Time Keeps On Slipping Into the Future

A Tale for the Time Being
by Ruth Ozeki
Published by Penguin Books
3 1/2 Stars Out of 5 Stars

You know that experience when you learn something new and only a few days later, references to it start popping up in the most unexpected of places: a television program, a book you're reading, a song on the radio, a friend mentions it in conversation? It's like the universe made certain you knew about this fact or concept because there was fixing to be a pop quiz over it and you needed to be ready. It's these types of connections and coincidences that make up A Tale for the Time Being. While it at first seems as though the novel is filled with sometimes irrelevant facts and digressions, just hang in there--Ruth Ozeki weaves them all together in a tale that serves as a metaphor for how writing and reading, or the interaction between writer and reader, can help us see ourselves in the life of another and ultimately save us from isolation and existential angst.

A Tale for the Time Being alternates between two women who, at first, seem very different: Ruth, a writer living on a small Canadian island, and Nao, a teenager living in Japan. When Ruth finds Nao's diary in a Hello Kitty lunchbox, their worlds defy time and space to collide in unexpected ways. The diary, however, is far more serious and sophisticated than its cartoonish packaging might lead one to believe. Written inside of a "hacked" copy of Proust's À la recherche du temps perdu (Nao purchases it in a craft shop in Tokyo that takes old books, guts them, and inserts new paper), Nao directly addresses her unknown reader as one would a close confidant and introduces herself as a time being, one who is aware of and chooses to exist in every moment in time, though it is becoming more and more difficult for her to do so. While reading the diary, Ruth becomes obsessed with finding the girl--at first for fear that Nao may have been a victim of the 2011 tsunami, but later for fear that she is a danger to herself. The diary allows us to experience Nao's unique voice as she relates her inability to fit into her new culture, her father's descent into depression after losing his job in the U.S., and the brutal, horrific bullying she endures at the hands of her classmates and teachers. As her diary goes on, the faux title begins to prove true: Nao is becoming more lost as time goes on. 

As Ruth reads the diary and desperately searches for Nao, we learn about her life as well and find that the two women overlap in surprising ways: both are Japanese-Americans, both are transplants to a place and culture not their own, both have somewhat strained relationships with the men in their lives, both have strong connections to a revered female elder, both feel a failed sense to accomplish what they want in their writing, both have an expatriate's experience of 9/11, both worry about losing time. Nao's name often functions as a pun on the word "Now," leading to overlapping meanings as to what both Ruth and Nao, feeling stuck in time, may really be searching for--hope for a "now" in which they can fully exist without being immobilized by fear, worry, or sorrow. 

While I enjoyed the book, I can't say that I loved it. Ozeki's meditations on time and existence are beautifully rendered, but sometimes difficult to understand as they rely upon the reader to retain information from previous chapters when they are echoed in later events. There is so much here and so much that I don't fully comprehend. For not only is this a story about relationships, but it's also one about the concept of time, especially as it relates to zen and quantum physics. Ozeki plays with the idea of parallel universes, of time and existence as nonlinear. While I was able to keep up with the general idea, I still feel like there's a whole layer of meaning that I kept grasping for without success. This is a book that I think I could really love upon a second or third reading as I think more and more tumblers would fall into place and allow me to really unlock the full depth of meaning here.

Surprisingly, though, I had the opposite reaction to many readers in that I often found the Ruth chapters more compelling than the Nao chapters. Nao's diary doesn't really read like a diary; instead it reads like a first person narrative. And, yeah, okay, a diary is a first person narrative, but it usually doesn't read like a novel as it's more bare bones in terms of physical details, focusing more on the emotional inner life of its writer. Nao's voice also reads more like that of an adult; for a teenager, she is very precocious and while the details of her life as an adolescent are rendered authentically, she herself doesn't sound much like a teen. In Ruth, Ozeki excels at capturing the subtle seismic shifts in a marriage and, if one pays close attention, there's much about Ruth that makes her the perfect recipient for Nao's diary. I also enjoyed the tension created by whether or not Ruth will be successful in her search for Nao--especially since the Nao she is looking for is one of the past and may or may not exist in the present, regardless of whether or not she can be physically found.

Scattered Sermonizing

Death of the Black-Haired Girl
by Robert Stone
Published by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
1 Out of 5 Stars

Maud Stack is a beautiful, vivacious, intelligent, and careless student. Professor Steven Brookman is a handsome, Hemingway-masculine, intelligent, and careless instructor. Of course, we know what this means. It's not long before office hours become after hours, and the classroom becomes the bedroom. In terms of plot, there's nothing new or shocking in Death of the Black-Haired Girl. Professor Brookman is, of course, a very married man who, despite his occasional sexual liaison, is very much in love with his wife, who has recently discovered she is pregnant with their second child. Taking a personal vow to be a better husband and a better father, Brookman decides to end his relationship with Maud, but hell hath no fury like an undergraduate scorned. It's not long before Maud spirals out of control, leading to her eventual death under questionable circumstances in front of the Brookman home. 

Despite seeming like the setup for a by-the-numbers whodunit,Death of the Black-Haired Girl is anything but. For those familiar with Stone's writing, this shouldn't be a shock and many of the negative reviews I've read come from readers who felt misled. I can't say that I blame them. With a title that conjures The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo and blurbs and summaries that throw around words like "thriller" and "noir," it does seem to project the wrong image. However, I read and enjoyed Stone's Dog Soldiers, so I was eager to enter into Stone's morally-nebulous universe. 

That enthusiasm did not last very long.

Stone uses the aftermath of Maud's death to explore morality in both specific and broad terms. The novel's setting is a prestigious liberal arts college in New England, an academic institution whose motto, Lux in Umbras Procedet, or Light Will Go Forth Into Shadows, hearkens to a vainglorious past, its original mission to bring civilization and God's light to the wilderness. Ironically, in its 21st century manifestation, it has become the place that creates shadows, a place of locks and barriers--no longer seeking to interact with the world, it seems to insulate itself from it. In its attempt to protect itself from outside influence, it's evident that its insular nature is destroying it from within. It is a gray, dismal wasteland populated by the selfish and the insane. As Maud quotes Mephistopheles from Doctor Faustus as saying of the world, "Why this is hell . . . nor am I out of it" (15). After Maud writes a scathing indictment (although, from my perspective, a clumsy, rambling and ridiculously written diatribe that I cannot imagine anyone finding persuasive or brilliant) of the hypocrisy of Christian right-to-lifers that is published in the school newspaper, the college becomes a literal battleground between the secular and the sacred as hundreds of protesters flock to the campus and some go so far as to physically threaten Maud.

Many of the characters here seem to be in hell: Maud; her father, Eddie; the school counselor, Jo Carr; and Steve Brookman carry and create their own personal demons. There are also lesser angels presented in the form of the dean's wife, Mary Pick, whose tragic past in Ireland seems to have only strengthened her faith, and Ellie Brookman, who routinely leaves the college to return to the Garden-like existence offered by her Mennonite community in Canada. A woman of deep faith who believes her life to be firmly in the hands of God, Ellie serves as the embodiment of the platonic ideal for Brookman: a constant presence reminding him to do better and be better in light of his past. Discovering her pregnancy months after leaving their home to return to the fold of her family seems to remove her from the sordid sexual escapades at the college, making her pregnancy seem almost immaculate and her presence in Brookman's life divine. 

So, yes, there's a lot going on here in terms of spirituality, repeatedly dancing at the edge of existential angst and then pulling back again. There's a lot going on in terms of abortion, Christian fundamentalism/radicalism, adultery, marriage, and temptation. There's some beautiful writing (the scene depicting the reaction of Maud's father, Eddie, after he learns of her death is heart-wrenching). 

So what's the problem? Remember how I said Maud's editorial rant was rambling and clumsy? Ultimately, that's how I felt about the structure of the novel. The story isn't really about Maud's death at all, but splinters off into a dozen different directions, following secondary characters in such a hurried, abrupt way that the reader never finds resolution on any front. It's like Maud's death is a bare Christmas tree from which Stone hangs every vituperative, cynical, and nihilistic bauble he can find. But then he stands back and thinks something is missing. So out come the garlands of devotion and piety as a counterweight. But still, it's not quite right. Maybe some twinkling obvious symbolism lights? The plot becomes so weighted under these conflicting and ponderous messages that I just lost interest. 

But the real death knell? The host of unlikable characters. Now, don't get me wrong--I'm not suggesting they should be likable in the sense that they should be good (in fact, it is the intended saints in the novel that I find particularly obnoxious), but there should be something about them that I still find appealing. Not so here. Part of my complaint comes from the fact that the novel does far more telling than showing, so many of the characters seem two-dimensional. It doesn't help that these are self-centered, pretentious, beautiful people who are careless with the lives of others. Surprisingly, the only sympathetic character is the one I thought I would loathe the most: Steve Brookman. Despite everything, there's the sense that he did love Maud in some way that went beyond lust. He doesn't come across as a lecherous Humbert Humbert in that what he loved and celebrated in Maud had as much to do with her intellect and her potential as her youth and beauty. 

In the end, I can only state that Death of the Dark-Haired Girl ultimately seems tedious and unnecessary despite its grander aspirations.

Go Along for the Ride

Backseat Saints
by Joshilyn Jackson
Published by Grand Central Publishing
3 Out of 5 Stars

To the outside world, Ro Grandee seems to have a good life: she's a beautiful woman married to a good looking and attentive husband from a well-respected family in Amarillo, Texas. However, after an airport gypsy tells Ro that she must kill her husband, we learn that Ro's picture perfect life is a facade that hides a marriage full of fear, violence, and abuse. Now, armed with only her pawpy's old gun, Ro plans her husband's murder, but will she be able to pull the trigger?

Backseat Saints begins with a bang and, unfortunately, ends with a whimper.

There's a lot to like here and, for the most part, I enjoyed the book. Joshilyn Jackson writes with wit and honesty about the South and its people (her dialogue is some of the best I've read), and to balance the darkness of spousal abuse with the humor of daily life is quite a feat.

What I appreciate the most about the book is that Ro never becomes a blank cipher for spousal abuse; many books of this nature focus on the violence and the abused remains a flat character with no real dimensions beyond the relationship to the abuse. Told from the first person point of view, Ro reveals the two halves of her personality. There's Ro Grandee, the lovely, submissive housewife, and then there's Rose Mae Lolley, the small town girl from Alabama who came to believe that love should be tempered by pain when her mother leaves and her father begins physically taking his anger out on Rose. Ro maintains her own personality (although secreted away in interior monologue that is Rose Mae Lolley's voice) despite being dominated by her husband, Thom. Her fear and her attraction to Thom become palpable and we see her foolishly clinging to hope in the good periods when he resolves to control his temper, and we see her anguish when he falls into familiar patterns. Like a meteorologist, Ro can predict the storm of his anger building but lacks the power to take shelter. While it's easy for those of us who have never been in an abusive relationship to become frustrated with her for her seeming refusal to leave him, Jackson does a good job of demonstrating how running is a luxury afforded to those with power. And Ro has been stripped of all power--financial, social, personal--by Thom, who has created a life that cages Ro in dependence upon him.

The novel, however, is problematic in two ways. The first is Ro's Catholicism, which seems surface at best and only to exist so that the novel could be given the title of Backseat Saints. The "saints" of the title are seldom brought into the narrative and never serve to move the plot forward. Entire chapters will pass and then a definite sense of "oops, haven't mentioned a saint in a while" crops up, a saint's name is dropped, and the narrative moves on--conspicuously saint-less.

The second issue is Ro's insistence on finding her ex-boyfriend from high school in the hopes that she can convince him to kill Thom. This plot line exists so Backseat Saints can dovetail with Jackson's novel, gods in Alabama (my personal favorite), which opens with Ro as a minor character appearing on the doorstep of Arlene Fleet's apartment in Chicago, demanding to know where her high school boyfriend is. The rest of gods is about Arlene making peace with a past she left behind in Alabama and Ro pretty much disappears as a character. I get that it was that particular character that inspired Jackson to write Saints, but instead of this segue feeling organic, it's been shoehorned in and makes for a strange, disjointed narrative. It also seems implausible that Ro would take such a risk, knowing the reaction her husband will have upon finding out she's been to Chicago without him. To have made Ro a character independent of gods would have tightened the narrative and cut some of the wasted length other reviewers have noted.

Despite these flaws, Backseat Saints has some lovely writing and I enjoyed the time spent with such complicated, flawed characters.  

Weak Hand

The Hand You're Dealt
by Paul Volponi
Published by Atheneum Books for Young Readers
2 Out of 5 Stars

Huck Porter is a poker prodigy, having been groomed by his father (much to the chagrin of his mother) from a young age . Every year the local church hosts an annual Texas Hold'em tournament and sends the winner to Las Vegas to play in a high stakes tournament. The standing agreement is that whatever money is won will be split between the winner and the struggling community. Huck's father has been the tournament champion for the last three years and it's only as his father is dying that a new tournament champion is named:  Mr. Abbott, the meanest math teacher to ever dust an eraser. When Mr. Abbott stiffs the town by refusing to split his earnings, Huck sees this as an insult against his father who once donated all of his winnings to the town. As a result, Huck decides it's time to humble Mr. Abbott both in the classroom and at the poker table.

While the opening chapter offers a lot of promise (Huck and the other poker players are being robbed at gun point in an elevator), it quickly loses momentum from there. The premise of a small time, small bets poker tournament being used as a means of sustaining an economically depressed community is far fetched and Mr. Abbott is almost cartoonishly evil in his tyranny over the classroom. In addition, Huck is dealing with some pretty heavy conflicts, but they're glossed over and resolved in simplistic ways.

For the target audience, which I assume to be 13-15 year old boys, this is probably a good read (especially for struggling readers) for all the reasons that I didn't like it. While the chapters are short and keep the action moving along, there's not a lot of description or character development, and there are several implausible situations/details that will probably sneak right on past a young reader. While I will certainly recommend the book to my students, it's not something that offers satisfaction to a more sophisticated reading audience.  

Caught in the Middle

Between, Georgia
by Joshilyn Jackson
Published by Warner Books
3 Out of 5 Stars

An enjoyable, but overall predictable, quick read. I always enjoy Joshilyn Jackson's books, especially this one's take on the rivalries that crop up between Southern families that are only exacerbated by life in a small town. There are some humorous moments, a few twists, and likable characters. Particularly inventive is Jackson's use of a main character, Nonny, who literally finds herself "between" the Fretts and the Crabtrees (the ersatz Hatfields and McCoys of the story), as well as the character of Stacia, who raises Nonny as her own. Stacia, who suffers from Usher's Syndrome, was born deaf and progressively loses her eyesight, but that doesn't stop her from being outspoken and independent, as well as an artist and a caring mother. Liked it, but did not love it.

Growing Up is Hard to Do

Looking for Alaska
by John Green
Published by Speak
3 Out of 5 Stars

Divided into two parts (before and after), I was all set to give this book a 4 until the last half of the book. The book is structured around a tragic event that changes the lives of a close knit group of friends. 

The first half of the book focuses on the main character, Pudge, a high school nobody with a penchant for collecting the last words of the dead and famous. Pudge, seeking a "Great Perhaps" that will change his life and provide him with direction, opts to attend Culver Creek, a private boarding school in Alabama. There he meets the Alaska of the book, a mercurial and mysterious girl with whom he falls in love. In addition, he becomes part of a motley group of misfits and finally feels as though he belongs. The novel's strength comes from this part of the book. There are those who will criticize these teens as being too jaded and world weary, but that's really the point. These are essentially good kids with keen intellects that have developed much sooner than their emotional maturity; they still see themselves as invincible. They smoke, they cuss, they drink, they experiment with sex. What they're really doing is trying to create an individualistic identity by trying on adult habits and modes of behavior, not realizing that their rebellious behavior has made them into stereotypes. Despite their flaws, they're likable--funny, sharp witted, and loyal to one another. 

My problem with the book is the second half, and I won't give away any spoilers. However, I was disappointed with the Scooby Doo ease with which the answer to the final mystery fell into place (my inner voice was groaning, "Rut ro, Raggy," as I realized how dissatisfying the ending was going to be). Also, adults just become complete idiots by the end of the book, shaking their heads with "You crazy kids"-like admiration at some of their more ridiculous exploits. However, it's a worthwhile read that is smartly written and would probably appeal more to teenagers. 

Almost Exceeds the Cool Quotient

Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist
by Rachel Cohn and David Levithan
Published by Ember
3 Out of 5 Stars

Nick and Norah meet in a punk rock club one night when Nick asks Norah to be his 5 minute girlfriend. Why? Because Nick's ex, Tris, is in the club with her new man and Tris broke Nick's heart. From that point on, Nick and Norah recognize the chemistry between them, but their feelings are compromised by their previous relationships.

The book is okay. Just okay. Told in stream-of-consciousness chapters alternating between Nick's point of view and Norah's, some of it becomes repetitive (although this technique does allow the reader to see how each experienced and interpreted various situations differently). 

My main complaint: Nick and Norah are cool. Obnoxiously cool. They are so much smarter and edgier than everyone else and, here's the thing with characters like that, there are people who are genuinely edgy and cool and original--and then there are those who are trying too hard to be so. Nick and Norah fall into the "trying too hard" category. They make obscure cultural references (many of which seem to be more in keeping with the time period of the authors' teenage years and not so much today's teens; for instance, maybe the movie Heathers and the television show My So Called Life are still a big deal to today's teenage crowd, but I somehow doubt it), they have both have a single-minded devotion to on-the-fringe punk bands, and engage in endless fashion critiques regarding what a person's dress reveals about character. They're trying so hard I wonder if and when they'll ever have any fun in life.

A Middle East Separate Peace

The Kite Runner
by Khaled Hosseini
Published by Riverhead Books
3 Out of 5 Stars

Consider me underwhelmed. The Kite Runner isn't a bad book, nor is it a particularly good book. Two boys are the best of friends, until a tragic incident tears them apart. One is doomed to live his life filled with guilt and the other is doomed to be unbelievably good no matter how tragic life becomes. Basically, it's A Separate Peace set in Afghanistan and, for my money, A Separate Peace is a far superior, more nuanced work. Despite my lukewarm reaction, I certainly wouldn't discourage anyone from reading it as there are some things to like. Let's review the good and the bad in list form, shall we? 

Things that I liked:
*In terms of description, Hosseini is a gifted writer. His descriptions of people and of Afghanistan before and after the Taliban took control show the stark contrast between the more prosperous, westernized Afghanistan of the 1970's and the desperate, impoverished Afghanistan that was created by Taliban rule. I appreciate Hosseini's depiction of how some Middle Eastern countries have been crippled by Islamic extremism. For that alone, the book is worth the read.
*Okay, in hindsight, I now realize that I probably should have titled that section "Thing that I liked" because I am drawing a blank.
*Oh, hey! I thought of something else. I appreciate that it didn't have a "happily ever after" ending, which I thought it was recklessly careening toward. I thought Sohrab's reaction to his new surroundings as he coped with his past was authentic and heartbreaking.

Things that I didn't love:
*The relationship between Baba and Amir inexplicably changes after they arrive in America. While it is later revealed why Baba's attitude toward Amir changes, it seems too little too late.
*I have to admit, I didn't like the two characters I was supposed to care the most about. Amir was self-centered and petty, while Hassan was unbelievably, ridiculously, annoyingly, and cloyingly good. 
*The obvious symbolism and predictable plotting began to wear on my nerves--especially toward the end. It's similar to those intricate domino designs that someone so elaborately and painstakingly sets up to knock down, all for the sheer joy of watching one domino slap into another. Each event so obviously leads to the next that I was constantly aware of the narrative as something contrived and something clever. I could never fully suspend disbelief. In fact, I began to play a game with myself: when presented with a new plot "twist," I'd predict what it would lead to and then wait to see if I was right. I was always right.

If I had read the book before all of the hype began, something might have been salvaged. However, given how ridiculously high my expectations were, the novel can't be entirely at fault for not living up to them. I still plan to read A Thousand Splendid Suns as I've been told it far exceeds The Kite Runner, but I'm quite willing and ready to leave the story of Amir and Hassan behind me.

Don't Wait to Meet Audrey

Audrey, Wait!
by Robin Benway
Published by Razorbill
4 Out of 5 Stars

What to do when you come to the realization that, behind the pretty packaging, your boyfriend is basically a self-centered, narcissistic asshat? If you have a brain in your head, you dump him, of course. And that is precisely what Audrey does. Normally that would be the end of the story--except that Audrey's boyfriend has his own band, a modicum of talent, the inspiration for the ultimate break-up song, and a record executive coming to see his gig on the same night that Audrey dumps him. And so, out of Mr. Shallow's pain and anguish, the song, Audrey, Wait! is born, and it's not long before it's sweeping the country and racing up the charts. Suddenly, Audrey is famous and not coping so well. 

At first, I thought the idea that Audrey would become so famous for simply inspiring a hit song was a little over the top, but when I look around at the number of people who have become famous for doing absolutely nothing other than allowing cameras to follow them through their every waking moment, I had to admit that it's certainly possible. I like that Benway portrays Audrey realistically, bumbling through her new found fame and making mistakes that exacerbate the situation (such as talking to a reporter who doesn't register sarcasm, finding out a video of her making out with another singer has gone viral, allowing her fame to alienate her from her friends, etc.). I also enjoyed the fact that Audrey and her friends seem authentic. They're sarcastic and intelligent without becoming unbelievably hip, a la Nick and Norah of the infamous Infinite Playlist. There are quite a few funny moments, a fairly predictable romance (but, alas, such is the familiar landscape that is young adult lit), and an intelligent, funny, and strong female character. However, what really sold me on the whole concept is Benway's message about the pitfalls of fame--a message teenagers need to hear in a celebrity crazed, electronic media-based society. All in all, this makes for a fairly enjoyable read for adults, but a winning recipe for the target audience (I say this with authority as my female students love this book).

How to Write a Young Adult Novel

How Not to be Popular
by Jennifer Ziegler
Published by Delacorte Books for Young Readers
4 Out of 5 Stars

Definitely one of my more enjoyable forays into young adult literature. Sugar Magnolia "Maggie" Dempsey is the surprisingly well-adjusted daughter of hippie parents. While loving and supportive, her restless parents uproot Maggie every few months and move to another part of the country. As a young girl, Maggie loved the adventure and diversity of her parents' nomadic lifestyle. However, Maggie is now in high school and this latest move has resulted in a break-up with her first serious boyfriend. Tired of making friends only to tearfully leave them a few months later, Maggie decides that she will protect herself this time by refusing to make friends. Thus begins her quest to become unpopular.

The book is laugh out loud funny as Maggie does her best to shun popularity through a series self-inflicted, horrifyingly embarrassing situations. The problem is that she's unwittingly setting trends as she goes against the social hierarchy of her new school. No matter how hard she tries to be a social outcast, she becomes the new "it" girl.

What makes the novel so relatable is Maggie. Maggie's smart, but not precocious. She's level-headed, but not so much so that she doesn't screw things up along the way. She's neither obnoxiously mature or immature--she just seems like a real teenager. And, to top it all off, she's funny and not wistfully pining for a vampire--my current requirements for young adult heroines.

Huckleberry Finn's Old Man

Finn
by Jon Clinch
Published by Random House
3 Out of 5 Stars

Well, I'm not really sure what to say about Finn. I can't say that I loved it, nor can I say that I hated it. I wish that I had read Huckleberry Finn before reading the book so that I could make more comparisons between the two, and I would have known more about the story line that inspired Clinch. 

I admire that Clinch didn't try to imitate Mark Twain's writing style; to have done so would have robbed his portrayal of Finn (who I understand, even in Twain's work, is hinted at being a dark, morally bankrupt character) of authenticity. However, Finn is so bleak a character that I really couldn't get into his story. Had he taken more initiative, I might have cared more. Instead, Finn bullies his way through life, allowing himself to be carried along by events rather than attempt to influence those events. I think that is intentional as Finn is like the river that provides him with his identity and his livelihood--cutting its own path through the land, a path that is not always the best or most obvious. 

There are some intriguing twists--Finn's black sheep status in a wealthy family, the sadistic and racist Judge Finn (who is the true villain of the novel), the revelation that Huckleberry is a mulatto. While I can't praise the novel, I can admire the craft and care that went into its writing, and I don't think Mark Twain would have been the least bit offended. In fact, I suspect he would have been delighted with Clinch's original take on the story of Pap Finn.

A Broken Family Tries to Regain What Was Lost

Then Came the Evening
by Brian Hart
Published by Bloomsbury USA
5 Out of 5 Stars

Despite not being the focal point of the narrative, all of the events in Brian Hart's Then Came the Evening can be traced back to one defining moment: Bandy Dorner enlisted for Vietnam. We never know what Bandy experienced during his tour of duty because the novel begins after his return home, but we know it had a profound effect. He returns a changed man and, after learning that his home has burnt down and believing his young wife, Iona, to have been inside, a drunk, grief-stricken Bandy turns to the familiarity of violence, shooting and killing the officer trying to subdue him. Little does Bandy know that his pain will only beget pain as his wife, Iona, has left him for another man but is pregnant with Bandy's child--a child who will later be marked and judged by his father's actions.

Now before you chastise me for spoilers, all of this happens in the first few pages of the novel. Then Came the Evening picks up nearly two decades later, as Bandy's son, Tracy, decides to reconnect with the father who never knew of his existence. Bandy's release from prison is imminent and, hoping to mend the shattered family, Tracy sets about reclaiming the abandoned family ranch, restoring the gutted house in anticipation of Bandy's return home. As his wayward parents are drawn back to the hometown and the past they left behind, Tracy, Iona, and Bandy tentatively attempt to recapture a sense of family despite old wounds and fresh betrayals, learning the futility of trying to recapture what never was. 

Then Came the Evening is about people who are broken beyond repair, who have been shaped by proximity to violence and live in a world with sharp teeth. The narrative moves at a slow, unhurried pace and may frustrate readers who crave more external action, but I enjoyed Hart's refusal to rush a story that should unfold for us as it unfolds for the characters. There shouldn't be a race to the finish line here as Hart is writing about life as it is lived, exploring how people are marked by choices made in mundane circumstances. I also enjoyed lingering over the novel's brutally poetic descriptions of the physical landscape that reflects and explores the internal landscape of the characters--especially in the case of Iona and Bandy as they struggle to reconnect with a time and a place and a version of themselves that was, but is no more. These are not characters who are keenly in touch with their emotions, for whom words come easily. Told in vignettes adrift in time and from varying perspectives, the novel allows the stories of each character to jostle against the other like pieces of a puzzle trying to find a way of fitting together.

While Hart does a fine job of depicting the depths to which Iona has sunk after Tracy initially leaves her to find Bandy, it's his portrayal of Bandy that is the real genius of the novel. A man who has been in prison for the last 20 years, Bandy's return home is painful and raw as Bandy's fear and disorientation are palpable. While his crime was admittedly a heinous one, there's also a realization that this Bandy Dorner is not the same one who pulled the trigger years ago. There's something heartbreaking about his cautious hope that maybe something can still be salvaged from the wreck he made of his family; he knows he doesn't deserve it, but it doesn't stop him from wanting it. However, the novel is not interested in making a case for justifying the circumstances of the crime (as Bandy's mother says, "Everybody blames the war for everything. I'm sick of it" [13]), but more interested in making a case for Bandy as a human being--one still capable of brutality, but one who has not forgotten how to feel. 

While the characters in Hart's novel aren't necessarily likable, I admire how they try--with varying levels of success--to make something better of themselves and of each other. While the reader knows the odds are against these shattered people being able to mend one another, there's an inherent nobility in the attempt.

Feels Like Work

Then We Came to the End
by Joshua Ferris
Published by Little, Brown and Company
2 1/2 Out of 5 Stars

In fairness, this book is more of a 2 1/2 star, but given the tyrannical nature of the star system I am forced to go with a 2. Typically, this is the type of book I like--sarcastic, cynical, and funny. I really enjoyed the first half of it, but then got bogged down by the halfway point. I've worked in an office scenario like this and easily recognized the stereotypes depicted by Ferris (part of the fun in the beginning was recognizing and assigning real life names to the characters, "Oh my God, that is totally Bubba!"--obviously names have been changed here to make sure I don't get my butt kicked by a former colleague). Part of the problem is that Ferris is so good at describing the minutiae of day-to-day life in an office--the petty bickering, the fight for the best office supplies, the gossiping that takes precedence over work--that I eventually began to feel like I was going to work every time I picked up the book. 

This is not a bad book and it certainly has its merits. Ferris uses a peculiar point of view throughout the book that I have heard others complain about, but I found it to be one of the strong points. The book is told from the "we" perspective, as though such is the mediocrity of their carbon copy lives that the mindless office drones can no longer think for themselves and instead think as a collective. As the book goes on, we begin to see individual characters emerge--usually as they are laid off from their jobs and, thus, their individuality is returned to them. In some cases, the individual character is someone who has become the poster child for a particular office stereotype and is granted an individual name based upon the collective's view of this person as "different" in some way: the person who is always last to know, the person who is always the first to know, the storyteller, the noncomformist, the perfectionist, the couple engaged in the interoffice affair. Also compelling is the stand alone chapter we get from the perspective of Lynn, the boss who is diagnosed with breast cancer and who struggles with keeping her private life and fears separate from the office. 

As a whole, this was a clever conceit that would have done well as a novella, but it was wearing pretty thin by the 385 page mark. Watch Office Space--it does it better. 

A Fragile Narrative That Doesn't Hold

Fragile Beasts
by Tawni O'Dell
Published by Crown
2 1/2 Stars

When I read Tawni O'Dell's Coal Run a few years ago, it became an instant favorite.  So I was certain that I would love Fragile Beasts. I hate it when I'm wrong.

Set in Pennsylvania coal country, Fragile Beasts tells the story of the wealthy and reclusive Candace Jack, a woman who has tried to recreate the Spain of her youth in the remote mansion where she makes her home.  Her obsession for all things Spanish begins as so many obsessions do:  with a loss.  The love of her life, a Spanish bullfighter, is killed in the ring, leaving Candace to forever mourn what could have been.  Understandably, the town sees her as the crazy old spinster lady that nobody ever sees--although, in lieu of cats, she keeps a bull.  That's right.  A bull.  She bought the bull that killed her lover and has always kept one bull from each generation of his progeny.

So, we have an old woman nearing the end of a life created from walling herself off from her own emotions and from other people.  We've been here before.  There's only one thing to do:  create a plot device by which she is forced to interact with a young person who is damaged himself/herself and through this unlikely pairing, both will be forever changed.  In this case, Candace agrees to take in two teenage boys who have recently lost their father in a drunk driving accident.  Their mother left years ago and is clearly an unfit parent, even though she returns to collect the boys and move them to Arizona.  Candace reluctantly agrees to take the boys in mainly to spite the mother, to whom she takes an instant dislike.  The rest of the novel follows the uneasy relationship between the two boys, Kyle and Klint, who are coping with the death of their father, and Candace, a woman whose motherly instincts are non-existent.

The main issue with the book is that there is simply too much going on.  There are two stories, one set in the past during Candace's experiences in Spain and one in the present.  The present day story is narrated from 3 points of view:  Candace, Kyle (the sensitive, more emotionally open boy), and her Spanish butler/friend, Luis.  However, the "voice" between these three perspectives isn't varied enough.  Kyle in particular seems inauthentic as his chapters don't always read like that of a young teenager.  Sure, he's mature for his age, but I've never known a teenager to be that insightful.  Candace Jack is exactly what one would expect of a wealthy older woman--always concerned with the proper way of dressing, speaking, eating, behaving, etc.  If she had been more salty and cantankerous it would have given the novel more energy and perhaps more suspense.  She has flashes of humor, but they're sparse.  These first person points of view also lead to a lot of telling and not showing.  Most of the chapters are presented as internal dialogue in which the character reflects on the progress being made in forming the tentative bonds that may eventually bring them together as a family.  Instead of reflections, I would have preferred to see more in the moment interactions between the characters.  The Luis chapters serve primarily to explain what happened in Candace's life decades ago.

Despite its predictability and its flaws, there are some compelling moments, some witty dialogue, and I admire O'Dell's refusal to shy away from the dark corners of life.  For me, the back story of Candace and the bullfighter are the most interesting, as are Luis's stories about being a boy in Spain.  These stories made me wish an entire novel had been dedicated to Candace's youth.  As it is, the competing story lines never seem to get the breathing room they need to come alive.

See That Title? Yeah, Best Thing About It.

Baroque-A-Nova
by Kevin Chong
Published by Putnam Adult
2 1/2 Out of 5 Stars

Not sure what I should say about this book. First and foremost, I wouldn't recommend it to just anyone. It's off-beat and the characters really aren't likable. However, there was something about the book that kept me reading. 

The main character, Saul, is the child of the St. Pierres, a Canadian folk duo who were famous during the 60's-70's, but fell into relative obscurity after Helena, Saul's mother, walked off the stage one night and never came back. When the duo's most famous song, Bushmill's Threnody, resurfaces as a sample on a German rap group's popular song, the St. Pierres are once again thrust into the spotlight--a twist of fate that the fragile Helena, now living in Thailand and working at a mission, can't handle and it's not long before Saul learns of her suicide. Saul is a shiftless, smart ass teenager who has difficulty coming to terms with who his mother was and who his father really is. 

The book has some funny moments, but it's not as humorous as I expected it to be. Also irritating is Saul's first person point of view that lapses into long-winded descriptions of people and everything else around him. It just seems inconsistent with his character, as it's presented in the opening chapters.

A Safe Bet

The Perfect Play
by Louise Wener
Published by William Morrow
4 Out of 5 Stars

So I bought this book because I thought it would be about poker. And it was, kind of, but mainly that cover and blurb is doing some serious bluffing because it's about much more.

Audrey Ungar should be satisfied with her life--she's in her early thirties, she's traveled the world, she's a math genius, and she has steady employment, loyal friends, and the perfect-for-her boyfriend. However, for Audrey, there will forever be one thing missing: her father. Suffering from a gambling addiction, her father abandoned the family when Audrey was eleven years old. Audrey does everything she can to bring her wayward father's attention back to the family: she becomes a math prodigy and, when her genius gets her everyone's admiration but his, she turns to shoplifting. Because of his abandonment, the adult Audrey feels the need to obsessively control everything in her life. 

Audrey's world is shaken, however, when her step-father reveals that her father tried to keep in touch with her long ago, but her step-father discouraged him because he felt the impact on Audrey could only be a negative one. This admission causes Audrey to seek out her father through the only thing he loved: the game of poker. Doing so brings Audrey into contact with Big Louie, an agoraphobic, obese, former card hustler who promises to teach Audrey the game and use his tournament connections to help Audrey track down the man who gambled away her childhood happiness. Such help doesn't come freely and Audrey finds that she has an impossible debt to pay for Big Louie's help. 

The Perfect Play has very little to do with the game of poker and is more about the chances, gambles, and fortunes that shape our own lives. In learning about poker, Audrey's really seeking to understand the man who left her behind. But the danger in doing so is that Audrey probably already understands her father better than she realizes: both are mathematical geniuses, both have obsessive personalities, and both have a laser-like focus that shuts everyone else out. As Audrey becomes better at the game, we begin to wonder if Audrey realizes how precariously close she's coming to living out the sins of her father and risking everything and everyone she should value. 

Louise Wener also sets up some clever bluffs throughout the narrative. Some things that seem a little cliche or implausible are turned on their head by the novel's end and a few of the plot lines that I scoffed at as predictably heading toward a particular end cleverly dodge in a different direction. Her strongest suit is creating believably flawed, yet incredibly likable characters. I really, truly like Audrey--something I can rarely say of women in fiction. The dialogue is often witty and funny, in a day-to-day sort of way. These conversations sound like those real people with genuine senses of humor and close relationships would have.

If the novel has a flaw, it may be that the poker game we all knew the novel would eventually be heading towards happens at the very end and seems somewhat rushed, lacking any real sense of tension. But, really, in the end, the novel isn't about the game anyway. It's about the players.

Liked, But Didn't Love

The Help
by Kathryn Stockett
Published by Amy Einhorn Books
3 Out of 5 Stars

**A few mild spoilers**


I liked this book. I really did. But here's the problem: I wanted to LOVE it. And, maybe, if I had read it before all of the hype, I would have. As it stands, I can only say that it was entertaining, but unexceptional.

Set in Mississippi circa the 1960's, the story focuses on three women: Skeeter, a white woman from a wealthy family who dreams of becoming a writer; Abileen, an intelligent black maid (with a closet love of reading and writing) who happens to work for one of Skeeter's friends; and Minny, a spitfire who has trouble keeping her mouth in check around the white women for whom she works, putting her at odds with another of Skeeter's friends. The narrative is told, in alternating points of view, by these three women who begin meeting in secret to write an anonymous book about what it's like to work as a black maid in Mississippi. 

The book is funny, never veering too far off into heart-warming territory, and captures the dividing lines between race and class in the South. The characters are likable and the message is clear, but not overly didactic. And yet, there were a few things that bugged me enough to keep me from giving it a 4 star:

A) Other than a half-hearted stab at dialect, there's little to differentiate the voices of these three women. They have radically different backgrounds and personalities, but these differences seem "told" rather than "shown" in a truly distinctive voice for each character. 

B) The character of Skeeter goes through a transformation toward the end of the book and becomes a hippie. The catalyst: hearing Bob Dylan's The Times They Are A-Changing and buying a mini-skirt. That seemed a sloppy and shorthand way of communicating a radical shift in values and perspectives. As a result, I just couldn't buy what Stockett was selling in terms of Skeeter.

C) What happened to the naked guy that Celia beat the holy living shit out of? The police never found him, despite the fact that he was last seen running through the woods with an unhinged jaw and what was apparently quite an impressive member in his hand. Bizarre.

D) Despite the fact that all of this took place during a particularly race-charged time period when blacks were beaten, lynched, etc. for crossing racial barriers, you never really feel like these women are in palpable danger. Even toward the end, things work out a little too neatly for them. Stockett pulled her punches, though she is to be commended for writing about the violence done to others during that time period. 

Final analysis: I liked it, I would recommend it, and I would read another of her books. 

A Recipe Worth Trying

The School of Essential Ingredients
by Erica Bauermeister
Published by Berkley Trade
4 Out of 5 Stars

The School of Essential Ingredients is a quick read focused on a Monday night cooking class held at a popular local restaurant, Lillian's. Lillian herself presides over these classes and, as someone who has always had an intrinsic understanding of the power of food to heal and comfort, she eagerly awaits each new class to see the transformations (some positive, some negative) that her students undergo as they respond to the food around them. The novel opens as Lillian welcomes her new students: a beautiful woman, a happily married older couple, a harried young mother, an analytic young man, an uncertain and undefined young woman, an older woman who is losing her memory, and a damaged man. 

Each chapter in the novel is told from the point of view of one of the students, as we find out more about their pasts, discover their reasons for taking the class, and witness how new relationships are forged. Just as the ingredients in a recipe blend together to create a new whole, so, too, do the lives of the students intersect in surprising ways.

I was initially drawn to this book because of its focus on food, which 
turned out to be the least compelling aspect of the book for me. Instead, it's the character sketches that held the most intrigue for me. To the outside world, these are ordinary people in ordinary circumstances, but as Bauermeister delves into each character's past, we find that the masks we present to the world hide life's scars, personal insecurities, and profound tragedies. Reading each character's narrative is a little like people watching--only instead of wondering what the lives of strangers are like, we actually get to peek inside their lives. The most accomplished of these narratives is the story of Carl and Helen, the older couple whose seemingly happy marriage, as we learn from seeing the story of their early life together from each spouse's perspective, was hard-earned and not as simple as they make it look.

In fact, the one thing about the book that almost sabotaged it for me by tipping the scales too much in the direction of saccharine sentimentality turned out to be the connections to food, especially in the form of Lillian. Lillian is presented as an omniscient mystic, who somehow always knows what lessons in food will actually translate into the life lessons her individual students need to pick them up, dust them off, and set them down the right path in life. While Lillian's own back story does provide a context for this, it did seem a little too contrived. However, it certainly wasn't enough of a distraction to prevent me from enjoying and recommending the book.

Here Comes the Bride . . . Now, Where's the Groom?

For Matrimonial Purposes
by Kavita Daswani
Published by Putnam Adult
4 Out of 5 Stars

Entering her mid-thirties, Anju has proven to be a failure as a daughter. Sure, she's well-educated. Sure, she has a successful career as a fashion publicist. Sure, she has remained a "good girl" despite living by herself in that den of iniquity known as New York City. But she's failed to do the one thing that would define her worth and ease the anxiety she's causing her ultra-conservative, ultra-orthodox parents: she still hasn't married.

And it's not Anju's fault. She's fasted, she's prayed, she's presented herself as meek and submissive. She's allowed her mother to drag her to every swami, fortune teller, and holy man she can find. She's had her birth chart read, her destiny foretold. She's tried to lighten her too-dark complexion. She's attended parties and reunions and the weddings of others, in the hopes of making a match--all to no avail. She's even tried online matchmaking for Indian couples only. What will it take for Anju to meet the man that others assure her has been born for her and, in the meantime, how can she balance her traditional Indian life with her increasingly independent American one?

Other reviews have listed two primary problems with this book: the lack of a clearly defined personality in the protagonist, Anju, and the perception of the novel as a piece of fluff with little to say. And, yes, this certainly isn't the type of novel that is going to deeply move you or offer profound insight into Indian culture. It also has an ending that is predictable and wrapped up a little too quickly and neatly. However, the aforementioned criticisms are a little harsh. 

First, the issue of Anju's personality, which to me is not a misstep on the part of the author, although it could seem that way to an American audience who would prefer a headstrong and fiercely independent protagonist eager to break the shackles enslaving her to a patriarchal society. But Anju is not American. While she has been raised in a family that loves her, she has also been raised to believe that who she is will always be defined by the man who protects her: first her father and later her husband. She has not been encouraged to become a fully realized person and therefore is waiting for her other half, who will define her existence by setting the boundaries of what her life will be. It should not be surprising that this protagonist hesitates to break with her religion and her heritage, despite sensing something is amiss with the expectations placed upon her. That she is uncertain, cautious, and hesitant makes her seem more real.

Second is the classification of the novel as mindless chick lit. Okay, I can't defend the chick lit part. And there are moments in the narrative when I became a little impatient with Anju's focus on designer shoes and the world of high fashion. But it could be argued that not accustomed to having a voice (or at least not confident enough to always use it), Anju is using fashion to communicate her values and her inner life to others. At home in Bombay, Anju tries to look the part of the fashionable and worldly expatriate, eager to show that she has become more independent, less constrained by social mores. Yet, while attending fashion shows in the U.S. and Europe, she opts out of the haute couture chic for traditional saris, demonstrating to Westerners her pride in herself as an Indian woman. Anju uses fashion in an attempt to attain balance and define herself: she does not want to lose that intrinsically Indian part of herself in America, but she does not want her desires and dreams to be subjugated to the search for a husband in her homeland.

And the novel, while perhaps simplistic in its presentation, is not mindless. Anju knows she is not just a disappointment because of her inability to marry; she knows it goes back to the day she was born: "And then I slid out, with a minuscule slit instead of the wormlike appendage [my mother] had been looking forward to seeing. Oh, God, she had delivered a daughter as a first-born. The unthinkable had happened" (102). Despite being a disappointment, Anju is not unloved and does not want to alienate her family by cutting all ties with her heritage and her customs. Her loneliness and alienation is real and will only worsen if she marries a white man, effectively becoming estranged from her family, or if she marries an Indian man whom she cannot love nor respect. And it's very easy for Americans (as just about every American character in the book does) to think that a family that would expect you to enter into an arranged marriage or to define yourself by who you marry doesn't really love you. But that's a bit hypocritical, no? 

For all of our supposed independence, isn't our culture just as marriage happy, just as eager to be one half of a whole? Think we're not as guilty? Say Yes to the Dress, The Bachelor, at least a dozen Disney princess movies, and a wedding industry that sells fairy tales for a price that could put your first born through college suggest otherwise. I knew and know plenty of women who can't wait to get married because that's what they're supposed to do. They believe that's when they'll become who they were always meant to be--wives and mothers. The "arranged" bit isn't necessarily there, but a woman in her twenties is perpetually asked questions about her relationship status: Seeing anyone serious? 

And this connection is what Daswani makes work for her in For Matrimonial Purposes. By presenting us with a protagonist with one foot in New York and the other in Bombay, we may see a bit more of ourselves in Anju's experience than we're comfortable with. All of the American superiority begins to deflate as we begin to realize much of Anju's plight may also be our own.