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Book 227: The Kingmaker’s Daughter


“I am fifteen, I have been married and widowed, the daughter-in-law of a Queen of England and then the ward of a royal duke. I have been a pawn for one player after another; but now I am making my own decision and playing my own cards.”

Dates read: April 20-24, 2018

Rating: 7/10

That men and women continue to not be truly equal, in this day and age, is hard to understand. But it’s reality nonetheless. When I get frustrated about it, though, I remind myself that as far as we still have to go, it’s still much much better than where we’ve been. It was only just about 100 years ago that the right to vote in the United States was extended to women. For hundreds of years before that (and still to this day, in some places), women didn’t own property, we were property: bought and sold and traded by the men around us.

The usual way that women are bartered is the grand old institution of marriage. Before it was idealized by Disney movies as the end state of True Love (I mean, who cares what happens after, amirite?), it was more a business transaction than anything else. They might have had sweet gowns, but no one was more vulnerable to being the glue in a new family alliance than the daughters of medieval nobles. Philippa Gregory’s fourth novel in her Cousin’s War series, The Kingmaker’s Daughter, focuses on just this: the way the Earl of Warwick, one-time beloved mentor of York King Edward IV, uses his two daughters, Isabel and Anne, as pawns in his game of power. Though the girls knew every comfort their father’s considerable wealth could bring them, they were ultimately helpless to do anything but marry as they were told.

For Isabel, that meant wedding Edward’s younger brother George, the spoiled favorite always looking for a way to depose his brother. When an attempted rebellion in his favor was quelled, Warwick allied himself with the Lancasters, and married his younger daughter, Anne (whose perspective this book follows) to Edward of Westminster, the only child of the deposed Lancaster King Henry VI. The uprising in support of the old king and then the young prince ultimately failed as well, and Anne was taken in by her sister and brother-in-law while her husband was executed. While Isabel eventually died in childbirth (as was unfortunately common in those days), Anne married her other brother-in-law…the youngest of the York sons, Richard. Richard eventually becomes King Richard III, making Anne the queen of England, as her father had once dreamed…but this triumph was undermined when her son, her only child, died around age 10. Anne’s own death followed not long thereafter.

This is a solid, unspectacular entry in Gregory’s series. She’s helped by the fact that Anne’s life was kind of bonkers, with her father’s shifting alliances, her marriage into a family that she had known as sworn enemies her entire life, her lengthy confinement at her sister’s hand and the escape she had to plot to marry Richard, the fact that she and her sister declared her mother legally dead and imprisoned her so they could seize their inheritance, her struggles to conceive, brief happiness on the throne and then a fade-out, made all the more sad by her husband’s attention to his beautiful young niece, Princess Elizabeth York. Gregory doesn’t give Anne a particularly big or compelling personality (she’s kind of blandly plucky and determined), so it’s fortunate there’s a lot of plot to weave around her. Reading it just made me reflect on how trapped women of that era were in a lot of ways: Anne is constantly put into situations she doesn’t want to be in because the men in her life (her father, her first husband, her brother-in-law, her second husband) decide to do whatever is best for them, and she just kind of has to deal with or plot to undermine them as best she can.

There are some quibbles I had with the way Gregory told her story: I thought the witchy woo-woo stuff with the Woodvilles that I find irritating was a little overdone, though it does track that a woman like Anne would have believed in it. And like I mention above, Anne’s characterization isn’t especially strong despite her position at the center of the story. For the most part, though, the plot trots along briskly and it’s engaging and entertaining. If you’re this far into this series, you’ve probably figured out what you’re going to get from it, and this book neither delights or disappoints. Solid historical fluff read!

One year ago, I was reading: All the President’s Men (review to come)

Two years ago, I was reading: Freedom

Three years ago, I was reading: Innocent Traitor

Four years ago, I was reading: A Great and Terrible Beauty

Book 222: Outline

“It is interesting how keen people are for you to do something they would never dream of doing themselves, how enthusiastically they drive you to your own destruction: even the kindest ones, the ones that are most loving, can rarely have your interests truly at heart, because they are usually advising you from within lives of greater security and greater confinement, where escape is not a reality but simply something they dream of sometimes. Perhaps, he said, we all are like animals in the zoo, and once we see that one of us has got out of the enclosure we shout at him to run like mad, even though it will only result in him becoming lost.” 

Dates read: April 6-8, 2018

Rating: 6/10

Every so often, I wake up and am confused about where I am. Why is the sun coming through the windows in that way? Why am I not in my childhood room, in the bed I slept in until I graduated high school? Or the one from my third year of law school, to this day my favorite apartment I’ve ever lived in? It doesn’t happen regularly, but on the occasions it does I have to remind myself that I’m not 17 and needing to get into the shower so I won’t be late for school, or that I’m not in Tuscaloosa anymore, that was literally a decade ago now. That I’m me, the me that exists right now, and I’m exactly where I was when I went to sleep last night.

That feeling of poignant unreality permeates Rachel Cusk’s Outline, which follows Faye, a British woman recently divorced and in Greece to teach a week-long writing course over the summer. The book consists of ten conversations that she has with other people, starting with her seat neighbor on the flight over (with whom she continues to interact during the week) and ending with the next person staying in the apartment she’s been put up in. In between, she talks to old friends, new friends, and her class about subjects ranging from animals to marriage and divorce. Well, more like gets talked at rather than talks to. Faye is not a big participant in these conversations, and so what we get about her is…wait for it…mostly an outline, defined more by what’s going on around her than anything we see of her interiority.

This isn’t an easy book to write about, because there’s not a lot of “there” there. Virtually nothing happens, and since Faye is such a cipher and only her airplane seat neighbor makes more than one appearance, there’s nothing to speak of in terms of character building or development. Instead, we’re left with admittedly lovely writing and a lot of meditation on themes. Dislocation/unreality, processing trauma, illusions, and an unexpectedly heavy emphasis on marital relationships are explored throughout the book, and at the end, Faye heads home and back to her life in the UK without any sense that this week in her life has meant anything.

I can appreciate a book with an unconventional narrative structure, but this one never quite came together for me. Cusk uses language beautifully, you can feel while you read it that each word, each phrase was chosen with care. But the way she sacrificed plot and character development to focus exclusively on theme makes this feel like a writing exercise more than a book. There’s not a story here, really. There are just words.

This isn’t to say there’s nothing of value here. The first section of the book, the first conversation, in which Faye and her seat neighbor discuss his personal life and children and divorces, is by itself a masterful short story. And there are moments of brilliance in her descriptions…Faye finding herself thrown off-balance at the acceleration of a motor boat captured a sensation I’ve personally experienced many times before in a way that resonated powerfully. And some of the people in my book club, for which I read this one, really connected with it. But all I can offer here are my personal reactions and review, and for me, this didn’t work. I can’t recommend it, but if it’s something that intrigues you, I won’t warn you away from it either.

One year ago, I was reading: Going Clear (review to come)

Two years ago, I was reading: Henry and Cato

Three years ago, I was reading: A Leg To Stand On

Four years ago, I was reading: The Guest Room

Book 220: Freedom

“This wasn’t the person he’d thought he was, or would have chosen to be if he’d been free to chose, but there was something comforting and liberating about being an actual definite someone, rather than a collection of contradictory potential someones.”

Dates read: March 30- April 3, 2018

Rating: 8/10

Lists/awards: 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die (2012 edition), The New York Times bestseller

Something that seems to come up fairly frequently in profiles of successful people is that they have a daily uniform. Like Steve Jobs’ constant black turtleneck and jeans, many of them report that not having to think about what they’re going to wear every day frees up their minds for “more important” things. It’s a concept called decision fatigue…the more decisions you have to make, the worse (over time) you get at making them logically. For me, deciding what to wear is enjoyable, but I do eat almost the exact same thing every day because food isn’t that interesting to me. Cutting unnecessary choices out of your life does make things a lot simpler.

Jonathan Franzen’s Freedom isn’t very subtle: he tells you the major theme of the book right there in the title. It’s the story of a family, headed by Walter and Patty Berglund, and how it comes to be and how (of course) it begins to fray. It begins with a short, third-party history of their residence in a newly-gentrifying neighborhood in Saint Paul, which begins when they’re young, energetic newlyweds, and continues through their raising of two children, Jennifer and Joey, the latter of whom causes quite a bit of grapevine drama when he takes sides against his own family in a growing border war with their neighbors. Just about as soon as the kids are out of high school and off to college, the parental Berglunds pick up and leave suddenly, and several years later in the newspaper their former neighbors read that Walter’s gotten into a bit of a professional dust-up. So right from the beginning, we know that something is rotten in the state of Minnesota.

We then go back and time and get Patty’s life story, in which she always feels like an outsider in her ambitious upstate New York family, culminating in her parents’ refusal to do anything when she’s raped by the son of a powerful neighbor. She flees on an athletic scholarship to Minnesota, where she develops a friendship with a disturbed classmate, through whom she meets musician Richard Katz and his roommate, Walter Berglund. Though Richard and Patty are interested in each other, Walter is also interested in Patty, and though he “gets” the girl, the attraction between his wife and his best friend lingers. We also move forward to Richard, Walter, and Joey’s perspectives after their move out of Minnesota, and how each struggles with freedom as opposed to stablility, and the consequences of exercising choices that become available.

Jonathan Franzen as a human being is not my favorite. But as a writer, he is undeniably talented. Freedom wrestles with some weighty stuff: 9/11, environmentalism, corporate philanthropy, temptation, infidelity, the way family patterns repeat over generations, sexual assault, selling out, forgiveness. That’s a lot for one book, even a long-ish one, to tackle. But for the most part, he pulls it off. Though I didn’t necessarily always like the characters he created, I almost always found them compelling and interesting. Though some of the plot schemes he tangles them up veer towards the ridiculous, he mines them for emotional truth well enough that they stay on the good side of the line of believability.

There are some missteps, though. I found some of his decisions regarding Patty’s trajectory baffling. Her rape doesn’t seem like a character-informing experience for her, serving rather as an explanation to write her parents out of the book until there can be a rapprochement at the end to bring things full circle. And her college friend Eliza’s obsession with her also seemed underbaked…it never really went anywhere besides serving as her introduction to Richard. The balance of Patty’s story rounded her out, but the way he wrote Connie (Joey’s childhood sweetheart) never made sense to me. She’s not a person, she’s a symbol, as was Lalitha, a young colleague of Walter’s who becomes besotted with him. Maybe our cultural moment just has me primed to see underlying misogyny better than I used to, but I can’t deny that it’s here and it was part of what kept me from being fully absorbed in the novel. It’s good, very good even, and I would recommend it with the caveat that if you’re looking for strong female characters, you won’t find them here.

One year ago, I was reading: Forest Dark (review to come)

Two years ago, I was reading: Wonder Boys

Three years ago, I was reading: Zealot

Four years ago, I was reading: Ahab’s Wife

Book 208: Wonder Boys

“I’d spent my whole life waiting to awake on an ordinary morning in the town that was destined to be my home, in the arms of the woman I was destined to love, knowing the people and doing the work that would make up the changing but essentially invariable landscape of my particular destiny. Instead here I was, forty-one years old, having left behind dozens of houses, spent a lot of money on vanished possessions and momentary entertainments, fallen desperately in and abruptly out of love with at least seventeen women, lost my mother in infancy and my father to suicide, and everything was about to change once more, with unforeseeable result.”

Dates read: February 9-15, 2018

Rating: 6/10

When I was a kid, I was on the “gifted” track…or at least the closest thing my small district had to one. I tested in the 99th percentile for virtually everything except (much to my parents’ chagrin) ability to do basic math in my head. I was in the 99th percentile on the ACT. I read at a 12th grade level in 4th grade. It has a way of kind of getting in your head, when you’re constantly told how smart you are. It makes you feel like you’re destined for greatness, when the reality is that you’ll probably end up working a more-or-less normal job and leading a more-or-less normal life. Which ends up feeling underwhelming even if you’re actually very happy, because what about that greatness that was supposed to happen?

Michael Chabon himself was a young phenom, publishing his debut novel when he was only 25. He found himself stuck when he tried to pen his follow-up, though, and from this experience he found the inspiration for what became his second book, Wonder Boys. The novel tells the story of Grady Tripp, a one-time literary wunderkind who’s published two books to both critical acclaim and popular success but has gotten completely mired in his third. Tripp works as a professor at a small liberal arts school in his native Pennsylvania, and his life is a bit of a mess when we meet him. His agent, who has also been his best friend since college, is coming into town to talk about his book, which he is nowhere near finishing even though he’s written over 2,000 pages. An odd but talented student, James, is exhibiting strange behavior. His wife, the third Mrs. Tripp, has just apparently left him. And his mistress, who is the dean of the college and who is married to the head of Tripp’s department, is pregnant.

It makes for a wild weekend, as Grady tries to keep his agent from actually reading his manuscript in the hopes that he can figure out what to actually do with it, keep track of James, who turns out to be a bit of a pathological liar and compulsive thief, attend a seder dinner with his in-laws (with James in tow) to see if he can patch things up with his wife, and figure out what to do about his mistress’s pregnancy. There’s also a running plotline about the car Tripp is driving, which he won in a poker game and might actually be stolen, and Tripp’s crush on the young student that rents out the basement in his house and is never seen without her red cowboy boots. In the end, somehow, improbably, it all turns out about as well as it could have.

I don’t even necessarily think that’s a spoiler there, because there is a movie version out there of this book and it’s fairly faithful to the text, though it does cut out some plot threads while giving others greater weight. The movie bombed, though I actually quite liked it myself, and I honestly think it might work better in some ways than the book…mostly for its willingness to purge extraneous details. Chabon’s a wonderful writer with a great sense of how to tell a story and clear, insightful prose, but there was really just too much going on here. Too many characters, too many “side quests” (so to speak), too much detail…it feels cluttered and starts to strain the bounds of credulity. How much weird stuff, after all, can happen to one guy over the course of one weekend?

While I’ve loved the two books of Chabon’s that I’ve read before (Kavalier and Clay was my favorite of last year!), this one just didn’t resonate with me. I think part of it was let-down, because what I’ve read from him before has been so good that I had very high expectations going in, and part of it is that I’m just not in a place where stories about overgrown man-children are especially charming to me. The thought of the amount of emotional labor a person like Tripp pushes onto the women in his life because he can’t be assed to get himself together is enraging, so I actually kind of hated him. Comedy-of-errors-style plots like this one aren’t my cup of tea either. I think my lack of connection with this book is as much about me and my preferences as it is about the book itself, though, so while I can’t recommend it, I’m not going to affirmatively suggest avoiding it either. If reading this has made you think that this sounds like a delightful narrative, you’ll probably like it. If not though, skip.

One year ago, I was reading: Dark Places (review to come)

Two years ago, I was reading: The House of Mirth

Three years ago, I was reading: The Emigrants

Four years ago, I was reading: Oriental Mythology

Book 204: Mansfield Park

“The meeting was generally felt to be a pleasant one, being composed in a good proportion of those who would talk and those who would listen; and the dinner itself was elegant and plentiful, according to the usual style of the Grants, and too much according to the usual habits of all to raise any emotion except in Mrs. Norris, who could never behold either the wide table or the number of dishes on it with patience, and who did always contrive to experience some evil from the passing of the servants behind her chair, and to bring away some fresh conviction of its being impossible among so many dishes but that some must be cold.”

Dates read: January 23-29, 2018

Rating: 8/10

It’s easy to romanticize the past. Before selfies! Before the internet! Before television! Before phones! Back when people wrote letters to each other to stay in touch! Don’t get me wrong, I love good quality stationery and the feeling of getting a note in the mail. But while we’re longing for the good old days, we forget that there was an awful lot of human history that was lived before penicillin, when a simple infection could legitimately kill you. Before effective corrective lenses so if you couldn’t see well you were just doomed to always be squinting and probably struggled to read. A lot of us have mothers who weren’t lost in childbirth that otherwise might have been. There’s a trade-off.

It’s never quite specified what exactly ails Fanny Price, the heroine of Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park, but she’s physically weak and often sickly, and can’t walk very far before she needs to rest. Maybe asthma? Whatever it is, it’s likely something that could be treated easily if she’d lived in today’s world. Oh well. She is the way she is. And maybe it plays into her personality, for she’s as retiring emotionally as she is physically. It takes Fanny, a naturally shy creature, quite a while to adjust when her aunt, Lady Bertram, decides to relieve her sister (Mrs. Price) of one of her many children to help ease her financial burdens, and Fanny’s taken out of her familiar home and brought to the country estate of Mansfield Park to be raised alongside (but not quite the same as) her cousins, Frederick and Edmund and Maria and Julia.

Of the lively Bertram children, it is only Edmund that makes the effort to draw Fanny out of her shell, and so by the time she becomes a young woman of marriageable age, she’s of course quietly-but-devotedly in love with him. To the rest of the family, she’s sort of halfway one of their own. But things turn upside down when a new parson arrives, complete with his wife and her half-siblings: Henry and Mary Crawford. They’re Londoners, and have city attitudes that contrast sharply with Fanny and her country morals. Henry’s flirtations nearly break up one of the Bertram girls’ happy engagements, while Mary and Edmund begin to grow closer despite her concerns that his planned future, as a clergyman, won’t be lucrative enough to sustain her in the lifestyle she’d like to lead. And then Henry, to amuse himself, decides to try to make Fanny fall in love with him…only to find that he’s the one who grows besotted. Since this is Austen, it ends with a happily made marriage and everyone getting more or less what they deserve.

Those who like to read Jane Austen for her sparkling, witty female leads, like Eliza Bennett or Emma Woodhouse, will be disappointed here: Fanny Price is more like Elinor Dashwood, but with the fun quotient dialed down to almost zero. I’m glad I didn’t read this book until I was in my 30s, because I think if I’d read it when I was younger I would have found her so tiresome and boring I would have put the book down. That’s my most significant criticism of the book: Fanny can be hard to root for, even though we’re clearly supposed to. She’s definitely sympathetic, but she’s also kind of a stick-in-the-mud. She always always behaves appropriately and is horrified by transgressions of her strict moral code. At the end of the day, I found her good heart outweighed the irritation of her teacher’s pet persona, but I can imagine plenty of readers finding it hard to really like her and therefore really like the book.

But even though “bad kids” Henry and Mary are much more interesting than our protagonist, I still very much enjoyed reading this book. Jane Austen’s turns of phrase and lively wit are just as much a part of this book as they are her others, and it’s her quality of writing that I find enjoyable more than her characters anyways. It’s maybe a trifle overlong. If you haven’t read her work before, I wouldn’t recommend starting here, because it’s one of her slower books (start with Sense and Sensibility instead). But if you have read her and like her and wonder if you should read this, too, I do recommend it.

One year ago, I was reading: Detroit (review to come)

Two years ago, I was reading: White Fur

Three years ago, I was reading: The Executioner’s Song

Four years ago, I was reading: Through The Language Glass

Book 203: An American Marriage

“We climbed into the small bed, a little buzzed from our jerry-rigged cocktails. Agreeing that the bedspread was suspect, we kicked it to the floor and lay facing each other. Lying there, tracing his brow bone with my fingers, I thought of my parents and even Roy’s. Their marriages were cut from less refined but more durable cloth, something like cotton-sack burlap, bound with gray twine. How superior Roy and I felt that night in this rented room of our own, enjoying the braid of our affection. I am ashamed at the memory and the hot blood heats my face, even if I’m only dreaming.”

Dates read: January 20-23, 2018

Rating: 7/10

What does it mean, to be married to someone? Obviously, I’m not referring to the obvious stuff about fidelity, loyalty, support, etc. But how much of you is for them, and how much remains for you alone? Is it okay to keep secrets, even little ones? What amount of bad behavior is “enough” to get you an out clause? If you need to sacrifice yourself for the other person, how long are you expected to do so? I’ve only been married for a little over three years now, so I can’t even pretend to be able to answer any of them, but what we owe each other is a question I’m sure we’ll spend a lifetime answering.

The question of what marriage means, what it binds you to and entitles you to, is probably the most fundamental one at issue in Tayari Jones’ An American Marriage. It’s not the only one, though. The book follows Roy and Celestial, a young black couple married about a year and a half when we first meet them. Their future seems so bright: he’s a promising marketing executive, she’s an artist beginning to find success with her doll-making. They’re thinking about having a baby soon when they leave their home in Atlanta and drive to rural Louisiana to spend the weekend with Roy’s parents. Celestial has a bad feeling, but they write it off to nerves. It is the first night they’re there that their whole world changes.

Roy is accused of raping a white woman, and even though he’s innocent, he’s sentenced to 12 years. They immediately appeal, but of course appeals take time, and while that process is ongoing Roy’s continued imprisonment leaves both of them uprooted. After five years, the appeal is ultimately successful, but that time has left both Roy and Celestial different people, and they can’t just pick up where they left off.

Any more than that about the plot probably reveals more than would be preferable…this is a book that’s best to savor as it reveals itself to you (and usually I’m pretty pro-spoiler, but this does really feel like an exception). The truth is that there’s not a lot of “plot” per se, but there’s enough, and the work that Jones does with character and the way she uses those characters to poke at our understanding of powerful themes like marriage, and family more broadly, are brilliant. The instinct to find a “good guy” and a “bad guy”, when two people are in conflict, is so strong, but Jones refuses us that easy perspective. They’re both the bad guy. They’re both the good guy. They’re both people who’ve spent the last five years suffering, and trying to deal with that suffering, in their own ways.

While there is a lot to really like here and this is definitely a good book, I’ll be honest: it never quite crossed that line from good into great for me. I got more out of pondering it after I finished it than I got out of reading it, if that makes sense. And also, I had a small qualm with a writing choice Jones made: while the book is primarily told from the perspectives of Roy and Celestial, there’s a third person who also gets point-of-view chapters. This person is important to the narrative and it wasn’t that those portions were inferior or anything, but I would have preferred that the focus remained on the central couple exclusively. That being said, this is still a book that is well-worth your time and energy, and I’d recommend it to all readers.

One year ago, I was reading: We Are Not Ourselves (review to come)

Two years ago, I was reading: Player Piano

Three years ago, I was reading: The Executioner’s Song

Four years ago, I was reading: Reservation Road

Book 198: Rebecca


“Unconsciously I shivered, as though someone had opened the door behind me, and let a draught into the room. I was sitting in Rebecca’s chair, I was leaning against Rebecca’s cushion, and the dog had come to me and laid his head upon my knee because that had been his custom, and he remembered, in the past, she had given sugar to him there.”

Dates read: December 24-29, 2017

Rating: 8/10

Lists/awards: 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die (2012)

We’ve all felt like an imposter at some point, right? Like, I don’t think “imposter syndrome” is even a thing, I think it’s so commonplace as to be just a part of the human experience. It’s an ugly, scary feeling, to be so full of doubt about yourself. It feels especially endemic in that late teens-early 20s time of life, when everyone even five years older seems impossibly glamorous and adult and you still feel like a kid. You just were a kid, after all, and now you’re expected to set your own alarm and remember to take your vitamins and schedule your own haircuts. “Adult” feels so far away even though you’re already there.

I’ve never read a book that feels as steeped in that feeling of being an imposter as Daphne DuMarier’s Rebecca. Our heroine is a never-named middle-class young English woman, in her early 20s, who’s earning her living as a traveling companion to an crude older woman. On a stop in Monaco, she meets Maxim deWinter, who her employer is all too happy to repeat gossip about and try to kiss up to: he’s the owner of the famous and magnificent country estate of Manderly, and his beautiful, stylish wife Rebecca recently died tragically. The young lady and Maxim have a whirlwind courtship, and before she knows it, she’s married and honeymooned and off to her new home and new life as the mistress of a great house.

But when they get to Manderly, things go quickly south. Being middle-class, she’s barely been in a place like this, and hasn’t the slightest idea how to make it her own. Her husband is suddenly distant and moody. Her only real friend is the spaniel dog that she takes her walks with. The head housekeeper, Mrs. Danvers, all but openly sneers at her and constantly reminds her that she’s not anything like the charming and passionate Rebecca. And it’s not just Mrs. Danvers…even the locals she goes to visit tell her over and over again how exciting things were when Rebecca was around, how beautiful she was, how delightful. The shy, quiet second Mrs. deWinter begins to despair of ever being good enough for the role she’s been handed, and is talked into putting on a costume ball (like the ones Rebecca used to have!) that changes everything.

If you’ve ever heard about super fast marriages Back In The Day and wondered if people even really knew each other when they go married, Rebecca answers that question with a resounding no. A major part of the drama comes from the fact that the young wife can’t understand why Maxim married her and is afraid to share her fears and feelings of inadequacy because, well, she barely knows him. She tortures herself by imagining that he’s constantly comparing her to Rebecca, and she’s sure she comes up short. She can’t even hide from the imposter syndrome that’s consuming her…the very place she lives reminds her of the ways in which she feels inadequate. This book is often billed as a gothic romance, and while the former is accurate, the latter isn’t really, in my opinion: there’s a marriage at the center of it, but not really a romance per se.

Instead, I’d call this a psychological suspense novel. We know from the beginning that the deWinters no longer live at Manderly, that something bad happened there. How exactly this happens unwinds over the course of the book, with the inner lives of the characters and their relationships with each other being driving the action. And the story is well-told and well-paced, but it’s still a classic rather than a modern-day thriller, so while it’s certainly gripping it’s not really a page-turner that’ll keep you up all night. And for me, that’s preferable anyways. I really enjoyed reading it and plan to add more duMaurier to my list of books to read. I’d recommend Rebecca to just about anybody, it’s a tightly crafted and engaging story that’ll appeal to anyone who’s ever felt like they were playacting at being a grown-up.

One year ago, I was reading: The Silence of the Girls (review to come)

Two years ago, I was reading: Valley of the Dolls

Three years ago, I was reading: Smoke

Book 190: The House of Mirth

“She had been bored all the afternoon by Percy Gryce—the mere thought seemed to waken an echo of his droning voice—but she could not ignore him on the morrow, she must follow up her success, must submit to more boredom, must be ready with fresh compliances and adaptabilities, and all on the bare chance that he might ultimately decide to do her the honor of boring her for life.”

Dates read: November 17-22, 2017

Rating: 7/10

Lists/awards: 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die (2012)

This is going to sound stuck up, but I’ve been told I’m pretty since I was a little girl. Now that I’m an adult, I don’t think I’m devastatingly good-looking, but I’m generally pretty secure that I’m more attractive than not. It’s interesting, the way women are trained to think that our looks are one of the most important things about us, but then we’re supposed to wait for men to notice and acknowledge it, and we’re ridiculed for the things we do to maintain it in the face of time and aging. My husband worries about putting on moisturizer because his skin feels dry and gets flaky in the winter. I worry about putting on all of the steps in my Asian skincare routine so that I combat wrinkles. Don’t get me wrong, I love my k-beauty. But I’m aware that social pressure plays a disproportionate role in how I engage with my face, my skin, my body…not just for my own comfort, but for everyone else’s too.

And that’s in today’s world! The farther back you go, the more a woman’s looks were central to her prospects in life. When we meet Lily Bart, the heroine of Edith Wharton’s The House of Mirth, she’s 29 and worried that her celebrated loveliness is beginning to fade before she’s managed to marry herself off to someone who can support her. Lily was raised in wealth, taught to abhor anything “dingy”…and then her father lost their fortune and died and her mother followed him shortly thereafter, leaving Lily poor and alone. She was begrudgingly picked up by her aunt Julia, who gives her the right address and some pocket money, but not nearly enough to keep herself afloat on the glittering social circuit, where she needs this season’s stylish hats and gloves and dresses and is expected to gamble regularly at cards. It seems hopeful, though: she’s on her way to her friend Judy’s house, where she expects to meet and charm  and become engaged to Percy, a very eligible bachelor.

Instead, she feels no chemistry with Percy and earns the ire of married socialite Bertha when Bertha’s ex-paramour Lawrence Selden turns up to see Lily. Bertha splits up the budding romance between Lily and Percy, leaving Lily in a position to have to ask Judy’s husband, Gus, to make some investments for her to help keep her afloat. Gus views this as an investment in earning Lily’s…favors, and though she manages to keep her head above water and even rise briefly, it all comes crashing down when Bertha invites Lily on a trip to keep her husband George distracted while Bertha carries on with her latest conquest. When George discovers the truth, though, Bertha spreads lies painting Lily as a temptress instead, which begins Lily’s descent through the social classes.

This book plays with the same kind of themes Wharton would return to in her Pulitzer Prize-winning The Age of Innocence, which I read a few years before I read this: the artificiality of the upper-class New York “society” in which Wharton herself was born and raised and the way it constrains and even punishes real feeling primary among them. Lily herself is a great heroine: it’s so easy to identify with her simultaneous longing to do the “right” thing and make it easy on herself by just finding someone rich to marry her and keep her in comfort and to be true to herself and wait for the kind of real connection she feels with Lawrence. Even though women are by and large much less dependent on men for material support today, I think there still exists the temptation, especially as one approaches 30, to just settle for someone good enough and check “marriage” off the list of things you constantly get asked about as a woman. And the power of the rumor mill, and its ability to ruin reputations, remains potent.

It’s thematically similar enough to The Age of Innocence that comparison is inevitable, and for my money, Innocence is the better-developed and more rewarding work. But Mirth was also written 15 years beforehand, so it’s not surprising that it’s less mature. It does bring the added context of a female perspective, and it’s partly refreshing to see how far we’ve come and at the same time how many things are still largely the same in terms of the constraints that society as a whole places on women. I will say one of the things that didn’t quite work for me was the novel’s central romance: it’s never really developed, we’re just meant to sort of assume that they’ve fallen for each other. It’s necessary to have established for a late character moment to work, but it’s done so superfluously that it doesn’t quite have the power it could have. All in all, if you like a sharp social critique and old-society novels, or just like Wharton, it’s definitely worth reading. Otherwise, pick up The Age of Innocence instead.   

One year ago, I was reading: Olive Kitteridge

Two years ago, I was reading: Valley of the Moon

Three years ago, I was reading: The Last Picture Show

Book 181: The Blind Assassin



“You want the truth, of course. You want me to put two and two together. But two and two doesn’t necessarily get you the truth. Two and two equals a voice outside the window. Two and two equals the wind. The living bird is not its labeled bones.”

Dates read: October 10-15, 2017

Rating: 10/10

Lists/awards: The Booker Prize, Time Magazine All-Time 100 Novels

We’re constantly telling the story of our lives. To other people, but most of all to ourselves. Amping up the parts that make us look good, glossing over the parts that make us look bad, editing out that parts that don’t quite jibe with the character we want ourselves to be. No one likes to remember our worst moments, though those are the ones that creep into our heads at 2 a.m. when we can’t sleep. But at the end of the day, all you can do is try to be better tomorrow, and the day after that, and so on and so forth.

Margaret Atwood’s The Blind Assassin starts with the end at the beginning: Iris Chase’s sister, Laura, drives off a bridge in Iris’s car. From that point on, we get three threads of story: (faux) newspaper accounts related to Iris’s life, Iris looking back on her own life as an old woman and telling the story that leads up to what happened with her sister, and a story-within-a-story, called “The Blind Assassin”, about a pair of secret lovers weaving a science fiction tale about a pair of secret lovers. Unveiled early on in the narrative through the newspaper accounts, it is revealed that shortly after her sister’s death (which is ruled an accident), Iris’s husband died. And then their daughter grew up with drug problems and succumbed to them, leaving her own child behind. And then that grandchild was raised not by Iris, but Iris’s sister-in-law, who also died. Iris is old, and alone, and has no reason to hold on to her secrets anymore. So she starts to write.

She starts with the story of her grandparents, and the button factory her grandfather started in their small Canadian town, the profits from which rendered him suitable enough marriage material for her grandmother, from a society family in decline. When their three sons went off to war, only Iris’s father came back. His wife, Iris and Laura’s mother, was never especially healthy and died from complications from a miscarriage. Her father tries to keep the family business together through the Depression, but the Chases find themselves unable to even maintain their own finances, and that’s how Iris finds herself married off to Richard, an older industrialist, in a deal that’s supposed to keep the factory open and what’s left of the family afloat. Instead, the entire Chase family capsizes, in their own ways.

After revisiting The Handmaid’s Tale shortly before I read this book, and then reading this book itself, I was reminded what an incredibly gifted author Margaret Atwood is. To pull off the narrative structure of the book, with its intertwining threads and mysteries, is a fiendishly difficult task, but to do it while writing so beautifully and powerfully is the work of a master. It is a little jarring at the beginning, when you’re first getting used to the path the book is taking you down, but it works. There were so many passages in this book that I marked, struck by how gorgeous the phrasing was. The characters, particularly Laura and Richard, were vivid, and Iris herself is someone we gradually come to understand as she tells her story and feels so real that when the book and her story end, the loss feels unusually poignant.

This is an incredible book: sad, yes, but told with such skill and in a way that keeps you wanting more and more…I had a hard time putting it down at night. I’m kicking myself that this is only my second Atwood and I’m really looking forward to getting into more of her work. As a heads up to potential readers, there is some really heavy stuff in here: parental death, spousal abuse, sexual abuse/rape…I think Atwood handles this material with sensitivity and grace, but it’s something to be aware of. I’d recommend this book strongly, particularly for mature readers (there’s nothing gratuitous, but there’s a lot of darkness and I think it’s a work that’s best appreciated with a little life experience behind the reader).

One year ago, I was reading: The Heart of Everything That Is

Two years ago, I was reading: If We Were Villains

Three years ago, I was reading: We Need to Talk About Kevin

Book 179: The Bonfire of the Vanities



“Sherman lifted his Yale chin, squared his shoulders, straightened his back, raised himself to his full height, and assumed the Presence, the presence of an older, finer New York, the New York of his father, the Lion of Dunning Sponget.” 

Dates read: September 22- October 2, 2017

Rating: 2/10

Lists/awards: The New York Times bestseller

I try to pretend I’m kind and thoughtful, but I’ll confess: when something bad happens to someone awful, even if they didn’t deserve it, I don’t usually feel sorry for them. I tend to figure that even if THIS bad thing isn’t fair, per se, bad things that aren’t fair happen to everyone, so at least when they happen to bad people we can smirk about it. What is life without those kind of tiny, petty joys?

Tom Wolfe’s The Bonfire of the Vanities, his first novel, is filled with horrible people in 1980s New York City. Our main character is Sherman McCoy, a high-flying bond trader whose ridiculous salary somehow still isn’t enough to fill his endless wants. One of those wants is a hot side piece, so he cheats on his interior designer wife with Maria Ruskin, herself the young trophy wife of a much-older rich businessman. The event that propels the entire narrative happens when he comes to pick her up from the airport one evening. On their way back to Manhattan, Sherman misses his exit and ends up in the Bronx. Now this is pre-Guiliani New York City, so crime rates are still quite high, and the Bronx in particular contributes significantly to this crime rate. Sherman is desperate to get out of the bad side of town in his fancy car, and so drives up a ramp back onto the highway only to find it blocked. When he gets out of his car to clear the debris, he’s approached by two young black men, and he panics. He’s aggressive with one of them, and when Maria gets behind the wheel and gets him into the car, they take off. He thinks he sees and feels one of the two guys get clipped by the car as it fishtails on their way out of there.

Sherman’s inclined to report what happened to the police, but Maria dissuades him. But the guilt and worry begin to consume him, especially as the incident starts to pick up attention. Forces start to converge (a shady African-American preacher/activist type, an alcoholic English reporter desperate to prove his increasingly questionable worth to his employer, a Jewish DA trying to show the overwhelming minority community he serves action on their behalf in an election year), and Sherman is charged and sent to trial, where his prosecutor, Larry Kramer, is a man who seethes at the way his life has turned out, with a modest income that keeps him from being able to conduct the affair he wants to have with a former juror.

As you can probably tell from that rating up there, I hated this book. Basically everyone in it is The Worst, and no one’s having any fun. I don’t mind reading about morally questionable characters as long as they’re compelling, but Sherman and everyone around him is miserable. Even before the accident, Sherman is living far beyond his considerable means and he’s constantly worried about how to make sure he can stay afloat. Larry, who’s the second lead in the book, is a covetous self-important blowhard obsessed with his own appearance and desirability to women. I hated both of them immediately and struggled so hard to make myself read this. It got better, plot-wise, as it went…when the pieces started coming together, I could appreciate the way Wolfe showed how the dysfunction of every participant in the process created the perfect storm in which Sherman was embroiled. But that doesn’t mean I liked it.

I think part of it was the overwhelming male-ness of the narrative: all the major figures, save Maria, are dudes, and even Maria never gets the story told from her point of view the way the men do. I have no particular interest in masculinity crises, and there’s a lot of that here. I think I’m also going to give up on Tom Wolfe from here on out…I read his The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test a couple years ago, and I hated it just as much as I hated this. His tics as a writer, particularly his fondness of repetitious phrases, do not jibe with me as a reader. I recognize that as a satire of a particular time and place, it has merit, but I did not like it at all. I cannot in good conscience recommend it to anyone.

Tell me, blog friends…are there any writers that you just can’t read because you don’t like the way they write?

One year ago, I was reading: Game of Crowns

Two years ago, I was reading: The Highest Tide

Three years ago, I was reading: Enchanted Islands

Book 178: Stay With Me



“I loved Yejide from the very first moment. No doubt about that. But there are things even love can’t do. Before I got married, I believed love could do anything. I learned soon enough that it couldn’t bear the weight of four years without children. If the burden is too much and stays too long, even love bends, cracks, comes close to breaking and sometimes does break. But even when it’s in a thousand pieces under your feet, that doesn’t mean it’s no longer love.”

Dates read: September 19-22, 2017

Rating: 7/10

Sometimes it seems like there are two kinds of long-married couples: those who genuinely love and appreciate each other, and those who seem to have just decided that they’re sticking to it because of stubbornness, mutual resentment, “for the children”, or any variety of reasons that aren’t love. When I read stories about couples who’ve been married for decades, I find myself wondering which group that pair falls in. Are the latter something we should be celebrating, honestly? I’ve known people who got married only to find out later that the person they thought they were swearing forever to isn’t who they’ve ended up with. Ending a marriage, even one that’s gone sour, sounds like it’s an agonizing decision, and I can’t help but think that the social pressure to not make that decision keeps people together who might be better off apart.

What exactly it means to be married, and married well, is at the heart of Ayobami Adebayo‘s Stay With Me. When we first meet Yejide, we learn that technically, she’s had a long marriage. She’s lived apart from her husband, Akin, for many years, but she receives an invitation to attend his father’s funeral as his guest that sends her on a reminisce about their past, and how their separation came to be. They met at university in Nigeria, and though they were both seeing other people at the time, quickly fell in love and got married. Their marriage was happy, except that even after several years, they were childless. Though Akin and Yejide were a modern couple, his parents were traditional, and if their first-born son couldn’t produce an heir for the family with his wife, they had a solution: a second wife.

This is the first in a series of what come to be deep, deep cracks in Akin and Yejide’s relationship. Yejide is desperate to keep her husband to herself, and knows that in order to do that, she must somehow become pregnant…which she does. The plot has several twists and turns, and while I’m usually not especially fussed about spoilers, this is one of the cases where I feel like letting the plot unfold as you read is important. Though the book is relatively short (under 300 pages), Adebayo deals with some powerful themes: love, marriage, mental health, trust, family, sex, and what it means to be a parent.

This is a debut novel, and in some ways, it shows. Some of the plot twists seemed to be a little too difficult to believe, and it sometimes felt that they were being deployed too quickly, with too little time for each to really settle and resonate before the next one came along. And while I appreciated the way she paralleled the upheavals and tensions of the central marriage alongside the political turmoil roiling Nigeria during the lives of the characters, references to it often felt shoehorned in. I felt like the book should have been longer, which could have ameliorated both issues by letting the plot breathe a bit.

At the end of the day, though, this is the kind of debut which makes me really excited for the author’s follow-up(s). Yejide is a fantastic character…she’s not always likable, and often makes poor choices, but remains sympathetic throughout. The perspective we get into her childhood informs the person she comes to be, and I wish we’d gotten a bit more of this with Akin. We get some, but he’s less well-developed than she is and I think the book could have been even stronger if we’d gotten more of his perspective. Despite its flaws, I enjoyed this book and look forward to following Adeyabo’s career. I would recommend it, but maybe not to everyone. I think it’ll appeal most to readers who enjoy character-based domestic dramas and don’t mind if they occasionally trend towards the implausible in their plotting.

Tell me, blog friends…what do you think are good reasons for ending a marriage, if any?

One year ago, I was reading: Rosemary’s Baby

Two years ago, I was reading: A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius

Three years ago, I was reading: The President’s Club

Book 173: The Year of Magical Thinking



“If the dead were truly to come back, what would they come back knowing? Could we face them? We who allowed them to die? The clear light of day tells me that I did not allow John to die, that I did not have that power, but do I believe that? Does he?”

Dates read: August 29-31, 2017

Rating: 8/10

Lists/awards: National Book Award, The New York Times bestseller

I’m very lucky in many respects, and one of them is this: my entire nuclear family is more or less healthy and very much alive. My parents, my sister, my brother-in-law, my husband…I’ve never experienced that kind of loss. My mom had lost both of her parents by the time she was my age, which just blows my mind. Even now, I don’t feel prepared to lose either of my parents, much less both of them. I know this will change, and one day I’ll find myself having to say goodbye to people that I love dearly, but for now I’m grateful.

I was reminded of just how lucky I am when I read Joan Didion’s memoir, The Year of Magical Thinking. In it, she recounts an incredibly terrible time: while their adult daughter Quintana is fighting for her life in the hospital, a normal-seeming winter cold somehow having progressed into pneumonia, septic shock, and coma, Joan and her husband John come home, and while she’s getting things ready for dinner, he suddenly keels over, dead after a massive heart attack. She doesn’t know that right at the moment it happens, of course. All she knows is that he falls, is non-responsive, she calls an ambulance, they try to resuscitate him, and then off to the ER. She finds out shortly after she arrives that he’s gone. Forty years of marriage, and then he’s gone just like that.

But she can’t just focus dealing with the loss of her constant companion for decades (as professional writers, they both worked from home). Her daughter is still comatose, and Joan has to break the news to her not once but twice (she forgets when she falls back into a coma after being told the first time). Quintana does seem to recover, the funeral happens, and she flies back to California with her own husband…only to collapse again on her way out of the airport. Joan leaves her NYC apartment to head to LA to be there for her daughter, and is constantly buffeted by memories of her family’s early, happy years in the area. Eventually Quintana recovers again, and Joan returns home, wrapping up her book a year and a day after her husband’s death.

On the surface, there’s very little in Joan Didion’s life that I can relate to: she and her husband lived at a level of financial security where they made regular trips to Paris (their quibbling over what turned out to be their last trip, taken at John’s insistence because he had a vague feeling that it might be his last chance is something Joan relates), they lived in LA for a time to write screenplays, they take daily walks in Central Park. And like I’ve said, I’ve never lived through the kind of awful experiences she recounts in this book. But she’s an extremely talented writer, so her words spoke to me and tugged at my heart. She doesn’t just tell you that grief takes you around in circles, she has motifs in her writing that pop up over and over again, taking you on that journey with her. You feel her agony when she thinks she’s plotted her route around LA when she’s there with Quintana to avoid anything that would remind her of when her husband was alive but she finds that she didn’t plan carefully enough and the fragile scar tissue she’s built up is battered by waves of memory.

It feels odd to say that I “enjoyed” reading a memoir about profound grief. But I found it incredibly compelling and difficult to put down even though it was hard to read. She really takes the reader on a journey with her. Knowing that even though she was alive at the end of the book, Quintana died shortly thereafter, made its impact even greater. I’d never read any of Didion’s work before, but I picked up one of her novels and two of her essay collections after reading this book, because I wanted to read more of her writing. I’d recommend this book to anyone that feels like picking it up.

Tell me, blog friends…do you have to relate to a memoirist’s experiences to get into their book?

One year ago, I was reading: Possession

Two years ago, I was reading: Stranger in a Strange Land

Three years ago, I was reading: Private Citizens

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