Nelly Bly and Elizabeth Bisland’s History-Making Race Around the World
by Matthew Goodman
ages: adult
First sentence: “She was a young woman in a plaid coat and cap, neither tall nor short, dark nor fair, not quite pretty enough to turn a head: the sort of woman, who could, if necessary, lose herself in a crowd.”
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Review copy received from my place of employment.

I think I’d heard of Nelly Bly before reading Matt Phelan’s Around the World, but I’m not sure where or why I knew of her. I do remember that I was interested in her story after finishing that graphic novel, so when I chanced upon this ARC at work, I picked it up, curious to know more about Bly and her trip around the world.

It turns out that Bly wasn’t the only one traveling around the world. A competitor of her sponsoring newspaper sent their own reporter — Elizabeth Bislund, who in many ways was the opposite of Bly: elegant, refined, pretty, literary — on a trip in the opposite direction, making it a race not only against time, but against each other.

The thing I liked most about this book, I think, was that Goodman not only thoroughly examined these two women, and their histories and how they became to be newspaper women, but the history of the time. He gave me, as a reader, a sense of this time of anticipation, sitting on the cusp of the modern world. And the fact that both Bly and Bisland could do something like travel around the world in less than 80 days, by themselves.

I found myself rooting for one or the other (I honestly didn’t know, though I could guess, which one won), finding myself liking one or the other at any given time during the book. Bly was more plucky, for lack of a better world, going around the world with one suitcase, and whole lot more drive than Bisland. She was, on the other hand, extremely patriotic — she viewed the world through a U.S.-colored lens, and found everything else lacking, something which grated on me. Bisland was the more open-minded traveler, less determined to “win” and more willing to look at the world on its own terms (which were, admittedly, decidedly British in the 1880s). For that, I think she was the better off.

Perhaps, most revealing, was the epilogue, where Goodman sketched out the rest of these women’s lives. There is a price for fame, fleeting as it is, and Bly paid it.

It’s an interesting work of history, engaging and well-written, and I thoroughly enjoyed spending time learning about both this remarkable time and these fascinating women.

How the Girl Who Loved Cows Embraced Autism and Changed the World
by Sy Montgomery
ages: 9+
First sentence: “Throughout my career, I have worked to improve the treatment of farm animals because we owe it to domestic animals to give them a decent life.”
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I didn’t really know what to expect heading into this one. I knew it was a biography for middle readers, and I knew autism had something to do with it. But, I must have been living under a rock for a while, because I had no idea who Temple Grandin is.

Wow. What an amazing woman. For those of you under the rock with me, she was born in 1947, with autism. She wasn’t like “normal” kids, and her father (per the times) wanted to put her in a mental institution. However, Temple had an AMAZING mother, who advocated for her daughter. She found a school that would accept her and work with her quirkiness, and even though Temple encountered bullying and hardships along the way, her life was so much better than if her father had gotten his way.

And, it’s incredible what she’s done with her life. How she’s channeled her condition (I don’t want to call it a disability, because it’s not. It’s just a different normal) into something amazing, helping change the domestic animal industry little by little. And every little bit counts, especially when the healthy, happy lifestyle of animals we eat are on the line.

My only complaint was one that is inherent in the book: I wanted more detail, more information. I found it too simplistic, but the book was aimed at 9-12 year olds, so it’s appropriate for that age. As for me, Temple Grandin has written her own biography, so I can read that one as well.

The Race to Build — and Steal — the World’s Most Dangerous Weapon
by Steve Sheinkin
ages: 10+
First sentence: “He had a few more minutes to destroy seventeen years of evidence.”
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I picked this one up in an effort to catch up on the books that are getting Newbery buzz. And because “everyone” has been raving about it. And because it was a National Book Award finalist. And because I sold it the other day to a mom looking for a non-fiction book for her 4th grade son by saying “it’s brilliant” and figured I really ought to read it before I say things like that. (Truth in advertising and all that, you know.)

The short review: it really is all that. In fact, I think I need to pick up Sheinkin’s other book, “The Notorious Benedict Arnold,” because I thoroughly admire the way he tells a story.

This one is about the development of the nuclear bomb in the early 1940s. Which, to a non-scientist like myself, is admittedly a pretty dry subject. Yet, in Shienkin’s hands he turns it into a tale of science and spies, of duty and responsibility, of anxiety and choice.

There are three threads running through this story. The first is the American’s race to develop the atomic bomb. I’m going to get into details here (which would probably be wrong, and my phsyics-professor brother will get on my case for), but essentially, Germans figured out how to split atoms, and then everyone (well, Einstein and a couple others brought it to the attention of Roosevelt) panicked because a nuclear weapon in the hands of Hitler would have been a bad thing. Robert Oppenheimer plays a big role in this thread (he’s a fascinating character), but also some other scientists as well.

Thread number two is the effort by the OSS to stop the Germans from developing the bomb. The Germans were using heavy water (argh, more science-y stuff!) from a plant in Norway to keep the uranium from reacting (I think that’s how you put it), and the British sent a team of Norwegians in to destroy the plant. It was all pretty exciting.

The third thread involved Stalin and the Soviets, and was the most fascinating to me. (Well, not entirely true: I did like learning about how the bomb was developed. I had no idea it was a huge round thing. Or that it went off over the city of Hiroshima. I think I always thought it hit the ground before exploding.) Anyway, the Soviets got wind of the American’s development of the bomb, and realized they couldn’t be left out. But because they were fighting the Nazis, they didn’t have the resources to do the research on their own. So, they set out to steal the American’s design. Which they succeeded in doing with the help of Harry Gold (a courier, who got caught in the end), Klaus Fuchs (a scientist who was the first to confess), and Ted Hall (a prodigy who got off; no one knew of his involvement until 1995.) I found it fascinating mostly because of those men’s reasons for getting involved with the Soviets. Especially Hall’s, who said that something this destructive shouldn’t be in one country’s hands.

That said, I did like how Sheinkin pressed upon us the enormity of the whole thing. Oppenheimer’s refusal to build something bigger and “better”. The scientists throwing up once they realized what they’d unleashed upon the world. And the final sentences: “The making of the atomic bomb is one of history’s most amazing examples of teamwork and genius and poise under pressure. But it’s also teh story of how humans created a weapon capable of wiping our species off the planet. It’s a story with no end in sight. And like it or not, you’re in it.”

Brilliant.

by Joanna Brooks
age: adult
First sentence: “On Monday nights, my father and mother gathered their four children around the kitchen table in our tract house on the edge of the orange groves and taught us how the universe worked.”
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Disclaimer: while I didn’t know Joanna at BYU, I knew of her. And my husband actually knows her. In fact, as the story goes, he asked her out once and she said no.

I am not Joanna Brooks. And yet, growing up Mormon in the late 1970s and 1980s, there were many elements of Joanna Brooks’ story that I recognized.

This story — which was buzzed about a bit back before the election when Mormons were having our “moment” — is basically that of Joanna’s childhood, growing up in Orange County, California. Her path to BYU, and then her path away from — what shall we call it? — orthodoxy, full activity, your typical Mormon life.

It’s nothing I didn’t know, or haven’t heard. The Monday night family meetings (ours were on Sunday afternoons, actually), the year’s worth food storage in the basement (which fully ruined me for store-bought canned peaches and pears. Not at ALL good.), the end-of-the world paranoia (that was mostly high school, when I was actually noticing it). All of it was instantly familiar to me.

And you can tell that Joanna has a fondness for her childhood, the way she was raised, and even the way the church was — to some extent — in our childhood. But, then we hit BYU.

(It surprised me that she is only a year older than I am. I thought she was older than that.)

I don’t know what BYU is like now, but she reminded me of all the reasons I disliked the place in the early 1990s. I wasn’t in the middle of everything — from the firings and excommunications to the protests — but I caught enough of it through my program — journalism rather than English — that I realized that the Church (the organization, not necessarily the doctrine) could be a not-very-friendly place for people who didn’t toe the line.

And it was this point where Joanna’s and my paths diverged, and where I found the book to dissolve into melodramatics. Yes, she was discriminated against, but I’m going to assert that it’s because she lived in the wrong places. I have often told my daughters — especially when they come home feeling excluded and belittled at church — that not everywhere is like here. That there are places — like my ward growing up in Ann Arbor — where people don’t always expect everyone to tow the conservative Republican line  like they do in, oh, Orange County, California. Or Wichita, Kansas, for that matter.

Maybe it was too personal for me, maybe it was too much like my own story, and maybe that’s why I finished it feeling unsettled. That said, I am glad that Joanna’s story (and mine, to a certain extent) is out there for people to read. Maybe it will make a difference, too.

How six novels taught me about love, friendship, and the things that really matter
by William Deresiewicz
ages: adult
First sentence: “I was twenty-six, and about as dumb, in all human things, as any twenty-six-year-old has a right to be, when I met the woman who would change my life.”
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When I saw this one a while back, I knew, as a professed lover of all things Jane, that I had to eventually read it. Thankfully, my delightful gift exchange partner, Holly, made that eventually sooner rather than later.

I didn’t quite know what to expect from a book like this, or who even it’s intended for. Other Janeites? The random public? Guys who should be reading Jane Austen? (Which they should.)

And the answer is: yes, all of the above.

Deresiewicz weaves his personal story of a 26-year-old, single, angsty Jewish male with analyses of all six of Austen’s books, giving each book a theme that helps him through a time period in his life. He doesn’t go chronologically with her works, but rather in the order that he read them, and with what fit with what period. It’s a book about Austen, yes, but it’s also a book about Deresiewicz’s growth as a person, and the role that Austen played in that.

Having read all the novels many times (though not recently; one of the things I realized while reading this is that it’s been a while since I’ve visited with Austen, and “a while” is too long), he didn’t really say much that I didn’t know. I’m not sure I’m going to look at her novels in a new light now, or anything like that. Perhaps, if I were less than an avid fan, I would have (I also want to give this to the guy at work who disdains all “chick fiction”, calling it “fluffy” and beneath his notice). At the very least, Deresiewicz succeeded in reminding me why I adore Austen.

A couple of quotes, because these stood out:

From the Northanger Abbey chapter (“Learning to Learn”): “Real men weren’t afraid to admit that they still had things to learn — not even from a woman.”

From Mansfield Park (“Being Good”): “To listen to a person’s stories, [Edmund] understood, is to learn their feelings and experiences and values and habits of mind, and to learn them all at once and all together. Austen was not a novelist for nothing: she knew that our stories are what make us human, and that listening to someone else’s stores — entering into their feelings, validating their experiences — is the highest way of acknowledging their humanity, the sweetest form of usefulness.”

For me, this was a delightful romp through familiar land: watching someone come to a realization that Austen and her small, domestic dramas and comedies really do hold valuable lessons for the rest of us, even 200 years later.

Obituaries of Real Folks We Wish We’d Met a Little Sooner
by  Jane O’Boyle
ages: adult

First sentence: “More than two million people die each year in this country.”
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There isn’t really much to say about this slim little collection of obituaries. Either you will be fascinated by reading about dead people — most of whom accomplished something, but weren’t really Big News — or you won’t.

Thankfully, I was. There were several people who caught my attention, from the woman who was responsible for publishing George Lucas’s novels, Princess Bride, and Mists of Avalon; to the brother of Jackie Robinson; to a stone mason who helped build Rockefeller Center; to Hitler’s secretary; to the second wife of Anne Frank’s father.

It’s not a really deep or profound collection, but it kind of made me reflect on what  people would say about me. It’s mostly just fascinating. There ought to be more of these out there.

Love, Terror, and an American Family in Hitler’s Berlin
by Erik Larson
Read by Stephen Hoye
ages: adult
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I’ve not read any of Erik Larson’s work before, even though he (and this book) have been on my radar for a while now. So, when it came up as the November book at the Nook, I was more than happy to read it. (Or in my case, listen to it, since I didn’t really have the time to sit and read it.)

If you don’t know: it’s the story of William Dodd, the U. S. Ambassador to Berlin in 1933, just as Hitler was rising to power, and all that entails. And, it entailed a lot. First off, Dodd wasn’t that popular with the “Pretty Good Club”: the insiders (mostly Harvard grads) at the State Department who didn’t like Dodd’s conservation-minded ways. (He wanted to live within his salary? Shocking!) They undercut all of Dodd’s attempts at, well, diplomacy, and leaked things to the press whenever it served them to make him look bad. All they really wanted him to do — infuriatingly, to the reader, knowing what Hitler was capable of — is get Germany to make good on their debt to America.

The other part of the story (the “love” part) was about Dodd’s daughter, Martha, who was a bit of a manizer. (If a man can be a womanizer, then…) She was naive, silly, and very much in love with falling in love. So, as a result, she was married twice, divorced once, and had strings of lovers on her chain all at the same time. Can you tell yet that she really bothered me? Actually, what bothered me most was not all of that, but that she would play one lover off another. Or pine for their attention, only to push them away. It was most infuriating.

But, this book was fascinating. It did spawn a lot of thought and discussion: about the nature of evil, about relationships, about what could have been done, about politics.  And for that, reading (well listening to it — a side note: the audio was just fine. Maybe Hoye’s voice was a bit grating by the end, but not enough to turn me off) this is well worth the time.

by Katherine Boo
ages: adult
First sentence: “Midnight was closing in, the one-legged woman was grievously burned, and the Mumbai police were coming for Abdul and his father.”
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I don’t know if I’m the last person to read this one, but I do know that it was its nomination for the 2012 National Book Award that finally spurred me into picking it up. (You would think it was M’s desire to go to India for a year. But, no.)

For the twelve of us who haven’t read the book yet, this is Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Boo’s foray into the world of Mumbai’s underbelly. She spent several years (from November 2007 to March 2011) in the Annawadi slum, near the Mumbai airport, getting to know the residents. She followed their ups and downs, painting a portrait of people who were desperately poor, and their attempts to do something about it, whether for good or ill.

It’s a desperate story, gritty and harsh, and yet it’s an incredible work of journalism. Boo’s affection for these people come through, and she manages to get them — individuals who have no qualms in lying to each other as well as police and the government — to tell an honest story. It’s one that made me think: about class, about globalism, about corruption, about India as a country.

Several quotes that struck me:

An aside in a larger discussion about the sections in Annawadi (yes, even the poor in India have classes): “In the Indian caste system, the most artfully oppressive division of labor ever devised, Dalits — once termed untouchables — were at the bottom of the heap.” (p. 42)

The parliamentarian who would represent Annawadians was hardly in doubt. It would be the incumbent from the Congress Party, Priya Dutt, a kind, unassuming woman who personified two historical weaknesses of the Indian electorate: for flimi people and for legacies.” (p. 230)

And what I think is at the heart of this book:

What was unfolding in Mumbai was unfolding elsewhere, too. In the age of global market capitalism, hopes and grievances were narrowly conceived, which blunted a sense of common predicament. Poor people didn’t unite; they competed ferociously amongst themselves for gains as slender as they were provisional. And this undercity strife created only the faintest ripple in the fabric of the society at large. The gates of the rich, occasionally rattled, remained unbreached, The politicians held forth on the middle class. The poor took down one another, and the world’s great, unequal cities soldiered on in relative peace.

Fascinating and thought-provoking.