Six Summer Reads

These days I have more books waiting on my ‘to be read’ shelf than I dare admit. Graduate research certainly takes its toll on pleasure reading as academic articles and theoretical texts trounce literature. I still manage to squeeze a few novels into my overstuffed reading life—mostly for my own sanity. Fiction provides a much-needed escape at the end of a day full of analysis and theory.

 

Bookstores and newspapers have already circulated their recommended reads for the long, not-so-lazy days of summertime. For those of you who have already chewed through those recommendations—or for those who didn’t find anything appealing on this year’s NPR Summer Books blog—here are my suggestions for fiction-induced bliss.

 

1. THE GUERNSEY LITERARY AND POTATO PEEL PIE SOCIETY

by Mary Ann Shaffer & Annie Barrows

I refused to read this book for three years. Despite its place on nearly every bestseller list imaginable—and its prominent display in bookstores—I simply would not read it. Why? The novel is comprised of fictional letters. I believed that such a format would disrupt the immersive experience of reading, not to mention annoy me endlessly. When I was preparing to move to England, a friend recommended Guernsey to me because of its ‘British’ flavour. Finally, the book possessed appeal. To embrace my new English home, I tentatively picked it up…and commenced to eat that proverbial humble pie. The story is charming and highlights a part of World War II I had never heard of before: the German occupation of the Channel Islands. The letter format of the book did take a little getting used to, and the plot is more ‘fluffy’ than I usually like. As The Times wrote, Guernsey can ‘lift even the most cynical of spirits’. And I, more cynical than most of my friends, genuinely enjoyed this short book. If you’re looking for a sweet, non-complicated, feel-good read (I cannot believe I’m advocating this!), The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society is outfitted for you.

 

 

2. THE UNDERSTUDY by David Nicholls

I read Nicholls’s One Day last summer and became infatuated with his writing style. Sharp, witty, cynical—Nicholls exemplifies the dry, droll humour that I have come to love in Brits. So when I discovered that Nicholls had published a novel four years prior to One Day, I simply had to read it. While The Understudy is not as innovative or compelling as One Day, it still serves an enjoyable, funny read. The book focuses on Steve McQueen—no, not that one—an actor who is doomed to play silent stage roles and corpses due to his ordinariness. His latest job is to understudy ‘The Twelfth Sexiest Man in the World’, Josh Harper, in a play about Lord Byron, and Steve enviously watches Josh maintain perfect health. The two develop a bizarre friendship, and Steve discovers a way to perhaps get his lucky break after all—proving to his ex-wife and daughter that he truly is an Actor—only his plan requires a helluva lot of lying. The Understudy illustrates the strength of some dreams, the futility of others, and the all-too-common bridge between them.

 

 

3. JULIET, NAKED by Nick Hornby

Sticking with British authors for the moment, Juliet, Naked delivers a bittersweet, humorous novel about loneliness, music, and life changes. Annie and Duncan have been together for many years when suddenly they realize they may not love each other as much as they believed. Duncan is obsessed with a washed-out musician—Tucker Crowe—more enthusiastic about maintaining the Tucker fan website than his relationship with Annie. When Tucker releases a stripped version of his album Juliet, Annie decides to contact him about the album’s weaknesses, instigating a surprising relationship between the two. Hornby gives us access to these three characters and their flawed lives without judgement, adeptly balancing humor and honesty. Fans of Nicholls’s writing will enjoy this book.

 

 

4. THE LUXE SERIES by Anna Godbersen

For years I noticed the Luxe books at Barnes and Noble, drawn to the gorgeous, opulent dresses on each book cover. I refrained from reading them, however. They were, after all, a late 19^th century version of Gossip Girl. And I am, like, so above that kind of trashy reading. But then I caved. The flouncy layers of shiny pink satin proved too irresistible, and I devoured the first novel (The Luxe) in two days. The Luxe was quickly followed by Rumors, Envy, and Splendor. Brimming with juicy scandal, gossip, and schemes, the Luxe series is my guiltiest pleasure. The books follow the interwoven lives of the most prominent families in 1890’s Manhattan—their secrets, their affairs, their deepest desires. What makes The Luxe series even better is that Godbersen did her homework. She meticulously researched the Gilded Age of New York City, down to the fashion trends during that time. So alongside delectable plots, you also receive mini-history lessons. Godbersen also does not believe in happy endings—so her novels are imbued with a sense of realism—and she never shies away from including the unfair and the unjust. The Luxe reveals the caged, oppressive, and duty-bound existences that come with high society and money. Godbersen just published a new novel, Bright Young Things, about young women in 1920s Jazz Age Manhattan. And, yes, it’s waiting for me on my bookshelf.

 

 

5. THE SWAN THIEVES by Elizabeth Kostova

If you’re looking for a sweeping, epic-length novel this summer, The Swan Thieves may be exactly what you want. When artistic genius, Robert Oliver, attacks a painting at the National Gallery of Art, he becomes the psychiatric patient of Andrew Marlow. Oliver is obviously deeply disturbed but refuses to talk—forcing Marlow to go to extreme lengths to uncover his patient’s tormented secrets. Kostova exquisitely weaves Marlow’s investigations with a hidden history that transpired alongside French Impressionism. History and art lovers will revel in the intricate details, drawn from Kostova’s dedicated research. The ending is a mite too abrupt for me—challenging my notions of realistic character motivation—but the 564-page novel redeems itself by its sheer ambition and adoration of French art.

 

 

6. THE WISE MAN’S FEAR by Patrick Rothfuss

It is here. It has finally arrived. The second instalment of the Kingkiller Chronicles Series. Described as a ‘mesmerizing sequel’ and ‘towering work of fantasy’*, Kvothe continues to share the story of his search to find answers about the murder of his parents—even as the dark present is creeping towards him and the identity he is so desperate to hide. I have only read the first few pages, but already Rothfuss has shown that the past four years of waiting have not been in vain. The Wise Man’s Fear promises to be just as exhilarating an experience as the first novel, and once I finish it, I’ll post my review here on (edge)wise.

*Publisher’s Weekly

 

 

Do you have any book recommendations? Please send them!

 

EPIC, like totally epic, dude

Years ago I heard a man on the radio describe his experience at Stonehenge. His words went something like this, “It was like…epic, man. So totally epic.” His voice held the same syrupy, lazy tone as the stereotypical surfer in SoCal, and I have never been able to forget it. I find it amusing, particularly his utter reliance upon a single word to encapsulate such a life-changing encounter. Epic.

For me, ‘epic’ is a word saved for the true saga. A story, an event so monumental and long that other words fail to communicate its vastness. The Lord of the Rings is an epic tale. The Odyssey, too. I consider The Pillars of the Earth and Gone with the Wind epics. And now, The Name of the Wind joins them.

I am a little late to join the Patrick Rothfuss bandwagon. His debut novel, The Name of the Wind, hit bookstores three years ago. Despite my tardiness, I am now onboard and endorse this gripping fantasy epic.

Wait…fantasy? As in scaly dragons, wizened warlocks, and an overabundance of vowel-ridden names? Not exactly. Yes, Rothfuss creates an entirely new world. And yes, his tale is one of epic fantasy. He even errs on the side of too many vowels within his fictitious languages. Yet he grounds his story within characters—most powerfully in its protagonist and narrator—and solid mythology. Here is a world not touched by our own reality, but it is a reality nonetheless, just as colorfully depicted and honestly rendered as any contemporary fiction.

The Name of the Wind opens with Kvothe, a deeply quiet and unassuming innkeeper. At least, that is what his fellow townspeople think. As readers we are only given scraps of insight into Kvothe’s true identity. His past is a thing he wants to keep buried, and he succeeds at this until a scribe stumbles into his town. The “Chronicler” knows of Kvothe and has come in search of him in order to preserve the true version of history—from ‘Kvothe the Kingkiller’ himself.

We travel with Kvothe from his early childhood years in a performing troupe to his miserable, orphaned life in squalid Tarbean (strangely reminiscent to Victorian England), to his early admittance to University where students study alchemy, science, and sympathy (a.k.a. magic). We meet his few friends, his enemies, his benefactors, and his one love. Sprinkled throughout his narrative, Rothfuss inserts interludes, where we return to the adult Kvothe and Chronicler (and also Bast, Kvothe’s friend and pupil). These interludes notch up the intrigue as it become apparent that Kvothe’s past is relentlessly hounding him, despite his best efforts to remain hidden.

Rothfuss can be needlessly wordy at times. Enthralling plot notwithstanding, Kvothe’s voice sometimes turns tiresome. You can only read, “I don’t expect you can understand” and “There is no possible way to describe” so many times before finding him a bit pretentious and uncreative. Readers might get annoyed at Kvothe’s lack of perception and his incessant pride. (I sure did.) He is headstrong, impatient, and reckless. Yet I forced myself to remember that Kvothe—at this juncture in the story—is an adolescent. Moreover, he is a character with deep flaws, and that is something I appreciate. The Name of the Wind is not a story about a gleaming, pure-hearted boy who becomes a much-respected warrior. Kvothe’s story is read with trepidation because his recklessness, while it affords him adventure and opportunity, also backfires. Frequently.

As with most epics, it is difficult to describe The Name of the Wind without compromising the story. The best praise I can offer is that I consumed the 730-page novel in less than a week. Once I opened its pages, I submerged into another world. And it is truly a wonderful universe with mysterious beginnings, fascinating mythology, dark undertones, and motley characters. It provides the same thrill—the same rush—as navigating a foreign country for the first time. You have no knowledge of the landscape; you are entirely reliant upon the narrator. You do not know what creature or legend or character or culture might turn the corner next. The thrill lies within that unknown. Curiosity fuels the reader. Even though Rothfuss’s world is make-believe, I still want to learn about it as much as I can. It is illuminating how many parallels to the ‘real world’ can be made within fantasy—when the distractions of reality are wholly and completely dismantled.

Be forewarned: cliffhanger does not even begin to describe this book’s ending. At first I was confused as to why The Name of the Wind is called ‘Day One,’ rather than the more usual ‘Book One’. The reason lies in a statement by Kvothe at the very beginning; he tells Chronicler it will take him three days to share his story. So the tale of Kvothe is divided into three sections, and we only get the first third in The Name of the Wind. If you’re expecting to read up until the present-day Kvothe we’re introduced to at the novel’s beginning, you will be sorely disappointed. We get about sixteen years of his life. The rest—or at least the second part—awaits in the sequel, The Wise Man’s Fear. The scheduled release date is March 1, 2011. Pre-order anyone?

Five out of five stars.

 

sweet but less than brilliant

“I wish I could say I was afraid, but I wasn’t. Quite the contrary. This was by far the most interesting thing that had ever happened to me in my entire life.”

So says the eleven-year-old protagonist of Alan Bradley’s The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie. And Flavia de Luce is not talking about war or an escaped lion. She has just witnessed a man die—presumably murder.

Her unusual sentiment immediately captured my attention. I wanted to know more about this character, especially when she is described as having a “passion for poison.” The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie is a fairly straightforward mystery: Flavia de Luce, loathsome of her sisters and scientifically-minded, overhears her father arguing with a red-haired stranger late one evening. Hours later, she stumbles upon the stranger’s body in a cucumber patch outside her family’s mansion. Right before he expires, he breathes his final word: Vale. Flavia’s curiosity pulls her into the depths of amateur sleuthing, which of course parallels—and often supersedes—that of the Chief Inspector. When her father is arrested for the murder, the mystery suddenly becomes personal, and Flavia delves into the not-too-distant past, brimming with murdered schoolmasters, magic tricks, and stolen rare stamps, in order to discover the identity of the real murderer.

Sweetness is a pleasant enough read, but that is the best I can say about the novel. I was constantly amazed—and almost embarrassed—that a book, which should have taken me three hours to complete, gobbled two weeks of my literary time. The story could not hold my attention for more than two chapters in a sitting. I found myself skipping large sections, especially about two-thirds of the way through. I wanted to finish the book, but it was an immense chore to do so.

Perhaps I am a mystery snob. Having grown up on the very best mystery novels, I have a high standard for ‘whodunits’ and Sweetness just did not deliver. Its characters are not very developed or complex. In regards to the plot, Sweetness follows the typical arc of a conventional, mystery novel, resulting in an ending so traditional that I stifled a yawn. There are few surprises, and the few that do appear are smothered by Flavia’s commentary on her own brilliance at deduction.

Because we view the story from Flavia’s perspective, the tone is that of a precocious eleven-year-old. This can be amusing, even charming, at times. Yet overall, Flavia’s narrative is tedious to say the least.

On the positive end, I thoroughly enjoyed the occasional passages on philately and chemistry. Bradley embeds a certain level of intellectualism into his story. Whenever I can learn something new within fiction, my appreciation of the novel increases a few notches. I do admire that Flavia is a chemistry whiz, as opposed to something like fashion or poetry. Not only is it refreshing to read about a child who is smarter than her years, but it is nice to see a young girl passionate about the sciences. Perhaps it’s the feminist in me, but I cannot help but love (and cheer for) a girl who is intelligent, feisty, and audacious.

The setting, too, is a pleasure. The 1950’s English countryside might be too quaint for some, but the small-town, British feel provides a delightful backdrop to the tale.

The back of the book declares The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie to be “wickedly brilliant.” However, even its precocious, poison-wielding protagonist cannot save the novel from a lackluster performance. I was rooting for her. I wanted the story to be brilliant. Instead I was too bored to even be disappointed.

Two out of five stars.

[Flavia de Luce: Four out of five stars.]

 

school of essential ingredients: a delectable read

I’ll say it: I love food. I love experimenting with flavors, flirting with spices, and sweating over an oven while baking the perfect batch of pumpkin spice muffins. Recently I have taken on the hobby of flipping through the glossy pages of cookbooks at Barnes and Noble. Sur la Table’s Art and Soul of Baking causes me to positively drool. For me, there are fewer greater things than making people happy through my baking.

So when I stumbled upon The School of Essential Ingredients while searching for my book club’s next novel selection, it seemed like fate. Not only is the book about a cooking class and food but the cover is simply beautiful to look at. They tell you not to judge a book by its cover, but the enticing colors beckon you to open its pages. Rich copper, warm reds, white, a touch of verdant green…it is impossible to ignore.

The School of Essential Ingredients, the debut novel by Erica Bauermeister, offers a snapshot into the lives of eight characters that take a cooking class together. Over the course of several months, they learn the art of cooking—and how those lessons speak into their own lives. There is Claire, a young woman struggling with her identity as a new mother; Isabelle, an older woman slowly losing her memory; Tom, a man coping with unbearable loss; Chloe, the quintessential klutz who tries to hide her secret ambitions behind black makeup and gothic demeanor; Ian, who falls in love with fellow classmate and Italian beauty Antonia; and the married couple of Carl and Helen, whose marriage has been anything but easy.

As with most ensemble casts, the novel does not spend comprehensive time with any of the characters. While all characters are present throughout the story, we are only given a brief section—a tantalizing slice—of each person’s history and life. I was left wanting more. It almost felt unfair to be introduced to so many interesting characters and then leave them after a few dozen pages.

I would like to think that Bauermeister intentionally wrote her novel this way for it mirrors life. We are privy to a short window of these character’s lives, in the same way that the chef and teacher, Lillian, was during the class. Seasonal classes, by their nature, are cyclical. Lillian meets a new group of people each class, shares an evening with them for eight months, and then parts ways. Having taught a seasonal class before, I understand the pang of sorrow that accompanies the end of a session. As a teacher you invest, you impart knowledge, you strive to develop relationships, and then it’s over. Bauermeister captures the delights and frustrations of short-term teaching so well that I, as a reader, could not help but feel disappointed at the end of the novel.

The novel’s greatest strength, however, lies within its commentary on slow food and the cooking process. Bauermeister’s gorgeous descriptions of food transport you to a world reigned by the senses:

“The chocolate made a rough sound as it brushed across the fine section of the grater, falling in soft clouds onto the counter, releasing a scent of dusty back rooms filled with bittersweet chocolate and old love letters, the bottom drawers of antique desks and the last leaves of autumn, almonds and cinnamon and sugar…”

You can feel your nose tingle with the scent of chocolate, cinnamon and nutmeg. Later on, you can almost taste the garlic and oregano in Tom’s red pasta sauce. Whether you are a food lover or not, Essential Ingredients is a delectable feast for the senses. Along with descriptions, Bauermeister generously sprinkles sage wisdom throughout the cooking lessons. When Ian wants to woo Antonia by making her dinner, he asks Lillian what he should make. Lillian responds by asking him what he wants. “I would want her for the rest of my life,” says Ian. “Then that is how you cook,” comes Lillian’s reply.

Ingredients take on personalities and emotions, and each dish from the cooking class connects to a specific character. In the cases of Tom, Claire, and Chloe, Bauermeister brilliantly fuses their lives with the assigned meal. Food becomes an experience, a teacher, a conduit to express that which you cannot say. In this way, Essential Ingredients is similar to Like Water for Chocolate. As Lillian discovers in her childhood, “The more she cooked, the more she began to view spices as carriers of the emotions and memories of the places they were originally from and all those they had traveled through over the years.”

Spices as carriers of emotion. It’s a beautiful concept.

And it is one to which everyone can relate. Life is shared over and around food—both the good and the bad. Engagement proposals are often delivered over a meal, as are difficult discussions. Food is an ever constant; it feeds us, sustains us, and therefore performs an integral role in the play of Life. Food becomes a character itself.

My only complaint with Bauermeister’s debut novel—apart from the short length—is the superfluous descriptions, the mixed metaphors. As one example Bauermeister writes, “I believe in traditions—they hold us together, like bones.” The structure is awkward and the metaphor feels forced. Another time she describes warm pasta as beach sand, which clashes in my mind. I support authors experimenting with new juxtapositions of words. Yet writers need to be careful and not destroy a description for the sake of creating a new metaphor. Not all metaphors work. If you’re describing warm pasta, follow with another smooth tasting sense. Beach sand is a tactile sense, granular, and discordant with the slippery taste of pasta.

In another section she writes, “If you mix the flour with the other ingredients for too long you will have a flat, hard cake. If you are careful, however, you’ll have a cake as seductive as a whisper in your ear.” Who talks like that? Just because a phrase that sounds good does not mean it works well for the character or situation. Above all, be faithful to your story and its syntax. Otherwise, the result can be showy and annoying, detracting from the flow of the story.

* * *

Book club occurred last night, and I decided that my girlfriends and I should cook our dinner together since we had just finished a novel about cooking. The process took much longer than it normally does at book club, with supper already prepared upon arrival. Yet as we sat outside on the patio with the late evening sun warming our shoulders, the remnants of fondue on the table, slowly sipping a crisp white wine, I could not think of a more perfect way to eat a meal. Our conversation meandered from the novel and characters to food and our own cooking experiences. I asked my friend Darci, what is it about experimental cooking, sans recipes, that is so freeing? “It’s a safe place to be adventurous,” she said. “You’re free to make mistakes, and that is okay. Through success and failure in cooking, you gain confidence and that spills over into life outside the kitchen.”

I think Bauermeister—and her character of Lillian—would wholeheartedly agree. Essential Ingredients promotes a lifestyle of experimentation, of adventure, of grace. It speaks to the value of slow food and treating time as an investment and gift rather than a race. I highly recommend The School of Essential Ingredients. Read and then see what kind of culinary adventures await you, should you choose to pursue them.

Bon appetit.

Four out of five stars.