A Run on Spunky Ladies!

New York Times reporter Lily Koppel must have some great karma. Moving into her new apartment at 98 Riverside Drive, Lily noticed a cleaning company disposing of old trunks and furniture that had long since been abandoned in the basement of the glorious old brownstone. Riffling through the detritus, looking for anything she might be able to use, Ms. Koppel came upon a disintegrating leather diary sporting a tarnished brass lock. The rest, as they say, is history.

Lily's book, The Red Leather Diary; Reclaiming a Life Through the Pages of a Lost Journal, is a pure delight. Unlike the other two novels of this nature that I've recently written about, this book is the very true account of an amazing young woman named Florence Wolfson, now Howitt, a spry 90-something widow still kicking in Connecticut and Florida. Yes, Ms. Koppel tracked Florence down and received permission to write this biography based upon the musings of the younger Miss Wolfson from the historical period between 1929 and 1934.

It never ceases to amaze me how many folks there were out there (you know, back in the day) who had seemingly endless supplies of resources for travel, Parisienne couture, fine dining, and leisure work. Not that I'm jealous but damn! Our very rebellious, independent Miss Wolfson was only 15 years old when she began to make diary notations about her evening forays to Carnegie Hall, the days spent at the Metropolitan Museum, her lovers both male and female, her desire to live a bohemian life in France, painting and writing, and having the wherewithal to carry it out. The funny thing is that she's an absolute sketch and you can't help but love her honesty and openness. Reading her forward to the book gave me the impression that she hasn't changed one bit!

I've been off Elizabeth Berg for a while but the title of her latest collection has been calling to me from the new book section. I look up from the reference desk and see that bright yellow cover - yes, I do often judge a book by its cover - with the reclining nude holding a three layer cake and I know I'm going to have to have it. (the book, not the cake) The Day I Ate Whatever I wanted and other small Acts of Liberation is pure Elizabeth Berg and had me laughing out loud in the lunch room to the point where I had to retreat to our picnic table to read. If you know Elizabeth, you also know that one minute after the laugh you might be crying uncontrollably. She can strike a vein that quickly, her specialty being the joys and indignities of aging, friendships lost and found, marriages stuck through and abandoned, and illness fought against. Body image is another perennial Berg theme and the subject of the marvelous title story of a woman abandoning the restrictions of Weight Watchers for a day of decadence.

First of all, for those of you who don't know, I kind of consider myself an EB expert. When I was full-blown involved in the Reading Festival it was my "duty" to pick Ms. Berg up at the airport and get her to her hotel. She was so easy to talk with and had that way about her of drawing me out and getting all personal, like we were actually friends, when you know she probably HATES these festival things where you fly into town one day and out the next, staying in some non-descript hotel (Holiday Inn on the River - oy!). I also had to reread all of her books so that I could go on WINK-TV's very EARLY morning show and talk coherently about her and the festival. For me, that was traumatizing. God bless my boss at the time for calling to tell how proud she was that I didn't once say "um." I performed better than Sarah Palin I guess!

One last thing. I started Ethan Canin's America, America last night and could not put it down. Gorgeous writing! Very Richard Russo in style. I stayed up late reading and can't wait to get back to it. Work sure does get in the way of my habit! Oh, and I HAVE to stay awake for the debate tonight so.....Andrea, you're going to love it - I think.

Dreamers of the Day

There are some who might say that's an appropriate label for me! I still have hope with a capital "H." However, in this case I'm referring to the new book by Mary Doria Russell, another one that I can't say enough about. In many ways it reminds me of The Open Door that I wrote about 2 weeks ago; another novel about a spunky, independent woman who scoffs at the morees of the day (early 2oth century) and decides to experience all that life has to offer before it passes her by. Go ahead, suspend disbelief. Go along for the ride as plain Jane schoolmarm, Agnes, whose entire family dies during the influenza outbreak, reinvents herself with the help of a friend and a comfy inheritance, setting sail for Egypt and beyond.

A minor cultural faux pas occurs when Agnes tries to check into Cairo's finest hotel with her little schnauzer, drawing the attention of some well-known historical figures who happen to be staying at the same place. Soon our small-town heroine is drawn into the social milieu of Gertrude Bell, Mr. and Mrs. Winston Churchill and the renowned Lawrence of Arabia. Through this coincidental meeting, Russell gives readers a fascinating look at the backstory of the British involvement in the complicated separation of powers among the Middle Eastern states and the West. There were times in this historical novel when I thought I was reading contemporary jounalism!

It's such a pleasure to meet a character like Agnes, who blossoms with confidence and charm as she opens herself to the opportunities for love and adventure as they present themselves to her. While this novel is lighter than what I'm used to from Russell, having held a great book discussion on A Thread of Grace, it was still a pure delight from start to finish and goodness knows my reading habits can always use a little light!

You'll know what I mean if you've ever read one of the creepiest literary thriller writers around, our Reading Festival veteran, Jeffery Deaver. I started the latest in his incredible Lincoln Rhyme series last Thursday night on my way home from work. Within the short span of 8 miles I became so scared I didn't want to enter my garage alone! The Broken Window, a terrifying look at idenity theft, has sucked me in to the point where I'm planning a weekend trip just so I can listen.

Banned Books Week is coming up. Go ahead, make Sarah Palin's day! Read Daddy's Roommate.

A Day Without Politics - Almost

Ever since our drive to Maryland, listening to talk radio all the way, I've been so depressed about the state of our country that I feel practically suicidal! Seems that I've been calling my sister an inordinate number of times just to hear her tell me that "all will be well." Easy for her to say, you see, she still lives in Massachusetts. Down here in Southwest Florida there aren't as many, dare I say it? Liberals!
I decided yesterday to take a day off from politics after reading a very funny entry to the Huffington Post saying that we must, to preserve our sanity, walk away every now and then from all news media, be it NPR, blogs, your local or national papers, The Nation, etc. It felt so good to get my blood pressure down to an acceptable reading.
But wait, late in the day I popped downtown to a library gathering, a farewell for a co-worker who's retiring, and within minutes of being around all my forward thinking librarian pals, we were positing questions about which nation we'd move to if the election doesn't go the way we want it to.
Then I came home to catch the Moyers show and had confirmed for me what I've already known and worried about for quite some time. That is, that the media rules and we only know what they allow us to know. How frightening it is to think that so few corporations now own every major television and radio station and the publishing empire to boot. If you haven't see it in a while, it's time to rent Network.

That said, I was also asked by one of my faithful readers, why I haven't written anything lately. The truth is that I was just waiting for a book I could get enthusiastic about. I've started and given up some so-so titles, using Nancy Pearl's trusty "rule of 50," as my new guideline; among them John DuFresne's Requiem, Mass (another dysfunctional family that's supposed to be funny and I find anything but...) and Alan Furst's The Spies of Warsaw which received glowing reviews in AudioFile but didn't grab me. I did finish, while up in Maryland, Margot Livesey's The House on Fortune Street, which I enjoyed, as I do all of her twisted, strange novels, but didn't think any of my regular readers would go for it. Divorce, suicide, potential pedophilia, friendships abandoned.......that's my Margot. The woman has a lovely way with language and a deeply disturbing take on the human condition. If you've never read her work I would suggest beginning with Eva Moves the Furniture.

I do have a glowing recommendation, a book you could read in one night if the spirit moved you. I had read an essay about the author, Elizabeth Maguire, in Publisher's Weekly. In fact, it was an obituary written by a long-time colleague and friend about Ms. Maguire's untimely death and the effort to get her book published. The Open Door is a fictional look at the life of feminist and author Constance Fenimore Woolson ( http://www.gvsu.edu/woolson/ ) and her controversial and often misunderstood years-long relationship with Henry James. I just fell in love with Constance, the plucky kind of woman you'd hope you'd have been if you'd been an adventurous, open-eyed, 21st century soul stuck in a 19th century mold.
Apparently, though descended from the James Fenimore Cooper family of upstate New York, she lived in St. Augustine, Florida for several years and wrote about her travels and the area. She was published in Harper's and enjoyed some popularity which MaGuire indicates may have been a source of professional jealousy to James whose work was not likely as accessible to the "average" reader as was Contance's.

Woolson spent much of her life in Italy, so you can imagine how enamoured I was of the descriptions of her life in Florence, Venice and Sorrento, but she also traveled widely, renting digs in London, Salisbury, Switzerland, Egypt and Greece. She had several lovers, one in particular with whom she had a long, loving relationship, but she eschewed marriage and the drudgery and loss of independence that she assumed would come with it. Maguire's depiction of Woolson's deep friendship with James is so realistic that it's difficult for the reader to distinguish which is fact and which is fiction. The author quotes from supposed correspondance between the two and I'd have to do the research to find out if these letters did actually exist. The truth is, I don't care. They exist now in my mind and I just loved this little gem of a book!

Suddenly I have so much more to say........but I'd better not, since we know I tend to be a tad wordy. I'll be back.

A Bad Call?

Yikes! I'm really doubting myself now. I obsessed over my latest review for Library Journal. Should I be honest and risk not being published or should I pander to an author that I know has an excellent literary rep? Well, I chose honesty and may have really blown it as the book that I panned has just been longlisted for the Man Booker Prize. http://www.themanbookerprize.com/
I was gratified to see that one of the Booker bloggers agreed with me and dear Andrea reminded me that Booker Prize winners don't always circulate very well at the library.

So I'm moving on, though nothing I'm reading is exciting me this week. I've been preoccupied with a potential health issue which resolved itself - phew - and then I had my workshop to teach, which I'm told by my students, was a hit - phew. On top of that, we had the Democratic convention which had me uncharacterisically in the thrall of the television, half the time in tears, the rest of the time pumping fists and shouting out to the speakers.

Now I'm prepping for my first book discussion to be held on Sept. 11th. Falling Man by Don deLillo is a deceptively brisk read loaded with psychological angst as it manifests itself in the lives of an estranged husband and wife and their son, who is only referred to as "the kid," throughout the book. The action takes place on Sept. 11th in New York City as the towers are falling. One man walks away, dazed, confused, bloodied, carrying a briefcase he's never seen before. Though he's been separated from his wife for 18 months, his body automatically treks through the debris to her, their son and his old apartment. How each member of this quasi-family responds, directly and subconsciously, to the horror of the terrorist attack and its disruption of their lives and the city they love, is the thrust of the book. I'll keep you posted on how the talk goes.

I just finished listening to another in Donna Leon's wonderful Commisario Brunetti series, The Girl of His Dreams. Leon's novels, set in Venice, where she's lived for years as an ex-pat, are always multi-layered and are not just your average police procedural. And Brunetti, who relaxes with Plutarch's Lives or The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire, is not your average cop on the street. Leon manages to inject so many moral ambiguities into her work, sharing with readers the political nuances of Venice as a city that considers itself "apart" from the rest of Italy. Actually, I would say that Venice is a major character in her books.
There are two simultaneous plots laid out in this book and readers familiar with Leon's work assume that they will eventually collide. In this case, a priest who could have ulterior motives, asks Brunetti to investigate an evangelist who may or may not be bilking people out of their money. The irony is not lost on the anti-Catholic agnostic commisario.
The novel takes a darker turn when Brunetti and his sidekick, Vianello, come upon the body of a small girl, who turns out to be a gypsy (and a reason for Leon to expound on the despair of the gypsy life in Italy) floating in the Grand Canal.

I've got another, even better mystery going on my mp3. Careless in Red, by one of my old favorites Elizabeth George, is read by the same Brit who did such a good job with the 007 knockoff, John Lee. This is also a series that's been around forever, featuring Inspector Thomas Lynley, currently on leave from Scotland Yard and deeply, unalterably mourning the death of his wife and unborn son at the hands of a street urchin, the shocking climax from George's 2006 With No One as Witness. This is a series that you'll want to begin at the beginning because George so deftly introduces her characters, following their growth and maturation as cops and as people. Secondary, quirky detective Barbara Havers adds a truly human touch to the lofty, blue-blooded Lynley who wears the mantle of mentor uncomfortably at best.
If you want to get up to speed on this series a tad more quickly, WGBH out of Boston has created an extremely adept video series that the library owns. Still, I like to create my own version of the characters before being introduced to the televised ones.

OK, enough already. I'm off for a long weekend in Savannah and a quick trip up to Maryland accompanied by a suitcase full of overdue books. I'll let you know next week how I did.

I've missed writing!

What ever happened to those "hazy, lazy, crazy days of summer?" July and August are supposed to be the slowest time at the library, a time when we can catch up on all the things we don't get to do from October to June, but this year, not so much! I'm feeling overwhelmed with deadlines and, even though I always meet them, they put my stomach in a knot! Next week I have to teach a workshop on Readers' Advisory service and, though I've done it several times before, I always obsess about keeping it fresh, not to mention keeping the technology working to my advantage. The power point isn't for the students, it's a memory jog for this middle aged brain!



I've just written an article for the Bonita Banner on my favorite topic, Banned Books Week, and penned another review for Library Journal (more on the new book Sea of Poppies by Amitav Ghosh at another time). At over 500 pages, with a 2 week deadline, I had to drop the book I really wanted to finish and write about, an old classic that I've only recently heard of, called Strange Fruit by Lillian Smith. Banned when it was published in the early '40's, this book about an interracial love affair in 1920's Georgia, builds slowly with glorious writing but the reader senses from the jump that tragedy will ensue. The term "strange fruit" is taken from a Billie Holiday song in which she refers to the bodies of lynched African Americans hanging from the trees in the south. In my naivetee, I've always believed that racial prejudice was long behind us here in the good ole USA. It's taken Barack Obama's bid for the presidency to show me how foolish I've been.



Meanwhile my friend Andrea mentioned the other day that she hasn't had a chance to read Ann Patchett's latest novel, Run. That's when I realized how far behind the eight ball I was. I must have finished that three weeks ago and hadn't posted a word. Many of us love Ann P. and we've been trying to get her, along with her delightful mother Jeanne Ray, (Julie and Romeo) to attend the reading festival to no avail. I absolutely adored Patchet's The Patron Saint of Liars, and had a very successful book discussion of Bel Canto, so I was awfully disappointed in the latest entry in her oeuvre. (I am alone in this criticism so don't take my word for it) It's a quick read but I found the plot to be so far fetched that it detracted from the otherwise good writing. In a nutshell, a wealthy, politically connected Irish Catholic family in Boston adopts twin boys, who happen to be African American, and almost immediately their adopted mom dies leaving the boys and their 10 year old half-brother to be raised single handedly by Doyle, the loving but demanding patriarch and former mayor.



When we meet the family they are fully dysfunctional and at odds with eachother while still putting on a united front to please Doyle in some kind of misguided thanks for the classy educations and upbringing. Teddy wants to be a priest, Kip a scientist, Doyle pushes politics. One evening as they are leaving the umpteenth lecture (Jesse Jackson!) that Doyle has dragged them to, Kip in an angry exchange with his dad, walks briskly away from the curb unaware that an SUV is careening toward him in the snow. A woman appearing from nowhere jumps in front of the vehicle, pushing Kip to safety but sustaining severe injuries herself. The Doyles jump into action, getting the unknown woman to the nearest hospital and arranging to take her 12 year old daughter Kenya home with them until things can be straightened out. Then things take a strange turn.

It seems that Kenya knows everything about the Doyles, has been following them her whole life with an avid, seemingly unhealthy interest encouraged by her mother. In this novel Patchett is obviously exploring relationships, examining what really constitutes a family and dabbling in the nature/nurture debate, themes I normally jump all over. So Andrea, go ahead, please and read this book. Maybe you'll help me understand why it didn't work for me. At any rate, it would make for a great discussion.

More soon on the exquisite Jhumpa Lahiri and her collection of related short stories, Unaccustomed Earth, a truly beautiful book that I highly recommend listening to just for the lovely lilt of the reader who nails the Bengali dialect.