and challenges while expressing her quirky, unconventional opinions.

Tale of a Boon's Wife

Fartumo Kusow

Set in Somalia just before the civil war, Tale of a Boon’s Wife by Fartumo Kusow is the story Idil, the daughter of a general, who falls in love with Sidow, a man considered beneath her family’s social status. She defies her father’s threats and her mother’s pleas by eloping with him. This sets off a series of tragic events, including her displacement, the murder of her husband, her rape, and her betrayal by her brother and father. Idil endures each tragedy with stoic resolve and a determination to survive. She eventually finds refuge for herself and her family by emigrating from war-ravaged Somalia.

The backdrop for Idil’s story is the gradual buildup of the Somali civil war. Murder, rape, bribery, corruption, poverty, desperation, and tragedy are rampant. Young boys toting machine guns roam the streets. Family members disappear. Young women are kidnapped, raped, or forced into marriages with one militia leader or another.

Kusow tells a powerful story. Using unadorned, simple diction, she lets the details speak for themselves. She depicts Somali culture and tradition with its blend of Islam and its indigenous belief in the power of spells and magic. Through Idil and her experience, we witness the deleterious effects of a rigidly hierarchical caste-based system, gender stratification, the subjugation of women, brutality, and a never-ending lust for power that propels the country into even more civil unrest and violence.

Kusow demonstrates that when a country runs amok, the ramifications are experienced in every fiber of society. A traumatized population struggles to survive in the absence of the checks and balances of civil society. There is no rule of law, no recourse for justice, and what governance there is takes place at the end of a machine gun.

This is a haunting portrayal of Somali life leading up to the civil war. What emerges from the horror and the brutality is the resilience of the people, their determination to survive and to cling to the hope that the cycle of violence will end sooner rather than later.

Recommended.

The Plains

Gerald Murnane

The experience of reading The Plains by Gerald Murnane is similar to viewing a shifting mirage or experiencing a dream: the more you try to snag it, the more it fades out of reach.

In terms of plot, very little happens. The first-person narrator arrives in the central plains of Australia to gather research for his film project entitled The Interior. He comes armed with folders and notebooks to record impressions and conversations that will eventually go into his script. As he listens to the conversations of plainsmen, he develops an understanding of their view of history; their attitudes toward those who espouse differing views about the relationship between inner and outer Australia; their relationship to the land and those who presume to capture its essence through their artistic and/or literary endeavors.

The narrator is convinced of his ability to present a view of the Plains that no one has ever seen before, to “unearth some elaborate meaning behind appearances.” He is invited to stay with a wealthy plainsman to conduct his research. He makes use of his patron’s extensive library. He records conversations and observations, is self-reflective, and explains his thought processes in elaborate detail. He engages in lengthy philosophical ruminations. At the end of twenty years, what he has to show for his efforts is a blank screen.

To claim this novel is bizarre is an understatement. It is a novel that must be experienced. Just as the landscape of the Plains defies definition, just as the horizon light separating land from sky is hazy and eludes delineation, the novel eschews attempts to pin it down. It is Kafkaesque in the sense that one enters a world where everything is a blur, where what is real is called into question, where nothing is clear, where conversations hint at meanings, and where the layer of truth that presumably permeates the whole experience is impenetrable.

What is Murnane doing? Is he writing an allegory? Do the Plains serve as metaphor? And if so, is Murnane suggesting the essence of reality is elusive and all attempts to snare meaning out of it are bound to fail? Do we invent our own meaning and project it on to the world around us? Should our quest for meaning be inward, not outward? Murnane does not give us clear answers. Instead, he gives us a novel which lends itself to multiple layers of interpretation and whose meaning is as elusive as the meaning of the Plains.

Murnane’s prose is mesmerizing. He writes in long, complete sentences that convey complex thoughts. There is little dialogue and little action. Nothing happens in the conventional sense of plot development. His approach is never direct, always oblique, always at an angle. Somehow, he transports the reader to a mythical, dream-like realm to glimpse an amorphous shape on a shimmering horizon which continues to elude our grasp. How he achieves this effect is a mystery; but that he does achieve it testifies to his consummate skill as an artist.

Some readers will hate this novel due to its elusive nature; others will love its suffusion of an intangible quality that resonates deep within the psyche. In either case, the novel is bound to leave an impression.

Elsewhere, Home

Leila Aboulela

Elsewhere, Home by Leila Aboulela is a collection of thirteen short stories dealing with variations of the same theme: immigrants negotiating their presence in an unfamiliar country while feeling the tug of home with its familiar sights, sounds, smells, and textures.

The stories illustrate the challenges and rewards of being an immigrant in a foreign land. Aboulela captures the alienation and loneliness of immigrants as they straddle between two cultures. They struggle to assimilate in their adopted country as they attempt to forge a new identity for themselves. But the yearning for the familiarity of home is a constant presence in their hearts and minds. The tension can be manifested internally or externally and it can take many forms.

One such conflict is between first generation immigrants and their children born in the West. In “Summer Maze,” for example, a young girl is at odds with her mother and resents their compulsory annual visits to Egypt. The tables are turned in “Something Old, Something New,” which shows a Scottish man struggling to adjust to his position as an outsider when he goes to Khartoum to meet his fiancé’s family. “Farida’s Eyes” illustrates how sexist attitudes toward a girl’s education almost cause her to fail in school. “The Ostrich” shows how a former classmate on a plane reminds a young woman of all she cherishes in her home, reinforcing her feelings of alienation in a foreign land. In “Souvenirs” we see young man in search of souvenirs from Khartoum to take back to his Scottish wife. He carries with him his own intangible souvenirs—images of his homeland and snippets of conversations with his sister as he prepares to return to Scotland. “The Museum” shows a young Sudanese student from a wealthy family finding herself attracted to and in conflict with her Scottish classmate.

The stories approach the experience of immigrants in their adopted country from different angles. Some have internalized racism and try to diminish the positives in their own culture. Others recognize the opportunities presented in their adopted country but still long for the texture and beauty of their homeland. Some are eager to assimilate, while others cling firmly to their identity. But they all have in common an awareness of their status as outsiders. Their lives are fraught with tension. And they all yearn for a place to belong, a place where they no longer feel isolated or as aliens on a different planet.

The stories are well written and immerse the reader in the warp and weft of the lives of immigrants. But since the stories are variations of the same theme, some have the flavor of being repetitive and of trying too hard to reiterate the common dilemma facing immigrants. Nevertheless, this is a good collection of short stories and is recommended for its thought-provoking insights and sensitive portrayal of the challenges facing immigrants.

The Sound and the Fury

William Faulkner

A first reading William Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury is a bit like scrambling to piece together a puzzle when you have no idea what picture will emerge. You read the words, trying to make sense of it all. And as you read, some of the pieces may fall into place. But it is only after you turn to the last page that a complete picture materializes. If you decide to go back and re-read the Benjy section, you’ll discover the clues, the flashbacks, the shifts in time, the broken sentences, the tangential hints, and the howls that made sense all along. They just had to be pieced together to make them coherent. At the end of it all, you sit back, admiring the immense scope of the work and the sheer brilliance of its execution.

The novel is in four sections. The first three sections are told in first-person points of view of each of the three Compson brothers utilizing the stream of consciousness technique in which thoughts and recollections bounce off each other. The disconnected time frame is a confused jumble with the past constantly intruding on the present in a flat continuum.

It opens with the Benjy section on April 7, 1928. It is Benjy’s birthday although he doesn’t know it. Benjy is 30 years old but has the mind of a toddler. He is incapable of speech. He howls, moans, and whimpers. He has no concept of the passage of time so events in the past impact him as if they are happening in the now. For Benjy, time never heals. His section initially appears to be the most confusing with its apparently illogical shifts in time and incoherent, baffling associations. But as the novel progresses, the logic of his behavior and the triggers that set him howling become predictable.

Section two, the Quentin section, takes place on June 2, 1910, the day of Quentin’s suicide. Told from Quentin’s point of view, this section is in many ways the most complex. Quentin has his own set of triggers that generate flashbacks. One minute he is in the present; the next he has flashed back to past events with no warning. His obsession with clocks and watches reflect his desire to turn back time. This section is replete with long, convoluted sentences and pages with few paragraph breaks, revealing the inner workings of his tortured mind.

Section three, the Jason section, takes place on April 6, 1928. Jason sees the world through an embittered, angry lens. He reveals himself to be cruel, resentful, mean-spirited, a liar and a thief. He lives in the present, dashing from one place to the next as if he wants to outrun time.

The final section, April 8, 1928, is in the third person omniscient point of view. It is the calm after the storm. We encounter the surviving members of the Compson family through an objective lens: Benjy with his hulking frame, drooling as he is fed his breakfast; Jason with his nasty, cutting remarks in short, curt sentences; Mrs. Compson with her incessant, self-absorbed whining. And Dilsey, the housekeeper, who holds the family together and who demonstrates compassion and endurance.

The title of the novel is taken from Act 5, scene v of Shakespeare’s Macbeth: “It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

The novel is full of sound. It is full of fury. And it is partially told by an idiot. But it is far, far removed from signifying nothing. It is devastating in its impact, brilliant in its execution, and stunning in its ability to capture the tortured minds of each of the characters.

An absolute masterpiece and highly recommended.

Ms. Ice Sandwich

Mieko Kawakami; trans. Louise Heal Kawai

Ms. Ice Sandwich by Mieko Kawakami, translated by Louise Heal Kawai, is a quiet and touching novella in which very little happens. In the first-person point of view of a young boy in the 4th grade, it tells the story of his school-boy crush on a woman who sells sandwiches in the local supermarket. He orders a sandwich from her in order to study her face and expressive eyes. The woman is surly and non-communicative, which only adds to her mystique.

The boy is never named, but we know a little about his background. He lives with his mother and grandmother. His father died when he was young, and his grandmother is bed-ridden and no longer able to speak. He feels disconnected from his mother who spends more time tinkering with her cell phone than paying attention to him. He confides to his grandmother, pouring out his heart, crying, and sharing the pictures he has drawn of Ms. Ice Sandwich.

His visits to the supermarket cease when he overhears his classmates ridiculing Ms. Sandwich’s appearance. His young friend, Tutti, convinces him he has to resume his visits before it is too late. Like our narrator, Tutti has also experienced loss—the death of her mother. The narrator reluctantly agrees and presents Ms. Sandwich with his final portrait of her as a gift. For the first time, she acknowledges him. And she smiles.

The narrative unfolds slowly, subtly, and with a minimal plot. Told in simple, child-like language, Kawakami captures the conflicted feelings of a young boy experiencing his first infatuation. The narrator is shy, naïve, painfully self-conscious, sensitive, and struggles to understand and articulate his feelings. He learns valuable lessons about life, love, grief, and coping with loss. He witnesses the harsh treatment toward those like Ms. Ice Sandwich who are deemed other. And from Tutti, his young class mate, he learns the value of honoring his feelings, of remaining true to himself, and of connecting with people he cares about while it’s still possible because one can never know when they may disappear from his life forever. Tutti’s message is particularly poignant and shows a maturity beyond her years.

A charming coming-of-age story told with a gentle, unassuming touch. Recommended.

The Medusa Reader

Marjorie Garber and Nancy J. Vickers, eds.

The Medusa Reader, edited by Marjorie Garber and Nancy J. Vickers, is a comprehensive anthology of excerpted references to Medusa in literature and art, beginning with Homer in Books 5 and 11 of The Iliad and concluding with Gianni Versace’s selection of her image as the symbol for the House of Versace. The anthology traces Medusa’s evolution from a beauty turned monster into a feminist symbol of woman’s empowerment, rage, and anger at the patriarchy. The selections are organized chronologically and include excerpts from writings of the classics through the Renaissance to the modern era.

The myth of Medusa, her story of rape by Poseidon, decapitation by Perseus, and Athena’s revenge on the victim, is interpreted in a variety of ways throughout the ages. Every aspect of the myth is explored: her rape, decapitation, the snakes in her hair, her ability to turn into stone those who look upon her face, Perseus’ use of the mirror, and Athena’s use of her image on her shield. These explorations take the form of poems, selections from critical essays, psychoanalysis, pictorial images, theatre productions, and political appropriations. The feminist poems and feminist interpretations were particularly interesting since they turn misogynistic readings of the past upside down by claiming Medusa as a powerful symbol of deterrence against patriarchal attacks on womanhood. The collection includes an extensive bibliography for further reading.

Although some of the excerpts were short and needed a clearer context, the work is recommended for its comprehensive exploration of Medusa through the ages, an exploration that reveals as much about each age as it does about the myth.

Green Lion

Henrietta Rose-Innes

Green Lion by Henrietta Rose-Innes opens with Con, a non-descript, listless young man tasked with picking up the belongings of his childhood friend, Mark, who is recovering in hospital after being mauled by one of the two black-maned lions at the zoo. The pair of lions were part of a breeding program to save black-maned lions from extinction. The male was put down after the accident, leaving Sekhmet, the lioness, as the lone survivor.

Reluctantly, Con picks up Mark’s belongings from the zoo and returns them to his mother. He intends to visit Mark in the hospital, but he never does. Instead, he puts on Mark’s uniform, adopts his role as a zoo volunteer, and assumes responsibility for taking care of Sekhmet.

The novel unfolds by alternating between Con’s past and present. Con reveals himself to be selfish, inconsiderate of others, emotionally impotent, deceptive, and unwilling to take responsibility for his actions even when he has put others at serious risk. Denied knowledge of his father, his childhood consists of living with a single, dysfunctional mother who clutters her home with other people’s discarded junk and has a revolving door of temporary boyfriends in an attempt to fill the gaping void in her life. As an adult, Con is unemployed, lacks ambition, and spends his days in his girlfriend’s apartment rummaging through her belongings in her absence. He abdicates responsibility for his life and even relies on her to select his outfits. He is a passive spectator to his own life. In his effort to assume an authentic identity, he is chameleon-like, taking on the personality of those around him.

But things change when he volunteers at the zoo. As the narrative progresses, Con becomes increasingly fascinated by Sekhmet. He hears her, smells her, and can feel her presence long before he sees her. His senses come acutely alive. Electrical currents charge through his emotions as he experiences an atavistic excitement at being in the presence of such a fierce, wild, untamed physical power. His desire to get close to her is mingled with terror.

Animals play a prominent role in the novel. Key rings and postcards of animals are stuffed in bags or fall out of pockets. Animal masks are worn in play productions. Some animals are stuffed and mounted on walls; some are alive and interact with humans. And there are those whose presence can only be sensed behind a fenced mountain reserve designated as a conservation area. The tension between humans who live on one side of the fence and the animals who live on the other side is palpable. But the boundaries are fluid. The interactions are troubled. Animals and humans encroach on each other’s designated terrains with tragic consequences.

The novel explores the ways in which humans try to fill a vacancy in their lives by connecting with what is wild and crackles with energy. Mark walks into the lion’s den. Mark’s father kills wild animals and stuffs them. The members of the Green Lion club derive their excitement by touching wild animals. And Con forms a bond with Sekhmet that is stronger than any bond he forms with a human.

The novel suggests that as we encroach on the habitat of wild animals and threaten their very existence, we lose something vital in ourselves. Entrance into their habitat is described in mythic, primordial terms, evoking a time when life sizzled with a frenetic energy. Our desire for connection is manifested in our longing to be close to and touch wild animals as if by touching them we can somehow revive the deeply buried wildness in our own natures. Instead, however, we are reduced to seeing them behind glass windows or metal barriers. We wear animal masks and mimic their movements. We carry their images in postcards and on key chains. And we stuff and mount their bodies, proudly displaying them as our trophies.

A thought-provoking read and well worth the effort.

My Favorite Thing is Monsters

Emil Ferris

My Favorite Thing is Monsters by Emil Ferris is a graphic novel that serves a veritable feast for the eyes.

The narrative unfolds in the form of a fictional diary of ten-year-old Karen Reyes. It takes place in Chicago in the late ‘60s and includes references to the deaths of Kennedy and Martin Luther King, as well as to the race riots. Karen lives with her mother and brother in an apartment. She thinks of herself as a monster with a passion for drawing in her spiral bound notebook. When Anka Silverberg, her neighbor and holocaust survivor, is found murdered in her upstairs apartment, Karen decides to investigate the murder. She wears her brother’s raincoat and fedora to assume the guise of a detective.

Karen visits the Chicago Art Institute and various other galleries and museums with her brother, Deez. She rides buses, trains, and walks through some of Chicago’s seedy streets, encountering drug addicts, prostitutes, and the homeless. She suspects Anka’s murder may have something to do with her past. So she listens to tape recordings Anka made about her life in Nazi Germany. She overhears conversations, trying to piece together clues. When her mother dies of cancer, Karen is left alone with Deez. She suspects her brother is hiding secrets which he refuses to reveal to her. Anka’s murder remains unsolved as the novel ends with a cliffhanger.

In her block lettered hand-writing, Karen identifies different types of monsters—those who are different from the norm, are good at heart, and embrace their difference; those who discriminate against others for being different. Through a child’s lens, Karen observes racism, sexism, and homophobia while she interacts with society’s outcasts. She shows compassion for those deemed “other.”

What makes the novel stand out are the dense and intricately detailed illustrations and doodles that fill every nook and cranny of the page. Ferris draws in tiny, cross-hatched lines and does an amazing job with shading. Each page is choke-full of mesmerizing details that invite the eyes to linger. There are full page copies of monster comic covers, horror movie posters, recognizable recreations of famous paintings, sketches of her mother and brother, her brother engaging in sex with one of his many girlfriends, her classmates, nudity, characters she encounters in the streets and on trains, images of Anka raised in a brothel in Germany, the horrors of a concentration camp, full-breasted women bursting out of their tight outfits, gangster-looking men. Scattered throughout are Karen’s werewolf monster self-portraits. Each page is a work of art to be studied and savored.

This is a multi-layered graphic novel told through the voice of a child who is innocent, funny, perceptive, and who reveals a nascent understanding of identity politics.

As an accomplished story-teller and a truly gifted artist, Emil Ferris has produced a compelling graphic novel that is sure to delight.

The Library at Mount Char

Scott Hawkins

Prepare yourself for a bumpy ride when you open the pages of The Library at Mount Char by Scott Hawkins.

Enter a strange world with a zany cast of characters (the “librarians”). There’s Carolyn, fluent in all human languages. Michael speaks very little English but is fluent in the language of animals. Jennifer is a pot-smoking addict who resuscitates the dead. Margaret has been killed and resuscitated so many times that she has lost her mind and feels quite at home among the dead. And then there is David—a bloody-thirsty, sadistic killer wearing a tutu and a helmet covered with dried blood.

Speaking in Pelapi, a language only they understand, they are on a quest to locate “Father” who has been missing for some time. Throw into the mix Steve and Erwin—"normal” characters who get embroiled in the antics while trying to make sense of it all.

It gets even stranger. Two friendly lions rescue Steve when he is attacked by a pack of ferocious dogs. The dead walk among the living, but they won’t harm you if you haven’t died yet. The president is killed; bombs go off; the sun disappears, plunging the world into darkness; and a library with volumes upon volumes of books is suspended in the sky.

Welcome to the crazy world created by Scott Hawkins. It is a violent and dangerous world with power struggles for control of the world. The characters adopted by “Father” have been trained in some sort of esoteric knowledge, with each one specializing in a specific area or library catalog. Their training includes personal experience with violence, cruelty, and torture—all of which are designed to desensitize them to human and animal suffering. It is a cruel, violent world, one that shocks and surprises with each turn of the page to make for a compelling read.

The plot is difficult to explain because it makes little sense. Confusion thrives at every corner. But if you’re willing to continue reading, you will be rewarded with a highly imaginative and thrilling book with snappy dialogue, bizarre happenings, unique characters, and end-of-the world scenarios. It also happens to be funny.

Suspend your disbelief. Buckle up, sit back, and enjoy the madcap ride!  Highly recommended.

The Library Book

Susan Orlean

The Library Book by Susan Orlean tells the story of the 1986 fire that devastated the Los Angeles Public Library. Burning for seven hours before it was finally extinguished, the fire consumed 400,000 books, damaged 700,000 others, and destroyed the interior of the library.

Orlean chronicles the investigation of the fire and the man suspected of starting it. Along the way, she includes personal anecdotes about her first experiences with a library; the history of the Los Angeles Public Library from its humble beginnings; its expansions in size and services; its various locations; its increasing number of patrons; its sequence of directors; and its role as a center providing valuable services for the community.

Orlean provides a cinematic description of the destruction caused by the fire. She walks the reader through the ash and debris and water and burned-out book shelves and damaged books. She describes in detail the impact of the fire on library employees and the surrounding community. She also describes a heart-warming picture of the community’s love for the library. When the appeal for help was made to rescue books, community members came out in droves, forming a human chain to pass one book after another down the line to be packaged and stored in a freezer until restoration work could begin.

Unfortunately, what started out as a strong book seemed to lose focus about half-way through by meandering through irrelevant material that detracted from the main story line. Orlean expands her scope by including chapters that are unrelated to the Los Angeles library fire. There is a chapter briefly surveying book burnings throughout history; several chapters in which she delves into the personal lives of the various directors, some of whom were flamboyant while others were sedate and bookish; and chapters detailing the vision of various architects. While these chapters may be interesting, they did little to add to the story of the Los Angeles Library fire or to the story of libraries in general. They felt like fillers.

Orlean is strong when her focus is on the library. She writes in immersive detail about walking through the library, what she sees and hears, the staff and patrons she talks to, the different sections of the library, the questions patrons ask the staff, the services it offers, and the general flurry of activity inside the library. Her diction, full of delightfully vivid detail, skillfully captures a library’s ambience—the comforting, welcoming, home-away-from home feeling as soon as you step through its doors; the walls saturated with a wealth of knowledge; the shelves laden with books on every topic imaginable; the palpable anticipation of browsing through book shelves; and the knowledgeable staff committed to serving its patrons.

What is true of one library is true of all. As Orlean aptly demonstrates, the library continues to adapt to changing times. It has evolved into more than just a place to house books. It serves as a community center by providing invaluable programs and workshops designed to assist its patrons in every way imaginable.

Recommended for its celebration of libraries, the staff who work in them, the patrons who frequent them, and book lovers everywhere.

The Lighthouse Keeper's Daughter

Hazel Gaynor

The Lighthouse Keeper’s Daughter by Hazel Gaynor, inspired by true events, intertwines two narrative threads one hundred years apart.

The first thread takes place in 1838 in Northumberland, England. It is loosely based on the historical figure of Grace Darling, the daughter of the keeper of Longstone Lighthouse. She courageously sets out on a small boat with her father to rescue survivors of a shipwreck during a fierce storm. Celebrated for her heroism in newspaper articles and portraits, Grace was never comfortable with her new-found fame. She was happiest while living in the cocoon of the isolated lighthouse with her mother and father.

The second thread takes place in 1938. Matilda Emerson from Ireland arrives in Newport, Rhode Island, to stay with Harriet Flaherty, a lighthouse keeper and family relative. Sent there to be far from wagging tongues while she has her baby, she can barely remember the British soldier who fathered her child, the result of a one-night fling. Matilda is descended from Sarah Emmerson, the sole female survivor rescued by Grace and her father after the 1838 shipwreck. She carries with her mementos from Grace and Sarah that have been handed down through the generations of women.

The narrative threads alternate throughout the novel, gradually unfolding in a tapestry that weaves Grace and Matilda in surprising ways. It is a story of unrequited love. It is also a story of the strength, resilience, and courage shown by generations of women who put their lives at risk to save others. The characters are compelling and authentic. Grace, Matilda, and Harriet speak in first person point of view, which establishes a more intimate connection with the reader; the rest of the novel unfolds in third person.

The true strength of the novel lies in Gaynor’s ability to evoke a vivid atmosphere of the sea and its surroundings. The sea comes alive in all its thundering ferocity during storms, with waves pounding on rocks and seashore. The wild winds can be heard; the dampness can be felt as it seeps into the bones of the Darling family huddling together for warmth in the lighthouse; the salty sea air can be tasted as Grace or Matilda walk along the shore collecting shells. The descriptions immerse the reader in the sights, sounds, and smells of life near an ocean. Even the lighthouse comes alive with its creaky floorboards, its winding staircase, its lights, its spectacular view, and its presence as a beacon of hope and security.

The novel was marred somewhat by a far-fetched ending that borders on mushy sentimentality. Otherwise, this is a well-written and engaging historical novel.

Recommended.

Lab Girl

Hope Jahren

The year is 1977. You are a Sitka willow being brutally ravaged by a ferocious attack from tent caterpillars. You frantically load your leaves with caterpillar poison to ward off the attack. You trigger the release of an airborne chemical known as a volatile organic compound (VOC). But you’re overrun with caterpillars and cannot save yourself. Perhaps, just perhaps, you can warn other Sitka willows. But how? Nearby trees are already infested and dying at an alarming rate. You can’t signal distant trees through your roots because they’re too far away. Maybe the VOCs you’ve release into the air can warn other Sitka willows to arm themselves with caterpillar poison. Hurry, before it’s too late! You continue to release VOCs in the hope others can survive. The Sitka willows, too far removed for soil talk, receive the airborne VOCs and arm themselves. By the time the caterpillars get there and nibble on the fresh crop of leaves, their fate is sealed. They eat the poison. They shrivel up and die. The Sitka Willow wins this battle.

The year is 2004. Scientists are able to prove the theory plants and trees communicate with one another through airborne VOCs. Who knew trees not only talk to each other but also have a strong sense of community?

This is just one of the fascinating facts about the natural environment that the award winning geobiologist Hope Jahren describes in Lab Girl. She alternates chapters about the challenges she faced as a female scientist with chapters in which she presents intriguing facts about the natural environment. The chapters are thematically connected. For example, the chapter on plant reproduction is followed by the chapter on meeting her future husband. The chapter on the sacrifice plants make to reproduce (they decrease in mass to repurpose their nutrients toward a new generation of flowers and seeds) is followed by the chapter on her experience with pregnancy. The parallels are intriguing.

Jahren does not shy away from describing intimate details of her life—her childhood in Minnesota; her struggle with mental health; her long-term, deep friendship with Bill Hagopian, her brilliant lab partner; her passion for science to the exclusion of all else in her life; her continuous search for funding; the challenges she faced in launching a science lab at every institution where she was employed; and her love for her husband and son. Her knowledge of the natural environment is educational, compelling, inspiring, and absolutely fascinating. Her writing style is engaging, honest, humorous, and exhibits a refreshing ability to describe complicated natural processes in ways that are accessible and relatable.

In spite of the countless hours, the hard work, and the tremendous sacrifices she makes, what emerges from this wonderful book is the pure joy Jahren experiences at doing what she loves best.

This engaging and delightful book is highly recommended for all who live on planet earth.

The Bookseller of Kabul

Åsne Seierstad, translated by Ingrid Christopher

The Bookseller of Kabul by Åsne Seierstad, translated by Ingrid Christophersen, recounts the four months Seierstad lived with a bookseller and his family in Kabul in 2002 after the fall of the Taliban.

Seierstad is a Norwegian journalist who reported on Afghanistan. In the Forward to the book, she describes her meeting with Sultan Khan, the bookseller, a man passionate about art and literature. He discloses the measures he took to safeguard books from those who sought to destroy them. Seierstad is so taken by him that she asks to be a guest in his home to write a book about his family. He agrees. And so Seierstad settles in for four months in Sultan’s home with his mother, his two wives, and his children.

As a guest in the Sultan family household, Seierstad observes the life of a middle-class Afghan family. Afghanistan’s gender segregation and gendered codes of behavior did not apply to her as a Westerner. Garnering a unique perspective, she is privy to the cloistered lives of Afghan women and attends their women only gatherings while also being able to circulate freely among men.

Seierstad delivers a fascinating glimpse into the daily routines of Afghan women. The chapter Billowing, Fluttering, Winding describes the experience of women in their burkas as they weave through the marketplace, purchasing goods. And the chapter The Smell of Dust vividly describes the relaxed atmosphere in the women-only hammam where women of all ages, shapes, and sizes scrub away Afghanistan’s dirt and dust from one another’s naked bodies. Mostly, though, women’s lives are consumed with the daily grind of fetching water, cooking, cleaning, sweeping, doing laundry, mending clothes, and catering to the needs of male relatives.

Poverty, starvation, bribery, and cruelty are woven into the fabric of life. People resort to tragic and desperate measures to provide food for their starving families. Beggars with broken limbs are ubiquitous. The children go to school in tattered, hand-me-down clothes. Severe beatings are meted out by authority figures, including the male heads of families. And women have exclusive responsibility as standard bearers for family morality. Burdened with maintaining family honor, they suffer brutal repercussions should there be even a hint the honor has been breached. Meanwhile, males are allowed free rein.

Evidence of Afghanistan’s patriarchal structure is on full display. As the male head of the family, Sultan Khan requires and receives unequivocal obedience from family members, including sons. He controls all aspects of their lives and decisions. Women, restricted in movement and opportunity, are treated as commodities to be exploited, bartered, and exchanged.

Seierstad paints a compelling portrait of life in an Afghan family. She aims to erase herself from the picture by reporting on what she sees and hears. But her objectivity occasionally lapses. Instead of reporting, she mediates and interprets. This begs the question of authenticity. How much of what she infers is authentic, and how much is due to her Western lens projecting itself on the situation? Why did she presume to speak for Afghan women? Why not provide them with a platform to speak for themselves?

As an outsider looking in, Seierstad’s perspective diminishes the complex social, economic, and cultural context of a situation. At times her approach is superficial, condescending, patronizing, and judgmental. It occasionally smacks of a critique from a position of privilege. This is unfortunate since it detracts from what would otherwise have been a compelling book.

Recommended with reservations.

The Pagan Lord

Bernard Cornwell

The Pagan Lord, Book 7 of Bernard Cornwell’s The Saxon Series, continues the adventures of the intrepid warrior, Uhtred of Bebbanburg, as he becomes embroiled in the conflicting factions fighting for control of England during the Middle Ages. This action-packed historical fiction doesn’t disappoint.

In the opening, Uhtred accidentally kills an abbot, disowns his eldest son for becoming a priest, and returns home only to find his hall has been burned down. This sets him on a series of adventures involving sea skirmishes, political intrigue, subterfuge, shifting alliances, harrowing escapes, family feuds, and gory battle scenes. His adventures culminate in a battle of epic proportions.

The novel unfolds in the gritty, coarse, first-person narrative of the aging Uhtred. He emerges as a complex character. A warrior who relishes violent confrontations and unabashedly looks death in the eye, he has no qualms about slashing his enemies and dismembering their body parts. His dream is to regain control of his beloved home in Bebbanburg and live in peace. But he puts his dream on hold. In spite of his rough exterior of grunts, foul language, and the metaphorical chest-thumping and display of male bravado, he operates with his own code of ethics: he will not kill women and children and is a man of his word, committed to doing the honorable thing. It is a testament to Cornwell’s skill as a writer that he is able to portray this hulking hero, an aging and cranky warrior with blood on his hands, with compassion and sympathy.

But where Cornwell excels is in his immersive depiction of battles. The climactic battle explodes with thrilling detail. Armies line up in formation as the battle lines are drawn. Men hurl taunts and insults across the shield walls as they prepare to advance. The deafening sound of pounding metals can be heard as swords and shields clash. Dismembered body parts litter the battle field. The smell of sweat, blood, and fear mingle with the stench of filthy, mud-splattered bodies. Cornwell’s very effective use of descriptive details and vigorous verbs thrust the reader into the chaos of battle.

A well-researched and immersive historical fiction that successfully recreates a turbulent period in the history of England. Highly recommended.

The Forty Rules of Love

Elif Shafak

The Forty Rules of Love by Elif Shafak weaves two interlocking narrative threads. The first thread involves Ella Rubenstein, a bored, married housewife and mother of three children, living in a Massachusetts suburb. The year is 2008. Ella, who has recently taken on a position at a literary agency, has been assigned to read and report on a novel by Aziz Zahara. His novel, Sweet Blasphemy, introduces the second thread which takes place in the thirteenth-century and is based on the relationship between the Sufi mystic, Shams of Tabriz, and the famous Persian poet, Rumi. The novel alternates between these two threads.

The Ella sections reveal Ella’s state of mind. She is forty years old, has been married for twenty years, and is unhappy. She is aware of her husband’s infidelities and for reasons that are never made clear, she chooses to ignore them and go on with her life as if nothing is wrong. Somehow, her reading of Sweet Blasphemy awakens in her feelings of frustration with her life. She longs for connection and begins an email correspondence with Aziz, the author of the novel.

The second thread includes the voices of multiple characters, all of whom speak in the first-person. They include Shams, Rumi, Rumi’s wife, his two sons, and several outcasts from society, including a prostitute, a drunk, a zealot, a killer, and a leper. Shams’ interaction with various characters allows him the opportunity to articulate the rules of love associated with Sufi mysticism. It is a result of his influence on Rumi that the latter begins writing the poetry that has made him famous.

The two threads run along parallel lines. Ella is so captivated by Shams’ rules of love that she becomes increasingly disenchanted with her life, eventually deciding to abandon it altogether and follow her heart by being with Aziz. And Rumi is so captivated by Shams’ teaching that he abandons his former life as a well-respected cleric to become a Sufi mystic and an advocate of love without boundaries, all of which find expression in his timeless poetry.

Unfortunately, the novel fails on many levels. The characters are flat and unbelievable. Ella’s story smacks of a soap opera—a bored, unhappy housewife finds love with a globe-trotting man representing all things associated with the exoticism of the East, and, uncharacteristically, she dashes off into the sunset to be with him. The characters speak in clichés and American slang--even those set in the 13th Century. They all sound alike. The language is pedestrian; the dialogue flat. Sufi mysticism is reduced to the appearance of parlor tricks and a pre-packaged, lackluster, and superficial spouting of its basic tenets.

Disappointing.

How Jesus Became God: The Exaltation of a Jewish Preacher from Galilee

Bart Ehrman

In How Jesus Became God: The Exaltation of a Jewish Preacher from Galilee, Bart Ehrman traces how Jesus, a humble preacher from Nazareth, came to be worshipped as God.

Ehrman argues that Jesus came to be recontextualized at different times and in different places by different followers, all of whom promoted a different theological agenda. He places the historical Jesus in the context of his time and conducts textual analysis of relevant documents, including the Old and New Testament. His aim is to show how a belief in the divinity of Jesus evolved through the manipulation of texts during the early history of the church.

Beginning with what he labels Exaltation Christologies, Ehrman argues it was a belief in the resurrection of Jesus—based on visionary experiences—that initially led followers to believe Jesus had risen to heaven to sit at the right hand of God as his Son. This transitions to the Incarnation Christologies, the view that Jesus was not a human who was raised to the level of divinity but was a preexistent divine being with God before he came to earth as a human. Ehrman then traces the development of these various Christologies, their offshoots, their arguments and conclusions, their leading proponents and opponents. Aspects of some Christologies later evolved into what is now considered the orthodox (“right”) line while others were deemed “heresies” (false). Ehrman shows how inconsistencies and contradictions in the Gospels and in the writings of Paul are addressed by later theologians who selectively focused on different sections of a text in an attempt to reconcile inconsistencies, support their theology, and arrive at what they deemed to be a more coherent doctrine.

Ehrman provides ample textual evidence for his argument. His extensive research and knowledge of the material is impressive. He examines each assumption by placing it in its historical, cultural, and textual context to determine the likelihood of its actual occurrence. By doing so, he calls into question many of the basic tenets of today’s Christianity. He eschews theological debates and is careful to state at the outset that he is not taking a position on the question of Jesus’ divinity. As he says, “I do not take a stand on the theological question of Jesus’ divine status. I am instead interested in the historical development that led to the affirmation that he is God.”

This is a fascinating, well-researched, and thoroughly documented study. The language is engaging and accessible with touches of humor throughout. It is highly recommended for those interested in biblical research and in the historical development of Christianity.

Will and Testament

Vigdis Hjorth; translated by Charlotte Barslund

Will and Testament by Vigdis Hjorth, translated by Charlotte Barslund, is the first-person narrative of Bergljot, a woman in her fifties who has been estranged from her family for over two decades. An inheritance dispute and the death of her father forces Bergljot to interact with her family. Every interaction with them dredges up memories of the past as Bergljot struggles to understand her family’s choice of denying the truth of her childhood trauma. The nature of the trauma is alluded to but not explicitly stated until Bergljot confronts her family in an open letter after her father’s death.

Bergljot was sexually assaulted by her father when she was a child. The assault started when she was five years old and continued for two years. Although she suppressed the memory for many years, it continued to surface in fragments. She was eventually able to piece it together when she was in her twenties and revealed the assault to her family. They reacted to the accusation with virulent hostility. They doubted her, accused her of ingratitude, of having a wild imagination, of behaving aggressively to get attention. They did everything they could to deny her the satisfaction of believing her, effectively pushing her away to silence her. Their denial is a continual source of Bergljot’s frustration.

The narrative unfolds in a series of flashbacks and vignettes. Threaded throughout is Bergljot’s raw anger toward her family and her desperate attempts to understand why they denied her truth. She sends angry emails to her sister and then apologizes for them. She shares her frustrations with her husband, children, and friends. Each email or phone call from her mother or sister sends her plummeting into a vortex of anxiety and self-analysis. She narrates her dreams. She cites the words of Freud, Jung, her therapist, various artists, and friends in an effort to understand how childhood trauma has impacted her and why its revelation impacted her family in the way it did. The movement is circular, always rotating around the same issues—why did it happen and why are they denying my truth?

Whether it is based on the author’s real life as some have suggested, or whether it is a work of fiction as the author claims it to be, this is a powerful novel illustrating the devastating impact of childhood sexual assault on a victim whose truth has been denied. Unfortunately, it suffers from poor editing and punctuation. It is littered with fused sentences, comma splices, and repetitive sentences. This may be a fault of the translation. Or it may be an effort to reflect the narrator’s trauma as she circles around events, fuses sentences, or repeats them. Either way, it detracts from an otherwise powerful story.

In spite of this, the novel is recommended for its exploration of sibling rivalry, parental favoritism, the impact of childhood trauma, and the sacrifices and choices victims and their families make when egregious wrongdoing cannot be proved.

Strange Weather in Tokyo

Hiromi Kawakami; trans. Allison Markin Powell

Strange Weather in Tokyo by Hiromi Kawakami, translated by Allison Markin Powell, is a touching love story between a thirty-something Tsukiko and her seventy-something former Japanese high school teacher.

Tsukiko is a loner. She lives a secluded life, going to work, coming home to her apartment, and minimizing her social interactions. She is at a bar one evening when she bumps into her former high school teacher, Harutsuna Matsumoto, whom she addresses as “Sensei.” They strike up a conversation which eventually develops into a friendship. They go on outings together, meet in bars and restaurants to drink and eat together.

Gradually, Tsukiko grows dependent on Sensei and looks forward to their meetings. Her feelings toward him intensify. Love creeps up on her quietly and without fanfare until she realizes one day she has fallen in love with him. Their relationship fluctuates. She tries to put distance between them but without success. She finds herself missing him, thinking about him, and imagining things he would say to her. Sensei eventually admits to reciprocating her feelings, but they seem to retain their separate identities while forging a stronger bond. Their relationship from start to finish lasts around five years.

The story is told from Tsukiko’s first-person point of view, providing access to her thoughts as she struggles with her burgeoning relationship. Every little detail about Sensei fascinates her from the way he dresses, to his briefcase, to his tendency to horde old batteries, to the way he corrects her when she strays from ‘ladylike’ language and behavior. Her passion for Sensei is so intense she continues to conduct imaginary conversations with him and hears his voice even after his death.

This is a very tender love story where very little happens. Two different people with a wide discrepancy in terms of age and temperament gradually fall in love. The writing is simple, unadorned, and devoid of the histrionics that frequently plague love stories. The dialogue is deceptively simple and stilted, reflecting the awkwardness each feels at the situation and their reluctance to reveal the depth of emotions. Parallel lines of loneliness and a tense but growing intimacy thread their way throughout the narrative.

Like the love that develops between Tsukiko and Sensei, the novel is quiet, moving, and creeps up on you unaware of its impact until the end.

Highly recommended for those who like quiet, bittersweet novels about relationships.

Nineveh

Henrietta Rose-Innes

Nineveh by Henrietta Rose-Innes is an unusual story that can function as an allegory.

Katya Grubbs is a young woman who has taken over her estranged father’s pest control business in Cape Town. Unlike her father who has no qualms about squashing or otherwise obliterating pests, Katya believes in the more humane form of pest elimination. She captures the unwanted pests and relocates them to agreeable surroundings. More comfortable with insects than people, Katya is a loner, socially adrift, and lives in a crumbling hovel. Her skin, dotted with insect bites and scars, is a tell-tale sign of her profession. Her internal scars are tell-tale signs of growing up with an alcoholic, dishonest, and abusive father who denied his family a permanent home; a mother who mysteriously disappeared when Katya was a small child; and a sister who ran away.

Katya is hired by a property developer to rid his luxury gated community, euphemistically named Nineveh, of elusive insects—a type of beetle whose periodic emergence coincides with the rains. The infestation is severe enough to bring construction to a screeching halt. Katya spends a few nights on the property but can find no trace of these insects. And then the rains come. Thousands of beetles mysteriously emerge, invading the property overnight. They crawl up and down walls, into buildings, in and out of gutters, through cracks, and up trouser legs. Every nook and cranny harbors a multitude of creepy crawlers. Katya recognizes their overwhelming numbers render futile any attempt to control them. Her father re-enters her life to help but proves more of a hindrance than a help.

The novel can be read as an allegory that sets up parallels between humans and insects overstepping their boundaries. Nineveh initially exudes a fortress-like security, surrounded by walls, gates, two guards, and a dog. Access to parts of the compound is restricted to those with fingerprint clearance. But Katya soon discovers the security is illusory. Bathroom tiles, copper pipes, furniture, and other odds and ends are routinely smuggled out of the compound through a network of underground tunnels to be sold in the nearby shanty town. Katya’s father is the culprit. He wades through swamp-like underground areas, teeming with insect and amphibian life, to climb up walls, pass through cracks, and enter through windows. He sells what he steals.

Katya concludes although walls and gates may act as a temporary deterrence, they cannot permanently keep out those determined to enter. Similarly, tame landscapes, manicured lawns, and pest control companies cannot indefinitely deter insects and pests. Attempts to relocate or restrict any life form to its designated space is futile. Boundaries of separation are fluid. Movement and flux are inevitable. Something or someone will find a way to burrow into a vacant space so that no space is vacant for long.

Rose-Innes’ prose is lush, rich in detail, and highly effective in evoking an atmosphere of the tumult lurking beneath the surface. Whether it is insects or pests, details of a traumatic childhood, outsiders denied access, or even political movements fermenting underground, sooner or later all will surface in the prohibited space to make their presence felt.

An original story, brilliantly executed, and highly recommended.