Sometimes a great read finds you
I’m often asked how I decide what to read next. I read countless book reviews (the New York Times, Literary Hub, Slate and the New Yorker, to name a few), get recommendations from friends whose lit cred I admire and browse real-life bookstores. But sometimes great books arrive in mysterious ways.
On a recent trip to New York, I brought along “Crossroads,” Jonathan Franzen’s latest tome, weighing in at 592 pages and just under 2 pounds, figuring it would last me the whole week. After 100 pages I gave up, giving it a “maybe later” pass.
Luckily I was staying at the home of my dear friend Gail, whose daughter is a discriminating reader. I stayed in her daughter’s room, and on her night table was a copy of Emily Ruskovich’s debut novel, “Idaho.” The cover proclaimed the debut author “Winner of the Dublin Literary Award” and the blurbs of praise were exuberant: “Masterly … Will remind many of Marilynne Robinson’s ‘Housekeeping,’ ” said the New York Times. “Poetic, soaring writing … enthralls from the outset,” gushed the Guardian.
That was good enough for me. So, yeah, I stole it.
“Idaho” is stunning. The story of a shocking, inexplicable murder that shatters a family, the novel is as much about memory as loss and grief. It’s all the more remarkable because although we never get solid answers to the questions the murder raises, it ceases to matter as we marvel at Ruskovich’s ability to get inside the heads of her characters. At one point the story is told from a bloodhound’s point of view; it’s a tour de force piece of writing.
(Note to Gail: Forgive me. I promise to send it back.)
Another memorable book came to me via my pal E.H., head book buyer at Green Apple Books, whom I see fairly regularly when trading books for more books. “I saved this one for you,” he told me, handing me a copy of Deborah Levy’s “Real Estate,” the third in her autobiographical trilogy. Levy explores how she, a female artist, chooses to live, both in physical space and philosophically, once marriage and child rearing are behind. Always in the background are the assumptions of the patriarchy. The presence of Virginia Woolf hovers throughout the book, and we get cameos from Simone de Beauvoir, Marguerite Duras, Susan Sontag and Louisa May Alcott.*
But this is by no means a dry, academic work. Levy is funny, brave and irreverent, not at all hesitant to describe clothes, food, shopping, gossip … the things that make up many a woman’s life. I plan to go back and read the first two volumes of what Levy calls her “living autobiography,” and follow up with her Booker Prize-nominated novel, “The Man Who Saw Everything.” Here’s a snippet that encompasses Levy’s worldview: “It seemed to me all over again that in every phase of living we do not have to conform to the way our life has been written for us, especially by those who are less imaginative than ourselves.”
I picked up “Cry, the Beloved Country” (which I’m embarrassed to say I missed when it seems everyone else read it) in a Little Free Library in a neighborhood park. While my dog scouts the picnic table area for dropped sandwich bits, I always peruse its offerings and have found many treasures there. I knew Alan Paton’s book was considered a classic and thought I’d find out why. In fact, I recommended it for my book club.
Even those in our group who had read it before were blown away by Paton’s story of a South Africa torn by racial tension, written just before apartheid was established. He writes with elegance and simplicity of Stephen Kumalo, a rural preacher who travels to Johannesburg, a powder keg ready to burst, to find his missing sister and son. There he meets Msimangu, a priest who aids him in his mission and, to my mind, one of the great characters of modern literature.
The theme of the breakdown of tribal culture and ensuing instability is one that, sadly, has resonance today. Pain and suffering is front and center in this novel, but ultimately there’s a glimmer of hope. As a somewhat cynical person, beaten down by the social injustice we’ve witnessed in our recent past, I was surprised how much this book moved me.
So be open to pleasant literary surprises. You never know where your next great read will come from, or whether it might be an author’s debut or an acknowledged classic.