Nasty weather.

Occasionally I'm struck by a random fascination on a particular topic, and such was the case this past summer when I suddenly felt the need to read something, anything, on tornadoes and storm chasing on the Great Plains. Some cursory catalog searches didn't turn up anything that would satisfy my curiousity, so when I happened to sport Mark Svenvold's account of the May 2004 outbreak of storms on the shelf, I immediately snapped it up.

Tornadoes have always had a fascinating quality about them, driving thrill seekers and scientists alike to drive thousands of miles (literally) in the hopes of seeing just one. Yet the draw of witnessing such storms also speaks to what Svenvold calls 'catastrophilia:' the need to be thisclose to possible, and in some cases, real devestation, either on the ground or beamed over the airwaves via the Weather Channel. It is this fascination with weather as entertainment that makes up the central theme to Big Weather: Chasing Tornadoes in the Heart of America. To be sure, Svenvold does justice to the art of storm chasing, which requires as much luck as science to put a chaser in the right place at the right (wrong?) time. Like any other seemingly insane endeavor, he portrays a case of characters that range from the quiet, Scout master storm spotter, to the main forecaster at the Storm Prediction Center, and the questionable Californian guy who eventually gets to do some 'real' science out of his homemade tornado intercept vehicle.

These parts of Svenvold's work clip along well, but he's as much concerned with the effect global warming and the Weather Channel have had on the weather and how we perceive it. Although Svenvold makes the argument that both have made impacts on the storms over the plains, the momentum Svenvold had created in the remainder of the work effectively lapses into doldrums. To make the entire book a description of his jaunts across Middle America would be bowing to the lure of catastrophilia, but while struggling through his meditation on the sublime as it relates to storms, I wonder if some more stringent editing could have been merited. Still, Svenvold covers the complete culture of storm chasing in a manner that few other authors have done.

A short work about a long walk.

In this era of fitness mania and extreme sports, the idea of someone walking across the entire North American continent still elicites a sense of awe. We are, after all, talking 3,500 miles across rugged mountains and sweltering plains. Even with modern conveniences such as cell phones and survival gear, it still remains a daunting undertaking. Crossing the continent over a hundred years ago with nothing but a couple of revolvers and five dollars in hand was considered grounds for insanity. Still, that is exactly what Helga Estby and her eldest daughter Clara undertook in the spring of 1896, setting out from their rural Norwegian settlement near Spokane, Washington to New York City, in an attempt to win a $10,000 wager from an anonymous figure. The walk was an epic undertaking, but as Linda Lawrence Hunt chronicles in Bold Spirit: Helga Estby's Forgotten Walk Across Victorian America, it was only a small part of the shifts in the political and social landscapes of America at the cusp of a new century.

Like other studies in microhistory, Hunt uses the experience of one, nearly forgotten individual to cast light on the larger shifts within history. The benefit is to make history personal, which is Bold Spirit's strongest point. Estby was a strong, determined woman whose cross-country trek was likely the least of the hardships that she faced in her lifetime. However, getting into the mind of someone nearly 70 years dead is nearly impossible, and Hunt's task is made all the more difficult by the fact that all of Estby's manuscripts recounting her trip were destroyed by her children in the 1940s. This bit of cultural vandalism was a direct consequence of Helga's walk, and makes Hunt's points about the importance of preserving family histories. But it also leaves Hunt with little to go on other than interviews with Estby's granddaughter and scattered newspaper accounts of the trek itself. These hint at Estby's feelings regarding women's rights, the contentious election of 1896 and the cultural mores of Norwegian immigrants in America, among many other topics , but Hunt's attempts to flesh out the whole story comes down to a lot of conjecture. And, more tragically, there's little chance to hear Helga's story in her own words. Still, Hunt's rediscovery of Estby's remarkable endeavor makes for an unique perspective about a pivotal point in history and introduces modern readers to a woman who was well ahead of her time, even if her full story will forever be lost to time.

Red herrings, anyone?

I've decided to take a brief break from my typical interest in cozy mysteries to try something a little different. I've never read much in the way of police procedurals, but after coming across Peter Lovesey's Diamond Dust, I thought I would give the subgenre another try.

Part of Lovesey's series surrounding Detective Inspector Peter Diamond, Diamond Dust picks up with Diamond at a sort of ebb in his career. Wrapped up in fighting a possible demotion, he thinks nothing of stopping by a recently discovered murder near Bath's Royal Crescent--only to be stunned to find the victim is his own wife. Diamond quickly embarks on an investigation to locate her killer, but a police force leery of a grieving husband commanding an investigation quickly relegates Diamond to a desk job. Frustrated and under suspicion, he begins his own parallel search into his wife's past, only to realize that his someone from own past might know more than they let on.

That's the main premise of the story, at least. I had never read anything by Lovesey before, a longtime writer who has won pretty much every award in the mystery genre. That he deserves the accolades is apparent in the bewildering array of blind alleys, false leads and subplots that keep Diamond (and the reader) throughly at a loss as to who the culprit is. There's a lot of shifty intrigue going on here, and the fact that Lovesey can keep a grip on the plot thread while still propelling the mystery forward is remarkable. But this fast and convoluted plot comes at the sacrifice of character development. Diamond is portrayed as a hard-nosed, tough veteran who isn't really meant to be likeable, but this doesn't explain why I had little sense of him as a character. Understandably, the other players are lightly sketched, but more on Diamond's wife would have made her less a bloodied body and more of a human being, and lent some humanity to her grieving husband. If Lovesey's characters were as complex as the tightly knotted mysteries he creates, there would be little to find fault with his novels.

Portrait of the author's closet.

I wasn't sure what I was really expecting when I randomly selected My Mother's Wedding Dress: The Life and Afterlife of Clothes from the new book shelf at the library. A history of famous outfits through history? A tour through fashion trends and revivals?

Well, this is actually a memoir, although a rather inventive one. Justine Picardie, herself a former editor of British Vogue, reflects on her life and family by way of their closets. In doing so, Picardie demonstrates just how much our dress reveals of our selves and sometimes the path our lives take. The wedding dress in the title, a little black dress that Picardie's mother wore only once in spite of its easy elegance, foreshadows the breakdown of her marriage; the hideous pleather trousers Picardie herself sported in the late '70s were as much about teenage rebellion as a fashion statement.

Picardie also goes beyond her own family's history to consider the grip that clothing has on some famous figures. She interviews Donatella Versace, an enigmatic figure in spite of her splashy, bright designs, and gets wound up in the cult of the Brontes while trying to trace the history of a ring. In this sections, it seems like Picardie is trying to flesh out the remainder of her memoir, as she doesn't have quite enough from her own family to make for a complete book. While interesting, it's a little jarring to go from Picardie's own family tale to that of a suicide in a white shirt--there's a connection with the clothes, but it is only by the thinnest of threads. My Mother's Wedding Dress works best as a meditation on what clothes can mean both in life and death, but as a memoir/history it feels incomplete.

Politics, with all the promise and frustration.

First: I did not pick up a copy of Robert Penn Warren's novel All the King's Men with the intention of seeing the movie afterwards. I've been getting a kick out of reading the generalized pans, but that's the extent of my interest in the film. I actually decided to read Warren's novel for two other reasons: it's election season, and a book that's been called 'the American novel of politics' seemed an appropriate read, and second, I wanted to see how well the Pulitizer Prize-winning tome held up 60 years after its publication.

All the King's Men is about politics, and has all the traits of politics: alternatively frustrating, inspiring, long-winded and rousing, Warren's novel seeks to set its stamp on American life, in this case literature, rather than history. Loosely following the story of 1930s Louisiana populist Huey Long, Warren creates a Greek tragedy nominally centered on Willie Stark. Like Long, Stark is portrayed as a man of the people who rises to office pledging to fight the rampant system of graft and entitlement, only to fall short of his own high morals. But really, All the King's Men is the story of Jack Burden, a man who is best described as an 'operator' in the Stark administration, digging up dirt on political opponents so Stark can get his way. When he's directed to dig into the history of one of his closest friends, Burden uncovers a history of lies that eventually is disasterous for Stark and those around him.

Warren was once the poet laureate for the nation, and his description of the Louisiana's steamy natural and political environments can be seen as evocative and transporting for the first few hundred pages, after which it just gets downright oppressive. The characters of Stark and Burden are well drawn, but many of the supporting characters (especially the women), just seemed somehow unbelievable. Much like Greek tragedy, Warren demands quite the suspension of disbelief, but to do so for 600 pages of text seemed like asking a lot. Parts of the novel hold flashes of brilliance--Warren can build tension better than many mystery writers--but the frustrations of the rest of the novel makes All the King's Men ironically very true to its political basis: so much promise, but lacking in execution.

British murder spree! part 3

I've always had something of an ambivalent attitude towards Agatha Christie's oeuvre. Yes, she essentially created the modern British mystery genre, but at the same time her most famous of sleuths (Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot) can be seen as something of cliches. But putting aside such misconceptions, Christie's work still stands as landmarks in the genre. And although the Poirot and Marple novels are her best known works, she did write a considerable number of mysteries that didn't feature either detective.

I came to The Sittaford Mystery (also published as The Murder at Hazelmoor) after seeing the film version recently produced by PBS. I'm glad I decided to read the book: save the names of the characters and the setting (a village in England's west country), the plot is almost entirely different and much more satisfactory, in my opinion. The story starts out simply enough: snowbound and bored, some villagers conduct a seance, where it is revealed that the wealthiest resident of the village is dead. Alarmed, his best friend sets out across the snow to check on him, arriving to find him blugeoned to death. A ner'do-well nephew set to inherit the estate is arrested, and the case appears closed. But then that nephew's fiancee Emily appears, determined to release her hapless future husband and find the real culprit.

It's too bad that Christie didn't write more mysteries with Emily Trefusis as the main detective, as Emily's mix of independence, vivaciousness and dogged persistence would have made for an interesting series. With the help of a somewhat unscrupulous journalist, Emily learns enough of the villagers' secrets to find the real murderer. Christie's murders may not be entirely suspenseful (how, exactly, does someone die from being slugged by a sandbag?) but tightly wound plots and a solution that requires careful deduction on the part of her detectives makes Christie's mysteries still appealing even after 70 years in print.

British murder spree! part 2

Like Laurie R. King's Mary Russell novels, time and place are central to Elizabeth Peters' novels featuring Amelia Peabody. Like Russell, Peabody is fiercely independent and confident in her abilities, in spite of having spent much of her life under the thumb of her domineering father in 1880s Victorian England. In Crocodile on the Sandbank, Peabody immediately sets out for Egypt, determined to see more of the world after her father's death. Immediately at home in the Valley of the Kings, Peabody sets to work 'assisting' Egyptologist and bachelor Radcliff Emerson, much to his displeasure. Their work is soon interrupted by the appearance of a mummy that drives away all the Egyptian workers and threatens the lives of Peabody and her companions. I found the mystery to be a little hokey (the rampaging mummy kept bringing to mind the Brendan Fraser film The Mummy) and an annoying damsel in distress that everyone would probably be better off without. But Peabody herself is a plucky, appealing character, and her battles with Emerson are enjoyable to behold, even if you already know who's going to come out victorious.

It's not surprising that Peters also did quite a bit of work in romance fiction, as the strength of her book lies not in the mystery (which is quite easy to figure out), but in the sparks between her characters. Originally published way back in the 1970s, Crocodile is the first of Peters' long Peabody series, all set in colonial Egypt. The exotic time and place of the series is also one of its draws, and the fast moving plot and romantic undertones makes Peters' detective an appealing read.

British murder spree! part 1

Okay, so this post's title is a rather devious attempt to make this post seem more lurid than it actually is. True, I've been indulging in my taste for British murder mysteries, so there are quite a few bodies turning up, but to term it a spree is a bit of a misnomer. Yes, it's murder, but this is civilized killing, thank you. So put on your tweeds, make some tea and curl up while these people go about nicely dispatching each other.

I had previously written about Laurie R. King's The Beekeeper's Apprentice featuring Sherlock Holmes and Mary Russell, enjoying King's creation of a feisty, liberal partner to Holmes' Edwardian coolness. Continuing with A Monstrous Regiment of Women, King focuses more on developing Russell's character, as Mary delves into the inner workings of a women's organization in which various members have been dying suspicious deaths. Holmes is mostly offstage during the investigation, but never far from Russell's mind as she finds the detective playing a larger role in her life. I've read a few more of King's series, and her strongest abilities lie in the interplay between Holmes and Russell, similar to that of Sayers' Wimsey/Vane novels, and her depiction of post World War I Britian. As her series moves along, I found King's plots to be more tangled, something that wasn't as much the case in the earlier books, were the emphasis was more on suspense rather than unraveling the mystery.

More bodies to come...

I really should be less cynical about book reviews.

Everyone is in love with Frank Portman. Every review that I've come across for Portman's first novel, King Dork, has been in raptures about Portman's take on high school life since it first appeared earlier this year. So of course, I'm immediately skeptical, as usually happens when something appears to be too good to be true, especially in the case of young adult lit, which more often than not can have adults swooning and teens passing.

King Dork meets this challenge head on, poking fun at that Holy Grail of teen lit, The Catcher in the Rye, turning its subject of teen angst on its head. The anti-Holden Caulfield here is Tom Henderson, a mostly rational and thoughtful human being who has the misfortune of attending high school with a bunch of psychotic normal people. As such, Tom (or Chi-Mo or King Dork), spends most of his time trying to avoid abject humiliation from students and staff alike, while attempting to set up a rock band with his friend-in-the-alphabet, Sam Hellerman. When Tom stumbles upon some of his dead father's books, it opens up a mystery surrounded by codes, fake people, questionable pronounciation and what really happened to his father during his high school years. There's no way that I can really do justice to the whole arc of the plot, only to say that I laughed out loud at many of Portman's perceptions of high school. His depiction of Tom's equally clueless ex-Hippie parents is hilarious, a sly commentary on how adults want to perceive their teen children, and just how much teens can see through such b.s. The only complaint I have is that such a twisted storyline takes its time building up, but Tom's such a good observer that those sticking with him will be well rewarded by the conclusion.

Portman, himself a member of the rock group the Mr. T Experience, laces King Dork with references to various rock groups, completes the book with a glossary of terms and misprounciations from the book, and a list of the devil's head incarnations that Tom's band goes through. There's some sex, which might put King Dork at risk for challenge, but if it is it would work to the book's favor in getting it more attention. Not that getting teens to read it should be difficult. I liked VOYA's little blurbette: "King Dork...will appeal only to...teens with an interest in...oral sex..."

Well, who am I to argue with that?

Manga meets meditation.

I do not claim to know anything about Buddhism, graphic novels or, for that matter, formatting photos in Blogger (my apologies for the above arrangement), but that did not keep me from pushing through all eight volumes of Osamu Tezuka's imaginative and epic retelling of the life of Siddhartha. And I do mean epic: ranging across the foothills of the Himalayas thousands of years ago, Buddha has a huge cast of characters and enough raging battles, miracles and doomed love affairs to make any Charleton Heston flick pale in comparison. This isn't an accident; Tezuka takes definite liberties with the historical record, creating characters and events that help to define his vision of Siddhartha's journey to enlightenment, with a great deal of pulpy action and adventure thrown in. The result is a mostly fast-paced, sometimes irreverent romp through ancient northern India, as Siddhartha slowly becomes Buddha and develops his insights that would become the religion of Buddhism.

Handsomely published in the U.S. by Vertical, the real star of Buddha isn't the story, but Tezuka's vibrant artwork. Best known for his Astro Boy series, Tezuka's take on Buddha is sort of manga for adults--but with all the same visual appeal as his more popular work. The settings allow for some beautiful and suprisingly detailed panoramas, and the violence is simply but effectively portrayed in a spray of ink. Probably the most effective aspect as I read along was Tezuka's ability to depict the emotions of his characters: a devious look instantly establishes a character's untrustworthy nature, and the full impact of Siddharta's inner struggle is telegraphed over his features.

That the visual is so well done works well in Tezuka's favor, as the weakest point about Buddha is the sometimes painful dialog. Do not expect great monologues to complement the great art. But the dialog does have the benefit of making each volume a pretty fast read (each averaging around 350 pages, a volume can be finished off, at most, in a few hours). Other quibbles: the height of the story, I felt, came in the middle of the set (v. 3-5), with the story tending to drop off a bit in the concluding installments. And given how much of Buddha is imagined, it was rather disappointing to see most female characters relegated to passive slaves or victimized royalty. As an introduction to the work of Tezuka, Buddha might not be representative, but it does mark an interesting blend of the serious with a popular art form gaining in respect.

After the levees broke.

Like most Americans, I was sickened by what I saw happening in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. After the images of suffering in the Superdome, and bodies left to rot in the streets of New Orleans, it was hard to imagine it getting any worse. As the storm surge subsided, a flood of books has appeared, attempting to explain just what transpired in late August 2005. Among the hefty (The Great Deluge by Douglas Brinkley), the scientific (The Storm by Ivor van Heerden and Mike Bryan) and the official (A Failure of Initiative by the select committee appointed by the House of Representatives), I went with Breach of Faith: Hurricane Katrina and the Near Death of a Great American City by Jed Horne. Metro editor of the Times-Picayune, Horne is well-versed in New Orleans' culture and politics, elements just as important to the course of disaster as weather reports and evacuation plans.

Mixing personal accounts with commentary, Horne creates a vivid portrait of a city ill-served by its elected officials well prior to 2005, and fully documents the continuing failures after the storm. Harshest criticism is reserved, of course, for the inept bungling by FEMA and the Bush Administration, but the Army Corps of Engineers, mayor Ray Nagin and the Orleans levee board each receive damning evidence of misplaced priorities or downright fraud. Horne also dispels many of the misconceptions created by the media, calling into doubt the images of rampaging gangs bent on looting any and all stores, and the supposed lawlessness at the Superdome and Convention Center.

This isn't a book to read if you want something calming--I often found myself wanting to throw it through a wall in frustration at the ineptitude of those in charge. But Horne also includes stories of perserverance--the ordeal of Patrina Peters, who survived on the roof of her flooded home during the storm, heroic efforts at isolated hospitals, the grassroots effort Common Ground which stepped in when the Army and the aid organizations refused. Most of the second half of the book is an examination of the efforts to determine which direction the new New Orleans needs to go. This part lags a bit in terms of storytelling, but represents the more important questions resulting from Katrina: is it right to allow people to rebuild New Orleans as it once was, even when the previous chapters revealed a city seriously in need of reform and overhaul? Horne makes the case for a new city, but for New Orleans to rise again, the events recounted in Breach of Faith demonstrate that it will be a long, drawn out prospect, requiring much more than staunching holes in the levees.

On the trail of Revolutions.

When it first appeared in print over 500 years ago, Nicolaus Copericus' magnum opus De revolutionibus orbium coelestium libri sex (On the Revolution of the Heavenly Spheres) revolutionized the budding science of astronomy. Its publication in 1543 was the death knell for the thousand-year old notions of Ptolemy's Earth centered universe, heralding the dawn of a new, empirical method of doing science. Or did it?

Challenged by a historian's claim that no one read the watershed book when it was first published, Harvard astronomer and historian Owen Gingerich went to epic lengths to track the impact De revolutionibus had on scientists of the sixteenth century. To do so, he undertakes the task of locating and examining as many first and second editions of the work all over the world. Conducting a book census sounds about as interesting as watching a bookworm chew through a dusty tome, but in The Book Nobody Read: Chasing the Revolutions of Nicolaus Copernicus, Gingerich finds that a seemingly straightforward task can lead into unknown corners of historical record and the modern book trade.

Gingerich discovers richly annotated copies of De revolutionibus that quickly settle the question of whether the book was read when it was first published, but raise other issues. What impact did the Catholic church's censorship of De revolutionibus have on the book's readership? Who bought the expensive book and why? How did scientists spread across Europe communicate with each other over the ideas in the book? The questions are not limited to issues of the fifteenth century: Gingerich finds himself testifying in court over a missing De revolutionibus, puzzling over rebound and fake copies, and navigating hostile Soviet bureacracy to reach copies behind the Iron Curtain.

Weaving astronomical history in with the pursuit of rare copies, Gingerich's volume is as likely to appeal to bibliophiles as to astronomy buffs. For those not entirely familiar with such history, parts of Gingerich might be hard to follow--many names sound similar and some are almost entirely obscure. Perhaps a brief collection of biographical sections at the end of the book would make it more approachable, but as it is, Gingerich simply includes notes and an abbreviated version of his final census. For the casual reader, perhaps something like Timothy Ferris' Coming of Age in the Milky Way would offer a better introduction to astronomy history. In terms of sheer persistence and bibliographic sleuthing, Gingerich's chase of Copericus' revolutionary book is a worthy example.

What rhymes with Bush?

In spite of my best efforts, I’m not the sort of person who would just willingly sit down with a volume of poetry. Nor am I one to spend precocious reading time with any political diatribes masquerading as rational thought. So why exactly did I pick up Calvin Trillin’s new volume A Heckuva Job: More of the Bush Administration in Rhyme? Well, in part due to Trillin’s recent appearance on The Daily Show and previous familiarity with some of Trillin’s essays, but mostly in an attempt to feebly laugh at what has become a scary situation.

As poetry, Trillin is more Ogden Nash than Byron, but his limerick-style is suited to the nonsensical subject matter. Redundant sounds and forced rhythms make A Heckuva Job downright annoying to read straight through, but Trillin isn’t interested so much in proper placement of stresses as he is in driving home his political barbs. This he does with a wry tone, covering the misadventures of Iraq , the war on terror, and the sluggish Katrina response. A stanza from The War in Nine Stanzas is indicative:

Though nothing showed Iraq had played a part,
That’s where some hawks thought vengeance ought to start.
(Then terrorists could count on what we’d do:
Attack us, we’ll strike back, though not at you.)
We toppled first that band of Afghan loonies
Who’d let bin Laden hide out in their boonies.
The Taliban were smashed in one fell swoop.
Bin Laden, though, had plainly flown the coop.
Bush then forgot that name, and said, “In fact,
Iraq’s the place that has to be attacked.”
The war, Rove thought, with this one course correction,
Could still endure until the next election.
(August 15, 2004)

The types and subjects of the attacks are nothing new, and over the course of the volume, Trillin tends to repeat himself. As any good roast needs to be, though, each poem in A Heckuva Job contains enough truth to hit home. In the case of Dubya's policies, that might mean more of an occassion to cry, but at least Trillin's poesies add a little bit of comic relief.

A scientific dispute for the ages.

As a graduate who has earned a degree in the humanities, I tend to regard those in the sciences as having a considerably easier task in tracking down what is real in nature: formulate the hypothesis, test it and if it works, everyone basically agrees that's the way things are. Yet, as the recent brouhaha over the status of Pluto has demonstrated, there can be a surprising amount of decisions that scientists have to make.

Before there was Pluto, there was the issue of what happens to a star in the course of its lifetime. In the early twentieth century, the debate over what the scientific evidence disclosed and what theories raged in astrophysical circles, easily making or unmaking academic careers. On the one side was Sir Arthur Eddington, world-renowned scientist, theorist and practically credited with inventing astrophysics. On the other was a young unknown Indian scientist, Subrahmanyan Chandrasekhar, who formulated the almost unfathomable notion of black holes. Their despute, and the repercussions that it had on the course of astronomy and physics, is the subject of Arthur I. Miller's Empire of the Stars: Obsession, Friendship, and Betrayal in the Quest for Black Holes. Following Chandra, Eddington and their contemporaries through blind alleys, dead ends and false leads, Miller weaves the tale of how the quest to understand the life of the stars nearly cost both scientists their reputations. Only with the advent of the atomic bomb and achievements in observational methods did Chandra's efforts be recognized, and black holes become a physical reality.

Part biography of Chandra, part history of an idea, Miller draws on a trove of sources, especially Chandra's own revealing personal letters. He also traces the many competing theories concerning the lives of stars, taking the story well beyond just Chandra and Eddington. Miller includes considerable back matter, including a glossary, brief biographical sketches, notes and appendices, but for those who may not have a comfortable gasp on basic physical and chemical principals may find Empire to be a bit of a challenge. I personally found the latter portion of the book, which dealt with the observational findings and the development of the atomic bomb to be more interesting. Empire of the Stars probably isn't for everyone, but because of Miller's thorough research, could be quite important to anyone interested in the history of science.

Parallel universe.

Pity poor Misha Vainberg. All he wants to do is escape from St. Leninsgrad to return to that mecca of hip hop, New York City, with his South Bronx sweetheart Rouenna. But just because his father (the 1,238th richest man in Russia and renowned for selling an 800 kilogram screw to KGR) happened to off a politically connected Oklahoman, the generals in charge of the INS won't give Misha a visa. And now, when his beloved Rouenna writes from Hunter College (where she is majoring in secretarial skills) that she is carrying on with Jerry Shteynfarb (author of The Russian Arriviste's Hand Job), Misha is desparate enough to head to the oil saturated state of Absurdistan, where a crooked Belgian immigration official has a passport ready for a small fee.

Before the greasy official can hand over Misha's ticket to the Bronx, war breaks out between the Sevo and Svani ethnic groups over the topic of Christ's footrest, and KBR (a subsidiary of Halliburton) quietly sneaks into the country with a sweet deal from the Department of Defense. Soon, Misha finds himself as appointed head of the Office of Multiculturalism in the mostly corrupt government, and it only gets weirder from there. Absurdistan, by Gary Shteyngart (author of The Russian Debutante's Handbook) is a dark comedy that has no limit to the absurdities Misha goes through, each with a biting element of the current state of affairs to it. Sporting a Candide-like sense of optimism through it all (or maybe it's the Adivan), Misha somehow holds on to his sense of purpose, even as missles are being launched from the roof of the Park Hyatt.

Shteyngart has a bitter, ironic tone throughout the book, excepting Misha, who blithely sails through the chaos around him with a minimum of qualms. I had a bit of trouble getting into the book, partly because it moves very quickly. Once Misha arrives in Absurdistan though, the plotting works better as the whirlwind of corruption picks up steam. Touching on the insane policies of yesterday (the Cold War) and today (the war on terror), with the backdrop of American consumerism and Russian fatalism, Absurdistan closes as something of a bad dream for Misha. Freed from the country, he sets out to join Rouenna in the Bronx. The date? September 11, 2001.

The portrait of the family.

Alison Bechdel's new graphic memoir, Fun Home: A Family Tragicomic, has been getting quite a bit of buzz from various quarters, and with good reason. An engrossing, sensitive narrative, Fun Home has restored my faith in the memoir as quality, worthwhile reading. Often ironic, realistically drawn with bluish-green tinged panels and perfectly paced, Bechdel has created a work that goes beyond the dynamics of her particular family to the more universal theme of a child trying to understand who their parents are and how they have shaped their lives.

The title ironically refers not to the Victorian Gothic revival house that Bechdel's father obsessively restored, but to the funeral home that he ran to supplement his income as an English teacher. At the same time that he's agonizing over William Morris wallpaper, his daughter, Alison, is struggling with her own obsessive behavior in the stultified atmosphere of the house. As Alison reaches adolescence, her growing sense of self and budding sexuality coincides with some revelations about her father's own closeted homosexuality. Gradually, Bechdel's father starts sharing his favorite books with her, leading to a tacit understanding between the two.

Bechdel (creator of the comic strip Dykes To Watch Out For) considers her life while making references to some of the books that her father recommends. Touching on Ulysses, the myth of Icarus and Colette's autobiography Earthly Paradise, it becomes clear that books are the common ground between Bechdel and her father, where they can understand each other.

Bechdel's story works very well in a graphic format, and her images convey tensions more tellingly than paragraphs of prose could. The concluding pages may not ultimately answer Bechdel's questions about who her father was, but the final frames have a closing acceptance and ultimate peacefulness. It's a satisfying end to a work of quiet strength.

"Dammit Holmes! It is not elementary!"

It’s a risky proposition for an author to resurrect an iconic literary character for the purpose of a new series; even more questionable is the addition of a sidekick for the famous figure’s comeback. In the world of mystery fiction, no figure is more sacred than Sherlock Holmes. Yet Holmes’ stature has not kept Edgar-awarding winning author Laurie R. King from imagining what the detective would be like had he happened to take a precocious fifteen-year-old girl under his wing and teach her his craft.

Dangerous, yes, but in creating Mary Russell, the apprentice to Holmes' beekeeper in The Beekeeper's Apprentice; or, On the Segregation of the Queen, King has given Holmes a formidable ally. Fiercely intelligent, the staunchly feminist Russell is the perfect match for the idiosyncratic and often misogynist detective. Through tests of increasing difficulty, the two slowly gain each others trust. But just as Russell and Holmes have become a team of considerable prowess, an opponent from Holmes’ past reappears, with nothing less than the destruction of Holmes and all those near to him their only desire.

I haven’t read any of the original Holmes stories, so I can’t say whether King matches Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in terms of literary merit. But King has created an engrossing chess match of a mystery that requires the full concentration of both detectives and the reader. Her depiction of World War I era England is vivid, and the dawning of women's rights coupled with the passing of the Edwardian era creates a tension in the plot. My quibbles are minor: the story occasionally flags as King goes about constructing her plot and characters, and the beginning is entirely too hokey. Since completing The Beekeeper’s Apprentice, King has penned seven more Russell/Holmes titles, and has developed quite a following in the process. It’s an impressive start, and the rest of the series promises to be just as intriguing. Book number two (A Monstrous Regiment of Women) is already on my request list.

It's just a phase.

Ah, those glorious teenage years, full of self-discovery, intellectual stimulation, and the quest to become a well rounded individual. Or at least that’s the plan. The reality is usually more embarrassing and awkward, especially if your best friend turns out to be an ‘enthusiast,’ as Julie Lefkowitz knows all too well. When Ashleigh’s obsession with King Arthur leads to a pots-and-pans coat of armor, or her craze for a local band has them camped out under wet blankets, Julie stoically goes along. But when Ashleigh’s attentions shift to Jane Austen, Julie fears what her friend’s whole hearted enthusiasm will do to her favorite author.

Plenty, as Polly Shulman’s first novel Enthusiasm shows. Drawing on her love for Pride and Prejudice, Ashleigh convinces Julie to crash a local boys prep school to search for her own version of Mr. Darcy. The man is found, in the form of Grandison Parr, and the girls conspire to join the school’s musical in order to be near him and his best friend. But trouble arises when Julie learns that Ashleigh has mistakenly assumed Julie likes Parr’s friend—and has a crush on Parr herself.

Shulman’s effort doesn’t stray too far from formula (a school musical, readings in Romeo and Juliet, the obligatory bad boy, divorced parents), and the Austen twist peters out as quickly as the girls’ interest in the minuet. Still, for typical teen formula, Shulman does okay, creating sympathetic teen characters that have a fair amount of depth to them. Enthusiasm might be stronger had it ventured further into the Austen theme, picked up on some the themes of Austen's novel or had a stronger conflict, but on the whole it remains a pleasant if not especially memorable read.

Who wants to be like Kate?

There are some books that appear on bookseller and library shelves that really just beg the question: What is the point? Various 'gift' books, anything by Mitch Albom, most books penned by celebrities and the style advice book, generally fall into this catagory. Today's book, Style by Kate Spade, can claim two of these characteristics: Spade, the creator of a pricey line of home accessories, stationary, bags, etc. under the ingenious name kate spade, dispenses pithy advice to the stylistically clueless. As a long time member of this group, I thought perhaps Kate might be able to lead me to enlightenment. Alas, not to be: shelve this one firmly in the pointless aisle.

Perhaps I shouldn't be so hard on Ms. Spade, as writing about style for a book is a tricky proposition. An author is generally left to rehashing little bits of common style knowledge, while reiterating that 'style is a personal expression.' That's pretty much what happens here, but Spade chooses to fill out some of the remaining white space with her personal style favorites: for example, Kate likes to pair her blues with tangerine, watermelon or taupe, and she considers Barbarella to be a good example of 'style in space.' We also get a watercolor rendering of Mr. Kate Spade's favorite ski hat (a Swix brand blue Nordic knit with a tassel, if you were curious). Fascinating stuff for the Spade fans, but for the rest of us, it doesn't provide a great deal of guidance.

The illustrations provided are watercolors by artist Virginia Johnson. Charming as art, they aren't very useful as guides, and the sporadic instances where they're used makes them even less so. I found the final two sections of the book on the types and maintenance of clothing articles to be somewhat useful, but again, similiar information could be found elsewhere in probably more complete form. Style is one of three books in a series created by Spade (Manners and Occasions being the others), and while one isn't likely to commit a horrendous faux pas following her advice, there's also little chance of breaking new ground either. True style mavens will already know many of the ideas Spade suggests, and others may do just as well browsing fashion magazines or reading up on stylish women of the past.

On the beach (Miami, that is).

Summer is the most forgiving season: you can wander about outdoors barefoot, drink another beer safe in the knowledge you'll simply sweat out the alcohol, and indulge in reading equally lasting in nature. Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez's latest novel, Make Him Look Good, is a prime example of the summer read, light in substance and not terribly trying on the mind.

Valdes-Rodriguqez's novel, fittingly, takes place in and around Miami Beach, a locale not known for its substantive culture. The plot revolves around the 'him' of the title, Latin pop sensation Ricky Biscayne and the women in his life: Milan, the deeply enamored secretary of the Las Ricky Chickies fan club; Jasminka, Ricky's Serbian supermodel wife; Irene, the firefighter who has good reason to hate Ricky's guts, and Jill Sanchez, a very poorly disguised caricature of a particular pop star, among others. However, the task of making Ricky look good is increasingly difficult, until Ricky finally gets the ending that he deserves.

Valdes-Rodriguez moves the narrative between different characters in the plot, sometimes in first person, sometimes in third, which can lead to some confusion over just who's talking when. It also leads to some rather laughable point-of-view choices--I had a hard time buying the supernatural powers of a particular cat. Valdes-Rodriguez also struggles somewhat with her characterization. Along with the Sanchez character (which, to be fair, could be passed off as satire), few characters really achieve any sort of depth, especially the men. This in turn plays into a predictable plot, an unfortunate tendency of one character to lapse into valley-girl speak...

Still, I did chuckle at a few of Valdes-Rodriguez's plot twists, and her portrayal of the insanity that is the pop music industry provides some biting satire. Overlooking the flaws, Make Him Look Good might satisfy some beach readers--there are plenty of plot turns, even if you can see them coming a mile off. The novel's strongest aspect is the vivid recreation of Miami's diverse culture, especially that of its Cuban and Latino populations. For those looking for an easygoing beach read, Make Him Look Good provides suitable effervescent entertainment; those seeking something a bit more substantive might wish to pass.

Camara, check. Road map, check. Revolver and political vendetta, check, double check.

It's summertime, and with the impossibly oppressive proof of global warming and freedom from classroom tyranny comes that great American tradition: the road trip vacation. Sarah Vowell, contributing editor for NPR's This American Life, combines this innocent past time with another, less familiar American tradition: the tendency to off our duly-elected head of state. Hence Assassination Vacation, Vowell's journey into the obscure, sometimes scary and surprisingly bizarre history of presidential hitmen. Vowell is the perfect companion on this particular tour: a self-described Mount St. Helens of verbiage on the subject of assassinations, she roots out the more intriguing chesnuts surrounding the deaths of Presidents Lincoln, Garfield and McKinley. Lincoln's demise is well-documented, but Vowell still finds some surprises. From her sleuthing, Americans may always wonder what the second Lincoln term would have accomplished, but for the word 'sockdologizing.' It's a pity in some ways that Garfield and McKinley aren't better known, as the circumstances surrounding their deaths are truly entertaining: Garfield's assassin, Charles Guiteau, may just be the 19th-century equivilent of Michael Jackson in the painful-to-behold-but-still-compelled-to-watch sense. McKinley succumbed to a mere anarchist, yet his campaign to 'bestow' democracy on nations in which the U.S. had substantial financial interests (ahem), Vowell writes, seems entirely too familiar.

Vowell intersperes the historical bits with her actual experiences following in the occasionally poorly documented (or poorly plaqued) footsteps of president and assassin alike, creating a lively and deliciously sarcastic tone to what really is a discussion of a bunch of dead white guys. If there is any linguistic justice, 'Seward plaque' will immediately become part of the American lexicon. Always keen to hypocracies in history and in the current administration, Vowell provides sharp, biting commentary that will actually keep history students awake in class. Assassination Vacation reminds me of another history/travelogue that I supremely enjoyed, Tony Horwitz's Confederates in the Attic: Dispatches from the Unfinished Civil War. Pair the two together and you'll have great reading material for the drives between roadside historical markers and tourist traps.

The Seedy Side of the Cities

Mention Minnesota to most Americans, and the concept of "Minnesota nice" often springs to mind, along with mosquitoes, languid evenings at The Lake and the 'aw-shucks' wholesomeness of A Prairie Home Companion. Editors Julie Schaper and Steven Horwitz do their best to dispel this notion of the North Star State with their collection Twin Cities Noir. Part of Akashic Books' series of noir anthologies centered on various locales, Twin Cities Noir features familiar metropolitan landmarks and occasional episodes from Minneapolis/St. Paul history, often with a tinge of Midwestern dry humor (or fatalism, if you're a Lutheran). So Schaper and Horwitz give us bodies bobbing in the Mississippi ("Bums" by William Kent Krueger), a snow emergency that turns explosive ("Noir Neige" by K. J. Erickson), the uneasy transition to American culture faced by Hmong immigrants (David Housewright's "Mai-Nu's Window") and the gangsters who found sanctuary in Depression-era St. Paul ("If You Harm Us" by Gary Bush), among others.

Authored by Minnesotans from varying publishing backgrounds, the collection is a bit uneven in quality and 'noirishness.' A few stories climaxed into bona fide cliffhangers, but others seemed strangely lackluster or predictable. Perhaps the limitations of the genre and form are partly to blame for this, but there's no harm in skipping over stories that don't appeal, as each entry stands on its own. Like other titles in the series, Twin Cities Noir will primarily draw those who call the Cities home; noir fans will appreciate a setting away from the usual noir scene, with shady characters that you wouldn't want to see walking the streets of Lake Wobegone.

Bibliomane dies and goes to book cover heaven.

As a reader and a librarian, it would be good of me to adhere to the old maxim of not judging a book by its cover, and focus instead on the quality of the text inside. But reality usually has a way of eschewing such sampler-type wisdom, and no where is that more true in the bottom-line driven world of book design. Happily, in the right hands, a book can become its own work of art while staying faithful to ideas between its covers, and Chip Kidd: Book One: Work: 1986-2006 is a fabulous collection of just how beautiful a book as an object can be, from one of today's best designers.

In all honesty, I had no idea who this Kidd guy was prior to reading another glowing review of this book, and was only intrigued because of the promise of book cover art. When I picked it up at the local library, and started paging through its 400 pages of artwork, I had to laugh to myself, because it quickly appeared that this designer was responsible for some of the most appealing, memorable covers in recent publishing history. At times iconic, humourous, literal, controversial, intense, and exuberant, Kidd's work, to paraphrase the words of one author, uses a few symbols or images to capture the essense of complex literature.

Aside from the beautifully recreated cover art, Kidd provides humourous, insightful notes about each cover design, along with examples of source material and covers that never made it to the bookshelf. Various authors weigh in on what they liked (or didn't like) about the images for their books. Book One also offers a look into the usually tumultuous world of book publishing, especially at Knopf, where Kidd began his career twenty years ago. While hefty, Book One is entirely engrossing, and I had trouble putting it down. In the hands of anyone with an interest in publishing, design, art or books, Kidd's album is likely to have the same effect.

Reading for a quiet, solitary place.

I was very careful as to where I started reading Louise Erdrich's quietly powerful novel The Painted Drum. Having read another of her recent works, The Master Butchers Singing Club, I knew that I wanted to be somewhere quiet, perhaps outdoors, where I would be allowed to devote myself to entering the world Erdrich creates. I probably didn't need to try so hard; the lyrical, effortless style of Erdrich's storytelling in The Painted Drum would have quickly made me oblivious to the world outside the page, whatever setting I happened to be in.

Like many of her other works, Erdrich draws on her Ojibwe roots for much of the novel's themes and characters' histories, but The Painted Drum is a bit of a departure in that it opens in distant New Hampshire. While coping with her own personal struggles, Faye Travers, herself part Ojibwe, discovers an extraordinary painted drum while tagging items for an estate sale. Mysteriously, she hears the drum sound, but is startled that no one else seems to be able to hear it. Intrigued, she steals the drum and eventually uncovers the history of loss, grief and forgiveness that led to its creation. Restored to its rightful place, the drum continues to mark the lives of those who come into contact with it, including Faye.

The Painted Drum spans half a continent and generations of families touched by loss. Erdrich, like the best storytellers, skillfully weaves her narrative of different families and eras into a continuous tale, with a keen sense of pacing. There's a gentle sort of ebb and flow to her work that I have yet to come across anywhere else, and always makes her novels well worth picking up.

The single girl in the (turn-of-the-century) city.

Occassionally, I find myself reading books that seem to be entirely too familiar--they either mirror events in my life or echo the emotions that I'm feeling through a particularly tumultuous stretch. So maybe it's not fair for me to judge such books, as I'm not basing my opinions from an unbiased viewpoint.

Such was the case with Edith Wharton's 1905 novel The House of Mirth. In her struggle to remain a part of fashionable New York society, Wharton's flawed heroine Lily Bart finds herself fighting as much against herself as the gossip which brands her an outcast. Lily's life had always been about clinging to her precarious position among the wealthy, with a brilliant match to a rich (if unloved) bachelor the ultimate goal. Yet when her plottings are undermined by a jealous matron, Lily finds her inability to let go of her old lifestyle leaves her unable to find happiness.

When it was published in 1905, The House of Mirth landed on the bestseller list and established Wharton's reputation. In spite of the 101 years between its publication and today, Lily's precarious existance still reverberates in today's material-obsessed culture. Perhaps this is why I personally found it to be a little too close to the mark--I would not recommend it for someone in the job market, as Lily's efforts (and failures) to economize seemed familiar. The writing, in my opinion, fails to achieve the beauty and depth of The Age of Innocence, written 15 years later, and the ending veers towards sentimentality. Still, Wharton's depiction of old New York remains a novel well worth reading, challenging romantic notions of Gibson girls and corseted beauties to reveal themes that are strikingly modern.

Art history? Bio? All of the above?

I'm not sure that Jonathan Harr's The Lost Painting: The Quest for a Caravaggio Masterpiece could really be cataloged under any one subject. Weaving elements of art history and biography into the tale of the rediscovery of the lost Caravaggio masterpiece The Taking of Christ, Harr's work sometimes reads like a detective story. While I was reading it, I honestly couldn't put it down, but it was more a couldn't put it down because I wanted to get to the aha moment. It proved somewhat elusive, although there were good moments along the way: the discovery of a mention of the painting in a 17th century ledger, the excitement felt by an amateur art historian as he gazes on the neglected masterpiece, and the descriptions of the volatile man who created it. But it all seemed somewhat, well, padded. There's a little bit of everything: descriptions of art restoration techniques, a bit on Caravaggio, a brief lament over the state of upper education in Italy. The Lost Painting is an interesting concept, but I had a sense that there could be more to the story that Harr's book sort of missed. It's an interesting concept that anyone interested in art would find a diverting read, but for those who want to find out more about Caravaggio or the world of art history, they may find the bibliography to be more useful.

Enigmatic Einstein

Mention the name of Albert Einstein, and it’s likely that one of two images will come to mind: one of a bemused, slightly disheveled genius-next-door, or the serious scientist, calmly explaining seemingly simple equations that would befuddle mere mortals. The complexities of Einstein’s character and the incredible impact his work has had on the world has been documented many times over, making one of the most familiar figures not just in science, but in all of history.

It’s not surprising that with so much ink already spilled on Einstein’s life that authors would be taking different approaches to the man and his work. David Bodanis’ wonderful E=mc²: A Biography of the World’s Most Famous Equation is an example of a smart, approachable work as entertaining as it is informative. Einstein himself is only a small part of the book: Bodanis traces all aspects of the equation from their origin to their dramatic, sometimes fearful application. So we learn how Voltaire’s mistress laid the groundwork for c², why a winter stroll through Sweden’s woods would lead to the horrors of Hiroshima and how an Indian scientist could begin to imagine a mind-boggling phenomenon we now know as a black hole. The only quibble I have with Bodanis’ text is that it doesn’t include footnotes for the 70-odd pages of notes, but astute readers can catch up with those at the end of chapters. For the layman or for the scientist, E=mc² provides a fascinating, all-encompassing history, and proves how Einstein’s brilliant equation has taken on such a life of its own.

Michael Paterniti takes an entirely different approach to Einstein’s legacy in his Driving Mr. Albert: A Trip Across America With Einstein’s Brain. The title is not simply a cute attention getting device: Paterniti’s memoir/travelogue recounts his actual experience driving the pathologist who performed Einstein’s autopsy across the country, with the famous brain sloshing around in a Tupperware container in the trunk. The story of how the gray matter got there is a weird tale, focusing mostly on the oddball pathologist who had custody of the brain and his dubious attempts to study it. Paterniti also muses on the meaning of genius—whether it can be tangeable like chunks of brain or if it really comes down how society decides to perceive an individual. Unfortunately, Paterniti also chooses to meditate on the state of his relationship during the course of the road trip. This and some rehashed material makes it feel like Driving Mr. Albert was fleshed out to get it to book length (it started life as a Harper’s Magazine article). Driving Mr. Albert got a number of rave reviews when it was first published in 2000, but in spite of it’s promising material, never seems to get beyond the musing stages. Even with his brain close at hand, the key to understanding Einstein’s genius remains tantalizingly out of reach.

You probably already have an opinion about this...

Melissa Bank's first book, The Girls' Guide to Hunting and Fishing, is probably best known as one of the novels that started the whole 'chick lit' phenomenon. This is a shame, as nearly everyone has an opinion about chick lit, most being negative (and certainly not helped by the whole Opal fiasco). Such opinions, however, run the risk of overlooking a promising young author in Banks. Her second work, The Wonder Spot, carries the same structure as Girls' Guide--short narratives from the life of our female protagonist, beginning with her teenage years and continuing, in spurts, to her late thirties. In this case, it's Sophie Applebaum, struggling with relationships, a nonexistant career, and the questions of where she will end up in life. Moving from Sophie's Jewish upbringing in Philadelphia to her struggles at life in Manhatten, Bank's writing is witty and insightful. The story does focus on Sophie's relationships, but all of her relations are equally treated, leaving The Wonder Spot more a take on family life in general than on the romantic relationships of 'chick lit'. I came to this book after reading a glowing recommendation for it, and I tend to agree that Bank is a writer worth watching.

Still tangled after 67 years.

Occasionally I get the urge to go back and read some of the classics within genres--the ones that most libraries have on the shelves not because of the overwhelming demand for them but because they have attained a sort of sacred status that exonerates them from any to-be-weeded list. I probably shouldn't be so harsh with Raymond Chandler's 1939 classic The Big Sleep. The first of Chandler's novels, it introduces Philip Marlowe, the Los Angeles-based private eye perfectly embodied in the equally classic 1946 film by Humphrey Bogart.

As one of the first (and best) of the hard-boiled, haunted PIs of crime lit, Marlowe's character can sometimes be pretty cliched to modern readers, but Chandler's ability to portray the desperate seediness of Depression-era LA still puts to shame many modern writers. If you can't feel the dank rot underlying Marlowe's LA, you're not paying very close attention to Chandler's prose. And in The Big Sleep, everyone has a bit of rot in them. The plot is famously knotted (Chandler himself claimed not to know the motives behind one of the deaths), but what begins as a case of blackmail swiftly turns into murder--and then the serious crimes start to happen. Chandler keeps the twists and turns coming, with characters so shady it's a wonder they don't immediately shrivel up in the sunlight.

In spite of all the deaths, there isn't a whole lot of graphic violence, and the language is relatively cuss-free. For those reasons, The Big Sleep may appeal to older readers turned off by gratuitous violence or foul language, but who still want a compelling mystery. For any reader who likes a complicated private eye on a twisted case, Chandler's work still sets a benchmark in crime fiction.

Savannah soap opera.

Okay, the only reason that I picked up John Berendt's 1993 book Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil was because the branch library I was browsing in had apparently just weeded all of their 900s, and this was pretty much the only thing that remotely appealed. When it appeared back when this writer was in braces, it had instant appeal, became a bestseller, was mentioned on This Old House and was made into film starring Kevin Spacey and Jude Law. That's right. Kevin Spacey and Jude Law. This must be compelling stuff.

Well, I'm always a little skeptical of bestsellers, and I seem to recall some sort of controversy over Berendt's truthiness in his 'plot'. In fact, Amazon calls the book a novel, but various aspects of the book (the real life trial it centers on, the people it depicts) are real and therefore should put the book squarely on the nonfiction shelves--which was where I found it. Publisher's Weekly considers it a travelogue, if that helps. I think you see from the title what I would call it.

However you want to pigeonhole the book, Berendt should get a lot of credit for finding a good story and the characters to go with it. The title refers to some voodoo mischief relating to the trial of a wealthy antiques dealer accused of murdering his lover in a fit of passion. Actually, that's one of the trials: like everything else in Savannah, things seem to be done a little differently. So along with the recounting of the four trials, we also hear of the denizens of this odd little city: the slightly disturbed inventor with a deadly bottle of poison and a surprising knowledge of the city water supply; the industrious voodoo witch; and most notably the over-the-top, sashaying Lady Chablis, formerly known as Frank.

It's kind of fun to watch soaps for a few minutes, and I did enjoy Midnight for about 2/3 of the book. But by the third of fourth go through with the trial, I was beginning to get a little bored. Even throughly odd people can become rather pedestrian if you spend too much time with them. Coupled with my distrust of Berendt's narrative (I'm the sort that likes a thick, definite line between my fiction and my nonfiction), I can only summon up a weak 'eh' by way of an opinion. If you like quasi-novel type travelogues with a true crime mix, it's worth a look.

Third time through...

I'm back in my native state, and for the occassion I thought I'd tackle a work by its most famous native author, F. Scott Fitzgerald. Well, actually the decision had more to do with the availablity of books while I was in the process of moving. For the week or so that I was in the nether world of being without official proof of residence I was also cut off from getting a library card, and thus had to rely on my own store of whatever's not currently boxed up. So, having already done the tenth-grade ritual of reading The Great Gatsby, I turned instead to Fitzgerald's 1934 novel, Tender Is The Night. In all honesty, I was a little skeptical that I would get through it, as I'd tried to complete it a few times in the seven or so years that it's been sitting on my shelf. Apparently all I needed to get through was to be jobless. Not the best way I'd like to get through some of the classics, but it worked in this case at least.

Written nine years after Gatsby, Tender Is The Night carries many of the same themes of the earlier book, but it seems much more of a personal book. The story centers on the decline of psychatrist Dick Diver, struggling to maintain his identity in the face of his wife Nicole's schizophrenia and wealth. That Fitzgerald's wife Zelda was undergoing treatment for the same illness at the time leads many to the conclusion that the novel is autobiographical. Whether or not this is the case, Tender Is The Night has a more personal feel than Gatsby. I can't say that I liked the later novel more than Gatsby--the earlier book had as much coolly beautiful prose with a little more plot--but Tender has a wistfulness that is lovely in its own way. Fitzgerald's writing is timeless, and for those who enjoy taking their time through well-developed characters and gorgeous prose will find it one of those classics that will reward the effort.

9/11, sans the flag waving.

Perhaps it is just me, but I really wish that Farrar, Straus and Giroux would have issued the hardcover version of William Langewiesche's perceptively written American Ground: Unbuilding the World Trade Center with the cover that eventually appeared on the paperback version. Not only is the paperback just more aestetically appealling in every way, but the gaping hole contrasting the soaring towers revealed by the depth mapping underscores the alien world Langewiesche discovers at what has become one of the most emotionally charged sections of real estate on earth. Langewiesche was the only journalist allowed full access to the World Trade Center site, chronicling the efforts to dismantle what amounts to the world's largest Jenga puzzle. But the central struggle goes far beyond the task of untangling WTC steel. Langewiesche writes of the tense encounters between civilian engineers, firefighters and police officers over the respect given (or lack of it) to the bodies of the victims. In the meantime, though, they manage to accomplish the heroic task of dismantiling the pile without losing any more lives.

Originally written for a three part series in The Atlantic Monthly, American Ground is a sensitive narrative of the uneasy future of the trade center site. The battles between the various parties and the very might needed to unbuild the site mirrors the urge to move on and rebuild versus the need to grieve. As of late, the tendency to claim the events of September 11, 2001 for various political motives or as a means of dicisiveness. Langewiesche avoids this by approaching this touchy subject with well-crafted prose that doesn't lag or devolve into patriotic inanity. The story of what happened at Ground Zero after the towers fell is just as revealing as the events during the attacks, and Langewiesche offers an intelligent perspective worth considering before we decide where we go from here.

A less-than-sunny Italian sojourn.

Writing reviews of classics such as E. M. Forster's Where Angels Fear to Tread is probably one of the more obvious cases of unnecessary venting over a foregone conclusion: with a classic author, it's very unlikely that anything I or any other modern commentator would have to say about the book would have any bearing on whether or not it's good literature. Published in 1905, Angels was the first of Forster's novels to be published, and while not as successful as his other works, still bears the imprint of Forster's mastery that would become more apparent in Howard's End and A Passage to India.

I came to this novel after reading and thoroughly enjoying A Room With a View. Like the later novel, Angels centers around the experiences of English tourists encountering and being transformed by the Italian countryside. But unlike the humorous, sunny experiences of Lucy Honeychurch in Room, Angels takes a decidedly darker tone. The novel opens as widow Lilia Herriton and her chaperone Miss Abbott leave for Italy, much to the relief of Lilia's in-laws. After receiving word that Lilia has decided to marry an Italian, the family considers her as good as dead. But then a letter comes that Lilia is actually dead, and she has left a baby boy behind. Determined to raise the boy in England, Philip and Harriet Herriton, along with Miss Abbott, set out for Tuscany to collect him from his father. But complications arise, and without giving away the rest of the plot, let me just say that the book is the first of Forster's indictments of Edwardian society. I didn't like Where Angels Fear to Tread very much, but I get the sense that he had to write it before he composed his other works. The same sentiments are here, just in a less refined manner.

A bona-fide star performance.

Unlike the last book I found while browsing at Memorial, Lee Server's new biography of Ava Gardner was not at all difficult to get through, in spite of its 500 pages of text. Ava Gardner: "Love Is Nothing" moves along swiftly and with as much spirit and vest as its subject. Today, Gardner isn't as well known an actress as her contemporaries Grace Kelly and Katharine Hepburn, but at the height of her career (late 1940s-50s), Gardner was the femme fatale of Hollywood. Her private life often topped her on-screen persona: much of her notoriety came from her affair with the then-married Frank Sinatra, but previous marriages to Mickey Rooney and Artie Shaw had already set the pattern for Gardner's heady and reckless love life.

Server has a lot to work with, detailing Gardner's rise from the North Carolina backwoods to through her rise to stardom and her slow decline as she became disillusioned following failed movies and love affairs. A combination of mistreatment by her studio (MGM almost made it a point to cast her in terrible films) and insecurity about her acting skills led Gardner to develop a legendary drinking habit, even for alcohol drenched Hollywood. In time, her destructive lifestyle would leave her restlessly wandering, searching for a permanent home and a man who wouldn't break her heart. In spite of her flaws though, Gardner remained a compelling figure. Server brings this aspect of the actress alive through a writing style that echoes Gardner's often ironic tone and extensive, explicative-filled quotes from Gardner and those who knew her.

I really didn't have much familiarity with Gardner's work, only having seen her in Mogambo and Show Boat a long time ago. In a way, though, Gardner's greatest dramatic turn was in the making of her own life, with held as much melodrama and triumph as any screen saga. Like the best type of director, Server frames his star so that her character can shine through to tell her own story. And for both author and star, it is a great performance.

Lose this book.

Believe me, I really wanted this book to be good. It's a clever concept, a collection of all the great books that might of been, a body of ethereal literature tantalizingly out of reach, by many of the greatest writers. So, it's ironic that The Book of Lost Books' should have the subtitle "An Incomplete History of All the Great Books You'll Never Read": for me, it will remain a book that's never read.

One thing about my reading: I make every effort to make it through all the books I begin. I really wanted to get through this one. And it started out fairly promising. The author, Stuart Kelly, writes in his introduction of his obsession with completeness, beginning at a very young age. Originally confined to novelizations of Dr. Who, Kelly's fixation soon extended to all aspects of literature, culminating in this volume. Beginning with Anonymous (who else?) and working through mostly western literature to postmodernist Georges Perec (d. 1982), Kelly muses over lost, never completed, never started, or otherwise not-with-us-here-today works. There are a few gems in his series of essays: the ancient Greek plays of Menander, praised by ancient authorities and thought lost for hundreds of years, were miraculously rediscovered in the twentieth century--only to reveal the great comic playwright was in actuality an overrated hack. Or the case of Camillo Querno, whose (mercifully) lost epic The Alexias was deemed so awful by Pope Leo X that Querno was awarded the post of poet laureate on the basis of his chutzpah in claiming authorship of such trash than from any artistic merit.

Unfortunately, such good moments are buried in dense, uninteresting verbiage that quickly becomes tedious. I pressed on into the account of Gottfried Vilhelm von Leibniz's Universal Encyclopedia before Kelly's pontificating just became too much. For those serious readers (and I mean those who read their Euripides in the original Greek), Kelly's book might hold their interest; for those not interested in dense, speculative prose, leave The Book of Lost Books on the shelf.