Aussie ramblings in the Arctic.

This is probably the most obscure book that I've pulled from the shelves yet, having never heard of the title, the author or its subject matter. As the title implies, Cassandra Pybus' 2002 work The Woman Who Walked To Russia: A Writer's Search for a Lost Legend is just that: Pybus' attempt to track down one Lillian Alling, who reportedly walked across Canada's densest wilderness in the 1920s, all in an attempt to get home to Siberia. It sounds implausible, yet when Pybus hears of Lillian's legend, she immediately packs up and jets off from her balmy Australian home, meets up with a long-lost friend, and starts wandering through the wilds of British Columbia, the Yukon Territory and into Alaska.

Pybus' trek doesn't start out on a promising note, as she's unable to find much information on Lillian and her friend turns out to have changed drastically, a fact made all the more trying by the close quarters the two are forced to share. Pybus strays more from Lillian's story as the trail goes cold, instead weaving in tales of the Yukon gold rush, stories from the inhabitants along the way and overall impressions of a region that has become, if anything, more isolated in the decades since Lillian's feat. As Pybus crosses over the border into Alaska, she is nearly convinced that either the epic walk never actually occurred, or that time and imagination had added to the truth as to make it unrecognizable. But just as Pybus is about to leave the Arctic, she stumbles on a possible explaination that might provide a satisfying conclusion to Lillian's improbable walk.

I had pretty high hopes for this book, as it started out strongly enough. But once Pybus actually hit the trail, I started to lose interest. Much of this had to do with her personal problems with her traveling companion, and as I noted with Driving Mr. Albert, it's never a good idea to bring such emotional baggage on a trip, and a much worse idea to chose to write about them. Once Pybus is on her own, though, I still wasn't really able to muster up much interest in her travels, which seemed mostly intersted in the ordeal of Jack London during the gold rush, and the fate of those drawn to the wilderness (especially Chris McCandless, chronicled in Jon Krakauer's bestseller Into the Wild). I really only kept reading to learn more about Lillian, but the dearth of information on her is too frustrating for both author and reader. Overall, the premise was promising, but like much else in the forbidding wilderness Pybus crosses, The Woman Who Walked to Russia concludes with a great sense of emptiness and missed opportunity.

The force of her friendship.

I can't recall exactly why I decided to pick up Sigrid Nunez's novel The Last of Her Kind. I vaguely recollect seeing a review or a blurb somewhere that mentioned it, or maybe it was the cover design that appealed to me, a look that oddly brings Ikea to mind. Whatever the reason, I was drawn into Nunez's tale of a relationship between two very different women drawn together by the ideals of the counterculture '60s, only to discover years later the emotional price of that unchecked idealism.

The Last of Her Kind takes shape as a memoir, penned by Georgette George, a scholarship student thrust into the liberal hotbed of Barnard College in the fall of 1968. A child of a broken, violent home, Georgette finds herself the roommate of the brilliant, radical Ann Drayton. Determined to rid herself of the 'bourgeois affectation' of her wealthy upbringing, Ann informs Georgette that she had hoped to be placed with a roommate as entirely different from herself as possible, but in spite of her disappointment in having a white roommate, the women become friends. But as Ann becomes increasingly obsessed with correcting injustices in the world, an irrepreable rift seems to end the relationship. Several years later, though, Ann is convicted of murder, and Georgette is again reminded of how intertwined her own life is with Ann's, her own relationships with her family and lovers shaped by the force of Ann's rise and fall.

Nunez makes references to The Great Gatsby throughout the text, and indeed The Last of Her Kind concerns itself with the same themes of lost idealism and the experiences of a particular generation. Georgette and Ann (or their kin) seem to take in the full '60s experience--everything from acid to Woodstock. Some parts seem a little cliche--I skimmed the overly-long love letter penned to Mick Jagger, a result of an especially bad acid trip. Despite a misstep here and there, Nunez's writing is well-crafted, carefully creating the web that keeps the two women connected in spite of their distance from each other.

As a portrait of '60s counterculture, The Last of Her Kind sometimes strains belief. It fairs better as a novel of the forces of friendship over time, and closes with a hopeful note on the power of humanity in the face of an all-consuming ideal.

The kids are all right. Avoid the parents.

It seems Americans like to have some sort of constant crisis in education, the only change being what form this dire emergency takes. The crisis de jour is not so much failing schools, burned out teachers or the appalling disparity in quality in public schools between low- and high-income areas--these problems have been with us for so long as to have practically expected. No, the major issue now is far more serious: the possibility that some children will be rejected at elite, private schools, and just may--gasp!- be forced to attend public school.

The topic of overachieving children and the race to get into the 'right' college has been a hot topic as of late. Alan Eisenstock joins the fray with his expose on the private, elite kindergartens that are the first step towards the Ivies. The Kindergarten Wars: The Battle to Get into America's Best Private Schools charts the process of several families as they attempt to get their four-year-olds into elementary schools that cost where a year's tuition rivals that of many private colleges. Eisenstock is himself a former board member for a private, independent school in California, so he knows this ground well. In addition to following the parents through the process (and I stress that it is the parents that are worked up into a lather over these schools; the kids are off blithely enjoying what's left of their childhood), Eisenstock looks in on the almost entirely subjective admissions process with the people that are paid to determine what tot to take and which to reject.*

The results are fairly predictable. Focusing on the mothers (fathers tend to be absent in the pursuit of the thick admissions envelope), Eisenstock portrays women growing increasingly desperate to get their child into the 'right' school, their interviews punctuated with 'I's and 'we's, and strategizing over interview tactics. Admissions officers aren't much better, scorning the sense of entitlement and elitism displayed by some parents, but never entirely addressing the role money and social connections play in selection. The interactions between parents, school directors and other interested parties (educational consultants and directors of so-called 'feeder nursery schools') comes off as a battle of nerves, with parents freaking out over the perceived high stakes.

Eisenstock observes all of this with as objective an eye as could be expected, given his background. His Amazon book description states he was a former screenwriter, and this shows in his recreation of dialogue and plotting. If anything else, Kindergarten Wars is compusively readable, for its cast of 'good' and 'bad' parents and nerve-wracking questions of who will get in where. But Kindergarten Wars' major failing is that it presents the insanity of the race to get into these elite enclaves as a major problem in education. Focusing so much on the problems of these bright, well-cared for kids is interesting, and it is a pity that they can't get into the school of choice, but if they don't they still have a high chance of succeeding in society. Other than a brief discussion of the problems with the No Child Left Behind law, Eisenstock focuses entirely on how people get into the elite schools, and gives almost no attention to why the parents see these schools as so much better than local public ones. By concentrating solely on the upper escelons of education, Eisenstock misses the real story.

*I should mention that Eisenstock disguises the names and, with the exception of New York City, the location of the elite schools he writes about. He instead (to this reader's great annoyance) substitutes aliases based on names and places mentioned in Pride and Prejudice.

Behind the fourteenth door.

Neil Gaiman's Coraline is a bit of a departure from my usual reading in a few ways: I don't usually read children's works, nor do I tend to listen to audiobooks. Yet in the name of trying something different and because I was facing a lengthy drive to see family, I picked up Gaiman's little tale.

First the audio aspect: Gaiman does his own reading on this three disc set, accompanied by the spooky electronic sounds of The Gothic Arches. First-time listeners might need to get a little used to Gaiman's British accent, especially over the din of a rough hightway, but he does a marvelous job of personifiying of each of his quirky characters. The major complaint that I had was in the timing of the individual tracks. There are only about 5 tracks per disc, which translates to roughly 15 minutes per track--entirely too long for easy browsing. It's puzzling that the discs were recorded as such, as Gaiman's text has numerous natural pauses that would be ideal for a new track.

Coraline is Gaiman's first novel for children, and has the blend of the fantastic and the real world that is Gaiman's trademark. Coraline is a girl bored with her surroundings and oddball neighbors until her harried mother recommends that she count the number of doors and windows in their new flat. Discovering a door that opens to a brick wall, Coraline's interest is piqued. The next morning, the door suddenly opens to reveal a long hallway leading to her own flat and her Other family. Lured by the promise of things to do, Coraline is tempted to stay, but is uneasy with the Other Mother who seems just a bit too intent on her remaining. When Coraline discovers the bodyless voices of lost children in a closet, Coraline knows she must escape through the door to her old life. Thrown into a battle of wits with her Other Mother, aided only by a scheeming cat, Coraline has to find the souls of her real family and the lost children before she can return to the life that she now fully appreciates.

I wouldn't call Coraline a plucky heroine--determined and strong are adjectives that suit her better. Her early boredom with her life and struggle with the lure of her Other Mother makes her human, and one can't but pull for her while she fights her way back home. When Coraline appeared in 2002, it was awarded the Hugo and Nebula Awards for Best Novella, as well as a few others. I don't usually read fantasy novels, but Gaiman's fantastic worlds are just a warped enough version of reality to appeal to those who generally avoid the genre. Its fable-like premise might turn off teen readers, but for upper elementary and lower middle school kids, Coraline's parallel world is worth exploring.

Comment bugaboo.

Just a note regarding leaving comments on this site: I've opened up the comment moderation so that any comments that are posted appear immediately on the site, rather than going to my email for me to post after reviewing them, as originally structured. I do read the comments and I've tried to respond to some in the past, but due to a sluggish DSL connection, or a full hard drive on my computer, I've been unable to post responses. So, long story short, if you want to comment, feel free to do so, and I'll try to work out the problem, or respond from another computer. As I figure out where this blog is headed, any suggestions are welcome!