Reading

Confessions of an insatiable book buyer

Cathy LaGrow 12 Comments

I have a little problem. I can’t stop buying books.

Now, I have always purchased books by the truckload: but it didn’t use to be a problem. Pre-babies, I had plenty of disposable income – and I had enough time to stay on top of my reading, no matter how many books I acquired. I had all evening to read. I had all weekend to read. I’m a fast reader. Piece of cake.

Then I had my first baby.

Ah, have more life-altering words ever been uttered? First of all, I lost my paycheck. Secondly, I lost every scrap of free time known to humankind. In the days weeks months following my son’s birth, I sat on the couch, soggy and shaky, holding my baby and staring at whatever TV programs I could receive with our rabbit-ear antennas. (Answer: soap operas and game shows.) For the first time in my life, reading did not cross my mind. Mainly because I had virtually no mind left for it to cross.

After a freakishly long time, I sort of adjusted to my new life, and was ready to resume reading. I headed to the bookstore, suffering from two delusions: 1. That I could still afford to buy new books, and 2. That I still had enough brainpower to read and comprehend complex literature. My first post-baby pick was Crime and Punishment. Rookie new-mom mistake.

Oh, friends. Do not try to read Dostoevsky a few months after a baby has come forth from your body, when you have been caring for said baby every second of every day since then. I really, really tried to read that book. I must have picked it up a dozen times, struggling through a few pages at a time while my brain drooled and gibbered: “…wha…?…huh…?” Finally, regretfully, I set it aside. (But I will read that book someday. I will.)

I drifted towards easier reading. But I was soon forced to accept that I could no longer walk into those brightly-lit bookstores, full of thick, shiny, wonderful-smelling books, and buy whatever I pleased. Not if I wanted my family to eat and, you know, have a roof over their heads. So I went and acquired something I hadn’t needed in a couple of decades: a library card.

And I tried to use it, I did. One would think that the public library would be a satisfactory solution to my little problem. One would be wrong. For one thing, I just like to own my books. They are precious and personal to me, especially the ones I really love, and I hated returning them to the library when I was through with them, sliding them into that little bin as though they were garbage. Also, the whole process didn’t seem quite sanitary. It seemed that every time I checked a book out, I ran across dried bits of something stuck down near the cracks of some of the pages, and the covers often seemed to be streaked with a film of some sort. No bueno.

THEN I discovered the marvelous used bookstore at the local library in the next town over, and my world changed.

This little bookstore ROCKS. I’m not going to tell you where it is, because then you might descend upon it in hoards and snap up all the good books before I can get there each week, and I’ll get mad, and it’ll just get really ugly.

(Yes, I said “each week.”)

This store sells magazines, good ones, for 25 cents a piece. They sell paperbacks for anywhere from 50 cents to three dollars. They sell hardbacks for $2.00-4.00. They have several attractive little displays of new merchandise, which they change every week. They have adorable little grates that they pull down over the doorways when they’re closed, like a NYC deli. They have tall wooden bookshelves packed with books that are neatly and logically categorized.

In the last six months, I have scored the following at this store:

  • Bestselling novels that I’d always meant to read, but had never gotten around to.
  • Famous short-story collections.
  • Recently released novels that I’d never heard of, that turned out to be fantastic books.
  • Cookbooks whose recipes have become staples in my repertoire.
  • Intriguing memoirs, like one by a former Roman Catholic nun who has become a writer and educator.

When I recently decided to read To Kill a Mockingbird, which I had somehow missed while growing up, my new favorite store had a copy for 50 cents. (A new copy will run you around $14.00. I was proud of my frugal self for days, over that one.)

This bookstore has saved my life.

Well, actually, it may have complicated my life. Because I now have 20 (not a typo) back issues of Architectural Digest piled up on a table in my living room. And 23 (not a typo) newly-purchased books scattered around my house. (Did I mention that I have two toddlers, and very little time to read?) There are stacks of unread books and magazines wedged onto the back of our sofa. They keep getting dislodged and sliding down onto people’s heads and annoying my husband, who wants to know why I can’t just jam them onto my (already packed) bookshelves. Oh, babe.

So, I am torn. On the one hand, the fact that I can once again purchase good books, almost to my heart’s content, makes me want to cry with joy. On the other hand, reading all these books at a faster rate than I’m buying them would require me to defy the laws of physics.

Then again, I hear they’re making advances in cloning. I have always had a moral objection to the process. But the thought of a secondary “me” who does nothing but sit around and read all these books I’m accumulating…well, it’s tempting…

Writing that rocks – The Sparrow

Cathy LaGrow 6 Comments

Classification: Fiction

In December of 1998, my husband and I, who were living in Atlanta at the time, flew back to the west coast to attend a family wedding. One evening, my oldest and dearest friend from high school chauffeured me into downtown Portland. We’d been running errands – perhaps we’d been shopping, perhaps we’d had dinner; I don’t really remember – and on our way back to the car we saw a bookstore and decided to pop in.

In some ways, my friend and I were an odd couple. She was physically tiny, and was the most gregarious person I’d ever met – I towered almost a foot over her, and was painfully shy. But we had important things in common: we both played the piano, and sang; we loved to laugh; we were devoted to church; we both loved to read. She and I had often spent entire vacation days side by side on chaise lounges, soaking up the sun and silently working our way through stacks of books and magazines.

By the time we reached the store that winter evening, it had been dark for hours, and it was raining. I remember our wet shoes squeaking on the wood floor as we walked over to the “new releases” table and started browsing. After shaking out my umbrella, I jammed it under my arm, leaving one hand free to flip through books. My friend looked at a couple of titles and then glanced up.

“Oh!” she said. “I just read this great book, called The Sparrow – have you read it?”

I shook my head. “Nope. Never heard of it.”

“Oh, you’ve got to read it. I’m going to find it for you.” She disappeared. I kept wandering around the tables near the front. I was getting hot in my heavy wool coat, but taking it off would have meant having one more thing to stuff under my arm. I kept it on. A minute or two later my friend was back, holding a paperback book, which she thrust at me. “Here. This is so good.”

The Sparrow was written by Mary Doria Russell. The cover was prettily illustrated with what looked like an old painting. Across the top was printed a blurb from The New York Times Book Review that said, “A startling, engrossing, and moral work of fiction.” The New York Times is almost always a sure bet. They employ the best reviewers in the business.

“What’s it about?” I asked, turning it over to look at the back cover.

“Well, it’s about a priest, and he goes, well, he goes up to…” She broke off, then started again. “Well, it’s science fiction, but…”

I interrupted, shaking my head. “I don’t read science fiction.”

“But, no, I know, but just listen, it’s…”

I tried to hand the book back to her. “No, I don’t read science fiction. I don’t. I’m not interested.”

She wouldn’t take the book, so I laid it on the table. We then embarked upon a bit of stubborn back-and-forthing: she’d shove the book at me and insist, using her most charming whine (and if you don’t think a whine can be charming, then you never heard her do it); I’d cheerfully shove it back and started walking the other way.

I should explain. My friend and I, as two hard-headed girls who’d spent a lot of time together, often amused ourselves with this sort of fake-arguing. But in truth, I never had read science fiction, not since I’d enjoyed Madeleine L’Engle’s famous books as a child. I had no real quarrel with the genre; I simply had no adult interest in it.

My friend finally snatched the book up from where I’d laid it on the table. “Fine,” she said. “I’m buying it for you, then. You will love it.” And with that, she marched off to the cashier.

Since I really did trust my friend’s taste, I was now curious; and of course, I would never refuse a free book. She returned and handed over her purchase. I started reading it that night…and couldn’t put it down. I read it in snatches between wedding activities; I read it on the plane ride home.

Mary Doria Russell’s writing is so good, it’s almost shocking. It is nearly impossible to believe that before writing this novel, Russell had only published scientific articles and technical manuals. Russell, you see, holds a PhD in Biological Anthropology. She was a highly-trained scientist, and she brings that level of discipline and detail to her writing. But she also writes with the lyricism of a poet. By the time I read The Sparrow, it had already won a slew of awards.

I don’t want to give away the plot, because it’s a doozy, and part of the great pleasure of reading this book is in the I-can’t-imagine-what’s-coming-next-and-can’t-stop-turning-the-pages sensation. I will say this: the “hero” is a Jesuit priest, Emilio Sandoz, and the book begins after he has returned, alone, from a mission that he and a group of colleagues made to a newly discovered planet. He is disfigured and emotionally shattered. The rest of the book explains what went so terribly wrong, as it alternates between a “present-day” interrogation of the priest by the Jesuit order, and the actual narrative of the mission.

At the heart of the book is the spiritual struggle of Father Sandoz. Before he went on the mission, his faith was so strong that his superiors were thinking of canonizing him. When he returned, battered and alone, his faith was as damaged as his hands (about which I will say no more.) The title of the book refers to a biblical passage. Here, three fellow priests talk together, immediately after hearing Sandoz’s story.

“So God just leaves?” John asked, angry where Emilio had been desolate. “Abandons creation? You’re on your own, apes. Good luck!”
“No. He watches. He rejoices. He weeps. He observes the moral drama of human life and gives meaning to it by caring passionately about us, and remembering.”
“Matthew ten, verse twenty-nine,” Vincenzo Giuliani said quietly. “’Not one sparrow can fall to the ground without your Father knowing it.’”
“But the sparrow still falls,” Felipe said.

After publication, some critics argued that the book should not have been classified as science fiction, largely because the plot does not focus on futuristic technology – the technology in the book is beside the point. The book revolves around the characters, and their relationships and spiritual journeys. It is full of intelligent philosophical arguments, beautifully framed. It is fantastically smart. (As, I have come to learn, the best science fiction is.)

Russell wrote a sequel to this book, titled Children of God. Since then, she has only published two other books, one of which was nominated for a Pulitzer. Her fourth book was published while I was busy having my second baby – I am reading it now. To me, her subsequent books have not quite reached the quality of The Sparrow; but she is still good enough to make me automatically read whatever she writes.

Postscript. My great friend passed away unexpectedly last year. Every time I finish a good book I think of her, and wish I had the chance to call and tell her about it. We shared a love of literature, and a long history, and it is fitting that this wonderful book, which holds a top spot among my personal favorites, was her gift to me. I treasure it, and her.

Snapshot – Architectural Digest

Cathy LaGrow 4 Comments

It all began with Brad Pitt. As so many things do.

Oh, all right, so there are actually not that many things in my life that begin with Brad Pitt (sadly) – (I kid, I kid!) – but my love affair with Architectural Digest sure did.

I was in Costco a year and a half ago, passing by the magazine rack, when I saw a photo of Brad peering out from under a hat, on the cover of Architectural Digest. This was right in the middle of his having-babies-with-Angelina brouhaha, and what can I say – I was curious enough to pick it up. Unlike all the other publications whose covers he was gracing, this one resembled an art catalogue – pretty and thick, with glossy pages throughout. The Brad article, about his efforts to help re-build New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina, was not very in-depth or interesting, but the rest of the magazine consisted of page after shiny page full of photographs of enormous homes, professionally decorated. I am a voyeuristic sucker for beautiful homes. I bought the magazine.

Up until that point, architecture was a subject that had escaped my notice. I’m sure I had heard of Architectural Digest before, but the name makes it sound like it is full of blueprints and boring technical-speak. I discovered that nothing could be further from the truth. AD (as it refers to itself) is packed with article after article featuring beautiful custom homes. About half of the content covers architecture; the other half covers interior design and decoration (some of which is hideously over-the-top, which provides a whole other kind of enjoyment.)

For the next couple of months, I bought the magazine off the newsstands, which got a little expensive (remember – I have no income these days.) Then I discovered that my favorite used bookstore periodically gets up to a dozen back-issues of AD in at a time, and sells them for 25 cents each. This made me very happy. I started “dropping by” the store on my way to the park with the boys, a couple of times a week. Whenever I saw a new batch of AD’s on the rack, I grabbed them all and lugged them to the counter. By the second time I did this, the cashier was curious.

“Oh,” she said politely. “Are you an architect?”

“Oh, no, ha ha,” I said. No, I’m just a lunatic who gets obsessed with things. “I…uh…just…I’ve kind of gotten into the magazine. I like looking at the houses.”

I’m not overly eloquent in person.

Anyway, as the months passed and I kept reading the magazine, I started absorbing all sorts of interesting information. Having lived all my life in small, generic spec homes (which certainly have their place in the world), I never realized just how much thought great architects put into the buildings they design. The shapes they create are intended to serve functions but also to inspire emotional reactions. I cannot think of another medium in which art and technology meet in such a potent way.

For example: If architects place a small window at the end of a long hall, they do it to “draw the eye” down the hallway. They think about how the light will fall through each window, at every time of the day. They design entryways to serve as aesthetic “transitions” from the outside to the inside. When a house is built on an open plain, with mountains in the distance, they might create a curving roofline to rise up on one side, to serve as a “counterbalance” to the jagged mountain peaks in the background. Windows are placed to specifically frame views.

Through AD, I learned about brilliant, accomplished artists, people like Zaha Hadid, an Iraqi woman who, in 2004, became the first woman in history to receive the Pritzker Prize, architecture’s equivalent of the Nobel. People like Norman Foster, a British architect and fellow Pritzker Prize-winner, who has designed a mind-bogglingly extensive and diverse array of structures: office buildings, domes, train stations, apartment buildings, campuses, Wembley Stadium, and, just for fun, the Millau Viaduct in France, the tallest bridge in the world. You can see photos of just some of his stunning work on his Wiki page.

As my awareness of architecture expanded, however minutely, so did my appreciation. I now “get” stark modernism. You know those boxy structures that seem to be all metal and concrete and glass and sharp angles? I used to think they were ugly. Now, although I still wouldn’t want to live in one, I find great beauty in their clean, even severe, lines.

During this time period, I also happened to read The Pillars of the Earth, by Ken Follett, a big, fat, incredibly detailed novel that describes the building of a cathedral in twelfth-century England. I must tell you, I visited several cathedrals in Europe when I was fourteen, and never once did I stop to think about how miraculous it was, that something so huge and heavy and complex could have been built with nothing but bare hands. No cranes to hoist heavy things a hundred feet in the air; no computers to give accurate measurements. Yet these buildings still stand, many hundreds of years later. It is extraordinary.

And so, my fascination grows.

For those who don’t know much about the subject of architecture, Architectural Digest provides a pain-free way to learn things while you’re looking at beautiful pictures – and who doesn’t love looking at gorgeous homes? Plus, you gain all sorts of fun new words that you can work into conversations, words like “clerestory” and “cantilevered” and “curvilinear.”

Okay, so I haven’t been able to use any of those words yet. But when the opportunity arises, and I’m confident that it will, Brad Pitt and I will be ready.

Sorry. I couldn’t resist.

Writing that rocks – The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

Cathy LaGrow 4 Comments

Classification: Fiction

Is there anything better than being delightfully surprised by a book that you weren’t expecting to like?

I had never heard of The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society when I picked up a paperback copy of the novel last spring, from the display table at my favorite used bookstore. The title nearly put me off – it sounds so silly, worse than The Friday Night Knitting Club (which I had also recently read, and about which I will not be posting.) Also, the book has two authors – Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows – which is often a red flag for clunkiness.

I read the “critical acclaim” blurbs on the covers and the first few pages, and they were very good. What clinched it, for me, was a front cover blurb by Elizabeth Gilbert, in which she said “Treat yourself to this book, please…” I had recently read Eat, Pray, Love by Gilbert, and since her own writing is superb, I figured she knew what she was talking about. After dithering for only a few minutes, I bought the book.

The entire story is told in the form of letters written from various characters to other characters. There are no editorial explanations, other than a notation at the top of each letter, stating whom the letter was from, and to. This tactic could easily have become gimmicky, or worse, it could have made the narrative sound choppy or confusing. None of these things happened, thanks to the beauty and strength of the writing.

The book, published in 2008, is set in 1946 – but it sounds timeless, not dated.
(It is also one of the very few “squeaky-clean” novels I will be recommending. Approved for all audiences.) It is, at heart, a love story, filled with witty people I wish I knew – by the end of the book, they don’t seem fictional.

Nutshell: the main character, Juliet, a writer who lives in England, becomes pen pals with a man who belongs to a reading group on the small island of Guernsey. He first writes to her because he has acquired a book that once belonged to her (her name and address are penciled inside) – it is a collection of essays by an author they both admire. Juliet, who is searching for a topic for her next book, begins corresponding with him and with several members of his reading group. Eventually, she visits the island for an extended period of time.

The book is light-hearted and fun – sort of like a literary beach-read. What I cannot get over, is how much technical skill the authors displayed. Imagine how tricky it would be to develop all sorts of diverse characters without using the editorializing of either a first-person or third-person narrator. When you create an entire story using fictional letters, you have to describe people and actions with extreme subtlety. The moment you start abusing the system, by trying to cram in extra description that you just really need the reader to know, it will blare out like a foghorn. There’s a reason more writers don’t try to use this format – it’s dang hard.

The poignant back-story of the book is explained in an Afterward. The main author, Mary Ann Shaffer, fell ill and died just before the book was published, so she never got to see the wide acclaim it received. This was her first book. Her niece, Annie Barrows, did the final rewrites on the book, when Mary Ann was too sick to finish. Whatever work the niece did, it fits in seamlessly.

I honestly can’t think of anyone who wouldn’t like this book. I’m sure they exist, I just can’t come up with any, off the top of my head. The story, and the people in it, are simply that charming.

The death of Mary Ann Shaffer is our loss; I would have very much liked to read other work by her. Instead, we are left with this nearly perfect little novel. I guess that’s not a bad legacy to have.

Writing that rocks – Fermat’s Enigma

Cathy LaGrow 4 Comments

Classification: Science, non-fiction

You cannot imagine how excited I am right now. I get to tell you about one of my very favorite non-fiction books of all time, Fermat’s Enigma by Simon Singh.

I often find myself recommending this book to anyone who will listen. I try to shoehorn it into conversations whenever I can – which sometimes requires great topical leaps. You visited Guatemala last month and went cliff-diving and ate snake kabobs and met a long-lost cousin? That sounds exciting! You know what else is exciting? Fermat’s Enigma!

And so on.

I first heard of the book when I read a glowing review about it in the New York Times, some eight years ago. The next day I went out and bought a copy. It didn’t take much longer than one sitting to read; it’s that mesmerizing. The book follows the quest to solve a centuries-old mystery, and is full of suspense, and wonderfully eccentric and whip-smart characters, and prize money; there are dead-ends and setbacks and close calls.

Oh, I might as well tell you right now. Please remain in your seat and keep the aisles clear.

Fermat’s Enigma is about advanced mathematics.

I’m sorry, are you looking for your mouse so you can click yourself elsewhere? Well, I hid it, and I’m not giving it back until you’ve finished reading this. Trust me – the story is a thriller, and you don’t have to be a great mathematician to love it (I’m certainly not one.) This is no textbook; it’s one of the most exciting adventure stories I’ve ever read.

Here’s a summary:

In the early part of the 17th century, a delightful and mischievous Frenchman named Pierre de Fermat started fiddling around with mathematics as a hobby. He had no formal training, but he quickly proved to have a natural genius for the subject and made some interesting discoveries. For example: he figured out that 26 is the only number in existence that comes between a square (25) and a cube (27.)

In 1637, Fermat came up with the following theorem: “It is impossible for any number which is a power greater than the second power to be written as a sum of two like powers.” In other words, the equation “X(n power) + Y(n power) = Z(n power)” has no solution when n>2.

Pretty straightforward – but mathematics is all about proof. Fermat wrote his theorem in the margins of his math textbook, and then he scribbled something that would haunt generations of scientists:

I have a truly marvelous demonstration of this proposition which this margin is too narrow to contain.

He was claiming that he’d found the proof to his theory. And that was his last, enigmatic word on the subject.

For the next 360 years, Fermat’s theorem was the most famous unsolved math puzzle in the world. The theorem was believed to be true, but when nearly every top-tier scientist in the field tried to find the proof that Fermat had dangled in front of them, they all failed.

Three hundred and sixty years, people. And then, in the 1990’s, along came Andrew Wiles.

Wiles looks exactly how you expect a brilliant mathematician to appear (if you don’t mind employing wild stereotypes): enormous glasses, crooked teeth, distracted smile, far-away look in the eyes, hair flying up in every direction. And man oh man, what a beautiful mind.

As a ten-year-old child, Wiles had been captivated by the world’s most famous math riddle, and dreamed of solving it. While he was growing up and starting his career, momentum had been building toward a proof of Fermat’s theorem – indeed, at various times, people had announced they had a solution, only to have other researchers discover flaws in their work. Wiles was determined to succeed where everyone else had failed.

After seven years of mostly solitary effort, he finally believed he had found his proof, and in June of 1993 he gave a lecture to a packed house at Cambridge University, detailing his solution. When he finished, he laid down his chalk and said simply, “I think I’ll stop here.” Two hundred of the world’s finest mathematicians erupted in applause. Publications the world over celebrated his accomplishment

Of course, as in all good thrillers, there was one final set-back before ultimate triumph. When research “referees” pored over Wiles’s 200-page proof, they found an error. Although crushed, Wiles doggedly went back to the drawing board, and after another year of labor, he found a way to fix the hole in his work. This time, the proof was flawless, and it was accepted as one of the most significant achievements in modern-day science.

In Simon Singh’s hands, throughout the book, the most complicated math equations and theory all make beautiful sense. You cannot stop turning the pages. Imagine, for a moment, just how much talent a writer has to have, to pull off that trick. Singh (himself a physicist) turns the story into a cross between Number Theory for Dummies and The Bourne Identity – he makes the hunt for a mathematical proof read like the hunt for Carlos the Jackal. (Who is still alive, by the way, which I did not know. You learn something new every day.)

Singh’s little book, like the event it details, is stunning. In fact, writing about it has made me want to read it all over again. Just for kicks.

(If you remain unconvinced, take heart. My next book post will cover a fun work of fiction. I’m trying to decide between several, right now.)