I actually haven’t ever really been interested in Islam as a religion, or culture. I’m sure we discussed it in my Religions of the World class at college, but I have absolutely no memory. That said, some time back I realized that if I’m going to be an intelligent, informed person these days (at least on a world scale) and if I’m ever going to understand the reason people want to strap bombs to themselves and blow up others, I ought to learn a bit about the religion that’s driving the events in that part of the world.

No god but God: The Origins, Evolution and Future of Islam by Reza Aslan is the perfect book for that. It’s essentially a history book — he begins at the beginning with Muhammad and follows the history of Islam up through current times. I’m not sure if it’s at all accurate — having no other exposure to the history of Islam — but given that Aslan’s devoted his life to this (aside from being a Muslim) I’m pretty confident he’s not spouting tales. Anyway. I found myself fascinated by the origins of Islam, the prophet Muhammad in particular. I kept drawing parallels with my religion, and wondering what (if any) place the Muslims have in God’s plan. Needless to say, it made for some interesting discussions with my husband. The middle section — after Muhammad dies and Islam dissolves into several competing factions — weren’t as interesting. I’m still not sure if I’ve got Sunni, Shi’ah and Sufi Muslims all straight in my mind. But I guess it’s helpful to know that the conflicts between the three (or more) factions aren’t new. The last two chapters are worth reading for anyone (even if you already have a pretty thorough knowledge of the rest of the stuff) — that’s where he gets down to what’s going on currently. And he has a fascinating take on it. In short: Muslims are fighting internally for control of the religion and how best to interpret an Islamic state. The West just happens to be a bystander. Not to make the events of 9/11 seem less, but, in his view (if I got it correctly), they just happened to be a byproduct of a bigger conflict, not a direct assault on the west in general and the US in particular. What is more important to al-Qaeda is the “near enemy” (as Aslan puts it): the unbelievers (or those who don’t believe the way they do).

He spent a good deal of space talking about how an Islamic democracy isn’t an oxymoron. Essentially, Islam is supposed to be able to be diverse. And moral. Which both support democratic ideals. However, extremists (like al-Qaeda) refuse to see that point. He’s actually very harsh on the factions of Islam (throughout history) that have suppressed the various individual sects. He blames colonization, and the US for some of it, but mostly he points to the limited interpretations that have been held by a few (not the majority) throughout history as warping the ideals of Islam.

In the end, though, Aslan’s hopeful that something good will come out of all this bloodshed.

Fascinating.

So, I read two memoirs this week. Well, read one, tried to read the other. Which actually got me to thinking about memoirs and what makes a good one. And yes, my random thoughts were fueled by the A Million Little Pieces debacle, though only in part.

The one I got through — Journey from the Land of No by Roya Hakakian — was an interesting, introspective, delightful yet haunting look at the Iranian revolution through the eyes of a young girl who just happened to be a Jew. I checked it out because it looked interesting (the subtitle is “A girlhood caught in Revolutionary Iran”), but I got something much more than I was expecting. I got reflections on a country changed, reflections on her faith and culture and how they didn’t always mesh. She experienced anti-Semitism, and lived through it. And, interestingly enough considering my last book group, she dealt with the rule to wear head-scarves and her feelings about it (she compared it to a uniform; something which she had to wear, but never quite felt like herself in it). It was beautifully written and an excellent book.

The other — Cursed by a Happy Childhood by Carl Lennertz — wasn’t so great. I liked the premise (or at least the title); if I ever wrote a memoir it’d be something like this. Especially since my childhood/young adulthood was neither traumatic, dramatic or remotely engaging in any way. (Sorry Mom and Dad — happy homes don’t necessarily make good books!) Still, reading the 30 pages I got through in this book was a trial, to say the least. The book tried to be witty and pithy and just fell short, at least for me. No new observations (like “Visit a library; it’s wonderful” or “My daughter is discovering that my music isn’t that bad”). No real insights. I was complaining to my husband, who (very accurately, I supposed) said, “You’re beyond this book. It’s for people who haven’t realized these things.” Yes, but who might that be? Maybe I’m just miffed because he’s already written my memoir (except I’m a woman, who lived in suburbia and will have four daughters instead of only one).

So, what makes an engaging memoir? Is it life experiences — this is where A Million Little Pieces comes in: the bigger, the badder, the more desperate makes for the great book? I know conflict makes the story (it’s only words and fluff without it), but what is it that would drive someone to make up experiences in order to sell the book? Why do we want to read about people’s lives who have been desperate (or sick, or traumatized or whatever) and have overcome? Why do we look at the ones who didn’t, and say, “Well, that’s nice, but I really don’t want to read about it”?

I wish I knew.

One way to realize just how trivial and silly us Americans are: read Wild Swans, and then follow it up with this book by Haven Kimmel. Wild Swans: full of tragedy, integrity and survival. Girl Named Zippy: full of petty big sisters, Quakersand “evil” old women named Edythe. Not exactly much of a comparison there. Still, it wasn’t a bad book, as memoirs about childhoods in towns of 300 go. Not great, either. If I had an interesting childhood, spent in a town of under 300 (rather than in sizeable cities in California, Utah and Michigan) then I probably could have written a book and gotten it published, too. But I didn’t. Oh, well. I could have, though.

Why not?

Sorry.

This book was fascinating. I learned a bunch about France, what makes the French tick, French history, the social structure, the comparisons between France and the rest of Europe and France and North America, and the list goes on. The problem, though, was that this book, by Jean-Benoit Nadeau (I don’t know how to do the funky accents, sorry) and Julie Barlow, was terribly dense and difficult to get through. I waded through chapter after chapter after chapter about the French government and civil bureaucracy before I finally bailed on the book. I’m sure there were interesting chapters at the end (like, possibly, “The World According to France” or “The Meaning of Europe”) but I could care less. I’m Franced out.

The first section, on the Spirit of the French, is really worth reading, though. As Canadians, Nadeau (who’s a Quebecker) and Barlow went to France with the unique position of being both able to converse with the French on their own terms and having North American perspective. So, it made for some fascinating tales and encounters with people they met. (Like, I had no idea that the French guard their names so closely; they rarely introduce themselves the way we think of as introductions over here, and only tell their names after “getting to know” someone. ) I’m not sure I ever got the answer to “Why we love France but not the French” (the book’s subtitle), though. It’s almost too bad that the authors got so bogged down in the political chapters. This could have been a great book.

I generally try to operate under two principles when it comes to books. One: I try to read the ones that have come recommended to me. Every once in a while, I manage to find a good book on my own, but it’s not exactly a common occurrence. Two: I only buy books I like or have come highly recommended to me.

I broke both of those when it came to Holy Cow, by Sarah MacDonald, and instantly regretted it.

In fact, I only got 3 chapters into it before I decided that this woman is a first-class snit (well, something else, really, but I want to at least be polite), and hates India and everything about it. I suppose that was the point of the book: she hates India at first but comes to love everything about the country. But, you know, I don’t care.

Thankfully, I still had the receipt and was able to get my money back.

I read Ruth Reichl’s memoir (the first one), Tender at the Bone, ages and ages ago. I don’t really remember what it was about; what I do remember is that it was absolutely delicious to read. Garlic and Sapphires is the same. It’s the tale of her time as restaurant critc at the New York Times; the places she ate, and the disguises that she used so she could remain anonymous. And it’s absolutely delicious to read. I know I wouldn’t eat 1/3 of the food she describes, and I’ve never even ventured into a restaurant where it’s $100 a person to eat there (though my husband has). But, just reading about it was interesting, enjoyable, and oh so satisfying. And the best part is that, in addition to all this yummy reading (which is so much better for you than the eating, right?), she includes recipes. My three favorites (which I need to try): New York Cheesecake, Nicky’s Vanilla Cake, and Aushak (which are Afghani dumplings). An excellent, truly satisfying read.

Acutally, the full title is Setting the World Ablaze: Washington, Adams, Jefferson and the American Revolution. It’s a scholarly book (I’m impressed I got through this one; I usually find scholarly books too dry) by historian John Ferling. And, surprisingly, it was fascinating. The first chapter or two — the set up of the years leading to the Revolutionary War — were pretty dull, but once the war started it picked up in both pace and interest. I kept commenting to Russell that Ferling must have really liked the war, because it showed in the writing. And, by the end, I was totally amazed that the Americans won the war. By all accounts, the colonies should have lost. I guess if I knew that, I totally forgot it.

But this book is first and foremost a portrait of three central leaders of the Revolution. Ferling made Washington out to be, well, human. Which, Russell tells me, isn’t anything new. Ferling asserts that Washington was ambitious and vain, but came through honorably when he needed to. He also totally believed in the idea of a republic. As a general, he was great in the beginning of the war, being assertive and daring when he needed to. But as the war wore on, he became cautious and over-reliant on the French. And obsessive about attacking New York. Still, in the end Washington came off as a pretty decent figure.

Not so much for Jefferson. Ferling had one thing good to say about him: the man could write. And that’s about it. He was a lousy leader, he was a spoiled rich Virginia planter, he was racist and unenlightened. Made me wonder about the spin that surrounded Jefferson. How on earth did he become so respected? (As a side note, Ferling doesn’t much like Franklin, either.)

And then there’s Adams. Ferling’s thesis here was that Adams, while ambitious, was easily the most hard-working, diligent, honest leader who did everything in his power to assure the independence of the colonies. I got the impression that Ferling believes that Adams has gotten a bad historical reputation over the years and was doing everything in his power to reverse that. And it worked; I have more respect for John Adams now.

The ending chapters had the same fault as the beginning, except they were blissfully shorter. He did deal with the issue of slavery at the end, and how each of the three dealt with it (and they came off the same way: Washington was human, but noble in the end; Adams, stalwart; and Jefferson, a racist flake). A good read.

I figured I needed to jump on the bandwagon and see what all the fuss about Sister Hinckley was. Okay, now I know. She was a wonderful lady, and a good example, and this book, put together by her daughter Virginia Pearce, captures that pretty well. There were times when I wished they had more from Sister Hinckley and less from people saying how great she was. But, overall, it’s a wonderful, uplifting book about a wonderful, uplifting lady. I really enjoyed her talks at the end. Not laden with doctrine, but nice little snapshots of the way she thinks and speaks. I wish I had had a chance to hear her talk; when President Hinckley visited Memphis a couple years back, she refused the invitation to speak. Now I’ll never get that chance, except through books like this.