For the first time since I started the “books of the month” posts I can only find 3 books I really liked this month — but they are great:
Making Toast – a poignant and pitch-perfect memoir of a grandfather
The Secret Life of the Grown-up Brain – an optimistic view at how smart we middle-aged people are (yeah!)
The Double Comfort Safari Club – another installment from Botswana, a good one this time!
I was prepared for some serious schlock. The blurb on the cover of One Amazing Thing promised the adventures of a group of carefully diverse people trapped in an Indian consulate after an earthquake (in an unnamed city, but one that feels much like San Francisco). How much more boringly politically correct can we get? And yet, as the group starts to tell personal stories while waiting, in vain, for rescue, I was drawn into the stories of civil wars, bad marriages, and new beginnings. Despite the unsatisfying ending I enjoyed the book.
Note to some doubting family members: crowbars are most useful after earthquakes, as noted by the one character who knows something about survival techniques on page 48 and who wishes he had one handy! (I got a crowbar as a specifically requested Christmas present a couple of years ago and I hope never to have an occasion to use it. It has been the source of much amused dinner conversation.)
How I loved Anne Lamott’s Grace (Eventually) and Operating Instructions. Alas, Imperfect Birds simply bored me. Perhaps it’s because it’s a novel, and the same themes that work so well as a journal — life in granola Marin County, struggling with how best to raise children, navigating right and wrong — simply do not adapt well to characters who are not as complex and charmingly vulnerable as the author.
In any case, there’s a teenager whose friends come back from rehab to partake in more wild parties, her mother who does not want to accept the pretty obvious fact of the daughter’s drug abuse and just keeps providing money, rides, and whatever else is needed to continue in the same vein while she worries about whether her precious daughter will be able to get into a good college (perhaps there are more pressing issues to worry about?), and a most likable (step)dad who, left to his own devices, would comfortably impose some limits and well-deserved consequences — but is never left to his own devices. So we get utterly boring descriptions of being on drugs (why does anyone seek the effect of not being oneself? clearly I don’t see the point); brooding on how terribly expensive cocaine is (good thing, methinks); and, I feel a rant coming on, incorrect French quotes (please! I will gladly proofread any French phrases in any upcoming book).
Read the memoirs instead. They are wonderful.
The Private Patient is a journalist looking for a new look at a fancy cosmetic surgery clinic located in a historic castle — and she is promptly murdered. The famous Adam Dalgliesh is dispatched to investigate and finds that many of those who work at the clinic have pasts they are trying to hide and axes to grind, sometimes with each other.
Suspense, elegant writing, and intellectual notes and musings carries the reader through the thick book, replete with more murders and an apparently gratuitous assault of a minor character. It’s quite pleasant but somehow lacks convincing center.
Another book with a wonderful premise that fails to deliver. The Irresistible Henry House is a “practice baby”, an orphan who is raised in the home economics department of a women’s college with the goal of preparing young ladies to become mothers. So every week, a new student comes to live in the practice house and feeds, cleans, and plays with the baby until she passes it on to the next student — or until the baby turns two, at which age he is promptly adopted into a “real” family. It’s amazing that no one figured that perhaps this was not such a great setup for the baby, one, and two, that women could perhaps be trained in other fields than home economics.
But the book tells the life story of Henry House, not just his first two years. And the author is determined to show that such a succession of “mothers” will necessarily turn the boy into a cad who is unable to form lasting attachments with women. Never mind that his adoptive mother is somewhat awkward and thwarted in her affections by the boy’s real and powerful grandfather. Never mind that his real mother finds him again and abandons him again, twice! Never mind that much of his adventures could be viewed as benign philandering rather than — must we always go there? — his mothers’ fault, plural this time. So we plod onward for another 250 pages as Henry grows up and dutifully shows off the author’s considerable research into life in New York City in the 50’s, the Disney studios in the 60’s, and London in the late 60’s. This reader was bored.
Making Toast is a lovely memoir of a grandfather, complete with adorable anecdotes of young children’s adventures and their grandfather’s inventions. Amongst my favorites, his reading pretend stories from a book his grandson chose (from the grandfather’s library!), The Letters of James Joyce, about going to the beach, or going to the playground, and a few closer to reality bu pitched to a two-year old (“I’m leaving Ireland.”) But the real story is that the kids’ mother, the author’s daughter, has died young and suddenly and they are helping their son-in-law raise three small children rather than enjoy semi-retirement in what we glimpse to be a very comfortable New England house, abandoned for their grandchildren’s suburban home.
There’s occasional sadness, grief, despair, but the tone is not sentimental or dramatic. To balance their essential bad luck, those children are so very lucky to have the grandparents they have.