by Muriel Barbery
ages: adult
First sentence: “‘Marx has completely changed the way I view the world,’ declared the Pallieres boy this morning, although ordinarily he says nary a word to me.”
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This book has been making the rounds over the last year or so, and I’ve come to a conclusion: you will either really love it (if you are a certain sort of person and it is the right sort of time) or really hate it (if neither of these things are true). To be completely honest: it is an incredibly pretentious book, full of Philosophy and Art and the Meaning of Life. There are times when you want to roll your eyes at the platitudes and the “smarter-than-thou” attitude of the whole book. (A common complaint is that one is just not smart enough to read this book.)

But, it’s also endearing in its pretentiousness; there are little moments of true charm, humor, and maybe even inspiration. My only advice: give the book some time to work on you. It starts with some heady philosophy, but then it settles in.

There isn’t much to the story. Our two main characters, 54-year-old Renee and 12-year-old Paloma, are both very brilliant, but neither one seems to know quite where they belong. Renee is a self-educated peasant that’s a concierge in a posh Paris apartment building; she knows the tenants expect her to behave in a certain way, and she’s more than happy to oblige. Paloma is at odds with her family: they are stuck in a rut, and she’s decided that life’s not worth living if all it has to offer is how her parents (or even the rest of the tenants) live.

Then Kakuro Ozu moves into the building. He’s not like anyone else: he’s introspective, intelligent, observant, elegant, and more than willing to reach out to both Renee and Paloma because he senses in them, as Anne would say, a kindred spirit. Age and class don’t matter; a friend is someone who is worth spending time with.

The ending is a bit abrupt, and, admittedly, not as moving as I think Barbery wanted it to be. But, even with that, it was an interesting and enjoyable book to journey through.

by Aimee Bender
ages: adult
First sentence: “It happened for the first time on a Tuesday afternoon, a warm spring door in the flatlands near Hollywood, a light breeze moving east from the ocean and stirring the black-eyed pansy petals newly planted in our flower boxes.”
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Review copy sent to me by the publisher.

I was sitting on the computer, idly watching my Twitter feed when I noticed that Heather at Capricious Reader mentioned that she picked up this book. A prime opportunity for a buddy read… and so I proposed it. Thankfully, she was game to go along!

The basic story is about Rose who, at nine years old, discovers that she can “read” people’s feelings through the food she eats. It’s only the feelings of the people who pick or prepare the food, but it’s an incredibly unsettling experience. The book follows her journey as she figures out what the feelings mean, how to understand them, and how to deal with the fall out from what she knows. In addition, the book explores the dynamics within Rose’s family, with her hovering, yet disconnected mother; her distant father; and her very odd older brother.

Melissa: I wanted to read this book for two reasons: the cover looks sooo yummy, and I was looking for something similar to Sarah Addison Allen’s books, and readers on Twitter — don’t remember who — suggested Aimee Bender. How about you?

Heather: Pretty much the same reason. That cover is hard to resist! I also thought the premise sounded interesting. What did you think of Rose and her special ability?

Melissa: I thought it was an interesting idea, to be able to sense the places ingredients are from, to be able to sense the feelings of the cook. But nine seemed a little… young to handle it. I guess that was part of the story, though: Rose’s inability to handle her skill. There were moments in the book when I thought Bender captured the essence of Rose’s gift perfectly… the angst, the discovery, the learning. But, there were times when I wanted to smack the characters upside the head? What did you think?

Heather: About the same! I thought it was a very interesting idea. Nine did seem young, especially having to face such adult feelings coming from her mother, but like you said, I think that was part of the story. I also wondered what I would do, or anyone really, could do that and how they would react to it. I thought the fact that Rose, for the most part, kept it a secret was spot on. I don’t think I would want anyone to know that! Yet, at the same time, I was thinking if I could do that, I would want to help everyone FEEL BETTER and that could potentially make you go nuts. And I totally wanted to smack her father upside the head! And her brother too! What did you think of what happened to him?

Melissa: How much do I manage to answer that without giving too much away?!? Actually, I thought the subplot with the brother was the weakest part of the book. I kept wanting more Rose, more exploration of the food, more exploration of how Rose handles the food and less with her brother. Okay, he’s weird. And I got that he was doing weird stuff, but… it just wasn’t interesting? I think it would have been a different book had maybe Bender glanced at Rose’s childhood, but spent more time with Rose after she developed into her own; I wanted to know more about the cafe owners. Though, on the other hand, perhaps Bender was looking at the family dynamic as a whole?

I think she was looking more at the family dynamic. It seemed Rose was the most normal, even with her “skills.” I thought their whole interaction was pretty interesting. They were always so together (eating meals together, watching TV together, etc), to not seem to know anything about each other. Well, except for Rose, of course. What did you think of their dynamic?

Be sure to head over to Heather’s for the rest of the conversation.

Or, On the Segregation of the Queen
by Laurie R. King
ages: adult
First sentence: “I was fifteen when I first met Sherlock Holmes, fifteen years old with my nose in a book as I walked the Sussex Downs, and nearly stepped on him.”
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I would have never, ever picked up this book if it weren’t for a suggestion by Kelly at The Written World to do a buddy read. We tossed a few ideas back and forth, and she suggested this one. I had no idea what it was, I’d never heard of the author or the book… but it sounded interesting, so I said yes.

And was most pleasantly surprised.

Mary Russell was 15 years old when she met the by-then infamous Sherlock Holmes. It didn’t take very long for the two of them to become inseparable, and over the years, she ultimately became his apprentice. They tackled a few minor cases together, and as exercises, he lobbed cases (both from the newspaper and a few he was working on) at her. It wasn’t until the kidnapping of the American senator’s daughter, Jessica Simpson, that Mary was able to become a full-fledged partner. And it was a good thing, because soon afterward Holmes and Russell — as they called each other — were to face their most brilliant, most formidable foe yet.

I answered a few questions Kelly asked about the book; head over to her blog to see her answers to the questions I asked her.

Maybe. Not right away; I don’t feel an urge to rush out and get the next book. This one stood alone quite well. But, maybe if I ever get in a mystery mood again, I’ll seek out the next one in the series.

by William Shakespeare
ages: adult
First sentence: “I learn in this letter that Don Pedro of Arragon comes this night to Messina.”
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What does one say about this Shakespeare play? Good question.

How about…

It’s got some of the best bantering passages ever written in the dialogue between Beatrice and Benedick. One of my favorites, near the end:

Benedick: And I pray the now tell me, for which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?
Beatrice: For them all together, which maintain’d so politic a state of evil that they will not admit any good part to intermingle with them. But for which of my good parts did you first suffer love for me?
Benedick: Suffer love! a good epithite! I do suffer love indeed, for I love thee against my will.
Beatrice: In spite of your heart, I think. Alas, poor heart, if you spite it for my sake, I will spitie it for yours, for I will never love that which my friend hates.
Benedick: Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.

It’s a silly play, but not nearly as silly as some of Shakespeare’s other plays. Hubby’s always said Shakespeare had about 45 minutes of good material, and then had to write a play around that.

It’s pretty accessible as a play — and for reading a play, it wasn’t half-bad either — I watched a BBC version (I know: I adore the Branagh version, too, but I watched that separate from reading it), and by the end, both M and C were curious about what was going on.

The men in the play are infuriating. Absolutely infuriating. I was yelling at the book/movie at one point. I mean really: Hero’s own father didn’t believe that she was set up??

Don Juan is a thankless character. (Especially when Keanu plays him.) I don’t understand his motivations, and what he does is really low-brow rather than vindictive. A pox on him.

That said, it’s a fun play, an enjoyable play, and one definitely worth reading/seeing. Especially in the summertime.

by Eva Ibbotson
ages: adult
First sentence: “In a way they were born to be aunts.”
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There is so much to absolutely love about this book. It’s a World War II story, yes, but it’s so much more than that. It’s lyrical. It’s evocative. It’s earthy and soaring at the same time. It’s a simple, yet poignant, love story.

It’s practically perfect in nearly every way.

Ellen is the product of some very intimidating women. Charlotte (Ellen’s mother), Phyllis and Annie are strong women, suffragettes, unafraid, and they expect grand things from their clever little girl. Except, Ellen grows up adoring her grandfather’s housekeeper, the Austrian Henny, and ends up more interested in cooking and cleaning than philosophy and being clever. She eventually bags going to University altogether, and instead graduates from the Lucy Hatton School of Cookery and heads off to Austria to become the matron at a boarding school there.

This is the story of her summer.

It’s a magical summer: not magical in the sense of magic, or even magical realism; no, it’s just magical in the sense that everything falls into place. Ellen works wonders on the children — each unique in their own way — and the staff — again, unique — in her small, subtle, and infinitely wonderful ways. She weaves her way into their lives and makes everything… better. It’s also a love story, for she meets Marek, the groundsman with a secret. And as the secret unfolds, we are taken on a musical journey that literally soars. Sure, it’s all make-believe, but Ibbotson’s writing is so tactile, you can almost hear the concerts, listening to the music float off the page.

While the war is in the background in part one, it does play more of a role in part two. Thankfully, it’s not as long as part one, even though it covers more time. It’s almost anti-climatic, though part one ends in such a cliffhanger that it feels necessary to finish the tale. And even though the second part is not as strong or as lyrical as part one, it does make the book come full circle, and ends it in a very lovely place.

And, really, you can’t get much better than that.

by Erica Bauermeister
ages: adult
First sentence: “Lillian loved best the moment before she turned on the lights.”
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The food book — whether it be a novel or a memoir (or whatever other category that food books falls into — can be a truly wonderful experience. If you get a writer that is evocative enough, descriptive enough, then you can be transported away to another place, another time, and delight in the feast for the senses. It’s the best kind of escapism, and when you combine the essence of food with a mystical magical power, there is the possibility of truly getting carried away.

Which is why, I think, I had high hopes for this one. The cover is gorgeous, the title inviting. The story, simple enough to let the food shine. Lillian, is a master chef who never works with recipes, preferring, instead, to find her own combinations, unique to the day, the person, the mood she wants to evoke. She runs a cooking school, teaching these essential principles: smell, savor, enjoy. Each chapter is a profile of a different student in the session, which is both a plus and a minus. Plus, because we get to know each person individually, their histories, their reactions to the different food. Minus, because it detracts from an overarching story. It was more like a series of connected short stories, and because of that, I felt unfulfilled when the story was over. It was kind of like The Jane Austen Book Club, in that way; except, I think that book handled the balance between the individual stories and an overarching plot better. I did come to like some of of the characters — the new mother Claire, or the Italian Antonia, or the geeky Ian — but it seemed that once their story was done, Bauermeister didn’t quite know what to do with them, and pushed them out of the picture.

But, all that would have been forgiven if the food had been worth it. And sometimes it was. Sometimes, like in the spaghetti chapter, I could almost smell the food, longing to taste it and savor the experience. Other times, like the white cake chapter, I felt like the person’s story overwhelmed the food, and I came away wanting more. More savoring, more magic, more experience. More food. There can never be enough food.

But then, sometimes even the best food can leave one unsatisfied.

An Extraordinary Correspondence; Sabine’s Notebook and The Golden Mean
by Nick Bantock
ages: adult
First sentence (of the first one): “Griffin Moss, It’s good to get in touch with you at last.”
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A few weeks ago I was in a reading slump, and I sent out a plea for book ideas on Facebook (and Twitter, and here…). An old friend from high school responded, asking whether or not I’ve read the Griffin and Sabine letters. I hadn’t (hadn’t even heard of them), and so I stuck them on hold at the library.

And, wow! Oh, man, wow! Weird, wild and wonderful, these are books to peruse and savor even though reading one will take you less than an hour. They tell the story of a correspondence, via postcard and letter, between two artists: Griffin, living in London, and Sabine, living in the Solomon Islands. There’s a connection between the two: Sabine can “see” Griffin’s art (it’s a one way street; Grifiin has no idea who Sabine is), and sets about connecting with him. As the books go on, you learn more about Sabine and Griffin, and their relationship become ever more weird and complex. They are bound never to meet: is it because they’re in parallel universes? Is it because they are two sides of the same personality? Who is writing these letters? What is going on? It’s a mystery, and one that is never truly solved.

What really is wonderful about these books, though, is the format. The art — both on the cards and letters as well as the doodles in the margins — is amazing; detailed in some parts, simplistic, reflecting the text in the letters as well as the mood of the writers. But, beyond that, it’s the simple fact of reading the letters — letters! Not texts, not emails; who sends letters anymore? — of opening the envelopes, and removing the letters; of deciphering the handwriting, that gives these books a sense of intimacy, a peek into the lives of two characters in a way that a simple narrative wouldn’t. It’s quite amazing.

I’m just glad I discovered them now, and not back when I would have had to wait for the next book to come out!

by Jonathan Safran Foer
ages: adult
First sentence: “What about a teakettle?”
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Huh. I heard so much good about this book, the people over at the Nook (that’s my online book group) are basically raving about it, and all I can come up with is… huh.

For those of you who don’t know (all five of you), the story revolves around nine-year-old Oskar Schnell whose father, two years before, died in the World Trade Center Bombings. Oskar has become increasingly fearful: of heights, elevators, people that look Arab and more and more neurotic, wearing only white, writing letters obsessively to famous people (mostly asking to be their protégé). Then, in his father’s closet, he finds a key in an envelope marked “Black”, and begins searching New York City for the owner. Somehow, he feels, this will help him learn more about his father and give him some kind of closure. Interspersed with Oskar’s story are letters from his grandparents: ones from his grandfather to his father explaining why he left and wasn’t there while his son was growing up. And ones from his grandmother to Oskar, explaining what happened with her husband and why she is leaving now.

It’s the combination of Oskar’s pretentiousness (and “wise innocence”) and the use of graphics — pictures or red markings or — that give this novel it’s unique feel. Sometimes, that’s a good thing. Sometimes, I thought, all of the novel ideas in this novel actually worked. I enjoyed the photographs; they gave an interesting perspective into Oskar’s world and his journey. It’s a depressing subject, 9/11, and I thought there were moments when Foer got grief, got incompleteness, got searching for closure just right. There were chapters that hit me powerfully — the letter from the grandmother about her reaction when she realized her son had died in the towers, for instance — and the ending is, ultimately, hopeful. Which is a good thing considering the scope of the tragedies in the book. It could have been a horribly depressing book, and it wasn’t.

But, there were also moments when the pretentiousness — of both the novel and of Oskar — drove me absolutely batty. I spent too much time trying to figure out the red editing marks on one of the grandfather’s letters, trying to figure out what it all “meant”. And the letter from the grandfather that began with numbers — he was trying to communicate on the phone without speaking — and ended in pages of black ink drove me batty. (Yes, I did try to figure out what he was saying. Argh.) Perhaps, for once in my life, I was over thinking a book instead of letting it wash over me. But perhaps, also, all the uniqueness and all the pretentiousness negated each other: there was too much of a good thing in this book, and in the end I was left with an empty void of Huh.

by George Bishop
ages: adult
First sentence: “Dear Elizabeth, How to begin this?”
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Review copy provided by TLC Book Tours.

Elizabeth, 15 years old, has taken the car and run away after a heated argument with her mother, Laura, which ended with Laura slapping Elizabeth. All Laura can do, now, is wait and hope and reminisce about her own adolescence. In a letter to her daughter, Laura lays her past out before her, hoping that somehow it’ll help the two connect.

And, thankfully, while it’s not a happy, pretty past, it’s also not something that’s truly horrifying. It’s honest in it’s reflections of the teenage years from an adult perspective. Nothing is sugar-coated, but there’s a reflectiveness to the prose, a weightiness that makes the actions of Laura’s youth — from her first, and only it seems, love affair to the loss of that love in Vietnam to her impulsive decision making to her strained relationships with her parents — seem less angsty.

It also helped that the book was one long letter from mother to daughter. It would seem, with something like this, that there would be a self-help feel to it: Bishop, after all, is exploring the relationships between mothers and daughters and (as I well know being on both sides of that equation) that is a tricky one. There is a need to be a parent, to set boundaries, to make sure that your daughter is safe. And yet, there’s is a desire to connect as women, as people who have gone through (or will go through) many of the same experiences. It’s this tension that Bishop is exploring, I think, and the letter format pushed that tension more into the background and less of a central theme. It’s still there, it’s still present, but the book reads less like a “what to do when you’re girl goes astray” and more like a memoir, which helped.

And Bishop writes quite elegantly, as well. It’s a slim novel, and never did a feel that there was more — or less — than should have been told. As a reader, you only find out about Elizabeth through incidental comments Laura makes, and that’s as it should be. It’s Laura’s story, Laura’s memories, and Bishop doesn’t do anything to take away from that. He also quite skillfully handles the passage of time, both flipping back from the present to the past as well as Laura’s traveling through high school. It didn’t feel choppy or jumpy at all.

It was a surprisingly good novel, one that I can see myself dipping into and out of as my girls get older (and perhaps passing on to them).

by Oscar Wilde
ages: adult
First sentence: “The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.”
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If I’m being completely honest, I wanted to read this book because of the movie Dorian Gray that should be coming out sometime this year (at least in the US). It caught my fancy, and I realized that while I’ve seen several adaptations of The Importance of Being Earnest, I’ve never actually read any Oscar Wilde. Shame on me.

And, after finishing this, really shame on me. Wilde is a superb writer. Terribly funny — that wonderful British dry wit you have to love, self-deprecating and dismissive — and, at the same time, incredibly thought-provoking. I found that I couldn’t stop thinking about this book.

For the three of you that don’t know the plot, I may just have to spare you. I’ve tried writing a plot summary of the book, but it’s not working. It’s about the characters — Dorian, the young innocent, who wants to stay young and beautiful, and, in the end, is willing to sell his soul to do so; Basil, the painter who paints the portrait, who pins all of his artistic hopes on Dorian; and Lord Henry, the worldly, snide, philosophic man who leads Dorian — whether intentionally or unintentionally — into a hedonistic lifestyle that ends up corrupting Dorian.

It’s also about the ideas: the place of beauty and art in our lives, the purpose of beauty in our lives, in addition to the moral weight of art, as well as whether or not we should be asking art to carry our morality or for artists to express our morality. It’s heady stuff, ideas that begged to be discussed long and thoroughly over a good dinner. (Hmm… food’s still on my mind.)

That’s not to say Dorain Gray is an easy read; it’s not. It can be funny — Lord Henry, with his posturing and glib opinions often made me laugh — but it’s also incredibly creepy and highly disturbing. Which, honestly, is as is should be. If it were just glib and funny, then I think much of the impact of what Wilde wanted to get across. I can see how this would not have gone over well in Victorian England; Wilde is putting forth ideas that are challenging to our expectations of art and morality, and challenges of that sort never go over well.

Still, it’s an incredible book, a fascinating book. And I can only hope the movie can begin to do it some justice. (*fingers crossed*)