Time out--Let's talk book recs

I've been reading a variety of things lately: Just Let Me Lie Down by Kristin Van Ogtrop, Look Homeward, Angel by Thomas Wolfe, a Skinny Girl book by Bethenny Frankel, etc., etc. You can see that I'm all over the place with choices. These tomes came to rest in my ample lap through different means--a friend, a memory, a quick browse. Which brings me to today's topic--book recommendations.

I love Elle magazine's book review section! Is it my imagination, or did Elle get a lot better in the last decade, or did I just get a lot worse? Oh well, this monthly piece, along with the same in Vanity Fair and dailies picked up along the way like The New York Times, give me great reading selections. Also, I enjoy the email newsletter "Good Reads." But the best recommendations come from friends. T.M. has provided me with, I would say, at least 50% of the titles listed in this blog. She is indispensable in her role as personal librarian. Thank you, T.M.!

That being said, if you, dear blogreader, could tell me your favorite titles, I would be most appreciative and post them. I'm curious if anyone has read The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake. I'll probably read this one anyway, but if anyone has a special shout-out for it, I would love to know. By the way, I love lemon cake and could really use some right about now. I'll have to settle for a granola bar.

Heart of the Matter by Emily Giffin

It's summertime again, and the reading is easy. But easy doesn't have to mean bad. Let me recommend that grande dame of chick lit--Ms. Emily Giffin. (This fiction subtype isn't new anymore, and Ms. Giffin's been around long enough to earn that title.) Her books--Something Borrowed, Something Blue, Baby Proof, and Love the One You're With--are delightful, character-driven morality tales (think unplanned babies, coveting a best friend's boyfriend...). Giffin's latest book, Heart of the Matter, is a worthy addition to the quad. As in the others, here Giffin plainly relishes wrestling with life's thorny choices. Set in upscale Atlanta, the book describes the not so benign problems of Tess, wife of a pediatric plastic surgeon and mother of two small children. Her husband might be having an affair, or maybe he's just really, really busy. Surgeons work all the time, after all--she knows the life she signed on for. But still, he's rarely at home and when he is there, seems preoccupied with work. Tess worries she's lost her edge since she quit teaching to stay home with the children. Maybe she's become boring.

Most of us know someone like Tess. Heck, many of us probably are Tess, and that's one reason why Giffin's books are so enjoyable. She gives us prose that goes down like good gossip but has the oatmeal stick of object lessons. Anyone in a marriage could imagine, nay feel on their feet, Tess' stylish but uncomfortable shoes. Giffin takes the reader through the ebb and flow of faith and forgiveness that is marriage. To live this book would be hell, but to read it is sheer heaven. Isn't that the mark of a good writer? I think so. Check out all five of Emily Giffin's books--treat yourself. It's summer!

The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot

Well, I finally have a book to write about. The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot is a detailed, empathic homage to one woman's life and legacy. Henrietta Lacks' cancer cells were excised without her consent during treatment for a deadly cervical cancer at Johns Hopkins in 1951. Skloot conscientiously presents both sides of the argument regarding the ethics of retrieving this specimen, a common practice at that time. Dr. George Gey's lab at Hopkins, where Henrietta's cells ended up, had an important mission: to grow the first line of immortal cells, a colony that would reproduce infinitely, thumbing its nose at death. Up until that point, no cell sample retrieved anywhere in the world had survived; amazingly, Henrietta's cancer cells (soon dubbed HeLa) reproduced like rabbits and have never stopped. Author Skloot is not the first person to write about the HeLa line and the medical innovations it led to (the polio and HPV vaccines are two), nor is she the first to address the ethical issues of black patients vis a vis medicine. I would bet, though, she is the first person to mine the resonant theme of motherhood that saturates the story. Skloot became friends with Lacks' daughter, Deborah, during the ten year genesis of the book. Deborah's dialogue about her mother, who died when she was just a toddler, is the best part of the narrative. She has no memories of Henrietta and pines for her; the fact that her mother's cells are alive and thriving, simultaneously delights and horrifies her. Deborah relishes the scientific achievements her mother's genetic material has led to, but she shivers at the sensational news stories about Henrietta--her clones walking the streets of England, for instance. (Skloot has to set her straight about this tall tale.) In one chapter Deborah and her brother Zakariyya visit Johns Hopkins to see HeLa for the first time. It is 2001, and viewing that clump of cells, the physical essence of their mother, momentarily satisfies Deborah's hunger for her. A physical part of her mother lives on.

This chapter made me think about the physical memories children retain of their mothers. My mother died sixteen years ago, and I still miss her five foot three-inch roly-poly frame. Apparently, she was pretty when young, but I don't remember her that way. To me, she was soft and accessible, big-bosomed with nails bitten to the quick by a sharp mouth. You always heard from this mouth when you did wrong. As a child I used to smell her skin, usually while resting or crying in her arms. Her scent was delicately salty, like a kind of good cured meat. My own skin smells very much the same, I think. Maybe I miss her physical presence, her body and voice and scent, because she filled any room she entered with this energy. Those who knew her would agree--she was not a retiring sort like her daughter. Since she's been gone, our rooms just aren't as lively. How could they be? Don't get me wrong, she wasn't perfect--her opinions grew stronger as she grew older and grayer, and we did butt heads, more than a few times. And, eventually, her own heart and brain cells unexpectedly failed, and she died at the age of 62. Abruptly, that dynamo of candor and character was gone. I guess I'm lucky because in my mind she lives on robustly, never having wasted away to almost nothing as so many daughters have to witness. So when I think of the word "mother," I think of hugging her body--the unique body and mind of Mary Alberta. The Henrietta Lacks' family has an radiant multi-colored picture of their mother's cells, given to them by an atoning Hopkins researcher. I have my own memories of a pillowy middle and salty arms. That body was mine.

Still Alice by Lisa Genova

Not having read anything blog-worthy recently, I'm plucking one from memory, and after reading Still Alice by Lisa Genova, I was thanking God for still having a memory. Genova, a PhD Neuroscientist, wrote this first novel from the title character's perspective. Alice is an esteemed psychology professor in her early 50s who starts noticing memory deficits. The losses are insidious, small at first (she misplaces her Blackberry), then rapidly gather speed (she gets lost in her own neighborhood). Alice knows what's happening and gets herself to the doctor where she is quickly (unrealistically so) diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer's. The hook of this book is Genova's narration; the reader experiences the world daily from Alice's perspective. As she gets confused, so do we. A black rug on the floor is a scary hole we cannot cross. A kind stranger is our own daughter. You may ask, why would E.B. want to read something so depressing? For those of you who know me, the answer's obvious :). The truth is that this book will ease your mind about your own middle-age memory deficits. I recommend this book for anyone who is fearful of early-onset Alzheimer's. It will put your mind at ease (at least for the next decade or so!) We may lose our keys, and forget why we walked into a room, but we aren't getting lost in our own neighborhoods. Yet.

Old School by Tobias Wolff

I found a copy of this book when we stayed in the Guest House of Davidson College (NC) over Thanksgiving break. "Required reading for 2009," a sticker on the cover proclaimed, and that was enough to convince me to grab the slim paperback and head back to the room. Also, it isn't a long book, and I was pretty sure I could finish it before our trek back south. The unnamed narrator attends a New England boarding school in the early 1960s; one of few Jewish boys amid a sea of WASPs, he works hard to disguise his background in order to fit in. Part of his assimilation plan is to win the school literary contest, judged each year by a famous author. According to the narrator, the winner of this contest attains ultimate Old Boy status; his own intelligence and valor would be unassailable should he succeed. Unfortunately, the boy fails at winning twice--Robert Frost chooses someone else's poem (deemed trite by the narrator), and his bout with flu precludes a writing submission when Ayn Rand is the judge. (He does meet Rand though, and his fever-laced description of her supercilious audience with the students is hilarious.) The third try at the contest is a hit, but only because the boy suffers a horrific case of writer's block and plagiarizes someone else's work. Submitting a short story from another school's literary magazine--a story about a Jewish teenage trying to fit into WASP society no less--the narrator suffers from little guilt because he feels he surely could have written this story. Indeed, as the weeks pass, he often thinks he is the real author--after all, the story sums up his deepest fears and dreams so well, the words are more his than the actual author's. A school master discover's the boy's deception, and what unfolds after that raises important questions about honesty and integrity, both literary and otherwise. This plot outline sounds deadly serious, but actually the tone and language of Old School is not heavy-handed at all. Indeed, Wolff manages to keep the reader chuckling about the foibles of youth and the often unworthy adoration we throw at icons. I loved this book--it reminds me of a droll Separate Peace or Catcher in the Rye.

Mennonite in a Little Black Dress by Rhoda Janzen

With razor sharp wit, Rhoda Janzen skewers her life and serves it up to the reader in the delightful little memoir Mennonite in a Little Black Dress. Janzen, a professor of poetry, is a master of language--with the poet's trusty economy she uses just the right word at the right time--even her expletives are judiciously (if frequently) applied. Raised in a close-knit Mennonite family, Janzen wanted nothing more as a child than to escape a rigid religious world. After a string of bad luck in middle age, Janzen returns to live with her parents to heal and reflect...and to write. She balances her perspective between guilelessness and knowledge so perfectly that her childhood frustrations blend seamlessly with those of adulthood. (Her school lunch of borscht mortally embarrasses her; her husband leaves her for someone he met on gay.com.) But the most intriguing theme of the book is Janzen's love/hate relationship with Christianity. She is quick to poke fun (and it is fun to read, believe me) at Jesus lovers, but she can't help but swoon when she hears the old hymns. Mostly, Janzen's fondness for the Mennonite community she once fled comes through loud and clear.

Interesting note: Since writing this book, Janzen has remarried and undergone treatment for breast cancer. Also, she earned one of her degrees, a Masters in Creative Writing, I think, from the University of Florida just down the road a piece.

Many thanks to T.M for passing on this book to me. She always gets me the good stuff.

Best Book of the Year--The Help

After a year's worth of reading, my vote for the best book of 2009 is Katherine Stockett's The Help (see August 19, 2009 ). I've continued to ponder the book's messages, most notably that you never can be certain what another person is thinking, even if she is from your very own neighborhood. Talking with other readers about The Help has kept the joy of reading this book alive and well. Some older women have said to me that the book doesn't accurately portray the help/hirer relationship from that era--that these bonds were much more trusting and reciprocal than portrayed in the novel. Others have echoed this sentiment by taking the opposite position: The Help does indeed authentically demonstrate the early 60's friendships between maid and Mrs. It shows the very best case scenarios to the very worst. No one yet has come forth to volunteer a worst case scenario from her own past. Maybe such a story would be TMI in this day and age, almost impossible to discuss in a setting of tact. And that's why we read books, actually, to view our own lives through their gentle refraction, to discuss plot and character, when deep down we're really talking about ourselves.