Sunday Salon: the Determined Post

Y’all, I have been labouring under the tyranny of my review backlog since I returned to blogging. But no more! Today, I am putting my foot down, and making a real effort to get myself caught up. On the scale of grand ambitions, I decided to write about all of my March reads (except Passing, which I already discussed) in one giant go. Of necessity, I’ve been pretty superficial, but I read so many good books that I hope I still manage to convince you to pick up one or two. So go get another mug of coffee or a fresh pot of tea, and then settle in for a twenty-one book extravaganza!

When March began, I was still in a reading slump, but I was excited at the possibility of adopting a dog. I ended up reading five books on ‘dog training’: I loved both The Other End of the Leash by Patricia B. McConnell and Bones Would Rain from the Sky by Suzanne Clothier. Neither of these are dog training manuals, per se, but rather meditations on how humans and dogs interact; they’re also both beautifully written. While dog owners will find practical advice (from McConnell, I learned that leaning backwards, or better yet, turning around so you’re facing away from them, when calling your dog makes them come more quickly; I tried it and it’s true!), the books have much more to offer. I’d say both would appeal to readers who enjoy popular science books or nonfiction books about animals. Also, as someone who studiously avoids ‘dog memoirs’ like Bad Marley, I’d say these books are bigger than that, in their combination of the personal with the more scientific. Both women have made dogs and dog training a large part of their lives; rather than simply pet owners, they’re behavior specialists who train dogs in specialised fields and are more broadly animal husbandrists (both run farms). I think that makes their perspective a bit different (both have multiple dogs at one time and have suffered losses as well). Two of the others fall squarely in the ‘dog training’ section, and they left me lukewarm: Adopting a Dog by John Ross and Barbara McKinney had helpful advice on choosing a rescue dog but lost me with his harsh training techniques (thank you, I’d rather not use a prong collar on my beloved companion), 30 Days to a Well-Mannered Dog by Tamar Geller with Jonathan Grotenstein was a bit too fluffy and disorganised (to be honest, it reeked of celebrity ghost writing). Finally, Don’t Shoot the Dog! by Karen Pryor was a more general description of clicker training (and more generally, positive reinforcement practices) as it applies to all species, including humans! It was an easy read, with quite a few amusing anecdotes, and if I ever marry I have ideas on how to create a happy home (ahem), but it felt a bit dated to me.

When I finally busted out of my reading slump, I found myself reading Letters From Burma by Aung San Suu Kyi. It wasn’t what I expected, since I didn’t realise it was a collection of syndicated columns she wrote for a Japanese newspaper over the course of a year. I very much enjoyed it, and although I couldn’t help wishing for more descriptions of Burmese life and a bit less politics, I’m aware of how churlish that sounds. It’s also a minor complaint; this is a book I would love to have for my own shelves. It has a very different feel from Freedom for Fear, but her intelligence, optimism, wonderful writing style, and love for Burma shines as brightly. On a very different note, I found myself giving another author a second go; I adored Nancy Marie Brown’s The Far Traveller (a biography of a truly incredible medieval Icelandic woman), so when I saw she had a new book out, I couldn’t wait to read it. The Abacus and the Cross is written in a similar format, in that it’s a loose biography with one person at the center, but with plentiful descriptions of the day-to-day life and big-picture politics to give the reader a firm grounding in medieval life. In this case, Brown looks at the ‘Scientist Pope,’ who was in office during 1,000 A.D., and she uses his life to debunk many of the myths people have about the so-called Dark Ages. As someone who has long resented Enlightenment historians’ determined tarring of medieval life, this book was a breath of fresh air. I highly recommend it to everyone, and you better believe I’ll be referencing it when I come across people who want to lecture me about the Dark Ages.

Meanwhile, I was reading a bit of popular science as well: The Hedgehog’s Dilemma by Hugh Warwick. This is obviously aimed at a British audience, since we don’t have wild hedgehogs Stateside, but I enjoyed Warwick’s gentle self-mockery and ability to mix serious everyday ecological issues with the more playful side of humanity’s relationship to nature. He loses points for a ploy I’ve come across quite regularly amongst British nonfiction works, in which he travels to the US to meet a bunch of very odd Americans and depicts them in a not-too-flattering light (in contradiction to his much nicer descriptions of the British eccentrics he runs across). But still a fun read! And he gained his points back with his fascinating study of the odd interlinked effects of conservation movements. I referenced The Good Women of China by Xinran as a book I as thinking about abandoning, since while it was marketed as nonfiction it just didn’t feel very believable. Some of the stories and coincidences Xinran shares seem too incredible for me to swallow at face value; China is a huge place, both geographically and population-wise, but Xinran’s China is apparently much smaller. And women becoming mentally retarded due to bullying? Can that really happen? That being said, while I don’t believe the particulars, I do think the general outlines of the stories are problems Chinese women really face. More disturbing was Xinran’s discussion of homosexuality; while a small part of the book, she seems to believe that being abused by men in childhood makes girls grown up to be lesbians. Oh, and this book should definitely come with a trigger warning: rapes are a frequent part of the women’s stories, a frequency I believe wholeheartedly. At the end of the day, I’m glad that I read it, but I’m not sure if I’d recommend it to people. Still, I want to read more of Xinran, I’ll just be sticking to her fiction.

In the midst of my nonfiction spree, Dorothy Sayers’ Busman’s Honeymoon snuck in! All I have to say about it is that I love her mystery novels, and while this isn’t the very best on the mystery front, it is a satisfying conclusion to the Wimsey-Vane story arc. (Actually, there are some adorable short stories set later than this book, but I read those years ago.) Now, the only Wimsey book I have yet to read is Five Red Herrings: looks like after that I’ll just have to reread them from the beginning! The one thing that disturbed me is Sayers’ blatant class-ism; I couldn’t help cringing at her depictions of the commoner townspeople. But I suppose no one’s perfect. If you’ve yet to give Sayers a try, I suggest you treat yourself (whether you’re a mystery lover or not). You can either begin with the very first Wimsey book, Clouds of Witness, or jump to the first Wimsey-Vane story, Strong Poison. Whatever you do, do not go straight into Gaudy Night; it might be her most famous book, but unless you have the backstory and investment in their relationship, you won’t appreciate it. Also, don’t google Harriet Vane unless you want massive spoilers. ;) And continuing my mystery mood, I gave a new author a try: Mardi Oakley Medawar is a Cherokee who writes a historical mystery series with a Kiowa sleuth in the nineteenth century. Witch of the Palo Duro wasn’t perfect, with the writing sometimes clunky and random historical details thrown in that seemed to be the author showing all the research she’d done, but the protagonist’s voice is irresistible, and I will definitely be reading her later books to see if her writing improves. I’d recommend this for those who enjoy ‘classic’ style mysteries (i.e.: a circle of suspects, gradually discovered clues, a final denouement) and can overlook some stylistic issues in favour of memorable characters and settings. Also, as someone who tries to read more diversely and loves mysteries, it’s a God send to find a series written by an author of colour that isn’t gritty. I just can’t do noir, even when I admire the author tremendously.

Oh dear, I’m not doing well at this brevity thing, am I? Well, I guess getting through eleven books with around 1300 words isn’t bad, at least for me! If I can talk about the other eleven in a similar manner, I’ll end up with a post the same length as most of my TSS ones.

On to my sole reread of the month (I know! I resolved to reread three books every month! But in January and February, at least I got to two each time; better than nothing.): The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov (shout out to Steph & Tony, from whom I won a copy of Penguin’s Pevear & Volokhonsky translation!). The first time I read this, I was a young, impressionable seventeen-year-old, and I adored it. This time around, I found it a bit more difficult to ‘get into’ the black humour at first, although I immediately connected with the narrative of Pontious Pilate (Bulgakov’s rewriting of Jesus’ death now strikes me as an obvious inspiration for Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses). The good thing is, once I found my rhythm, I fell in love all over again. Best of all, Margarita’s story, her delight in becoming a witch and playing hostess for Satan at his annual ball, was just as oddly exhilarating as I remembered. While I praise the Pevear & Volokhonsky translation (did you expect anything else?) for matching Bulgakov’s idiosyncratic style, I must say I found Pevear’s introduction (which I read after my reread) a bit disappointing; I think more of a background to the Stalinism Bulgakov lived through would have been helpful for readers not familiar with Russia’s twentieth century history. Still, if you haven’t read Bulgakov before, he’s one of the few Soviet writers I truly enjoy!

Erm, each book’s description is getting longer rather than shorter, isn’t it? It’s so painful for me, when I could do a whole post about so many of these books. But I’m determined to get at least something about each of them down, so they don’t languish in obscurity. With any luck, even my paltry thoughts will inspire some of you (and feel free to ask me questions in the comments if any of the titles pique your curiosity).

And God Said by Dr. Joel M. Hoffman is an incredible piece of nonfiction, and it will definitely end up on my best of 2011 list. Hoffman looks at how translations have affected the Bible (primarily the Old Testament, since he’s Jewish, but he includes a bit of the New as well), and between his marvelous analogies (a method of argumentation I usually frown on, but which works well in linguistics), his incredible ability to present complicated ideas in a simple manner, and his clear-eyed willingness to admit when there’s no right answer, he’s a breath of fresh air. Since Christianity, particularly the ‘literal Bible’ school, is so politically influential in my society, I wish this book would become an instant best-seller. As it is, I can only tell you that if you read one book of the ones I’m discussing today, make it this one. You won’t regret it; it’s quite short and an easy read, although if you’re anything like me you’ll be pausing to scribble frantic notes at pretty much every page! Also, Hoffman has included the most marvelously helpful ‘further reading’ appendix I’ve ever encountered in my nonfiction reads. (He even has advice for nerds like me who suddenly find themselves with an inexplicable desire to study Biblical Hebrew.) The book has a website that, despite its unfortunate design, contains a lot of useful information that will hopefully convince you to read the book.

I was intrigued by the premise of Mona in the Promised Land by Gish Jen; a first generation Chinese-American girl in the 70s decides to become Jewish. But for me, the execution didn’t quite work; while the narrative voice had a quirky freshness to it, I don’t do well with fiction written in present tense. The epilogue was a bit too neat and tidy as well. That being said, Mona was a well-drawn character, and the cast of supporting ones were individual enough that I could see a sitcom playing out. If you’re looking for a lighter read that still addresses some important issues, if you enjoy coming-of-age stories or books set in the 70s with some hippy flavour, do give it a go. I have similar mildly disappointed feelings about The Untelling by Tayari Jones; this one is set mainly in the 90s (I think…maybe late 80s?) in Atlanta and deals with Ariadne, a twenty-five year old woman with enough emotional baggage from the past to make her current worries look small. I loved the first half of the book, because Jones is a masterful writer (she’s one of the few that flip back and forth in time without losing me, and since I was listening to the audiobook, that’s saying something). But the last third or so just started to drag; I couldn’t help wishing the main ‘scene’ would happen already, because at least then I’d see the aftermath. The ending was satisfying, precisely because Jones doesn’t make it a fairy tale. A solid book, and one I’d recommend for those who enjoy ‘women’s fiction’ (although I seriously loathe that term), but I didn’t love it like I did her debut, Leaving Atlanta. I will be watching out for her next book, though, because her writing style is so powerful! On a more positive note, I adored Into the Beautiful North by Luis Alberto Urrea. I read his first novel, The Hummingbird’s Daughter, a couple of years ago and loved it. However, his nonfiction book about Tijuana (Across the Wire) was so raw and painful (though well written) that when this one was published I was afraid of what it might look like and thus put off giving it a go. So I’m deeply indebted to Emily for posting about A Beautiful North: every page of this was something to savour, and when I closed the back cover it was with a bittersweet sigh. Urrea taps into the deep cycle of myth and legend telling, channeling the hero’s journey into the twenty-first century and creating a wonderful heroine who I won’t forget. (He seems to be the rare male author who writes completely believable, strong, loveable female protagonists.) While the novel is ‘realistic’, in that there’s no magic of any kind, I still can’t help comparing it to Neil Gaiman and it has a bit of a charmed fairy tale narrative. No gritty realism here, although there are many sly digs at various policies, both Mexican and American, and their harmful effects! AND there’s a road trip narrative that’s destined go down as one of those American classic moments (I-70 baby! a trip I myself have embarked on more than once). All of these elements added up to another title destined for my best of 2011 post. I just discovered Urrea has another novel coming about later this year, and I’ll be reading it as soon as I can get my hands on it! I highly recommend him to everyone; I can’t decide if I love The Hummingbird’s Daughter or Into the Beautiful North more, so read them both and tell me what you think.

Continuing with the ‘novels you should go read now’ theme, Damascus Nights by Rafik Schami was another wonderful treat. For those of you who adored The Hakawati, have savoured Arabian Nights (in the Husain Haddawy translation, I hope) and now have a burning desire for more novels narrated by Middle Eastern storytellers, y’all are in luck. Damascus Nights opens when Salim, a coachman famed throughout Syria for his storytelling abilities, loses his voice. As a fairy tells him, his only hope is to receive seven precious gifts, which his friends eventually decide means they should each tell a story. Schami strikes the perfect note, and while through most of the story I was vaguely dissatisfied that women were so tangential (all his friends are other old men), the last chapter more than made up for that. Schami himself is a professional storyteller, originally from Syria but living in Germany (the novel is translated from German), and I was delighted to see that my library has some of his other books (both adult novels and picture books I’ll be checking out for my niece). I truly think he could become a favourite author of mine, and while this runs a close second for ‘if I could make you read one novel I’m posting about today, this would be it’ to Into the Beautiful North. International and translation lit junkies, Schami could be your next fix. ;)

When I realised I hadn’t read any popular science books this year, I went on a nice browse during a library visit. Of the ones I selected, I got to two last month: The Invisible Sex by J. M. Adovasio, Olga Soffer, and Jake Page and Suburban Safari by Hannah Holmes. Both were informative, fun, satisfying reads that I can highly recommend. The Invisible Sex is a look at the role of women in prehistory; it rewrites the ‘caveman hunter, woman passive womb on legs’ story, looks at the origins of those false theories (*cough* unconsciously chauvinistic male anthropologists *cough*) and sorts through known data to try to imagine what life for men and women could have been like. One of the best things is that the authors always draw a clear line between what we can know and what must remain speculation; their honesty is quite refreshing, if at times surprising (for instance, the famous skeleton ‘Lucy’ might just as well be male: it’s only classified as female because of its size). I learned a ton of interesting information, and there was none of the dreaded evolutionary psychology that makes my blood pressure raise to dangerous levels. The introduction, in which the authors seemed at pains to clarify that they weren’t ‘crazy feminists’ had me a bit nervous; fortunately, the rest of the text calmed those nerves. Ever since reading about the grandmother hypothesis in Natalie Angier’s excellent (seriously, go read it) Woman: an Intimate Geography, I’ve been curious to know more. The Invisible Sex more than satisfied that curiosity, and I’d heartily recommend it to anyone who wishes to know more about humanity’s origins without a sexist framework! Suburban Safari was a nice complement to The Hedgehog’s Dilemma; since Holmes is American, I could look forward to seeing many of the species she describes in my own backyard! (Although, she’s in Maine and I’m in Texas, so it wasn’t perfect. Have you noticed how much New England seems to figure in naturalist books?! It’s a bit odd.) Her style mixes personal stories with scientific research, and she isn’t afraid to admit her own biases (like trying to help her favourite animals through various interventions). The book is structured as a year of her exploring her own yard (beginning in the spring); she also goes on various trips and interviews various experts about ecological issues, in particular ones relating to native species vs. invaders. I learned a lot of interesting information, and although much of it was disheartening, the overall tone of the book was still cheerful. I’m always on the lookout for accessible science writers, and Holmes has several other books that sound interesting. Definitely one I’d recommend you look into! I don’t think she’ll ever be a very favourite author of mine, but one I’d like to read more of nonetheless.

I grabbed A Small Treatise on the Great Virtues by Andre Compte-Sponville from my library shelves, because I want to read more nonfiction stuff by non American/British authors this year. This is the second popular French philosopher I’ve read, and unfortunately I’ve found both to be quite chauvinistic. For me, this chauvinism tinged my feelings about the rest of the book to such a degree that I can’t say I got much satisfaction from reading it (the really offensive chapter came in the middle, so the first half I was fine, but the second half I resented). Seriously, what is it about best-selling French pop philosophers that lets them get away with such sexist nonsense?! That’s about all I have to say about that; I think I’ll be returning to my tried and true Alain de Botton instead. To end this post on a high note, I tore through The Body at the Tower, the second in Y.S. Lee’s ‘The Agency’ series. It’s just recently published, set in Victorian London about a new recruit at a fictional spy group run by women that operates on the idea that middle and lower class women are invisible and thus make the best spies. Lee is a Victorian scholar who really brings the period to life, and I very much enjoy her protagonist, Mary Quinn. This is marketed as young adult, and is on the fluffier, easy-to-read side of things, but a nice satisfying read nonetheless, and one I’d be happy to see more young women reading. Woot for good role models! ;) While the market seems to be saturated with historical fiction set in Victorian England with headstrong female leads, I promise you this one is different; give it a go when you need to bring some fun into your reading life.

And there you have it, all of my March reading in one post. Sorry to go on for so long, but desperate backlogs call for desperate measures. And as I said earlier, feel free to ask anything in the comments; I would love an excuse to expand on many of these books. ;) I purposely didn’t include any passages, to keep this from becoming even longer, but I hope that doesn’t stop you from looking into any books that sound appealing.