December 23, 2013
Itís such pleasure every year at this time to look back over all the books Iíve read in the past twelve months and try to select my favorites. Itís a pleasure to remember how these books transported me far away, how they challenged my usual-thoughts and opinions, how they taught me things and prompted me to learn other things. Of course, itís agony to choose, and next week I might do it differently. But these are some of the books that touched me most deeply in 2013.
A CONSTELLATION OF VITAL PHENOMENA by Anthony Marra. This was the easiest book to put on my list; I think itís the best book Iíve read in a long time. In fact, I read it twice this year (although I admit to skimming a very few scenes that I couldnít revisit). Set in civil war Chechnya, it is brilliant and brutal and dark and frightening and gorgeous. It offers a close-up view of the worst and best in ourselves and I believed every word.
WHITE DOG FELL FROM THE SKY by Eleanor Morse. I often say that I most admire books that are set at the crossroads of political turmoil and characterís lives. Like Anthony Marraís book, thatís exactly what Eleanor Morse does here. This novel is set in Botswana and South Africa during apartheid. It is powerful, beautifully written, and itís one of the 2013 books that has stayed with me all year.
Iím a big fan of Wally Lambís previous novels so I eagerly anticipated the publication of WE ARE WATER. I wasnít disappointed. This is a portrait of a family, a marriage, of children scarred by early events and traumas. Itís also a story about people breaking free of historical grief and secrets and finding joy. Like so much of Lambís work, it explores race and class and violence, as well as the redemptive powers of creative work. I was particularly interested in the structure of the book, in the masterful way the author reveals details of story, and back-story, from multiple points of view, in a nonlinear manner, so that the reader has the opportunity to play a major part in putting together the puzzle pieces.
I also had the feeling of solving a puzzle while reading Simon Van Booyís THE ILLUSION OF SEPARATENESS. This World War II-era novel is told in flashbacks, in hints and bits and pieces, in seemingly unrelated vignettes relayed by a group of strangers. As the connections reveal themselves and the story evolves, the characters are no longer as alone. And neither is the reader. I really loved this book.
KIND OF KIN by Rilla Askew tells the story of an Oklahama man whose barn is used to shelter undocumented migrant workers. When Brown is sent to prison, his young grandson tries to set things right. Told through multiple points of view holding conflicting opinions about the events, Askew shows us a community at the explosive intersection of politics and loyalty.
Ruth Ozekiís A TALE FOR THE TIME BEING is constructed around a dual narrative. Thereís Nao, a bullied 16-year-old girl in Tokyo who writes a diary about her ruined father and beloved great grandmother who is a Buddhist nun. And thereís Ruth, the novelist who finds Naoís diary in a Hello Kitty lunchbox, debris from the tsunami. The result is both a gripping story and a thought-provoking exploration of time, story-telling, and the wonderfully complicated connections between writer and reader.
In her second novel, THE COMFORT OF LIES, Randy Susan Meyers explores a tangled web of family yearnings, lies and regrets: Tia has an affair and gives up her baby. Caroline reluctantly adopts to please her husband. Juliette discovers that her husband had an affair that resulted in a baby. The author has exquisite skill at getting inside her characters most shameful places, revealing the truth and consequences of human actions, errors, and the possibility of reconciliation.
I dearly love novels with social justice themes, but somehow I missed LAYLA, a debut novel by Cťline Keating, when it was published a few years ago. Layla is a young woman who does not share her motherís lifelong political activism. But as her mother dies, Layla promises to follow her instructions to travel across the country, visiting the motherís old friends and comrades from her activist past. The carrot is powerful: information about her long-missing, supposedly-dead father. Laylaís journey moved me enormously. I believed in her confusion, her growing awareness, her anger and loved her courage in facing what seemed like impossible contradictions between right and wrong.
This year, two nonfiction books made my favorites list. Bill Ayersí PUBLIC ENEMY begins during the 2008 election debate when Barack Obama was asked about ďa gentleman named William Ayers,Ē and replied that Ayers was ďa guy who lives in my neighborhood.Ē The story that follows, from death threats to cancelled speaking gigs and beyond, moves from the Vietnam War and Weatherman and life underground to parenting young children under siege. Ayers, a respected educator, author, and university professor, is at his most eloquent when he talks about children and learning, both in the classroom and the particular challenges in his own family. This memoir sizzles with energy.
In her amazing book IN THE BODY OF THE WORLD, Eve Ensler writes about her body and her illness; she also writes about the rape and torture of women in the Congo. Somehow, she connects these two stories in unflinching prose that opens individual suffering into something much bigger, something that challenges and joins each of us. This book is astonishing and courageous and important.
There are so many other books I loved this year Ė AT NIGHT WE WALK IN CIRCLES by Daniel Alarcůn, SPIDER IN A TREE by Susan Stinson, THE LOWLAND by Jhumpa Lahiri, ALL THIS TALK OF LOVE by Christopher Castellani Ė but Iím going to stop now. Really.
December 4, 2013
My mom died five years ago today. She left her husband, two daughters, five grandchildren, two great-children (now six) and a lot of jewelry. She loved all kinds of sparkle, from garish (sorry, Mom) costume stuff to exquisite Indian silver and turquoise pieces.
My daughters and sister have taken the pieces they love and Iíve kept some of the smaller ones. Whenever I do an author reading, I wear one of them, to honor her. She died before my first novel was published, but my mom was a voracious reader, and I know she would have been proud. She would also have been critical. Thatís just the way she was.
I donít know what to do with the heavy silver and turquoise pieces. They wear me down even more than when I was a child and liked to parade around the house in them. So they sit in a safe deposit box, waiting for inspiration.
One other thing: I wear my momís shoes.
We never shared shoes or clothes when she was alive. She was bigger than me, her feet too. But for some inexplicable reason, one pair of her shoes fits perfectly. Theyíre Merrill clogs, furry lined and very warm. And now they are well-worn, splattered with who-knows-what and fondly gnawed by my cats.
But I canít discard them, any more than I can get rid of that box of jewelry. I miss you, Mom.