Laura

Another fun, fast romance! Smart and goofy. It‰ЫЄs cool to read books like this about people (sort of) my age where their job is a huge part of their life (and the story) rather than just a vague piece of their identity.

Twelve stories about the trauma and everyday suffering of women in modern Pakistan. The characters range from the mother of a young boy who is recruited to the Taliban, to a young trans woman who steals from shops rather than express her anger when she experiences discrimination, to a young woman welcoming home from Canada her long-time crush, to a young woman who abandons her family to join ISIS, to a girl who is taught that being sexually assaulted by a teacher is her own fault, to a woman who is separated from her husband during the Partition in 1947.

Most of these stories are about women who see, to some extent or another, their society from the outside. They don‰ЫЄt like the status quo, or they exist in the margins of society, or they don‰ЫЄt conform to the expectations of their families, or the behaviour of others makes them feel that they don‰ЫЄt belong. Often it‰ЫЄs not a choice, but sometimes it is. These are stories about every day people of Pakistan facing death, violence, sexual assault, arranged marriages, religious conversions, the loss of an unborn child, changing sexual mores, families torn apart by prejudice.

The stories in Things She Could Never Have are well-written, sensitively engaging you in the experience of these women and girls. There is a joy in womanhood mixed with the suffering ‰ЫУ the pleasures of love, the joy of beauty, the wonder of children and family. Some of the stories are heartbreaking, while others end without a clear resolution, which is its own sort of pleasure, leaving you wanting more.

The last lines of the final story reflect the importance of stories themselves: ‰ЫПBut then, I remind myself, I still have you. I have you here, within me, listening to my stories.‰Ыќ The act of sharing these stories is a comfort and a balm, not a way to fix the traumas or heal the pain, but a way to bear witness.

(Full disclosure: I received a free copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.)

This book was FUN. Engaging and compelling. The funny parts made me laugh and the sad parts made me cry. When I emerged from reading this, it took me a minute to remember where I was. Excellent escapism.

A sad and sickening but ultimately hopeful story. This novel takes turns seeing one New Year‰ЫЄs Eve in Australia through the eyes of each family member, showing the horror of a man broken by war and how that horror extends to his daughters, his wife, and his brother. The book ends on a New Year‰ЫЄs Eve years later, with a renewal. The language is beautiful and the characters and story are engaging.

This book is BONKERS. A haughty, vain, charismatic asshole falls into evil after evil after evil, finding a way to excuse himself every time. Again and again Ambrosio freaks out over the thought of doing something terrible, and inevitably he ends up doing it and explaining it away as something God will forgive him for later. There are cruel nuns, a few ghosts, and an actual physical Satan. And way too much horrifying detail about rape. It seems insane that this was published in the 18th century.

Well, this was unexpected.

All amazing stories, except for ‰ЫПEspecially Heinous‰Ыќ which went on for much too long.

A sad story with a sense of humour and a tidy ending. I listened to the audiobook and probably enjoyed it more than I would‰ЫЄve otherwise, thanks to the Scottish accents for the characters who weren‰ЫЄt Eleanor.

Very slight but lovely.

I bought this novel years ago from a used book store because of the Pynchon blurb. I finally started reading it because Scarlett Thomas mentioned it in her preface to Bright Young Things and because it seemed like a good follow up to Sputnik Caledonia.

I'm not really sure why I loved this book, but I did. The narration is deadpan, the settings are bleak, and the action is repetitive and insane. Yet it was hilarious and propulsive and engrossing. Reminded me of Raymond Carver and Lars Iyer and Withnail and I as well as oft-mentioned-in-other-reviews Kafka.

Awesome guide book and pep talk for people trying to make a living as an artist or working on a side hustle or pursuing any kind of art. I loved the format: each section ordered in a neat list with a brief but punchy blurb on each page. Pithy but powerful.

As an object, the book is pleasant to hold (so small and compact!). The binding‰ЫЄs a bit stiff, but for a good reason ‰ЫУ each page is perforated so you can rip it out and hang it up for inspiration! I love the idea, although personally I‰ЫЄll be keeping mine intact.

A wonderful study of the lack of solitude in our lives. A lot about how technology affects our ability to be alone (like, really alone, without the internet!) and how that is probably a bad thing but not absolutely. It changes us, though, and perhaps not always for the better.

I liked the earlier parts of the book best where Harris explores the uses of solitude and the benefits of daydreaming. The last section on ‰ЫПKnowing Others‰Ыќ (excepting the final chapter) doesn‰ЫЄt fit as neatly with the rest of the book as I expected, although it wasn‰ЫЄt out of place exactly.

An engaging and fascinating book with lots of tasty morsels for further contemplation.

‰ЫПOur boat was completely destroyed by the waves created by an ordinary rain that fell immediately after we disembarked. More than two hundred of us watched in silence, eyes misty from rain and astonishment. The wooden planks skipped one at a time on the crest of the wave, like a synchronized swimming routine. I‰ЫЄm positive that for one brief moment the sight made believers of us all. Except one man. He‰ЫЄd retraced his steps to fetch the gold taels he‰ЫЄd hidden in the boat‰ЫЄs fuel tank. He never came back. Perhaps the taels made him sink, perhaps they were too heavy to carry. Or else the current swallowed him as punishment for looking back, or to remind us that we must never regret what we‰ЫЄve left behind.

‰ЫПThat memory definitely explains why I never leave a place with more than one suitcase. I take only books. Nothing else can become truly mine. I sleep just as well in a hotel room, a guest room or a stranger‰ЫЄs bed as in my own. In fact, I‰ЫЄm always glad to move; it gives me a chance to lighten my belongings, to leave objects behind so that my memory can become truly selective, can remember only images that stay luminous behind my closed eyelids. I prefer to remember the flutters in my stomach, my light-headedness, my upheavals, my hesitations, my lapses ‰Ы_ I prefer them because I can shape them according to the colour of time, whereas an object remains inflexible, frozen, unwieldy.‰Ыќ

Update Feb 2017: How did I give Barbara Pym 3 stars? All her books are 5 stars forever. I love them to pieces, even though I get confused about the characters mentioned across books. Wilmet's a darling ridiculous dear who tactfully leaves a lot unsaid.

—

Usually I like Pym‰ЫЄs heroines more than I did here; Wilmet seems less self-aware than Pym‰ЫЄs usual, especially as a first person narrator. I simultaneously loved and hated the moment when Wilmet and her husband burst out laughing together in the horrid little restaurant; it seemed too pat, but is life really like that after all? Loved the scene that‰ЫЄs illustrated on the cover of the edition I read – Wilmet entering the parish hall for the evening social gathering to meet Father Ransome. Reminded me of the hours spent in the fellowship hall of the church I grew up in (Protestant, though – Christian Reformed). Definitely not my favourite Pym but she‰ЫЄs such a reliable delight that one day I shall reread this, even though I've only given it three stars.

–

“‘Won't you at least have a drink before you go?' Sybil asked. ‘I'm sure you'll need it.'

“I refused, thinking that it might not mix very well with the refreshments I should get at the parish hall, and it occurred to me that one could perhaps classify different groups of circles of people according to drink. I myself seemed to belong to two very clearly defined circles – the Martini drinkers and the tea drinkers though I was only just beginning to be initiated into the latter. I imagined that both might offer different kinds of comfort, though there would surely be times when one might prefer the one that wasn't available. Indeed, as I approached the parish hall, which was next door to the clergy house, I began to wish that I had paid more heed to Sybil's suggestion of a drink.”

–

“‘This precious blood,' she murmured, and began muttering to herself, first about her blood and then about irrelevant things which I could only half hear – a quarrel with somebody about a broken milk bottle and what they had said to each other. It seemed like a ‘stream of consciousness' novel, but I was relieved when she stopped talking for I had been afraid that she might address me. Virginia Woolf might have brought something away from the experience, I thought; perhaps writers always do this, from situations that merely shock and embarrass ordinary people.”

–

“He was one of those preachers who, on coming to the end of what they have to say, find it impossible to stop. Sentence after sentence seemed as if it must be the last but still he went on. I felt as if I had been wrapped round and round in a cocoon of wordiness, like a great suffocating eiderdown.”

An honest, clear-eyed memoir of the intricacies of dealing with sudden loss. No sentimental heartstring-tugging here. Aitkenhead pays homage to the life of her partner and works through her grief in the nine months following his death.

Like it says on the tin, these are 99 stories, all of them very short and easy to read. Many of them are about God, but the rest, well, if they are about God I couldn‰ЫЄt tell. I guess anything can be about God. Every story was well crafted, and every once in a while I came across a good one, but for the most part I hopped, skipped, and jumped my way through them with tiny twinges of feeling that I thought maybe were supposed to be stronger. My favourite stories were the goofy ones about the Lord, like ‰ЫПWet‰Ыќ, ‰ЫПParty‰Ыќ, ‰ЫПInoculum‰Ыќ, ‰ЫПDriveshaft‰Ыќ, and ‰ЫПA Little Prayer‰Ыќ, because such mild blasphemy makes me giggle nervously inside like I‰ЫЄm still a good little churchgoing girl.

Saints, Unexpected by Brent van Staalduinen is a well-received novel set in Hamilton, Ontario, Canada, the city where I was born and still live. Most of the book takes place in the downtown Hamilton of 20 years ago, which was 10 years before I moved there from the suburbs up the mountain. Many specifics of place were unknown to me, but the overall picture was true. The author brings the city to life and stays faithful to its difficult character.

The narrator is a 15 year old girl, who tells her version of one tragic, formative summer. I cried for two whole chapters near the end. Most of the book falls under the section ‰ЫПHamilton, Then‰Ыќ while the epilogue is titled ‰ЫПToronto, Now‰Ыќ, a reflection on revisiting not only a difficult time of life, but a difficult place in life too. Hamilton is the kind of hometown people diminish or hide or forget, especially if they move to Toronto. There‰ЫЄs a lot of shame. Things have changed, somewhat for the better. Gentrification is in progress, for good and for bad. Part of me is grateful for the improved assortment of restaurants and shops downtown and the increased number of people like me on the streets, but another part of me is sad for the business owners and residents who are getting pushed out as a result. The bad parts of town are not getting better, and the people who need support are not in a better situation. I often tell people, ‰ЫПActually, Hamilton has improved a lot in the last several years ‰Ы_‰Ыќ but there‰ЫЄs always this twinge inside of me that thinks, ‰ЫПReally? For you, maybe.‰Ыќ The epilogue of Saints, Unexpected reflects this difficulty, valuing the strengths of a city while remembering a time of loss and change.

(Originally published in my weekly newsletter, All This Reading, with some differences.)

Here‰ЫЄs where I‰ЫЄm at with my mindfulness practice: I read this book while I ate my lunch at work. I know the practical reasons why mindfulness is important and what the benefits are, but the reality of practicing it is hard. Regardless, this was a sweet little volume with cute illustrations and some excellent thoughts on being present and mindful when you eat, when you cook, when you wash the dishes, and when you spend time with others at a meal.

A thirty-something woman takes a ridiculous job at a meaningless non-profit and is trying to have a baby and is an artist at heart but keeps telling herself she is not. She measures her success in relation to her two best friends and seeks the approval of stupid people at work because she has told herself a story about what she‰ЫЄs supposed to do with her life and has a mother who very carefully pretends not to care about her. She can‰ЫЄt see herself clearly and doesn‰ЫЄt know what she wants until she finds her way to figuring that out. The humour is often over-the-top but occasionally comes close enough to real life to be hilarious. The story comes complete with a zany trip to a land far far away where mistakes are made. If any of these themes resonate with you (whether you‰ЫЄre a lady or a dude), I recommend it.

(Originally published in my weekly newsletter, All This Reading, with some differences.)

Some strange force impelled me to pull this book off the shelf, although it was not even close to the piles of books I‰ЫЄve been wanting to read for weeks and months. How does that happen? Sometimes a random book can seem to hold a lot of promise. Sometimes I want to get rid of a book that has been sitting on my shelf for a long time without ever wanting to read it, so then I have to read it before I can get rid of it.

I bought The Island of Desire during one of our epic trips to Chamblin Bookmine in Jacksonville FL, but I can‰ЫЄt remember why, and there was only one review on Goodreads for it at the time, so it felt like a truly random read. I probably heard of the author in my quest for writers similar to and as good as Barbara Pym (I haven‰ЫЄt found any yet) and bought the book because it was the only Edith Templeton I‰ЫЄd ever seen in a bookstore.

This is an interesting (apparently semi-autobiographical) story about a daughter following and resisting the influence of her mother, and finding happiness (or something like it) once she stops resisting. I read the introduction by Anita Brookner which said that‰ЫЄs what happens, so I‰ЫЄm pretty sure that‰ЫЄs what happens. I‰ЫЄm not very good at comprehending the plot of literary novels. The Island of Desire had some good stuff in it, but I don‰ЫЄt think I‰ЫЄll find occasion to read it again. Hence I‰ЫЄve added it to our box of books to give away, although I would not hesitate to buy a different Edith Templeton if I ever came across one in a bookstore again.

(Originally published in my weekly newsletter, All This Reading, with some differences.)

My typical approach to reading a short book like this is to chug it down in one sitting or two, but I took my time with this one ‰ЫУ a whole week!

Over the course of the week, I would see it waiting for me on the coffee table or my bedside table and look away quickly, like it was someone whose eyes I didn‰ЫЄt want to meet. There are some books that are scary because they call you on your bullshit, and it‰ЫЄs not easy to face.

Yes, I would love to be an artist. (I want to put the word in quotes, but I won‰ЫЄt.) But I do not love the idea of what I need to sacrifice for the sake of making art. Especially, though, I do not love the idea of being an artist whose work is actually terrible, even after doing all the work and making all the sacrifices. Not that I have a lot to sacrifice ‰ЫУ mostly only things I don‰ЫЄt need anyway. Wanting to make art is scary, because you won‰ЫЄt find out if you are any good until you‰ЫЄve already taken the risks.

The most important parts of the book were these two ideas:
1. You need to do the work. If you want to write, you have to sit down and write.
2. You need to rely on yourself, not others, to know whether what you make is good.

Pressfield doesn‰ЫЄt talk about how to find an audience or make money. He talks about how to make art, regardless of who will see it or whether you can make a living from it. He talks about being a professional versus an amateur, but it‰ЫЄs not about being successful by other people‰ЫЄs standards. The important thing is to succeed by your own standards. The more important thing is simply to do it.

There are parts of the book I disagree with (connecting ‰ЫПmaking art‰Ыќ with ‰ЫПbeing healthy and sane‰Ыќ goes too far), but most of it is in tune with my difficulties with writing. My biggest problem is that I don‰ЫЄt sit down and write often enough. I want a clear picture in my head of what to write before I start, but the reality is that I don‰ЫЄt know what I want to write until I am already writing. Writing is the means of discovering what I think and what I want to say. But I become impatient with the meandering and worry that I can't tell what‰ЫЄs good and what‰ЫЄs not. Often I give up before I get to the good stuff, or I never get started because I don‰ЫЄt think the good stuff will be worthwhile anyway.

Pressfield‰ЫЄs arguments for how to be an artist ring true for how to be a person, too. You always have to struggle against the weak, mean, sad, angry, scared sides of yourself to do the right thing and get things done. You need to judge your life by your own standards, not by other people‰ЫЄs. You need to trust your own standards or work to improve them until you can trust them.

I enjoyed this book not just for its advice to writers and artists, but because it provides an approach to dealing with things I‰ЫЄve been struggling with for a long time. I‰ЫЄve imposed limitations on how I think I should live my life, and I think I‰ЫЄve been wrong. I don‰ЫЄt regret anything, exactly, but I see things differently now. I suppose, though, I wouldn‰ЫЄt see things differently now if I hadn‰ЫЄt lived through those self-imposed limitations. I'm not carefree and boundless, but maybe I‰ЫЄm closer.

(Originally published in my weekly newsletter, All This Reading, with some differences.)

Can't We Talk About Something More Pleasant? was the best book I've read in a while, but it was difficult. Scott bought it several months ago and I've been meaning to read it ever since then. The topic is starting to get close to home, with aging relatives in both our families and the geographic, financial, psychological, and emotional issues that come along with that.

Being the person responsible for aging and difficult parents sounds terrifying. Maybe Roz Chast decided (or agreed) to present the narrative this way, but she seemed to have no support from her husband or family or friends. Her parents had enough money for the extensive care they needed, but even paid help 24 hours a day wasn‰ЫЄt enough to ease Roz's anxiety and guilt. Maybe she did have more help than she portrayed in the book. Maybe she didn't allow anyone to help her. Maybe your emotional health seems unimportant when you take responsibility for the people who raised you. I don't know.

(Originally published in my weekly newsletter, All This Reading, with some differences.)

I read the Little House series many, many times as a kid. On an impulse I bought the ebook collection and started with These Happy Golden Years because it‰ЫЄs the one I re-read most in my pre-teen and probably even my teen years. I identified a lot with Laura and wanted to be a pioneer girl helping my Pa out on the farm. Part of me still does.

There is clearly some level of meaning – allegory, metaphor, something – that I am missing because I know little to nothing about Korean culture. What I took as the core idea, the insanity or not of the wish to give up humanity and become a tree or plant, was intriguing, especially within the family contexts given (abuse, abuse, and more abuse), but I was looking for something beyond that which I did not find.

So much detail about everything! Crazy piles of words about characters running around in circles, making no headway whatsoever. Somehow, still, it was enjoyable to read and the characters were fun (except the overabundance of dudes in Oxford continuing into the mid 21st century – I could not keep them straight). Some ideas about the future were hard to swallow – jammed video phone lines which should have been solved by the internet, lavatory paper shortages which should have been solved by 3D printers, time travel being controlled by historians of all people! – but what fun would science fiction be without those crazy ideas that keep your suspension of disbelief muscles strong.

This was never really clear to me, but was the idea that SpoilerKivrin became infected with the ancient flu virus by digging in the tomb (to improve the historical accuracy of her fingernails) which Badri caught when he moved her arm right before she went through the net? But he must have been infected before then because the people at the dance club or whatever earlier were infected by him, but did he have any contact with Kivrin before then, especially the kind of contact that would specifically infect him and not anyone else during that period? I guess I stopped paying enough attention when the facts came together, but I thought there was an obvious explanation that was never spelled out, which was all the more frustrating because almost every other little thing is completely and entirely spelled out, several times, in this book.

The ending was brutal and horrible and heartbreaking, itself reason enough to read the book.