Do read Betty Webb’s fascinating and informative “Desert” mysteries about the world of fundamental polygamists in the southwest. So far I’ve read Desert Wives, Desert Noir, and (most recently) Desert Lost, all of which I can recommend. Please note that the polygamists in question are not Mormons: they are members of various offshoots of the Mormon Church. Since everything in Webb’s novels has been carefully researched, the novels ring with authenticity — perhaps too much so, since sometimes the reader has the impression of being handed a treatise or a documentary rather than a work of fiction. But the lead characters are always sympathetic, and the plots hold together. You may learn more about the polygamist sects than you wanted to know, but you will be reading some engaging mysteries along the way. Give them a shot!
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You’ve heard Martin Walker on NPR. His peaceful mystery — Bruno, Chief of Police — is well worth reading if you want to bathe in a mixture of French politics, small-town French life, and a host of interesting characters. Despite some seriously heavy events, mostly in the backstory (Vichy France, the Algeria conflict, etc.), this novel is basically a charming police procedural, but one where the life of a small town is more important than the interaction of its one-man police department with the national police. I’m looking forward to the next installment in this delightful series.
In my previous reviews of two of Lisa Scottoline’s legal thrillers (Daddy’s Girl and Lady Killer) I wrote about Scottoline’s treatment of the world of Italian Catholic working-class South Philadelphia, families, law, and justice. Dirty Blonde (notice a theme here connecting these book titles?) continues the same themes, though it’s not in the same series. For the first time we focus on a judge rather than a lawyer. (Yes, I know that the judge is also a lawyer, but you know what I mean.) Unfortunately the protagonist is not nearly as sympathetic as the ones in the earlier series, and her character flaw also detracts from the believability of the novel. It’s still worth reading as entertainment; the story kept me engaged and interested, but don’t expect literature here.
I suppose you would have to label it historical fiction, as the novel Alice I Have Been is actually a fictionalized autobiography or memoir. Like all historical fiction, it is faithful to the letter and the spirit of the known facts while weaving dialog and situations around them to imagine a complete story. In this book Melanie Benjamin has created a compelling account of the life of Alice Liddell, the “real” Alice in Wonderland, upon whom Lewis Carroll based his two famous books. I found this story irresistible, partly because Carroll was a math teacher in his day job and since his primary mathematical interests were logic and language. But those points are actually minor ones in Benjamin’s narrative, which primarily tells the reader a story about the Liddell family and its place in the Oxford community in particular and Victorian England in general. The reader also learns a great deal about early photography and the cumbersomeness of Victorian dress. (Incidentally, we learn that Alice wasn’t blonde, despite John Tenniel’s famous illustrations.) As a side note, it is actually the audiobook version that I am reviewing, not the print version. The reading by Samantha Eggar is convincing and compelling, with three-dimensional portrayals of all the major characters. I enjoyed listening to the audiobook, and it kept me occupied through many hours of commuting. After reading Alice I Have Been, I figured that I had to see the 1985 Dennis Potter movie Dreamchild, which covers pretty much the same material. The atmosphere of the writing is far darker than that of Alice I Have Been — not surprising for anything written by Potter. In particular, the Muppets that portray the gryphon, the Mad Hatter, the dormouse, etc., are all quite creepy. The journalists that surround Alice in her famous visit to New York when she was in her eighties are presented very negatively, in contrast to their light-handed treatment in the book. So it’s worth seeing the movie and reading the book, as you will get two quite different perspectives. I have only one problem with Dreamchild, and it was almost enough to spoil the entire movie for me: all the actors consistently mispronounce Charles Dodgson, the real name of Lewis Carroll, by sounding the silent “g” in his last name. I suppose this shouldn’t bother me so much, but it did. In particular, it damaged the verisimilitude that’s necessary for a thorough immersion into the 19th-century world of the narrative. Fussy, fussy, you’ll say. And perhaps you’re right, but when I’ve gone through fifty years correctly pronouncing his name Dodson, it becomes jarring to hear it said wrong every time. When I see a movie, I want to be immersed in that world, not continually knocked out of it.
“I make order out of chaos.” This is how an old friend whom I hadn’t seen in years explains her transition from linguistics to statistics, when people think it’s a complete change of field. It’s how she explains it to non-linguists, of course — as I already knew the connection. But the phrasing really resonates with me. I’ve described elsewhere how the search for patterns and abstract generalizations is what unites linguistics and math teaching in my mind, but I rather like the step up the ladder of abstraction implied by “I make order out of chaos.” It also got me thinking about why I like the mystery and science fiction genres in popular fiction. My liking for science fiction is no mystery, so to speak: anyone with a mathematical bent is likely to enjoy the conventions of that genre. But what about mysteries? I’d been thinking about that lately, and it occurred to me that mystery writers also make order out of chaos: the unsolved crime is cognitively chaotic, and the solution creates order out of it. Furthermore, the puzzle that’s often involved bears definite kinship to the kinds of puzzles we solve in both math and linguistics. Just a thought…
During the last few months I read two interesting novels by John Hart: The Last Child, which I believe is his newest, and The King of Lies, which is definitely his first. It’s not really clear why I read them in that order, but I guess it was because I read a review of the new book, which caused me to read the book itself, and only then did I think of going back to his first effort. Anyway, it won’t be a surprise that The Last Child is definitely the better of the two — but both are worth reading if you want a diversion. I’ve already reviewed The Last Child. The King of Lies is a legal thriller in the style of Scott Turow and John Grisham, but with a lot of North Carolina culture thrown in. The characters are mostly pretty annoying, so don’t read the book if that’s a complete turn-off for you. On the other hand, if you’re interested in some effective writing and development of character, do read it. Like many male writers, Hart portrays men more successfully than women. The plot, though implausible, is absorbing. All in all, a decent first effort.
“Mental acuity of any kind comes from solving problems yourself, not from being told how to solve them.” So says Paul Lockhart, and I couldn’t agree more. It’s great having cooperative students who will correctly follow directions in solving problems — or should I say exercises — but following directions is a cheap virtue. As Lockhart observes, you don’t develop your mental faculties that way. On March 28, 2008, I wrote a brief laudatory piece about Lockhart’s fascinating essay, which he has now turned into an irritating book, also called Mathematician’s Lament. That’s too bad, as he has a lot of valid things to say. But most readers will be unable to see what’s good because it’s surrounding by so much that’s annoying. In particular, Lockhart seems to take an extreme view in favor of throwing out all curriculum and all direct instruction, replacing everything with student-directed problem solving. I say “seems to take” because in fact that’s not actually his position; it’s just that he gets so carried away with his radical POV that everything else gets lost. So, if you read this book, you need to star the following sentence in particular:
Keep that in mind. It’s just that everything Lockhart discusses is in fact all the way on the other side. Consider, for example, this provocative chapter title: “High School Geometry: Instrument of the Devil.” Certainly some students do like geometry, though Lockhart claims that those students would like it even more if it were taught his way. And surely most adults remember their high school geometry class with something less than fondness. The big complaint about high school geometry — and here I agree with Lockhart — is that the central themes of proof and definition are presented so woodenly. Writing proofs about claims that are obvious feels arbitrary and useless, and yet that’s what most of the early months of geometry are filled with. And the two-column format is arbitrary and restrictive, a peculiar American custom that no real mathematician would ever use. As Lockhart observes, “A proof should be an epiphany from the gods, not a coded message from the Pentagon.” But it’s rare experience in high school geometry for students to spend a long time struggling with a non-obvious problem, then to come up with a non-obvious conjecture, and finally to write a convincing proof that shows how the conjecture connects with other knowledge. That’s how it should be done. A similar issue occurs with definitions:
Hear, hear! All of this, of course, is driven by one’s concept of what math really is. Lockhart is a pure mathematician, viewing problem-solving and puzzle-solving as rewarding for their own sake, and I agree with him there. But his contempt for applied mathematics will do nothing but turn off most of his readers. It’s important for students to understand that applications come after the math is developed and hardly ever motivate the discovery of new mathematics, but it’s also important for them to work with those applications. Some students will be motivated by that, and everyone will learn something that their future teachers will expect. Nevertheless, Lockhart’s characterization of what math really is is spot on:
Unfortunately this characterization flies in the face of so much of what is expected of math teachers and math students. MCAS and SATs and science teachers inadvertently encourage the “collection of truths” misconception, even though they of course also want reason and understanding. Finally, I need to mention the subtitle of Dan Meyer’s blog, dy/dan. The subtitle is simply less helpful. This characterization may seem like an odd one, especially when it’s the subtitle of a blog that’s well worth reading. But Meyer’s resolution to be less helpful is an important one. Like most math teachers, my unthinking inclination is usually to try to be helpful, to answer questions, to point students in the right direction. But Lockhart’s response to a certain question from a student is to observe that “the right thing for me to do as your math teacher would be nothing.” In other words, to be less helpful. That, in the long run, is what will actually be helpful to the student. I just wish that Lockhart had limited himself to a more tempered criticism and had been clearer about taking a balanced approach; he will turn off too many readers who would have a lot to gain from his wisdom if they could only pay attention to what’s good rather than what’s irritating in this provocative book.
The setting of Lisa Scottoline’s Lady Killer feels authentic to me, but that judgment certainly doesn’t come from first-hand experience. Unlike my previous review (of My Latest Grievance, where the family, the location, and the social milieu are all familiar to me), I have to take a lot on faith here: the world of Italian Catholic working-class South Philadelphia is certainly not my own. Lady Killer is firmly in the traditional mystery genre, definitely on the light side, much more a cozy than a hard-boiled thriller, despite the setting. The plot is engaging, the characters are mostly appealing (except for the woman who may or may not be the victim — but even that’s traditional in the mystery genre), and the themes are reassuring. This 12th novel in Scottoline’s Bennie Rosato/Mary DiNunzio series can be read as a standalone work of fiction, although the context and characters will make somewhat more sense if you’ve read at least some of the preceding stories. But read it anyway; it’s meant to be more entertaining than deep, and it succeeds on its own terms.
The first page of Elinor Lipman’s 2006 novel, My Latest Grievance, grabbed my attention immediately:
Of the five main characters, narrator and protagonist Frederica Hatch is a sophomore at Brookline High School. Two of the others — Frederica’s parents — are well described in the excerpt above. The fourth is her father’s over-the-top ex-wife, Laura Lee French, who serves as the catalyst for conflict and resolution within the novel. The fifth, Dewing College itself, might or might not be based on Pine Manor College; that’s my hunch, though I have no hard evidence to support this conjecture. As you can probably tell by this point, My Latest Grievance is a satire, but a very gentle and sympathetic one. Elinor Lipman is best known as an observer of human interactions and social mores; the added touch of having her novel narrated by an indulged only child of radical parents gives it a point of view that’s fascinating to the reader (at least to this reader). While it’s firmly anchored in Brookline, no special knowledge of the Boston area is needed in order to enjoy reading it.
Meeting across the River has a truly unusual and creative premise for a collection of 20 short stories. Its subtitle, Stories Inspired by the Haunting Bruce Springsteen Song, reveals the premise: every story (each by a different author) was inspired in its own way by Springsteen’s “Meeting across the River.” Editors Jessica Kaye and Richard J. Brewer have selected a wide variety of tales, ranging from serious and intense to light and humorous. Because the song itself is quite ambiguous, the authors have been free to interpret it in many different ways, though all have stuck to the story line and the names of the characters, especially Eddie and Cherry. For instance, consider this stanza:
We don’t know how the speaker is expecting to get his two grand — drugs? gambling? weapons deal? — but we definitely get a sense of what he is like and what Cherry is like, all from four short lines. We don’t even know where this is all taking place, although the line “Gotta make it through the tunnel” and the fact that Springsteen is from Jersey certainly suggests that he’s talking about the Lincoln or Holland Tunnel and therefore the deal is in New York City. (Of course I might be biased, since I’m from Jersey myself.) Some of the authors follow up on this idea, some don’t. For instance, here is the opening of Eddie Muller’s contribution:
No doubt about the setting in that story, is there? Perhaps the most creative setting is found in Eric Garcia’s story: a Monopoly board! Well, actually it’s the fictionalized Atlantic City featured in Monopoly, but Garcia’s characters are, of course, the Parker brothers, and we get paragraphs like this one:
Other stories in the collection were written by William Kent Krueger, Pam Houston, C.J. Box, Gregg Hurwitz, Michael John Richardson, and a host of other authors. The stories range in length from six pages to 18, but the average is only ten, so the book is easily digested in bite-sized chunks. In order to avoid the easy trap of confusing one story with another — given the similarities of names and themes — I listened to them one or two at a time, spreading it over a period of many months. But of course it wouldn’t be hard to go through all 20 stories, one after another. Try them out in whichever manner you prefer, and be sure to listen to the song at several points along the way.
Like many other books that I enjoy, Simon Winchester’s non-fiction opus, The Meaning of Everything: The Story of the Oxford English Dictionary, won’t appeal to everyone. But if you’re interested in words — and the development of the English language in general — you won’t want to miss this compelling story of the 54-year-long construction of the OED. Something of a companion volume to The Professor and the Madman, we have here what Paul Harvey would call “the rest of the story.” It’s a reasonably comprehensive account of how the OED was built and what the contributors were like. It’s at least as much a human history as it is the story of a dictionary. You would probably expect it to be dry, but it isn’t. In fact, if anything, I would have liked more technical details. But that’s just me; most readers will prefer it the way it is.
The late Stieg Larsson’s The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo is a quirky and fascinating novel. It is at once a thriller, a character study, and a political exploration — all taking place in Sweden. The lead character, Lisbeth Salander, is a brilliant computer programmer who seems to have Asperger’s Syndrome (not unusual among brilliant computer programmers). Secondary themes abound — political and corporate corruption, pressures on independent media, modern-day fascism, various shades of hacking, sexual violence, racism, the complexities of human interaction — all tightly interwoven with each other and with the main plot. Read the book, or listen to the audiobook version (superbly read aloud by Simon Vance) as I did.
Here I am, continuing my efforts to catch up on some of the books I read in 2009. I’ll turn my attention now to writing a capsule review of John Dunning’s The Bookwoman’s Last Fling. As a bibliophile, I’ve had a special fondness for Dunning for many years, but this book just isn’t as good as its predecessors. In case you aren’t familiar with Dunning, take a look at my brief pre-review of The Bookman’s Promise. I wrote that post before I had finished reading the entire book, but in the end it held up as I had expected:
Unfortunately The Bookwoman’s Last Fling continues the downward trend: it’s still worth reading, but it’s two notches below The Bookman’s Promise; unless you’re committed to Dunning, just read Booked to Die and then The Bookman’s Wake.
Yes, this is a bizarre title for a novel. But a novel it is. And it continues one of the themes suggested in yesterday’s post: the extraordinary but still believable teenager. Many readers found Marisha Pessl’s narrator (and hence this book, her first novel) annoying. Perhaps I’m biased, because I’ve taught teenagers for many years, but I can’t object when they are merely annoying; you have to look beyond that to the wide panoply of redeeming characteristics. In this case the narrator, Blue van Meer, is a precocious intellectual — precocious to the point of being a definite outlier but not to the point of stretching credulity. That, of course, is my opinion. Yours may differ. In fact, this is one of the rare occasions when I want to look at the opinions of others. Normally I review books, not reviews of books; but I’ll make an exception this time. Let’s look at some excerpts from the contrasting but not incompatible reviews in the Washington Post and the New York Times. First comes Donna Rifkind in the Washington Post:
And then we have Janet Maslin in the New York Times:
So both reviews are somewhat mixed, but I definitely agree with the overall tenor of the second one. Add this to my list of recommended novels about high schools and high-school students.
Part mystery and part thriller, John Hart’s absorbing novel, The Last Child, is well worth reading. Actually, more than a mystery or a thriller, it’s a portrait of an extraordinary 13-year-old boy, a mother, and a police detective, all caught up in forces beyond their control. It’s about obsession and relationships and friendship, all wrapped in rural North Carolina. I’m not sure that I want to say anything more about it, other than to recommend it if you want something that transcends the usual conventions of the mystery genre.
The Writing Class, by Jincy Willett, might make a good companion volume to The Jane Austen Book Club. Though much lighter — with no pretense of being serious literature — this mystery novel also deals with a group of adult English students. This time, as the title reveals, they’re a writing class rather than a book club. The Writing Class functions well on at least two levels: as an excellent mystery and as an amusing satire. Although I’ve never taken an adult-ed writing class, I’ve taken enough other adult-ed courses to realize that this one definitely rings true, even if it has to be a bit over the top (it’s satire, after all). The character development and the plot are everything one wants (if one doesn’t mind a bit of implausibility). This black comedy is definitely worth reading!
Two and a half years ago I read Karen Joy Fowler’s novel, The Jane Austen Book Club, and I am surprised that I didn’t write a review of it at the time. I no longer remember why. Perhaps I was waiting for the movie — though how could I have ever known that there even was going to be a movie? Anyway, Barbara and I just watched the movie on DVD, so now I can review both at once. Of course I violated my usual principle that it’s better to see the movie before reading the book, but then again that’s usually impossible, given the relative schedules of publishing novels and making movies. Anyway, the book is worth reading, and the movie is worth seeing — though I’m sure that both would have been significantly enhanced if I were more familiar with Austen’s work. Unfortunately my English Lit background is insufficient, as I’ve read no Austen other than Pride and Prejudice and a bit of Emma. This deficiency doesn’t matter so much in the actual book club scenes, but it’s glaring in the overall structure of the book and movie, where the big concept is that these characters’ lives are replaying the interactions among various Austen characters. I think Fowler must have created a one-to-one match between Austen’s novels and the modern characters, though it’s hard to tell for sure. Each member of the book club hosts a discussion of a different novel, and I suspect that her (or in one case his) life is reflecting that novel. Six novels, six characters. The movie is surprisingly faithful to the book, although the 30-month gap makes it hard for me to remember details. One glaring difference is that the character Allegra is explicitly 30 in the book but is in her early 20s in the movie — a distinction that wouldn’t always make a difference but definitely does in the case of Jane Austen. The actress who played her, Maggie Grace, was 23 when the film was made, enhancing the impression of youth. Prudie, a French teacher, is the youngest in the book (28) but seems older in the movie — although a male student’s crush on her suggests that maybe she isn’t, and the actress portraying her, Emily Blunt, was only 24 at the time. She is a rather annoying character in many years, although she’s the subject of an excellent line: in response to a suggestion that Prudie should stop speaking French, Jocelyn says, “Or at least go to France, where it would be less noticeable.” Actually, that’s the narrator’s line in the book, but Jocelyn’s line in the movie, where there is no narrator. Also, the phrase “at least” was inserted in the movie; I have no idea why. The student with the crush on Prudie causes her to say one of the best lines in the movie — one that I don’t think was in the book at all: “He looks at me like he’s the spoon, and I’m this dish of ice cream.” What’s unsurprising is that the one male lead, Grigg, is the only book club member who is not already familiar with Austen (though at least he’s enthusiastic about Ursula LeGuin). Male members of book clubs are already rare enough; they would be rare to the point of extinction when a book club is devoted to Jane Austen. The Grigg of the novel is carefully reproduced in the movie, providing a useful foil to the otherwise all-female take on human relations. He’s pretty much a “sensitive, new-age guy.” Both the book and the movie are well-written, clever, intelligent, at times amusing, and always engaging. Read one. See the other.
Although Jeffery Deaver’s Roadside Crosses is far from one of his best novels, it’s still worth reading — or listening to on audiobook, as I did. As with all of his works, the plotting is clever, starting with an opening scene that will grab you, and you never know whether there will be one more twist ahead of you. This book appears to be more in the thriller genre than the mystery genre, but appearances can be deceiving. They always are in a Deaver novel. Unlike most of his oeuvre, Roadside Crosses features Kathryn Dance rather than Lincoln Rhyme; perhaps for this reason the thin characterization is more irksome than it is elsewhere. But the portrayal of a teenage gamer is well done and keeps the reader guessing. Also, narrator Michele Pawk does an outstanding job in her renditions of many different characters, all of which she manages to keep distinct. So in this case I am recommending listening to the audiobook rather than reading the dead-tree version.
Apparently I’m reviewing one of Archer Mayor’s novels each year. I see that I wrote about St. Alban’s Fire on February 3, 2007; and I wrote about The Second Mouse on March 8, 2008. Unfortunately I have to report that The Catch is not up to the standard of those two earlier books, nor is it up to the standard of the rest of Mayor’s Vermont series. This is not to say that The Catch is badly written. It’s workmanlike enough, and at least I never wanted to abandon it partway through. The main characters are developed in somewhat further depth than in previous works in the series — better than no development at all, but still disappointing. Some of the secondary characters are intriguing. The clash among various police agencies is moderately interesting, but it’s overwhelmed by their cooperation. The geographic setting is expanded from Vermont to Maine and to Dorchester, with the three locations playing off one another to create some mild interest; the reader does gain something of a sense of the vastness of the state of Maine and some characteristics of its fishing industry. But it’s all superficial. And what about Dorchester? First, you’ll have to know that the plot revolves around drug dealers and drug smuggling. And so of course you’re supposed to think of South Boston and Dorchester — and Dot Ave in particular, right? Well, no…that’s one of the things that irritates me in The Catch. Here’s an example:
We’ll forgive Mayor for the “among cops” qualification, since it’s known as Dot Ave among everyone; that’s not what bothers me. Later it becomes clear that they’re talking about the northern segment of Dot Ave — in Southie — not the rest of it in Dorchester. But still we have paragraphs like this one:
Now I’m not denying that there are drug busts, turf battles, ethnic issues, and gunfights in Dorchester and Southie. Of course there are. But why does everyone in this novel take it for granted that that’s where you look if you’re after gangs and drug dealers in Boston? I can’t readily find any appropriate map or figures from different neighborhoods, but a quick search shows plenty of drug busts in Allston, Charlestown, Roxbury, West Roxbury, and every other neighborhood in Boston. Maybe I should refer Mayor to Whalehead King’s regular paeans to Dorchester, even if their enthusiasm is occasionally over the top.
This is an unsolicited recommendation for the new book published by my colleague, Boris Korsunsky, Trophy Wives Don’t Need Advanced Physics: Dubious Words of Wisdom From Physics Students. Just now I almost said, “written by my colleague…,” but that would have been inaccurate. Perhaps “collected by…” would be best, as this book consists almost entirely of genuine quotations from Dr. Korsunsky’s students. Their unintentionally funny gems appeared on homework, tests, and so forth — and were then preserved for eternity by their teacher. The collection is illustrated effectively in the form of cartoons by another one of my colleagues, Alejandro Yegros. Unfortunately, all the authors’ names have been removed to protect the innocent guilty, probably because Dr. Korsunsky’s lawyers have advised him that anonymity is the way to go. You’ll see why if you read through the generous collection of sample quotations provided on the About page of the book’s website. You’ll also see on that page that there is no need for you to know physics in order to enjoy 50.9% of the quotations. So go ahead and read them — and remember, You Can’t Make This Stuff Up!
Little Brother, by Cory Doctorow, is billed as a “Young Adult” Novel. And so it is. But, like several other “Young Adult” adults, it is worth reading by not-so-young adults. This is an homage to 1984 — hence the title — set in the current world of technology, teenage hackers, and paranoia about national security. The fundamental conflict is between the Department of Homeland Security and a 17-year-old wiz named Marcus, who initially goes by the handle of W1nst0n (no coincidence there) and soon becomes M1k3y. Doctorow, who may or may not be related to E.L. Doctorow, has made the novel available for free download, although in my case I checked the excellent audiobook version out of the library. Anyway, I enthusiastically recommend this book to anyone who is interested in politics, technology, education, and their intersections. Marcus is an engaging and believable protagonist, whose conflict with the DHS forms the central theme of the novel. The idea of a teenage hero who successfully fights the establishment is, of course, not new to science fiction, but Doctorow handles it with particular skill and interest. The novel is particularly authentic in its depiction of cryptography, Internet security, and other technical matters — but it still makes a convincing account to those who are not entranced by such topics. As a teacher, of course, I was particularly taken by the issues that Marcus’s school had with him, and by the San Francisco school district’s attempt to fire his social studies teacher, who was only attempting to teach the class about the Declaration of Independence and the Bill of Rights (subversive documents, of course). The result is a somewhat chilling but ultimately convincing tale. Do read it!
Junot Diaz’s bi-cultural novel, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, is itself a wondrous and wonderful book in so many ways. While it’s not for everyone — some reviewers were irritated by matters that could indeed be irritating to the wrong reader — I recommend it highly to anyone who won’t be put off by those matters. (For details, see the paragraphs below this one.) First of all, the very premise of the story is truly engaging: an awkward boy from the Dominican Republic in the days of Trujillo grows up to be an awkward nerd in New Jersey, with a fascinating supporting cast of relatives and friends. Second, the language and rhythm keep you reading (actually, in my case, they kept me listening, as I went though the entire work in audiobook form before going back and reading some of it in print). The footnotes are amazing and amusing. In some ways I would have to say that The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao reads as if it were written by a Creative Writing professor from MIT who grew up in the DR… but wait, it actually was written by a Creative Writing professor from MIT who grew up in the DR! So what is it that irritates some readers? One problem is that the book isn’t actually written in English. Large chunks of it are in Spanglish, which I found completely convincing — what else would you expect Dominican immigrants to New Jersey to speak? I never found that the Spanish words and phrases got in the way of understanding, even though I don’t speak Spanish. To take a random example:
I know, from listening to many of my students and to Spanish-speaking people on the street, that this kind of combination is perfectly realistic. But you can see why it would upset certain readers. Maybe it helps to have a background in linguistics in Latin, even if I don’t know Spanish. Another issue of language is the excessive use of the N word. While this is distressing to me too, I can’t challenge its authenticity, both from popular culture and from hearing its use by black people. Yes, it bothers me, but that’s no reason not to read the book. The author is himself a Dominican geek, after all, so we can trust him on this matter. Speaking of geeks, some reviewers were bothered by the frequent references to Tolkien and Star Wars and Dune and the like. But those too are realistic and are essential for letting you get to know the protagonist. If you don’t like those references, maybe you should think about the fact that the book isn’t about you: it’s about a Dominican nerd. One reviewer recommends reading The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao with its Cliffs Notes volume in hand — unfortunately there isn’t one, but that just makes it more fun to read (or listen to). Take it as a challenge, but take it!
The Body in the Ivy, by Katherine Hall Page, is a well-above-average mystery with some familiar themes. I can’t give too many details without indulging in spoilers, but I recommend it to those who like updated Agatha-Christie-style stories where the murders have a basis in decades-old history. The references to And Then There Were None are quite explicit, so don’t think that Page is trying to pull a fast one by stealing ideas from Christie. The story hinges entirely on a fictional women’s college in a Massachusetts town right near Weston — surely Wellesley College, even though it’s called Pelham in the novel. Subthemes of catering and college life add to the interest. Not a great book, but definitely worth reading.
I don’t usually read books just on the basis of advertising, so I first checked with my colleague the music teacher before I decided to read the new book with such intriguing ads: Daniel J. Levitin’s This is Your Brain on Music. My colleague’s enthusiastic recommendation confirmed me in my inclination to go ahead. After all, combining neuroscience with music? How much more interesting could you get? Or was I just setting myself up for disappointment? The quick answer is no, I wasn’t. Despite being a bestseller on the New York Times non-fiction list, This is Your Brain on Music is well worth reading. As a neuroscientist with a background as a musician, sound engineer, and producer, Levitin is the perfect person to write a popularization of the intersection between music and brain science. My only complaint is that I would have welcomed greater depth, but then it wouldn’t be a popularization, would it? You’ll learn something about the anatomy and physiology of the brain, something about music theory, a smattering about the psychology of sound, and a lot about the connections among all of them. And if you’re hungering for greater depth, the 29 pages of annotated bibliography will satisfy your hunger. So read it!
Bill Pronzini’s neo-noir novel, The Crimes of Jordan Wise, is a pleasant diversion but certainly not one of his better works. The idea that a geeky guy who excelled in math in high school might become a successful accountant is, of course, expected and boring. The idea that he might become an embezzler and then a murderer is presumably unexpected and exciting. This turn of events is due to his falling in love with a femme fatale, as you predicted when you saw that it’s a neo-noir novel. The Crimes of Jordan Wise introduces us to a psychopath who retires to the Virgin Islands and lives a dull life, spiced up by a murder now and then. The first-person narration effectively manages to maintain the reader’s interest through the slow pace of a life in the Caribbean, and there’s a moderate amount of suspense even though the outline of the story is evident from the beginning. The suspense comes primarily from wondering how Wise was able to commit several “perfect crimes,” which he eventually decides to reveal to the reporter who listens to the story. (Unlike most first-person narratives, the listener here is an actual character in the novel rather than the reader; that adds a tiny bit of extra interest, but not much.) So, read it if you have nothing better to do, or if you’re thinking of retiring to the Caribbean and want to rethink that plan.
This year’s spring musical at Weston High School is the little-known Working, based closely on Studs Terkel’s great book of the same name. Although I say “closely,” the musical can of course include only a tiny fraction of the chapters of the book, which runs to almost 800 pages, and naturally there have to be songs added to the book. (Also, several characters have been updated, as a lot has happened since the original 1972 book.) The result is an unconventional but effective musical. Usually when I review a high-school play I will single out certain performers for special recognition. But it’s nearly impossible to do that with this production, as it doesn’t really have leads or stars: it’s deliberately and consciously an ensemble effort, giving widespread opportunities for a very large cast and crew. So I want to recognize the entire Theater Company. As it was especially cool to see so many of my present and former students in it, I will organize my list that way. First we have the astonishing number of 31 present and former students of mine: Olivia Barrows, Lexie Burkus, Jessie Campo, Timmy Chiu-Lin, Josh Chopak, Margaret Crane, Clare Devlin, Katherine Donahue, Ben Doyle, Irene Droney, Katelin Engler, Katie Fitzgerald, Sarah Frank, Katie Graves, Jeremy Hagger, Ben Heath, Francesca Howe, Alyssa Iacono, Eve Jakubowski, Tara Kulas, Erica Kwiatkowski, Shane McBride, Max Mendelsohn, Colin Minigan, Maddie Roth, Matt Sanda, Jen Sieber, Aaron Sikes, Sarah Smith, Andrew Weinstock, and Theo Wolf. Then there are 13 more students whom I know even though I’ve never taught them (BTW, I only have anecdotal evidence for this, but I believe that a disproportionate number of the kids whom I know without having taught turn out to be in the Theater Company): Mikey Bullister, Matthew Chernick, Brian Cowe, Christen DiBiase, Molly Dillaway, Liza Greenberg, Reed Harder, Devin LaFrance, Annette Liao, Alex Michel, Nike Power, Kimmie Remis, and Claire Riedel. Finally, there are 20 students in the production who are unknown to me (except perhaps for my having met them briefly now and again or having seen some of them in previous shows): Erica Anastasi, Peter Birren, Brad Braunstein, Lee Condakes, Dalton Cowe, Eric Doyle, Andrew Feigenbaum, Diana Flanagan, Reid Gilbard, Erika Grob, Leif Harder, Lucy Hastings, Julia Kee, Laurel Kulow, Dara Levitan, Max Lurie, Cailin McCormack, Myles McMann, Mariah Minigan, Gabe Nelson, Molly Reid, Sam Weissman, and Margaret Wiss. What makes this book and musical unusual is that the words were not written by Terkel or by any other professional writer: the words were written by the real people who were interviewed. So it’s one of the rare musicals that’s actually a documentary. In the original book, Terkel served as editor in the best sense of the word, organizing and selecting the words of his subjects but not writing them. As in any documentary — for example, the films of Frederick Wiseman — the very act of choosing can help create a work of art that might or might not fairly represent the subjects. In this case one could pick workers in particular occupations, pick those with particular points of view, or pick unrepresentative words from them. No one could accuse Terkel of being objective or unbiased, as the opening paragraph of his Introduction makes clear:
This message comes through loud and clear in the musical version, even though a couple of the workers portrayed loved their jobs and found them consistently rewarding. Interestingly, but not surprisingly, these turned out to be those who worked with their hands and created products that they could look at at the end of the day, most notably a mason. The characters selected for the music from the large number in Terkel’s book are primarily blue-collar, and clearly Terkel had more respect for them than for white-collar workers. The money manager, teacher, and fundraiser in the musical are all portrayed in a negative light (well acted by Aaron Sikes, Diana Flanagan, and Katherine Donahue respectively). Naturally I was unhappy at the choice of the particular teacher, who does not strike me as representative, athough she is most certainly real: Rose Hoffman is something of a relic, having been teaching since 1937, and the decades have passed her by. She believes in rote learning and is overtly racist. For instance, she recalls teaching in the Depression:
And then she talks about her current class:
And so forth. Now those quotations are from the book version, but the Rose Hoffman is presented in exactly that way in the musical as well. If you’re going to pick just one teacher, why her? Anyway, I had no problems with any of the other characters, who ranged from proud to frustrated to bored to angry. A great many scenes were exceptionally well done, including one in a restaurant, one with workers in office cubicles, and single-character episodes involving a housewife and a firefighter. The music was uniformly of high quality, including both the instrumental performances from a small orchestra and the vocals performed by various actors. I particularly liked Maddie Roth’s rendition of James Taylor’s “Millwork,“ the only song that I had known prior to seeing the show. OK, I promised not to single anyone out, but I seem to have done so already. So I can’t finish this post without mentioning the exceptional performances of Ben Heath as Mike Dillard, an ironworker, and Brian Cowe as Joe, a retired worker.
Elizabeth George has long been one of my favorite authors, but her books have been becoming bleaker and bleaker. Even though I’ve read many — most? even all? — of her novels, I don’t think I’ve ever reviewed any of them. So there will be a good opportunity for a retrospective, as soon as I can find the time, which won’t be soon, in view of the size of George’s oeuvre. So let’s just record a few comments on her latest novel, Careless in Red, a somewhat unconventional entry in George’s Lynley-and-Havers series. I don’t recommend starting with this book, not just for the usual reason that the back story is helpful, but also because it is an atypical story in the series. Its pacing is slow and deliberate, there are many unconventional characters, and the setting is unusual. But the setting provides truly rich detail: you’ll learn a lot about Cornwall, rock-climbing, and particularly surfing, all tightly connected with the plot and the characters, major and minor. Most important is that you’ll gain insight into the lives of those characters, and that’s another reason why this shouldn’t be your first Lynley/Havers book: I don’t think you can appreciate the depth of the insight unless you’ve had a chance to experience the history of these characters. So put Careless in Red on your list, but wait until you’ve read some of its predecessors; I’ll write about the whole series soon. Well, maybe not soon, but within the year.
I generally find that non-fiction works are difficult to follow in the audiobook format. Perhaps it’s because non-fiction books remind the reader of college lectures, so there’s an impulse to take notes. Perhaps it’s because they tend to be dryer than fiction, so it’s harder to pay attention; a good reader who can portray different characters with his or her voice can make oral fiction come alive. Or perhaps it’s because of the long tradition of reading stories aloud, going back to one’s childhood, which automatically associates reading aloud with stories. In any case, I usually limit my audiobook listening to works of fiction. Predictably Irrational: The Hidden Forces That Shape Our Decisions, by Dan Ariely, was an exception. I gave it a try, and it turned out that this popularization of behavioral economics survived the oral/aural approach pretty well. It’s consistently interesting, it is easy to listen to, and it contains plenty of stories — mostly anecdotes of various experiments in which Ariely shows that humans don’t really behave in ways that other economists say we do. More importantly, we don’t behave the way we think we do. Ariely is an engaging writer, being both clear and amusing — not the two words that usually spring to mind when describing an economist’s writing. Many of his conclusions are so clear that the reader or listener is likely to say, “Oh, of course; I knew that.” But the evidence shows that we didn’t know it ahead of time; it’s just after the fact that it seems we knew it all along. The inevitable comparisons are with Freakonomics and with Malcolm Gladwell’s books. Predictably Irrational is more tightly focused than Freakonomics, though it thereby runs the risk of seeming narrower; it has more depth than either of the Gladwell books that I’ve read, neither of which I can remember at this point. I’m not going to be forgetting Predictably Irrational.
Generally I stay away from mysteries that feature cats. They tend to be too cute, with anthropomorphized felines that solve crimes or even talk. But Clea Simon’s Cries and Whiskers avoids those pitfalls. Aside from featuring cats, this novel also appeals to me because of its dead-on portrayal of the People’s Republic of Cambridge and a thinly disguised version of the Boston Globe. There’s also a running theme — here and in other novels in Simon’s Theda Krakow series — that goes into considerable depth concerning the Boston music scene, with special emphasis on a couple of clubs in Cambridge. I assume these are meant to be the Middle East and T.T.’s, but it’s definitely not my world. If it’s yours, there’s an extra reason for you to read Cries and Whiskers. Simon also gently satirizes newspaper editors, Wiccans, various other types of Cantabrigians, real estate developers (well, not so gently in that case), fake rock bands, and the more extreme sort of animal rights activists, while clearly being sympathetic to the moderate wing. Here is the narrator’s description of her neighborhood:
If you know and love mysteries, cats, Cambridge, and music clubs — or any three of these four — do read Cries and Whiskers, along with its sequels, Cattery Row and Mew is for Murder. Another in the series, Probable Claws, will be out in April. I’m definitely going to be reading it.
For years now I’ve been fascinated and bothered by hierarchical systems of organization, starting with the Dewey Decimal System and progressing to typical org charts in businesses and hierarchical file systems on computers. On the one hand, the systematic structure appealed to me; on the other hand, it was clearly much too rigid. Even as a kid I was perplexed by the problem of shelving interdisciplinary books in a library, and I still pester librarians about that issue. (It’s no coincidence that my favorite book is Gödel, Escher, Bach.) A place for everything, and everything in its place…but no, that doesn’t work. And as soon I became an avid computer user I got frustrated by files that belonged in multiple places; alias are nice, but they’re a workaround, not a solution. I’m still of two minds about this. I like the fact that the email in my gmail account is mostly sitting in one huge pile, where I can use the power of tags and fast searching to retrieve what I want. But another email account, which I access through Apple Mail, is nicely organized into folders and subfolders. Except…does a message from Paul dealing with teaching math at CSA go into the Paul folder or the math folder or the CSA folder? Folders aren’t really right. |
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