Cold Sassy Tree, by Olive Ann Burns (1984)
Thank goodness there's a sequel, because I'm not done with this book yet. It had the kind of plot that made me eager to get back to it, full of country talk and hick scandal: workin' in the fambly store, associatin' with a mill child, marryin' before the mournin' was done, fightin' over an inheritance, playin' practical jokes, etc. Lots of family feuding and religious upheaval and nosy neighbors. The narrator is a 14- or 15-year-old boy named Will Tweedy, and lucky for us he's willing to do some eavesdropping and snooping to keep us informed about family secrets. Even the irritating characters are surprisingly likable, and one of the main characters, Will's Grandpa, has some of the most practical and logical religious principles I've ever heard. His prayers for his dying wife are so touching I could hardly stand it. Now, I'll return it to the library right away so you can read it, and I'll get going on the sequel.
Follow-up note: Sequel not worth reading.
A Blind Man Can See How Much I Love You, by Amy Bloom (2000)
In true Amy Bloom style, this new book stays au courant with the shocking material. A mother saves throughout her daughter's childhood to pay for the sex change she expects her to want. A man and his stepmother have a brief fling after his father's funeral, a fling that keeps their relationship on edge from that moment on (the fling itself is in a story in Amy Bloom's first collection of short stories, see review). A woman undergoes chemotherapy with the company of her best friend, a lesbian who has gone through it herself. A baby is strangled by his umbilical cord, and his mother in her distress takes home a severely handicapped child no one else wants. I would say the predominant themes of the book are terminal/debilitating illness, devastating loss, and people taking care of other people. I'm crazy about Amy Bloom stories, but wish she'd write a book for each one: the short story is not enough for all I want to know.
The Man Who Ate the 747, by Ben Sherwood (2000)
By no means containing original sentiments or fresh emotional material, The Man Who Ate the 747 is nevertheless an interesting story about world records and the hoopla that goes with them. John Smith, whose job it is to verify anyone trying to break a record, arrives in a small Nebraska town where he's heard a man named Wally is gradually eating a 747 airplane to prove his love for a woman. While staying in town to witness Wally eating the plane in what is surely an impossibly short time considering the sheer tonnage involved, John Smith falls in love with a woman who threatens him with flashing eyes that he must not hurt this little town or its idealistic, trusting, down-home residents--who seem pretty normal as they jump to profit from the fuss that ensues as the news of the world's worst airplane meal breaks and reporters descend on the town. This fierce little number is, as you might expect, the woman who would probably have been satisfied with roses or a box of chocolates but is instead having a plane eaten in her name. The man eating the plane, meanwhile, is being watched over by a plump, brown-haired woman who is quietly in love with him; only after his caramel-haired goddess is out of reach does Wally realize the meaning his little unpaid housekeeper has brought into his life. If it seems like I'm giving away big chunks of plot here, trust me: nothing can possibly be meant to be a surprise, considering how obvious it all is. Nor does anyone feel like cheering for the happy couples, considering their relationships seem based on nothing but the heat of the moment in an emotionally upsetting time. Don't read the book for its shallow sentiment and predictable plot; read it instead for its interesting (and true) information on other world records.
Strong for Potatoes, by Cynthia Thayer (1998)
Don't you find, when an author gives a book an overly obscure title, that you can't really relax into the book until the author comes out with the secret behind it? Since you can't tell anything from this title, I'll have to tell you that this book is in the Disturbing Material category. It involves: a dead twin born without a brain, a disfiguring accident to the surviving twin, a child witnessing her mother having sex with a family friend, a teenager finding her father's dead body, a possible date rape, the cutting open of a live frog, the mercy killing of a dog hit by a car, and emerging homosexual feelings. It has to be acknowledged that some people's lives are not as smooth as others, and also that those rougher lives make for good fiction material. Nevertheless, the icky side of life is not my favorite subject to read about.
Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bronte (1946)
This book is three things to me: (1) a classic, which lets me feel good when people see me reading it; (2) a long-time favorite, read many times and now well-worn and familiar; (3) the best love story I've ever read. I've read many books that claim to be great love stories but in fact involve two exceptionally attractive people panting with lust, and an author trying to convince us that this qualifies as a Love That Was Meant to Be. Jane Eyre and Mr. Rochester are both plain, and so are forced to build a relationship through the unusual means of conversations and getting to know each other gradually over time.
Changing Places: A Journey with My Parents into Their Old Age, by Judy Kramer (2000)
Seventy-eight essays tell the story of a woman's experience helping her parents into old age and death, and then recovering from the experience. The essays are divided into five sections. The first is "Afternoon," in which she writes about the changes that come when roles reverse and an adult becomes gradually responsible for her parents. The second is "Evening," about all the things that are lost in old age, the things that have to be lost and the things that shouldn't be. The third is "Night," about advance directives and the difficult moment when it's necessary to make a decision about allowing a parent to die. The fourth is "Dawn," about the grieving and adjusting after the death of a parent. The fifth is "Morning," about the long-term losses and memories. "Afternoon," "Evening," and "Night" were thought-provoking and informative; those sections would be a good reference for practical and also emotional matters. "Dawn" and "Morning" were less interesting to me but might be helpful for others experiencing the stages of loss. I was glad to have read the book and think it will have a permanent effect on the way I think about the options involved in aging and dying.
Mirror, Mirror: Forty Folktales for Mothers and Daughters to Share, by Jane Yolen and Heidi E.Y. Stemple (2000)
I didn't think I'd like this book, and indeed I didn't. The analysis of fairy tales, done with ultra-feminist outrage, left me cold and annoyed. Jane Yolen and Heidi Stemple (a mother/daughter team) say that their book is like getting to eavesdrop on their chatty conversation, but it's no more eavesdropping than when you listen to talk-show hosts chat between guests. Their conversation doesn't read like real life, it reads like what it is: long opinion pieces complete with sentences that begin, "As So-and-So argued in her landmark book Such-and-Such of 1998, the feminist model of...." blah blah blah. Then they've put in little pseudo-chatty bits to make it seem as if they were actually talking this way: "Yeah, mom, like you'd ever do that! As I was saying, we see in the 1973 study done by So-and-So that the...." blah blah blah.
Also included are little things I never wanted to know, such as the approximate year Heidi lost her virginity--and the fact that it was 2 years later than her mother thought it was. Sure, I talk to my mom like this all the time, and I'll bet none of you do either.
Between the self-consciously intellectual "chats" are fairy tales grouped by type. For example, you'll read the German, French, and Russian versions of Cinderella, followed by a pseudo-casual conversation, followed by another group of stories and another conversation, and so on through the rest of the book. I made it through four sets before I couldn't stand reading one more word by either of these two women. Their paranoid hyper-feminism ("I worry that my little girl likes to dress as a princess, when we all know that princesses are symbols of women's passive submission to a dominant patriarchal society"), shaky/unconvincing attempts to force links between stories and real life ("So, it's telling girls that if you're ugly and mean, that's like the modern day equivalent of having sex and going to parties"), and boring references to their own lives ("As I recall, you always left your clothes on the floor as a child!") made me feel tired and irritable. I didn't get the feeling that either of them knew what they were talking about, despite Jane Yolen's extensive experience in the field.
Shopgirl, by Steve Martin (2000)
The author is THE Steve Martin, the actor from Parenthood and L.A. Story and Father of the Bride, and for awhile it was difficult to forget about that. It was also difficult to give the book a fair chance, since usually books by actors are lame. After 25 pages or so I didn't think Steve Martin should stop acting to become a writer, but I certainly thought he should continue doing both. His novella is not so much a story as a series of detailed character sketches with a minor story thrown in to keep the sketches coming. It's as if the author chose a few people and made it his goal to completely understand everything that makes them do the things they do. A single paragraph about the two main characters eating dinner is followed by pages of analysis into what she was thinking, what he was thinking, how she interpreted his actions/comments, how he interpreted his actions/comments, and then a paragraph or two generalizing about how this is always the way it is between people. The book has subtle humor but is not the comedy you might expect from a comic actor. It's more a quiet and introspective and even philosophical look at how people date and relate and think and behave.
Time to Say Good-Bye, by Judith Gould (2000)
Long, meticulously transcribed, boring conversations: "Bye now." "Bye." "See you tomorrow then." "Okay, bye. Watch your step." "Okay, I will, you take care now." "Okay, you too, thanks, bye." An unlikely percentage of interesting eye colors: violet, tortoiseshell, ultramarine. Too many adjectives: "saliva-wet toothpick;" "breathless lips;" "raven-black hair." Too many sensuous lips. A descriptive phrase with practically every single line of dialogue: "April said, smiling somewhat shyly;" "Joanna said in a self-deprecating voice;" "Joanna said, clapping her hands together." Too many detailed descriptions of clothing, decor, personal appearance, to the point where the dialogue seems only a bridge between where the rug was placed and what shade of khaki the pants were and what brand of marble the flooring was. Gaggingly sentimental plot romanticizing death. Ridiculous love scenes: "bellowing with release;" "engorged manhood;" "her most magical of places." Overuse of doubled dialogue with name in between: "You're quite a woman, Christina; you're quite a woman;" "I always do, Josh; I always do."
This book is a trashy, low-quality, tripe-packed, cliche-ridden insult to the institution of writing.
Becoming Madame Mao, by Anchee Min (2000)
Most fictionalized accounts of real-life people make me interested in reading some non-fiction on the subject. This one makes me wish I'd read the non-fiction first. I think I would have better appreciated getting to know the woman behind the events if I were more familiar with the events. Sometimes I felt I was missing significant sections because I didn't have the background knowledge to reference. Still, I enjoyed the book and would recommend it, especially to those interested in Chinese history/politics.
Affinity, by Sarah Waters (1999)
What a clever and artful and complex book! It's the sort that's difficult to review without giving something away. It's not a mystery, exactly, but there are mysteries in it. It's for people who like the sort of book where you're not sure if things can possibly be what they seem--and you can't see how they could be other than what they seem. A spirit medium named Selina Dawes is jailed after one of her seances leaves one woman dead and one girl injured. A woman named Margaret Prior begins visiting the prison as therapy following a suicide attempt, and she and Selina become very close. The story is told through Margaret Prior's diary, with occasional excerpts from the diary Selina kept before being imprisoned. The fantastic plot Margaret becomes involved in was enough to make me give up trying to figure out what was real and what was not. After finishing the book, I had to go back and re-read a few things: Margaret's letter to Helen, what Mrs. Brink said before she died, what Selina was reported to have said at the seance when things went wrong, other little details like that. To be completely settled in my mind I think I'd have to re-read the entire book from the beginning to make sure I caught everything. Highly recommended reading, entertaining and smart and thought-provoking.
Suddenly Sixty and Other Shocks of Later Life, by Judith Viorst (2000)
Thirty or so poems, mostly about things you think about in your sixties: grown children, a long marriage, grandchildren, retirement. Though most are funny, don't miss the few throat-catching moments like the one at the end of "Old Friends." Some poems bring up long-overused complaints such as the husband who won't ask for directions and the way you can't get a human being on the phone anymore; others will end up mailed to friends or stuck to the refrigerator.
Readings for Remembrance: A Collection for Funerals and Memorial Services, by Eleanor Munro (2000)
Despite the subtitle, few of these passages seem right for reading aloud at a funeral. Try, for example, a verse of William Dunbar's "Lament for the Makers," well known in print but difficult to read aloud: "I that in heill was and gladness / Am trublit now with great sickness / And feblit with infirmitie:-- / Timor Mortis conturbat me." And for whom would you read from Percy Bysshe Shelley, "I weep for Adonais--he is dead! / O, weep for Adonais! through our tears." Or for whom would you tell the story of the spirit killed when a woman threw hot water out a window at night, a spirit that eventually had to be exorcised by a priest?
Here are the uses I see for this book: one, as private-reading comfort for someone who has recently suffered a loss; two, as a source for quotes to be printed on the memorial service program; three, as a source for quotes to be written on the sympathy card when you're struggling to find something to say other than "So sorry to hear of your loss." There are perhaps a few selections appropriate for the use the subtitle suggests, but perhaps the midst of mourning is not the right time to be digging for them.
Stella in Heaven, by Art Buchwald (2000)
Other than the self-consciously flippant descriptions of Heaven (Moses as manager of the Ritz-Carlton, with Mary Magdalene as concierge; Mozart giving recitals; art classes by Michelangelo; God having a "thing" about people saying a particular religion is the only valid one and instructing Moses to "pull the trap door" if anyone does; regular buses to Hell for anyone who feels like leaving), Stella in Heaven is a sweet and reassuring novel of what happens when one member of a married couple dies and the other doesn't. Stella dies at 59, and with one of the three wishes she gets upon entering Heaven (...three wishes?...) she wishes to be able to talk with her husband Roger whenever she wants to. They have regular telephone-like conversations for the next few years, mostly on the topic of second-wife candidates Stella has selected for Roger. Silly but in a nice way, this book is a pleasing read with a pleasing ending--but don't expect much in the way of depth or insight.
Getting Over It, by Anna Maxted (2000)
Note to authors in the UK: this is not the time to write a novel about the daily life of a single 20s/30s UK woman if you don't want your book compared to the Bridget Jones books. For an American reviewer there is something so distinctive about that kind of slang, and when the meat of the book is also so similar (dating, worrying about weight, thinking about clothes, spending too much money, drinking too much, hanging out with girlfriends, trying to get out of going to work), it's difficult not to leap to comparisons. I in particular have a hard time with this, because I liked the Bridget Jones books so much (see reviews: Diary and Edge of Reason) that most of the books I want to compare to Bridget Jones have trouble measuring up. This one, for example, adds the unattractive elements of whining and manipulation. The main character's father dies, and she uses this throughout the book to make other people feel bad and awkward. She brings it up during every single romantic moment with her boyfriend. She discusses at length both the shallowness and depth of her grief. The title seemed less and less apt as she seemed more and more inclined to use her loss as a lever to get what she wanted and an excuse for her own bad behavior. I started wanting to go into the story and give her a good shake. I wonder if, without the father-death element, the story would have gotten a rave review? Because in between the times when I was bored/annoyed with that theme, I loved reading all that cool slang--and some of the other subplots were great.
Tangled June, by Neil Albert (1997)
In case you've read others in the series, this is "a Dave Garret mystery" featuring private investigator Dave Garret and his charming assistant Lisa. This time they're on a case that strikes closer to home: the mystery of Dave's own birth. His birth certificate was "lost in a hospital fire," and when Lisa wants to prove her worth as an investigator she comes up with the idea of finding out more information. After getting in more deeply than she should have with such a personal issue, she has to let Dave in on it and the whole thing turns into a big emotional mess. I found the twists and turns hard to follow: who was related to whom and how, who gave leads on whom and why it mattered, etc.--but that was unimportant since I knew at least half the solution very early on and the other half was cleared up for sure at the end. We get a nice drippy lovey ending out of it, and that's what really matters.
Now there's one more thing I need to mention. Sometimes when I review a book with an unusual theme, I try to think about whether some conservative relative, say for example my mother, would want to be forewarned about the theme if she were going to read the book. In the case of this book I'd say a big yes on the forewarning issue, so I'll give it to you as well: a major theme is the loving, caring, romantic relationship between a man and a transsexual (a person who was born a man but has made the surgical and hormonal change to woman). So there you have it. The details of their sexual relationship are no more graphic than in any normal non-romance-novel, though the author does satisfy curiosity on a few minor points.