Hilary's Book Blog

Mmm…essays…I’ve loved Wilkinson’s writing since I came across Midnights in the mid-80s. Even as a young writer he had an amazing gift for vivid description and acute character portrayals, and he’s gotten stronger with age: able to play with form, to write about very personal experiences without being self-congratulatory or maudlin, to explore fringe areas of human behavior and make them more accessible. (He didn’t win me over with the hockey stories, but that’s a tough sell…) What fascinated me most about the book, though, was actually the author photo on the back flap. Wilkinson’s incredibly good-looking, and I remember his photo on the jacket of Midnights as a harbinger of the “as long as they look sexy, we’ll sign them” publishing trend. I’d read a couple of the essays before I turned to the back flap, looking for the brooding, dark-haired man I remembered–and he’s gray! OK, how can that be a surprise–but it makes me realize that twenty years have in fact passed since he was the hot young thing. And just as Jonathan is more handsome than ever to me now and 23-year-olds look like babies, the late-forties(?) Wilkinson with his short graying hair is far more good-looking now. But that’s not what kept drawing me back to the photo. I couldn’t help staring at it because the way he’s looking off to one side, with a purely joyous, spontaneous grin, makes my eyes want to follow his and see what he’s seeing. The Mona Lisa’s enigmatic smile never particularly drew me, but I think I understand better now why people find her mysteriously fascinating.

About half-way through the second Aubrey-Maturin novel, the thought of fourteen more in the series made my heart sink. The jargon and indirect exposition (like the relationship between Jack Aubrey and Diana Villiers, initially cloaked in an allusive fog) put me off. But then the characterization grabbed me again and although I want a breather, I’ll probably go on to number 3. The difficulties of supervising people, especially those who manage others, the politics of advancement, and the ups and downs of friendship are all particularly well-handled. Maturin and Aubrey are very different, each admirable in their own way; one of the most striking aspects of the book is the clarity with which the two see each other, strengths and flaws, and yet how invisible the nature of each is to himself. As reader one can identify with both and yet find both exasperating. Particularly funny: Stephen Maturin bringing his glass beehive complete with 60,000 bees on board the Lively.

[Aubrey] went below, noticed the smell of midshipmen in the fore-cabin, walked through the after-cabin, and found himself in total darkness.

‘Close the door,’ cried Stephen, swarming past him and clapping it to.

‘What’s amiss?’ asked Jack, whose mind had moved so deep into naval life that he had forgotten the bees, as he might have forgotten even a vivid nightmare.

‘They are remarkably adaptable–perhaps the most adaptable of all social insects,’ said Stephen, from another part of the cabin. ‘We find them from Norway to the burning wastes of the Sahara; but they have not grown quite used to their surroundings yet.’

‘Oh God,’ said Jack, scrabbling for the handle. ‘Are they all out?’

‘Not all,’ said Stephen. ‘And learning from Killick that you expected guests, I conceived you might prefer them away. There is so much ignorant predjudice against bees in a dining room.’ … ‘Urge them to mount on your finger, Jack, and carry them back to their hive.’

For me, self-help books have always been like potato chips–can’t read just one, not really nourishing, the initial deliciousness doesn’t last, etc. I’ll take it as a sign of growth that this is the first one I’ve read this year (not the first I’ve skimmed, but that doesn’t count)–and it’s better than most. The primary goal I got out of it is to try to leave work ON TIME more often. Many of my co-workers leave at 5 on the dot and theoretically it would be fine for me to do so; but 5:15 is early for me. There’s so much to do, and when I’m at work I want to stay there… (when I’m at home I want to stay at home!) But I know I would be less stressed if I didn’t give myself so much more to do than could possibly fit into a workday–and that’s the point that Davidson makes: “Time ‘speeds up’ and you seem to have less when …you work in front of a clock to meet an unrealistic time frame; …you jam-pack your calendar with activities and appointments.” He also recommends getting enough sleep, which I’m sold on as a goal. I’d probably put this in the top 10 of time management books I’ve read. I’m still looking for the one with the magic formula, though. That’s why I keep reaching for the next potato chip…

Similar in flavor to Jim Mullen’s It Takes a Village Idiot–long-suffering, neurotic guy is won over by his wife to rural living/raising animals while retaining his snarky “only a hopeless fool would do this” attitude. Quite funny, and strangely touching. Tarte talks about his depression and how medication sort of helps, but it’s the bizarre, time-consuming routines imposed by the constant parade of needy, nutty animals that do the most to keep him happy. I really love animals, but reading this book reminded me why I would never consider owning a parrot. It also made me thankful not to have a whole menagerie to put up with and cry over. We used to own pet rabbits, and it was nostalgic to read about brothers Bertie and Rollo, who fight when together, but:

If Rollo lay against the right side of his cage, Bertie would press his body against the left, letting fur and flesh mingle through the wires. As long as they didn’t share a common space, they were inseparable.

When we had rabbits, we ended up with two bonded pairs of rabbits. When the male of one pair and the female of the other died, Eiffel and Ruffin, the survivors, had exactly the same relationship as Bertie and Rollo. I strung chicken wire inside the hutch, creating two triangular cages, and they clearly enjoyed living together yet separately. Like people who need to each keep their own apartment?

The Tartes devote their lives to making their pets happy–no effort is too great–and they adopt abandoned or injured animals. But the book does reveal a side of pet ownership that I sympathize with but which bothers me: the desire to collect, to sample, the drive to get a new type of animal the next time around, to try them all. And it’s exactly that which motivates the buying and selling of pets, and has a lot of unfortunate side effects. The monkey side of human beings coming out…

Many people have told me how good this novel is, but the clincher was my memory of the elderly beekeeper, a dignified, reserved man, who told me that it made him cry. Yes, it is a very, very good book, although not one of my favorites ever. It didn’t grab me as hard as some books can–too feminine? too Southern? too predictable? I don’t know. Maybe it’s my own mother issues, since the major theme is maternal loss and betrayal. And the magic of bees…that is well-done, though I preferred Beeing: Life, Motherhood, and 180,000 Honeybees by Rosanne Thomas. Too bad the illustration on the cover looks more like a wasp. I hate it when people call wasps bees. Even if I do understand, as an adult, how easy it is to make that mistake and how most people just don’t really care–it buzzes, it’s yellow and black, it’s a “bee”–it still drives me crazy because I feel that the poor bees are getting a bad rep!

“You have to find a mother inside yourself. We all do. Even if we already have a mother, we still have to find this part of ourselves inside…. You don’t have to put your hand on Mary’s heart to get strength and consolation and resuce, and all the other things we need to get through life,” she said. “You can place it right here on your own heart. Your own heart.“

I own all the sequels to Wonderful Flight and will probably give them away to my friend after reading them again. They just don’t hold up that well, alas. Horatio Q. Peabody, the meddling, egotistical young man who stows away aboard Chuck and David’s spaceship, is a funny character, but otherwise the story is not very interesting (aside from the briefly-mentioned, ominous “hole in space”–I hope it shows up again in the later books). There’s the same strange feeling that Mr. Bass and his Basidium counterpart, Great Ta, somehow know and control everything that happens. But now that I think of it, it does make David and Chuck’s experiences similar to those of a child–that feeling that grown-ups are omniscient and omnipotent.

A collection of pieces, most previously published, most autobiographical in one way or another. I like Tan’s writing a lot, and she can also be very funny (notably in the essay about singing for the Rock Bottom Remainders, which I had already read in the wonderful eponymous book, and her terrific commencement address at Simmons College). Especially insightful: “The Language of Discretion,” refuting the idea that language can be read as forming character (specifically the idea that “Chinese has no words for ‘yes’ and ‘no'” and therefore Chinese people are “discreet and modest.” She captures the unease I felt, but couldn’t put into words, when reading this story about French humor. The last essay is about her struggles with misdiagnosed Lyme disease–very sad. I hope she is doing better.

Can a family member say something to you that would seem perfectly innocuous to a stranger, yet sends you right up the wall, so furious you can’t see straight? Or do your innocent remarks make people in your family crazy, so you feel you can’t even open your mouth? READ THIS BOOK. Tannen’s You Just Don’t Understand was a brilliant, non-judgemental description of the ways most American men and women communicate differently (John Gray of “Mars and Venus” must owe most of his large fortune to her, since his concepts are just watered-down and generalized versions of hers), so I figured this would be good, but it’s actually even better.

Tannen discusses communication between parents and children, spouses, siblings, and inlaws, describing the various obstacles that can cause people to talk in circles and increase each other’s frustration. The most useful concept to me was the continuum between connection and control. In YJDU she contrasted the frequent male conversation goal of figuring out who’s one-up with the frequent female one of connecting (and similarly, the styles of report-talk vs rapport-talk). Here she shows that both desires are frequently at work. One person makes a remark to establish connection (for example, giving advice) and the other person hears it as an attempt to establish control (telling me what to do), to be put one-down. Tannen recommends “reframing” (which seems in essence to mean looking at it from the other end of the continuum). A side effect of this book’s transcription of actual conversations is amazement that any real communication happens at all!

I can’t help reading it all the way through because I am a completist, but, man, this is a terrible book. This is the dregs of Yates’ writing I mentioned earlier. All his faults are on parade with nary a redeeming quality. The inside look at the British courts of the 20s could possibly be considered one, but it’s buttered with self-flattery, and Yates’ vision seems so clouded with sentiment and bigotry that I can’t even trust it’s an accurate representation of what he witnessed. Two particularly annoying aspects: A). Berry, Daphne, and Jill lapping up Boy’s (extravagantly dull) stories as though they’ve never heard them before (these people have supposedly lived in each other’s pockets since childhood). B) Frequent references to incidents too shocking to relate. Geez, tell or don’t tell, but don’t try to have it both ways.

A youth librarian from Clarks Summit recommended this to me, saying she wanted to adopt all the boys and take them home. I did like it very much, but it verges on what’s become excellent-YA-novel formula: a narrator wise beyond his years and wonderful in every way except for a temper (he’s smart, handsome, and a natural athlete too! plus he has the absolute perfect girlfriend!); nastier than nasty villains; a motley team that comes together and helps each one feel better about himself. Reads very much like Jerry Spinelli, Joan Bauer, or Bruce Brooks. T.J. (The Tao—his given name) Jones is mixed-race in a racist town, and a battered wife & abused child are a subplot; I can’t say these issues aren’t handled well, but there’s just something that rings a little false. Maybe it’s that TJ, despite his desire to beat up the thugs, ultimately is remarkably saintly (let alone his adoptive dad, who dies a Christ-like death at the end). Maybe it’s the (black) counselor’s name being “Georgia Brown” and actually referred to as “Sweet Georgia Brown.” (The copy I read is advanced uncorrected proofs, so maybe an editor convinced Crutcher to change it). Maybe it’s the father figure who ends up coaching TJ’s rag-tag swim team—he lives illegally in the gym so he can send his son to college, works double shifts at fast food joints, yet is perfectly happy to get by on 4 hours sleep a night so he can coach in the early AM and drive them to all the swim meets (hours in each direction). But these are relatively minor gripes—it was a compelling read and I rooted for all the boys.