Review copy sent to me by the publisher

by Bob Moore
ages: adult
First sentence: “It is a pity there are getting to be so many places that I can never go back to, but all the same, I do not think it is much fun a man being respectable all his life.”

I thought this one sounded interesting — the memoirs of a Scotsman — Glasgowian — who traveled the world, being, shall we say, less than respectable. So, when I was offered a review copy, I said yes.

But. Call it timing, call it mood, call it I’m not too into less-than-respectable characters, but three chapters in — after he’s gotten thrown off a ship, was disappointed that he couldn’t fly planes and kill people in WWI, stolen a bucket load of diamonds, married and all but abandoned his wife — I decided that Bob lived much too much of an adventuresome life for me. And I wasn’t all that interested in it, anyway.

Go see Suey’s husband’s review for a more positive outlook on the book, though. Maybe it’s just a guy book. 🙂

by Anne Fadiman
ages: adult
First sentence: “If Lia Lee had been born in the highlands of northwest Laos, where her parents and twelve of her brothers and sisters were born, her mother would have squatted on the floor of the house that her father had build from ax-hewn planks attached with bamboo and grass.”

This book is incredibly complex, which makes it a difficult book to write about. It’s a medical tome — I now know more than I ever thought I would (not having any kids with epilepsy) about seizures and medical procedures of the early- to mid-80s. But it’s also a work of cultural observation — I now know more than I ever thought I would about Hmong history, religion, and culture. But what this book is, more than either of those things, is a testament to what happens when good intentions go bad because of cultural differences.

Lia Lee, daughter of Hmong immigrants, was eight months old when she first started seizing. Her parents (somewhat unusually for Hmong, who notoriously don’t trust American doctors), took her to the hospital. And there, her saga starts. There is time after time of misunderstanding, miscommunication (lack of interpreters only played a role in that), and tragedy after tragedy in the life of this little girl. What impressed me most (and this is something that I’ve heard often associated with this book) is that Friedman does an admirable job of portraying both sides — both the doctors’ and the parents’ attempts and efforts at helping Lia get better. I did feel, fairly often, that Friedman was more sympathetic to the Lees’s side of the story, but she does give the doctors (who often come off as arrogant jerks) equal time — both of her own in doing the research as well as in the book.

I often thought while reading it, too, that I was a bit of an outsider. That the people who really ought to be reading this are not lay readers, but rather doctors, social workers, adminstrators: people who could learn from the lessons that Friedman puts out in this book (not that I can’t learn about the Hmong — granted, I don’t know if there are any here in Wichita — but I’m not in a position to put that knowledge to use). It is a fascinating read, though (even if it was one of those dip in-dip out books — read a chapter or two, read a whole other book — types), and the lessons about respect for others’ culture, beliefs and traditions is a valid one.

Love, Laughter and Tears at the World’s Most Famous Cooking School
by Kathleen Flinn
age: adult
First sentence: “As a little girl, while other children played house, I played restaurant.”

When, at age 36, Kathleen Flinn’s mid-level corporate job was eliminated, she was faced with a choice: get another mid-level corporate job somewhere, or… pursue a life-long dream of going to school at the cooking school Le Cordon Bleu in Paris. Encouraged by her boyfriend — who puts his life on hold to move to Paris to be with her — she chooses the latter. This is her story.

Equal parts food book, travel book and memoir, this book totally and completely engrossed me.

I think I liked the food parts best, though. Not only is the book littered with recipes (delicious, gourmet recipes that I will probably never make, but I can dream about), but Kathleen is meticulous with detail about her time in the cooking school. She doesn’t hesitate to tell about her failures (like the time the “Grey Chef” shouted at her, or the time she dropped the roast duck on the floor) but she doesn’t gloat over her successes (like when the head chef of Le Doyen singles her out over her classmates to chat with for 20 minutes). It’s all matter of fact: this happened, she had this amazing experience, she lived this dream, wouldn’t you like to read about it?

But more than the recipes, or even her cooking experiences (I’ve been inundated with French food in books lately; at least here she explains what it all means!), I enjoyed her trips into the Paris markets. The sights, smells, sounds, connections of European markets; it was sensory heaven. And it made me realize (not for the first time) that we’re really missing out with grocery stores here in the States…

I did enjoy the other aspects of the book, too: I liked her tales of the many house guests (even the horrible ones; they were good for a cringe and a laugh) they had while living in Paris; I liked the love story between her and Mike (whom she met and fell into a relationship before Paris), and their whirlwind marriage. I liked her relationships with her classmates, the different personalities and expectations and goals of each person.

It did get a bit too life-preachy for me, especially near the end, where Flinn was trying to make some Big Moral out of her experience, when I would have been happier with her experience as is, without the life morals. But, that said, there’s always something inspiring about people who leave the corporate track and do Something Different with their lives, pursuing a dream and, ultimately, succeeding. And that Flinn spins a good tale about her experience is just a happy bonus.

by Anne Frank
ages: 12+
First sentence: “On Friday, June 12th I woke up at six o’clock and no wonder; it was my birthday.”

Ack.

Let me say that again.

Ack.

If I had read this book when I was 12 or 13, I would have totally loved it. I would have completely identified with Anne, with her plight, with her suffering, with her angst, with her. I would have cried at the end. I would have swooned over her relationship with Peter, and the difficulties it presented.

But now…

I just felt like she’s a whiny teenager who wasn’t completely grateful that she didn’t end up in a concentration camp for the whole war, and that she spent too much time whining about how horrible her parents (and the Van Daans) are. I felt like the book is only famous because she (in a cruel irony) died in a concentration camp three months before the Allieds liberated it. Yes, it was human, and real, and sometimes insightful. But I couldn’t stand her. Or the book.

Which makes me feel guilty.

Oh, well. I missed the boat on this one.

A Year of Passionate Reading
by Sara Nelson
ages: adult
First sentence: “Call me Insomniac.”

This book will not be liked by everyone. Contrary to what the jacket flap says, I also do not think this book will make a “passionate reader out of anybody.” In fact, I think that in order to enjoy this book one has to be a passionate reader already. Otherwise, Nelson will sound uppity (a book a week? How absurd!), snobbish, and insufferable in her blathering about books.

Admittedly, I was suspicious intially — a book a week? Bah, that’s nothing! — but, soon after beginning, I discovered that writing about reading a book a week isn’t what Nelson was trying to achieve. In fact, the book is not a record of the books that she read over the course of 2002 so much as it is an ode to book love, to those who are passionate about reading, and the process of book choosing, sharing and reading.

And, as someone who is passionate about reading, that I could love.

I have to admit that at first I felt wildly unsophisticated and un-read, since I haven’t even heard of half of the books she was writing about. But I realized, after a while, that this book in many ways is like Reading Lolita in Tehran: the author writes so much about, and with such love, the books that she is reading and thinking about that you feel like you’ve read them. And, then, you’ll either figure that was enough exposure to the book, or you’ll stick it on your to be read list, just to see what made the author so giddy about it.

I also marked so many passages; it was full of bookish truisms that I felt hit home with me. A sampling:

People notice what you read and judge you by it. Which is why if I were goig nto read Danielle Steel, I wouldn’t do it at the office. But Nine Parts of Desire speaks to anyone listening: I’m smart, it says. I’m concerned with current events, it announces. I am a serious person.

Clearly she knew that between book lovers, a novel is not a novel is not a novel. It’s a symbol, an offering, and sometimes a test.

It seems to me that rereading — or claiming to reread — is just another way for some people to trumpet their intellecutal superiority. To wit: have you ever known someont to say they’re “rereading” the oeuvre of, say, Jackie Collins?

On reviewing:

His [Anthony Bourdain] subject is food and mine is books, but the same principles apply: you have to treat your subject with fearlessness and attitude and energy. Whether your industry’s sacred cows are beef, or, say, novels that are just said to be “well-done”, you have to skewer them.

You know you’re in a bad patch when the most interesting part of the book is the acknowledgments page.

That’s probably more than you wanted. But, maybe you can begin to see the charm the book had for me. She also tackles choosing a book (or having a book choose you), that headlong falling into love, erotic scenes versus erotica, first sentences (but not book covers), and (that problem we all have?!) the embarrassing problem when an author wants you to read their book and “tell them the truth”. Yes, Nelson does come off as a New York elite (which she is), and a bit of a snob (ditto; I worried when I got to the chapter titled, “Kid Stuff”, but it turned out okay), but she’s also observant, insightful, and passionate. And those three outweighed the previous two, and made this book an absolute delight to read.

Micro-lending and the Battle Against World Poverty
by Muhammad Yunus
age: any
First sentence: “In the yer 1974 Bangladesh fell into the grip of famine.”

I really don’t know how to write this review without sounding crass, selfish, uppity, obnoxious… because I didn’t finish the book. Strike that: couldn’t finish the book. It bored me. To tears.

It’s essentially a memoir by the man — Yunus — who founded Grameen Bank, an organization that gives micro-loans (those of piddly amounts that “normal” banks won’t handle) to people way, way below the poverty line. It’s less about his life, though, and more about the struggles and trials he had in setting up this idea and the challenges and experiences he had getting it to work.

I thought that would be interesting. But Yunus is a boring writer. He’s not maudlin, something which I appreciated, but it’s essentially a list: he had this idea, he set about getting it to work, he ran across some resisitance, he happened to know someone high up in the government, he got past the resistance. Yeah. Whatever.

As I said, I sound crass. I should be insterested and moved and touched by this man’s efforts to help those with much, much less. And I am; he’s going whatever good he can, working within the system rather than trying to reinvent it (mostly). But, his book, I am sorry to say, is not nearly as good as his ideas.

by Sid Fleischman
ages: 9-12
First sentence: “So often had Mark Twain suffered through bumbling introduction before he rose to speak that he sometimes chose to introduce himself.”

When I was in 7th grade, I had an abiding love for Mark Twain. We had read Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court (I had read Tom Sawyer the summer before), and I was totally and completely smitten. In short, I would have adored this biography, had it existed when I was in 7th grade.

Even now, I adored this book. Not just for the wealth of information about Sam Clemens aka Mark Twain, or for the illustrations/photographs that grace it’s pages, or even for the beautiful layout and font that it was written in (it was one of those rare times that I kept flipping pages because it was just so satisfying to flip the pages and gaze at the text). No, I adored this book because Fleischman was so, well, amusing.

He had me with this passage:

When I was the young writer of a novel, The New York Times reviewed my comedy with the news that I was no Mark Twain. I was astonished. I had already had myself fitted for a white suit, like the celebrated author of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. I had been trying to track down the brand of cigars he smoked by the handful. His wit may have come from the noxious weed. Who knew?

I was gone. Hook, line, and sinker.

Fleishman spends the book recounting the origins of Mark Twain — from Clemens birth through his rough and wild days in Nevada and San Fransisco, through until he became famous. He’s not all that interested in what Twain did with the rest of his life — the later books (aside from Huck Finn) only get a passing glance, as do the last 50 years of Twain’s life. But, then, that’s not what’s important (or humorous) to the book. No, it’s the young Twain, the wild Twain, the one that’s observing, exaggerating, writing, figuring that’s the interesting Twain.

It isn’t a detailed book, though: there’s facts but Fleischman is more interesting, it would seem, in the story that is Twain’s life. It’s not as dry as a typical biography, but then it’s also not as detailed. Thankfully, Fleishman has a book list (in order of importance and relavance) in the back that will point anyone curious to know more about Twain in the right direction.

Most of all, though, Fleishman treats Twain probably excatly the way that Twain himself would want to be treated: with equal parts grace, humor and skepticism. Which makes it an absolutely wonderful read.

(It also made me want to go and re-read the works I’ve read in the past, as well as crack open Roughing It and Innocents Abroad, neither of which I’ve ever read. That says a lot about the book in and of itself, doesn’t it?)

by Erin Sheely Tolman
ages: adult (though it’s perfectly suitable for younger readers)
First sentence: “On August 22, 2000, I departed Salt Lake City, Utah with 175 other college age students to travel to the Brigham Young University Jerusalem Center for Near Eastern Studies located on Mount Scopus in Jerusalem, Israel.”
Review copy sent by the author.

I’ve never been to Jerusalem. Actually, to be completely honest, I’ve never really had much desire to go to Jerusalem. I’m just not a Middle Eastern, desert kind of gal. Even so, I do think, on some level, that religiously at least I ought to want to go to Jerusalem. Walk where Jesus walked and all that.

As such, I never expressed much interest in BYU’s Jerusalem Center while I was at BYU. I knew people who went — most notably Hubby’s older sister and younger brother — but I kind of thought, well, it’s there. That’s nice.

After reading Erin’s book, I think I’d like to visit; it sounds like being in Jerusalem (and at the BYU center) is a singular experience.

This book chronicles her time in Israel, from her classes in the center, to her wanderings around the city itself, to some of the field trips scheduled by the professors. It also happens that she was in Jerusalem in September of 2000, when the Second Infintada — the war between Israel and Palestine (though it seems like they are always at war) — began. I expected more about her feelings and experiences being there at that time, and I was a bit disappointed with what seemed to be just a travelogue (though I did enjoy seeing Jerusalem through her eyes). Erin did get more into her thoughts and feelings (and those of her family watching the news at home) near the end of the book. I also thought it was a nice touch to add her feelings as her husband left for Afghanistan three years later; it brought the story full circle. The book is best, though, when Erin writes down her observations and thoughts about the city and the sights she is seeing; it can be very evocative, almost poetic at times. My only real regret is that we didn’t get to see any of the photographs she so often talks about.

As a spiritual book, I wasn’t terribly touched (but that may just have been me; I’m a hard soul to move…), though I appreciated that Erin was trying to share her testimony about Jesus and the places he was with others. I just wasn’t able to connect on that level.

That said, it’s a worthy reflection on her time in Jerusalem, an interesting memoir of her time in an interseting place. And worth reading.