It's not all been light and frothy novels and frivolous reading around here, although that was indeed exactly what I needed for a time. In fact, my favorite novel caught me by surprise. Kazuo Ishiguro's The Buried Giant had been sitting on my pile for a while, and I believe I had picked it up more than once, but somehow it never clicked. I can see how that can happen as it is not what I might have expected from Ishiguro, and yet the more I read the more I was drawn in. The author is a fabulous storyteller, and on that front this novel does not disappoint, or perhaps it does, if you are looking for a simple tale with easy answers, or if you have been lured into this novel unwittingly by its use of Authurian legend and magic. But although the author uses these devices, this is neither a historical novel or a traditional fantasy, but a multi-layered allegory, ostensibly about memory, but read on multiple levels it is about love, life, memory, war, the need to remember, the need to forget, and how ego sometimes masquerades as altruism and vice versa. In short it is about life, and about what is truly important, truly human. And yet what struck me the most was perhaps how truly enjoyable it was to read this novel. I was, and continue to be, enchanted, although I wish perhaps that I had written more about the book when I was actually reading it.
I have intended to write more often about my readings and the word-inspired musings that cross my brain, but I suppose that I should be content that I write anything at all at the moment as I seem to be perfectly content just puttering along. But at least there is the monthly post, with occasional updates appearing randomly.
My second favorite book read in March was another not-so-new book, W.S. Merwin's The Lice, a book of poems, and difficult poems at that. Although it was not at all intentional, they were, in an odd sort of way a suitable companion to the Ishiguro. The Lice was written during the Vietnam era, and the poems are filled with metaphor and allegory, and often filled with shocking and brutal images, mundane activities that take a turn, leaving this reader feeling like she had been turned inside out and upside down. Ishiguro does the same thing, but in a much more subtle and pleasing way. Of course we need both: to be shocked and brought up short on some occasions, and at others to be lead innocently down a flower-strewn path before we encounter the precipice. Merwin reminded me of the Old Testament book of Ezekiel, mostly because Merwin and Ezekiel are doing much the same thing, of course in different times and for different audiences. Or perhaps it was just that my EFM group was reading Ezekiel as I was in the middle of the Merwin. Either way, I might wish I had written, but I didn't, and the poems and stories and words still haunt me. I wonder sometimes if we have grown more stupid even as we've grown more technologically advanced. I don't believe the ancients believed their stories were factual for a moment, only that they understood that metaphor and allegory pointed to truth in a way that experience and fact never could.
But what else did I read?
I mentioned All Dressed in White, just the other day, here. I also read The Sleeping Beauty Killer and Every Breath You Take from the same series. I enjoyed the stories. I like the main character. I always figure out who the killer is long before the end of the book, but not necessarily the reason or the circumstances. Similarly, although not a mystery, Ginger's Reckoning, was fast and entertaining, and captured the whole greed/scandal/look-the-other-way thing going on in the 1980s, but I wish it had more depth and fewer easy answers.
Also high on the easy answer scale was The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah. Hannah is a fabulous story-teller, and the book was a great read. The kudos about this book are well-deserved in that it is a great indulge-yourself-with-a-cup-of-tea-and-enter-another-world type of book. Set in France during World War II, it reminded me of several other historical novels exploring related settings and questions that have cropped up in recent years, without being quite as treacly, and, surprisingly, that proved to be a disappointment. My impression was that Hannah's skill as a writer has grown since I last read one of her novels, quite some time ago, enough to make me wish this book was more than it actually was. I'm on the waiting list for her new novel, way down on the waiting list, so that will be a while, and I've picked up one of her early novels at the local second-hand book store to take on an upcoming trip, just to resolve memories and impressions; besides, it is always good to have a throw-away read on a plane.
Other books were as follows:
The Hidden Life of Trees, by Peter Wohlleben was discussed here.
L'appart is David Lebovitz's tale of finding and renovating his Paris apartment. Charming and disarming the book was occasionally frustrating to this reader simply because I marveled at his naïveté, at least where his contractor was concerned. But that is actually one of the strengths of this book: I could never be the baker that Lebovitz is, and we have different skills. One of the things I have learned is that it is hard for us to accept that people we admire for one set of skills may appear ill-prepared, or even incompetent in other areas. But this is one of the unpleasant truths of the human condition. We all excel at something and yet are incompetent in other arenas, we just don't want to be reminded of our own failings. Writing a light-hearted book about difficult times is harder than it sounds, and incredibly brave. Kudos.
The Gluten-Free Revolution came up because I am once again going through cookbooks and books about food, thinking about what will have to be packed up and stored during remodeling and what is worth hanging onto for the duration. No answer to that question yet, but it did lead me to spending a week or so poring over Bouchon Bakery. Lowell includes a recipe from the latter book, but she prints it using measurements rather than weights, and the numbers felt odd. I wanted the weights so I got the book out of the library. I've updated the recipe to include the weights, and I won't buy the book, as I probably could not use most of it, but I spent quite a few happy evenings reading about baking and imagining flavors in my head. Just the reading reminded me of my younger self, the baker, and although I some part of me would love to get involved in baking again, another part of me knows I would lose the battle with my sweet tooth were I to embark on such a path. Everything in Bouchon Bakery, with the exception of the one recipe, would have to be adapted, but I certainly spent hours thinking of a time when I could bake, and was ignorant of celiac disease and ignorant of the dangers gluten and butter posed to my well-being. And then, like all good trips down memory lane, I was happy to close the book, return it to the library, and embrace the future.
Peculiar Ground was beautifully written and I would repeatedly stop and just savor the prose, but neither the story nor the characters fully captured my imagination. Beautiful as it was, prose alone, for this reader at least, was not quite enough. I did appreciate the way the author pulled together the two timelines at the end of the novel. This duel or multiple timeline approach, with the subsequent stitching together is a current trend, and it was managed well here, but still it was not enough for me to care. There was also a theme about gardens and trees, and the arrogance of men and gardeners in the book which struck me perhaps because I had just finished The Hidden Life of Trees.
I struggled a bit more with The Unforgotten. This first novel was actually quite well done, even though I struggled at times. I figured out who the real killer was early on, and the murder mystery was not the source of the suspense in the novel, but I felt that at times the tension fell flat, and didn't really connect or build up to the final reveal. But I am nitpicking here, and the characters and the story have stayed with me, far more in fact that anyone in Peculiar Ground. The author had a good handle on how memory, choices, and perceived betrayal and even good intentions can haunt one and shape a life in ways never imagined, and I am even willing to admit that the unsettledness of the story line, and its opaqueness may have been intentional, just as the perceptions and intentions of the main characters were opaque to each other, making the end all the more tragic. It is an ambitious first novel, and I am looking forward to more from this author.
