Ex Libris

Confessions of a Common Reader
by Anne Fadiman

My friend and fellow book lover, Erin lent me this book.

Ex Libris is completely charming. First of all, it's one of those books that feels comfortable to hold; comfortable as in familiar and inviting. It's the perfect size and feels like it's made of real paper, not all glossy and shinny. And the essays themselves are lovely, in the most loving way.

I will say that reading these essays requires a dictionary, and not just for "The Joy of Sesquipedalians," (a word which this spell-check does not recognize but I assure you is a real word). I wish I had Anne Fadiman's vocabulary. But I didn't not grow up in the kind of household where my father quizzed my brother and I on word meanings.

Fadiman shares wonderful anecdotes about the books in her life and how they relate to her life, including the difficulty of marring her and her husband's libraries: "[...] it was a good thing the Book of Common Prayer didn't say anything about marrying our libraries and throwing out the duplicates. That would have been a far more solemn vow, one that would probably have caused the wedding to grind to a mortifying halt." Adorable. And is there some unspoken rule that book lovers/writers must be fascinated by Antarctic expeditions of the 19th century? She and Annie Dillard: two peas in a pod.

My favorite essays are "Marrying Libraries," "My Odd Shelf," "Never Do That to a Book," "True Womanhood," and "Sharing the Mayhem." "Nothing New Under the Sun" makes me crazy because I really dislike footnotes. Yet these are the kinds of essays which can (and should) be read over and over again because, while they are personal, they are also personable and accessible and will hold individual meaning for each individual reader. They are extremely well crafted in a kind of ciclicle way, always returning to her original observation.

This is a book that I feel the need to buy a copy for myself. I want to mark it up, leave it open and face down on my night stand, and lend out to my friends (as long as they promise to give it back).

If you love books, then you are bound to love this one.

Suite Francaise

by Irene Nemirovsky
Translated by Sandra Smith

This book was donated to the library's paperback rack, and the director was thinking about putting it in the permanent collection, so he asked me to read it to see if it's any good (apparently the praise from The New York Times Book Review wasn't sufficient).

Nemirovsky's book takes place in Paris and the French countryside during the German invasion in 1940 (again, I've got a thing for war-time lit). What is truly amazing to me is that the author wrote this book not long before she was deported to Auschwitz in 1942, where she eventually died. I wish I were fluent in French so I could have read it in it's original form, but this is an excellent book nonetheless.

Initially I was wondering why a Russian Jew was writing so exclusively about French Catholics. It was later reading her notes and the collection of letters I realized she was Catholic and had immigrated to France to escape Russia. It is amazing that her notes and the correspondence, let alone the book, survived. Including those adds another dimension to Nemirovsky's book.

It is an incredible book, written by an incredible woman. It is a stunning and frightening picture of humans stripped of their humanity, reverting back to animal instincts, for good or bad. The attitudes of some of these "middle class" (only slightly below royalty and nobility) characters makes me want to throw up from an overdoes of arrogance and entitlement. Nemirovsky presents dramatic contrast between those concerned for their families and for France, and those out for themselves. It is an honest and stripped look at what happens to people under this extreme, inhumane stress.

I like the more hectic Storm in June better than Dolce, and I wish Nemirovsky had lived to finish her vision. I want to know if Benoit made it to Paris safely! This book is full of vivid, unique characters, which makes for an excellent story. The reader truly grows attached to characters like Fr. Pericand, and even to the German soldier Bruno. Nemirovsky blurs the lines of friend or foe and her characters are caught up in struggles between right and wrong, when no one can say for sure which is which.

Teaching a Stone to Talk

Expeditions and Encounters
by Annie Dillard

On the advice of the woman who runs the summer book discussion series at my library, I am reading more Annie Dillard. Shocking, I know. But I thought I would give her another chance. And as it turns out, I like Annie Dillard, but only in very small doses. Any more than ten pages, and I'm out. Admittedly, I didn't even make it through all of the essays.

Teaching a Stone to Talk is a collection of poetic essays involving nature and God. "Living Like Weasels" is particularly beautiful and truly excellent essay.

Her writing style is still too precious, but I can commune with her for a few pages, and I enjoy that.

The real down side of this book is that the one I read was from another local library and someone wrote in it. Now, I understand; I write in all my books. But not in a library book! Come on, people! Plus their notes were obvious and stupid. It was distracting. Yet however annoying the distraction was, it was also a little nice because it gave me a chance to form my own opinions against those of this dumb person. It was like being back at school.

This is the kind of literature that truly needs to be studied. This isn't a leisurely read, at least it wasn't for me. It's almost as if Dillard is talking to me from some spiritual platform just out of my reach. Sometimes I think I understand her, and I get it, but then she looses me again and I lose interest. I think we simply have a one-sided love/hate relationship.

Broken Colors

by Michele Zackheim

I immediately fell in love with this book. It's stunning. The story is completely enveloping and beautifully written. It is vivid and emotional and just wonderful to read.

I've recently become more interested in war-time literature, specifically WWI and WWII; not just books written then, but books set in that time as well. It's completely fascinating. I think I'd like to specialize in war-time lit. I also just started watching the History channel's series on WWII and it's incredible. It's truly amazing anyone made it out alive. But this book isn't so much about the war as it is about Sophie growing up and living her life while trying to repress and cope with what she went through during the war and after.

My heart broke for Sophie with every tragedy which befell her, which was a lot, to be honest, and almost to the point of ridiculous. I wanted to shake the author by the shoulders and say, 'Give Sophie a break already!' Not a lot of time is devoted to Sophie's happiness.

I lost interest a little when Sophie moved to the U.S. But the book does pick up after she meets Nico and things get more complicated. The book spans such a huge portion of time (nearly Sophie's entire life), so naturally there are gaps of time which are glazed over or not really mentioned. Zackheim wanted to cram a lot into one book.

Zackheim gave this book a really lovely, calm ending, which is what Sophie deserved after the life she lived, and what the book needed.

This book is nearly impossible to put down. I absolutely adore it. I'm gushing, I know, but this book is just that good. It's been a while since I've read a book I've loved so much. Read it. Seriously, read it.

Medium Raw

A Bloody Valentine to the World of Food and the People Who Cook
by Anthony Bourdain

Initially I thought this book was not really for me. His chapter on "lust" is definitely beyond me. I don't lust after chicken innards or blood soup. I'm not quite that adventurous when it comes to food. I get the idea of "food porn," I do, but eels don't exactly get me hot and bothered. Plus, he mentions so many restaurants and chefs of which I know absolutely nothing.

However, I enjoyed and whole-heartedly agree with his chapter on "virtue," where he talks about basic cooking skills which every human, at least every adult, should possess. That I believe in. I particularly appreciate his opinion that:

[...] it is only right and appropriate that before one sleeps with someone, one should be able--if called upon to do so--to make them a proper omelet in the morning. Surely that kind of civility and selflessness would be both good manners and good for the world. Perhaps omelet skills should be learned at the same time your learn to fuck. Perhaps there should be an unspoken agreement that in the event of loss of virginity, the more experienced of the partners should, afterward, make the other an omelet--passing along the skill at an important and presumably memorable moment.

I don't think that's too much to expect. I absolutely support the idea of people learning to cook for themselves, enjoying the endeavor as I currently am.

His chapter on meat is also excellent and a little terrifyingly eye-opening.

I agree with his basic assertion that we have rich douchebags to blame for over-priced shitty food. Douchebags are ruining cuisine for everyone, driving up prices and lowering standards--making cooking for oneself an even more necessary kill.

I also love his "Grandma rule" for travelers:

You may not like Grandma's Thanksgiving turkey. It may be overcooked and dry--and her stuffing salty and studded with rubbery pellets of giblets you find unpalatable in the extreme. You may not like turkey at all. But it's Grandma's turkey. And you are in Grandma's house. So shut the fuck up and eat it.

But, as someone with IBS, I can't always accept Grandma's hospitality. In fact, I sometimes have to refuse, unless I want to be sick for a day or more which, generally, as a traveler, I do not (and I'm sure Grandma doesn't want that either). But if you are just a vegan/vegetarian self-righteous jerk, eat the fucking turkey.

When it comes to food, I personally like unpretentious food. However, I have never had the cash-flow necessary to give pretentious food a chance. If I did, I would go to Le Bernadin in NYC.

There is no real sense of time in this book, which initially annoyed me until I came to terms with the fact that this is not really a biography; a memoir of sorts, maybe. Nonfiction, yes; biography, no. Also, I have never known an author to like using dashes so much. But it's a small stylistic obstacle to overcome.

At time the book seems a little dense, especially considering my limited knowledge of big name, fancy restaurants and chefs. But the book is smart, satirically funny and genuinely interesting.

And everyone should know how to properly roast a chicken.

The Goodbye Summer

by Patricia Gaffney













I have to admit, I enjoyed reading this book. It's cute, it's quick, it's a little formulaic, but it's a nice read. It's the kind of book you can read while watching tv or at a baseball game and not have to retrace your steps or feel like you need to read the same sentence over 20 times.

Although the end stinks. Caddie spends one page griping about New Years and how much she dislikes it, and then she's saying to Magill how much she likes it, that it's a gift. Please. No one goes from surly to sweet that fast, especially not Caddie.

This book is the definition of "chick-lit." The feminist in me hates me for saying that, but, let's face it, it is.

Every once in a while it's nice to give yourself a literary break. But I had a nightmare image of myself tucked up on a chair with an afghan over my legs, cat curled up in my lap, cup of tea beside me, reading this book. Not yet. Not yet! I haven't come to that yet.

Now it's time to move on to something more substantive.

The Reader

directed by Stephen Daldry

This is a move which stays remarkably true to the book. Very little is changed in the film version, which I appreciate

I don't think I would actually change anything about this movie. Maybe a little less sex and get to the trial faster. But the movie is still exceptional.

What struck me after watching the movie is how emotionless the book now seems. The books is mostly a factual account, and there is something about how it's written that gives it now emotion. Michael asks questions and struggles with the relationship he had with Hanna, but somehow, none of that translates to strong emotion in the reader, at least not in me. In the movie however, there is so much more emotion, most of it repressed, which makes it all the more powerful when it does manage to leak through (very German). This is a case in which reading the book and seeing the movie each enhance the other.

This is an excellent film adaptation of the book.