by Jon Spence
ages: adult (though it could be read by 12+, if they’re interested)
First sentence: “In 1704, the presumed heir to the Austen family fortune, John Austen, lay dying of consumption at the age of thirty-four.”

Shall we start with another confession? (I’m in a confessional mood this week…) I picked up this book because I recently got the movie from Netflix and it made me curious about the book. (I saw the movie in the theater when it came out and had the same reaction, but never followed up on it.) I also recently saw Miss Austen Regrets, too, and between the two, I really wanted to know what was fact, and what was fiction.

Well, in the case of Becoming Jane, a lot was fiction. But that’s getting ahead of myself.

In this biography of Austen’s life, Spence takes a look at how Austen’s life is intimately reflected in her work. I haven’t ever read a biography of Austen before, so I’m not quite sure how it measures up scholarly, and I won’t say it’s a brilliant biography, but it’s a good one. Spence’s writing is accessible and interesting (though I think at times he gets a bit annoying with his perhapses and possiblys, but then since Cassandra burned most of their letters, it’s hard to know much about Jane, and a lot of it is perhaps and possibly…). And a lot of it is because Jane herself (probably much to her chagrin) is an interesting person. Or, at least, has become interesting because of her books.

So. What did I learn? Well, first off, the whole Jane-Tom Lefroy thing is only 15 pages in the book, and it’s all very sketchy. Spence asserts that, at least in Jane’s mind, they were in love (engaged possibly), and that affected her writing. She wrote “First Impressions” (which became Pride and Prejudice) around the time she knew Tom, and Spence writes this:

The energetic intensity of Pride and Prejudice attests to the effect that falling in love had on Jane Austen. It is an irrepressibly happy novel. Between October 1796 and August of the next year Jane wrote “First Impressions”; it was her unique way of thinking about Tom Lefroy and celebrate her delight at being in love — and at being loved. The novel that she later called “my own darling Child” was to be a gift of love for Tom Lefroy.

I have no idea if this is true, but it makes sense.

I also liked that Spence points out Austen’s propensity to switch genders from what she observes to what she writes. Tom — witty and clever — became Elizabeth, while she — reserved with strangers, seemingly haughty, yet loving to family — became Darcy. It happens others. I also enjoyed learning about the ebb and flow of her life and how it affected her work. Aside from P&P, Spence spent the most time on Mansfield Park, since that book had the longest gestation (10 years) of all her novels. He said this (which made me rethink at least my reaction to the novel):

We think we ought to like Fanny Price more than we do the fine, handsome Bertram girls and the warm, lively Mary Crawford. That it is difficult to do so, in our feelings and our reason, is precisely what Austen was determined to show. Our values tell us one thing, our hearts another. Mansfield Park is Austen’s most profound attempt to capture this inevitable confusion of feelings in human life — and her strategy was to make readers themselves confused in their own feelings about the characters in the novel.

And this:

Nothing is fixed and definite, and paradoxically the appearance of everything being so heightens our sense that it is not. Austen creates such a strong, distinct possibility in Mansfield Park that things did not have to turn out as they do that we are left in confusion. What might have happened is as real as what did happen. This disturbs us, makes us angry. We have been arguing vehemently with Jane Austen about the ending of Mansfield Park for two hundred years, exactly as she intended.

Fascinating, no? (Well, maybe not. But I thought so.)

Anyway. He does touch on all her other novels (though not so much on Northanger Abbey; it does tend to get slighted), as well her juvenalia and the fragment of the book she was writing when she died. I felt like the book ended abruptly, but overall I enjoyed the glimpse into Austen’s life; I think reading about her actually does heighten the enjoyment of her books, even if the whole Tom Lefroy thing was a bit blown out of proportion. And this is a good place for those of us without the desire to go and write a thesis on her, to get that knowledge.

by Don Miguel Ruiz
ages: any
First sentence: “Thousands of years ago, the Toltec were know throughout southern Mexico as ‘women and men of knowledge.'”

This begins with a confession: yesterday I completely and utterly lost it with the kids. It was over something ridiculous — they had eaten some cookies that I had set aside for a dinner I was taking to someone else yesterday evening — but I totally and completely wigged out. (No one was hurt, though all were scared.)

In the course of trying to calm down, my eyes fell upon this book, and I picked it up to flip through. And ended up reading the whole thing. I’m not saying it changed my life, but it did calm me down, give me a handle on what had just happened, and helped me focus on fixing what had just happened in a positive manner.

The basic premise is the Toltec principles of four agreements, things that can help you change your perspective and attitude toward others by changing how you react to others. Through these principles, if you apply them in your life, you will find a peace, a happiness, that alludes most people. Granted, I found a lot of the book a bit hokey and overly new-agey for my tastes, and the writing style was chatty and felt a bit off. I’m also not sure it should be taken as a “cure all” for everything. But. It did help calm me down. And the four agreements — being impeccable (careful) with your word, not taking anything personally, not making assumptions and doing one’s best — are good things to live by. And maybe, if everyone picked this up and read through it, if only to find out just exactly what Ruiz means, then maybe the world would be a happier place. (Though, I suppose I shouldn’t wish for world happiness, just personal.)

At any rate, it was food for thought.

by Eric Weiner
ages: adult
First sentence: “My bags were packed and my provisions loaded.”

The premise: self-proclaimed grumpy journalist decides to visit happy nations (as determined by the World Database of Happiness that’s kept in Rotterdam, the Netherlands. He visits a handful of countries for several weeks, interviewing people and sampling the culture trying to figure out what, exactly, makes these people in these particular countries especially happy. And how does it all (can it?) relate to him and his own personal search for happiness?

It sounds trite, and on one level it is. How can a journalist, one who insists upon remaining professional aloofness at that, actually get to the bottom of what makes people happy? And besides, there are millions of people in any given country (more or less), and not all of them are going to be happy all the time, right? Well, yeah. But, I don’t think Weiner is going for depth. Sure, he draws conclusions from the places he visits, and he tries to put it all into some sort of happiness formula, but I think he was just out to meet people and experience things. Which is all good with me.

As for myself, I enjoyed the journey. Weiner is a funny writer — maybe not as good as Bill Bryson or Tony Horwitz at their best (admission: I picked up this book because there’s a blurb on the back by Tony Horwitz, and I thought, well Tony Horwitz liked it and I like Tony Horwitz’s stuff, so maybe I’ll like this…) — but enjoyable. My favorite quote, from his visit to Switzerland:

Our fondue comes in a large bowl, not orange, and it’s good. After a few helpings, the euphoria is gone, but I’m feeling, I think, very Swiss. Satisfied. Neutral. Maybe this explains Swiss neutrality. Maybe it’s not based on a deep-seated morality but a more practical reason. Fondue and war don’t mix.

And I have to admit that I enjoyed the travel aspect of the book. I’ve never been to Bhutan or Qatar or Switzerland or Moldova (not that I want to go there now), and I enjoyed seeing the world, even in a limited sort of way. I found his stops and the people he met interesting, and the conclusions he came to about happiness fascinating. Maybe not life-changing. But definately worth mulling over.

Which pretty much sums up the book: not life-changing, but definately worth paging through.

by Frances Mayes
ages: adult
First sentence: “The silhouette of Alghero rises from the Mediterranean.”

At one point, while reading this collection of travel essays, I thought, “When Frances Mayes is lyrical in her writing, I feel lyrical.” Not a very lyrical sentiment, true, but an honest one. As I discovered before, when Mayes writes well, you feel like saving her words. Her books are not ones to be rushed through.

The problem with this book is that it’s really a series of disjointed essays, each on a different spot, and while some of them are wonderful, others are well, banal. (That and I have issues with the title. It’s not a “year in the world”, more like “several years bopping around southern Europe, Morocco, and Great Britain.”)

As Mayes is a lover of all things Italy, those chapters are by far the best. I want to visit Naples, Sicily, Mantova and wander the streets, shop in the markets, taste the food. Lay on the sun-kissed beaches, swim in the sparkling ocean. (Her work also brings out the adjectives in me.) She makes Italy so accessible, luxiurious, desireable.

When reading books I am often reminded of people. This one — the Italy and England/Wales chapters especially — made me think of my mom. I can understand her long-held desire to go to Italy now: it is a marvelous place.

But, aside from her love-affair with Italy, the places Mayes visits have their ups and downs. She gushes about Andalucia in Spain, but is underwhelmed by Portugal. She stays in a crummy house in Wales, but has a good old time with friends in Scotland (which is by far her most indulgent, and my least favorite chapter). Her husband gets food poisining in Morocco, they go on a cruise around the Greek Islands (she alternates between gushing about the ocean, making fun of the passengers, and lamenting that they can’t spend much time anywhere. Sounds like my cruise experience), but have a much better experience with a guided boat tour around ancient ruins in Turkey.

Even with its many imperfections, it’s a book worth reading. I vascillated between jealousy and what she was able to do (and afford!), and soaking the words in and feeling like I was there myself. There were times when it read like a guidebook (a very good guidebook, but one nonetheless), but I can’t complain, coming away with garden and food suggestions, book recommendations, and CDs to listen to.

And still, I may be sad to see it go back to the library. I did enjoy my travels; Mayes is an impeccible traveling guide and companion.

I have mixed feelings about this one. A collection of stories and letters about the women behind (beside?) the men that were instrumental in founding the United States, it’s a work that could be seen as enlightening and entertaining. In fact, there were many times when I was enlightened and entertained. I did learn about some women that I hadn’t heard of before — my favorite was Eliza Pickney, a South Carolina woman who basically managed things on her own for most of her life. She was also a bit of an entrepreneur, coming up with the idea and the means to make indigo a cash crop. There were also the usual players: Abigail Adams, Martha Washington, Dolley Madison, and it was interesting to see the way that Cokie Roberts portrayed each of those women.

However, it was a hard book to get through. I think that the book had simultaneously a too broad and too narrow of focus. Too broad, because of all the people she tried to squeeze into 277 pages. Roberts organized her book chronologically, which was probably inevitable considering that it was the time period that drove all the people, but it also made it hard to keep everyone straight. She started Abigail Adams’s story in one chapter, dropped it after a few pages and didn’t pick it up again for another couple of chapters. There were also so many women — I couldn’t keep the Kittys straight to save my life — that Roberts focused on, however briefly, that I felt like I needed a flow chart to figure out who was who (and who was related to whom!).

It was too narrow because I felt that Roberts slighted the men. Sure, it’s a book on the women during the late 1700s, and yes, we want to give them the credit the history books have denied them all these years, but I felt that Roberts did it at the expense of the men. She poked fun at John Adams (I was not happy with that… especially after reading David McCullough’s biography!); portrayed George Washington as a competent leader, but an incompetent in his personal life… (I agreed with her assessment of Alexander Hamilton and Ben Franklin, though…) Perhaps it’s just personal biases getting in the way here, but I felt like she could have portrayed these women as working in partnership with their partners, rather than at odds with them.

And then there was Cokie Roberts herself. She peppered the book with asides, snide remarks, opinionated comments. Which is all fine and good; she’s the author, she can interpret the letters however she wants. But it drove me nuts. After a while, the extreme annoyance (I shouted at the book a couple of times!) I had at the beginning boiled down to a mild irritation, but it never left. There was a (very large) part of me that wished she’d just shut up and leave the letters and stories to speak for themselves.

That said, the letters and stories are fascinating to read. And I do appreciate that Roberts took the time to focus on these amazing women. Even with its faults, its a book worth reading.

I read a lot on our little jaunt to Portland… but to be fair, they were short, little books…

I picked this one up yesterday morning at the bed and breakfast we were staying in and read it while I was waiting for the proprietor to get breakfast ready. That’s how quick a read it is. It’s a series of letters between Helen Hanff, a New York writer, and a rare/used/antique bookshop in London, England. Their correspondence starts in 1949, and the letters go on for 25 years (or more; I can’t remember and I left the book at the bed and breakfast) until the death of her main corespondent, Frank Doel.

It’s a lovely little book; the letters are funny and sweet, and Helene, Frank and the rest of the “inmates” at the store are just wonderful. I loved the way Helene would talk about the books as if they were real people. There were so many little quotes about books and reading that I wanted to write down. As for the book itself, I couldn’t put it down. I finished it quickly not just because it’s a slim little thing, but also because it’s a captivating book. You come to care about the people — not just Helene and Frank, but Frank’s family, and the other people at the book store — and root for Helene to actually make it to England to meet them. It has a bittersweet ending, but I still loved it immensely.

Now to go find me a copy for my very own.

Memoirs, for me, usually fall into two categories: those I think I could have written, and those whose lives are unique, unusual and fascinating. I prefer the latter, obviously, and this one by Jeannette Walls, falls solidly into the that category. She had a whopper of a childhood: fascinating and horrible at the same time. Basically, it’s the story of her childhood, and what a childhood. Her father was an alcoholic, her mother an “excitement addict”, and her sisters and brother and her were left to fend for themselves. In practically every way. Literally. When she was little, and they were living in the desert — in Nevada, Arizona and California — it wasn’t so bad. But, eventually her father’s drinking got really bad and her mother thought that moving back to his hometown would help (why she thought that was beyond me), and so they moved to West Virginia. From there, Walls’s life became particularly hard. Her parents wouldn’t take welfare or charity, so the kids took to fending for themselves. Digging lunch out of the garbage, getting work where ever they could. The house had no indoor plumbing, and was falling apart. The grandparents — especially Erma — were a real piece of work. It’s a wonder Walls survived at all.

I was caught between admiration for her parent’s fierce sense of independence and lack of judgement of others (and statements that no one should judge them) and horror at the good values gone wrong. They were parents, for God’s sake. They should act like parents. My great-great grandfather was a drunk — he’d go off to work in the morning, earn the money, and then spend it all on booze and come home to beat his wife and kids — but at least my great-great grandmother had the wits and the resources to earn money and raise her children. Neither one of Walls’s parents had that. Her mother spent her days painting and reading and eating chocolate, rather than buying food for her kids. Her father spent his days dreaming about striking it rich and drinking the income away. I felt bad for Walls, even though I don’t think she wanted us to feel bad. This was who she is, and I don’t think she wanted our charity or pity. She survived, she managed to find her way in life. And she did it basically on her own. She’s very independent, she had some wonderful experiences as a child — ones that our kids, as scheduled and structured as they are could never have — and she loves her family, crazy as they are. I think that’s what she was trying to get across — that even though it was horrible, she survived, thrived, and managed not to get stuck in that trap.

There is much to discuss about this book — poverty, and escaping poverty (I’m finding in my reading that one of the best ways to escape is through some sort of brilliance; if you’re smart, you can find a way out.); parenting; structuring of children; judgements; the 50s and 60s… it goes on and on. And it’s a fascinating, well-written, engrossing read. Just not a comfortable one.

I was really glad when I saw that this one came in (Eventually I’ll read Rascal.) at the library. I’ve wanted to read this ever since I saw a bit about it at someone’s roundup of some publishing conference (how’s that for specific) primarily because I’m a fan of Steve Martin. Not a big fan — I don’t love everything he’s done — but I generally enjoy his humor, and I’ve enjoyed his writing in the past. A memoir by him sounded both funny and intriguing.

Martin insists that this book isn’t an autobiography, but rather a biography, because, he writes, “I am writing about someone I used to know.” I enjoyed getting to know that person. While it wasn’t always funny (though there were some great funny bits), it was an insightful, gentle trip into how Steve Martin became the Steve Martin of the late-70s and early-80s. (He’s no longer that Steve Martin. One of my favorite lines was: “At first I was not famous enough, then I was too famous, now I am famous just right.”) I learned that being a comic is work (probably should have figured that), that when people stand up to entertain us, it doesn’t just happen spontaneously. One of the more interesting aspects of the book was the evolution of Martin’s comedy. From magician-banjo-everyguy to hippie-cuttingedge-philosophical guy (get the book just to see photos of Martin’s hippie days… they’re hilarious) to finally what he ended up as: manic-physical-crazy guy. Fascinating stuff. I also learned that his rise to fame was not just a product of hard work (he’d tape his shows and make corrections/adjustments based on what he heard), but also a bit of luck (he got on as a writer on the Smothers Brothers show because an ex-girlfriend’s current boyfriend was a writer), and because he’s basically a decent guy. He was willing to be polite and willing to be humble and willing to make the effort to make it all happen. And it was interesting watching the evolution of it all and finding out why he gave up the life of a stand up comic for movies and writing (well, who wouldn’t?).

The weirdest thing about it all was the writing style. I don’t know what I was expecting and I can’t quite put my finger on it. But there was something about the way it was written that kept nagging at me. Perhaps because he got a bit overly sentimental at times? Or maybe because he kept flipping back between past and future and the foreshadowing just didn’t fit? Or maybe because it wasn’t as funny as I was expecting it to be?

Whatever it was, it wasn’t enough to keep me from really enjoying this trip down Martin’s memory lane. I’m glad he invited us along for the ride.