Poem of the Week: "Asked for a Happy Memory of Her Father, She Recalls Wrigley Field

Summer is baseball season. I'm not much of a baseball fan (it's boring to watch on TV, the season is overcrowded, and I think the players are ridiculously overpaid), but it always makes me nostalgic. I went to my share of baseball games as a kid, and I still love the history and folklore of this American pasttime. That's why I like this poem by Beth Ann Fennelly. It captures the nostalgia that goes hand in hand with baseball games. It's not so much about the game itself; it's about your own private memories in the stands. Plus, this poem seems appropriate for next weekend's Father's Day, full of all the complicated emotions between a parent and child in one's memory. Enjoy!

Asked for a Happy Memory of Her Father, She Recalls Wrigley Field, by Beth Ann Fennelly

His drinking was different in sunshine,
as if it couldn't be bad. Sudden, manic,
he swung into a laugh, bought me
two ice creams, said One for each hand.

Half the hot inning I licked Good Humor
running down wrists. My bird-mother
earlier, packing my pockets with sun block,
has hopped her warning: Be careful.

So, pinned between his knees, I held
his Old Style in both hands
while he streaked the lotion on my cheeks
and slurred My little Indian princess.

Home run: the hairy necks of men in front
jumped up, thighs torn from gummy green bleachers
to join the violent scramble. Father
held me close and said Be careful,

be careful. But why should I be full of care
with his thick arm circling my shoulders,
with a high smiling sun, like a home run,
in the upper right-hand corner of the sky?

Ladies and Gentlemen, I Present the First Book to Make Me Cry in 2010

Yep, it happened. I finally read a book this year that made me cry like a baby. I dropped a couple tears over American Gods and Joe Hill's short story "Pop Art" earlier this year. But this one brought on all the sniffling hysterics I reserve for my favorite emotional reads. The book? Markus Zusak's "young adult" novel The Book Thief.

I have yet to personally meet a single person who's read The Book Thief and didn't love it. It's one of those word of mouth books that picks up steam with time. The book debuted way back in 2006, but recently, it's been topping bestseller lists and winning hearts all over the world. Surprisingly, I've read a handful of scathing reviews dating back to the book's release. But those reviews don't matter. Because this book is amazing.

For the last few months, one of my most reader-ly friends has been after me to read Zusak's novel. "But it's about Nazi Germany," I said. "I don't like books about that time period." Luckily, she kept after me, claiming it would be right up my alley. I resisted for a long time, but when I saw a copy of the book at the library I work at, I relented. Okay, I'll give it a shot, I thought.

I loved it. Loved loved loved it. It's a weird book - thick and full of characters and narrated by Death itself. It's hard to make a summary of the plot, but I'll try: Young Liesel Meminger is sent to Molching (a small town on the outskirts of Munich) as a foster child after her mother decides she can no longer care for her due to the political climate and lack of money. On the trip there, Liesel's little brother dies. At that moment, our narrator Death meets Liesel for the first time, and he's captivated by her. Liesel's foster parents are Hans and Rosa Hubermann, and they end up being great parents. Rosa is prickly and verbally abusive, but she loves her foster daughter. And Hans is this book's Atticus Finch - an honorable person of the highest order. He saves Liesel from her nightmares and her illiteracy, and he is a truly wonderful human being. Eventually, the Hubermann's hide a Jewish man named Maxi n their basement, and he becomes friends with adolescent Liesel. In the meantime, Liesel gains a best friend in the sweet and lovelorn Rudy Steiner, who eventually shows the same kind of honor and belief in humanity that marks Hans Hubermann. Of course, World War Two happens during all this, and the war and Nazi Party completely obliterate this little world in Molching.

Zusak handles all the chaos of the time period and the world he's created very well. Death makes a great narrator, with little asides and notes that deepen the book's themes and complicate the actual storytelling. Death doesn't have the desires for mystery and plotting that humans have, so he often gives things away early and often. But if anything, this just made me love the way the story was told that much more. Death's thoughts can be surprisingly poignant at times.

The characters are what make this book, at least for me. Liesel is a great protagonist, capable of all emotion. She can be mean at one moment, completely selfless the next. Her stepfather, Hans, is an enviable (if somewhat cliched) father figure. Rudy is the perfect best friend, backing up Liesel when she needs it and secretly pining for her all the while. Then, of course, there's Max, who is as complex as any actual person you could meet. And Zusak then has the guts to fill the book with a myriad of secondary characters as well, enriching the book's world.

So where does the title come from, you might wonder. Well, that's simple. Liesel is the book thief, a stealer of words. When her biological little brother is buried, she finds and takes a copy of The Gravedigger's Handbook. Once Hans Hubermann teaches her to read using that book, she becomes obsessed with words. Throughout the book, she steals and acquires several books, all of which are her greatest treasures. At the end of the book, words literally save her life, as she writes her life story in a basement during a bombing. Yet, through the entire book, Liesel and Death and Max reflect on the dual power of words. Words led to the rise of Hitler and Nazi atrocities. But they also provide comfort and security not found anywhere else. By the end of the book, we're meant to understand that humanity is the same: capable of good and bad in equal measure.

In a lot of ways, I can see why some critics found the book a little over-padded and heavy-handed. But I'm willing to ignore all that. Because this book had moments and sentences so gutwrenching I actually felt like I'd been punched in the stomach. Unfortunately, I can't say much about my favorite passages without giving the book's power away, but let's just say that this book rocked my world for the five days I read it. While reading the book, I grew particularly fond of Rudy Steiner, a BFF for the ages, so any of Death's observations of his character were particularly moving for me.

Anyway, this book made me cry outright by the end. It's beautiful and haunting and breaks your heart over and over again. But it's also a fantastic picture of human beings in all their complicated, terrible, hopeful ways. This is, without a doubt, bound to be one of my favorite books I'll read this year.


Book Reviewed: The Book Thief, by Markus Zusak

This Week in Trashy Reads #6

Trashy Read #6: Wicked Becomes You, by Meredith Duran

Welcome back to Trashy Reads! It's been a whole month since I finished a trashy romance novel, and I've been developing quite the "To-Read" stack during that time. One of the top books on that list was Meredith Duran's Wicked Becomes You, which got good reviews on the romance websites I follow.

I wasn't disappointed. This historical romance was great fun. Even better, it takes place during the Victorian era, instead of the usual Regency period that romance novels tend to visit. I think I might become hooked on these Victorian books, though. The time period is more interesting to me than Regency because of the rise of the industrial middle class. In fact, the heroine of this book, Gwen Maudsley, comes from a family that made their own money decades earlier. She's used to facing the snobbery of the aristocratic classes in Britain. This aspect of Gwen's family history made her a much more intriguing character, in my opinion.

Anyway, the story is simple: Gwen is an orphan whose older brother died a few years earlier in a tavern scuffle. Her brother's best friend, Alex Ramsay, feels it's his fault his friend died. Blah blah blah. Gwen gets left by not one, but TWO, men at the altar and decides to start living life by her own rules. She basically attaches herself to Alex as her guide, they travel around France, fall in love, et cetera.

What makes this book likeable is the time period, as I mentioned before, and Alex. Unlike most historical romance heroes, he's not domineering or over the top. He's just a guy who wants to live his life. His relationship with Gwen begins as a friendship that turns into something more. He's the kind of guy I occasionally harbor crushes on - independent and easy-going, a good guy that has fun (but not too much). I couldn't help but like him.

The writing is good, if not anything to get particularly excited about. Duran is obviously smart and does her research (she's a doctoral student in anthropology), which made the book a breeze to read. I'd definitely read her again. Although one of the plot elements (a land sale between Alex's brother and some jerk) sort of ends up a dud, I found the story itself to be enjoyable and easy to follow. Overall, a very pleasant reading experience.

Coming Up: I have a pile of historicals to read, but I've been neglecting my first love, contemporary romances. So you'll probably see more contemporary books during June.

Poem of the Week: "Prodigy," by Charles Simic

I'm currently reading Markus Zusak's young adult novel, The Book Thief, which is about childhood and growing up and books and Nazi Germany and World War Two, among other things. I'm only about a quarter of the way through, but I already like it a lot. Anyway, the book reminds me of a Charles Simic poem I read a few years ago. It's a poem about growing up in the middle of a war, and I've always liked how Simic refuses to allow the poem to come together as a whole. It's as broken and stumbling as the childhood it speaks about. I've always admired poems that take a form matching their subject. The first time I read this poem, I loved it, and I hope you all do too.

Side note: Last year, I was lucky enough to see Charles Simic do a reading in Indianapolis. He was very entertaining, and I highly recommend hearing him if you get a chance. Sadly, he didn't read this poem.

Prodigy, by Charles Simic

I grew up bent over
a chessboard.

I loved the word endgame.

All my cousins looked worried.

It was a small house
near a Roman graveyard.
Planes and tanks
shook its windowpanes.

A retired professor of astronomy
taught me how to play.

That must have been in 1944.

In the set we were using,
the paint had almost chipped off
the black pieces.

The white King was missing
and had to be substituted for.

I'm told but do not believe
that that summer I witnessed
men hung from telephone poles.

I remember my mother
blindfolding me a lot.
She had a way of tucking my head
suddenly under her overcoat.

In chess, too, the professor told me,
the masters play blindfolded,
the great ones on several boards
at the same time.

Is This Guy the Next Marilynne Robinson?

Answer: I'm not convinced quite yet.

When Paul Harding won this year's Pulitzer Prize for his debut novel, Tinkers, it caused something of a stir in the literary world. The book had been published by a tiny medical press; it lacked reviews from nearly all the major literary outlets. I myself had never heard of the book before it won the award. But then when it managed to snag itself a place on the bestsellers' list and in the history books. My interest was only a tad bit piqued, but then I saw the cover. There was Marilynne Robinson, quoted as calling the book "truly remarkable." Well, if Robinson tells me to read something, read it I must!

For the first 1/3rd of the book, I found myself pretty disappointed. Harding's book, so praised for its pretty prose and blended time/space narrative, seemed pretty damn boring to me. But then the book suddenly kicked into gear after about 80 pages, and I became hooked. You see, I'm a sucker for father-son stories, and this one's a doozy. The book's primary character, George, is dying as an old man. As he hallucinates on his deathbed, we see flashes of his childhood and his father, the dreamy and epileptic Howard. George may have been the protagonist (well, kind of - Howard gets almost as much space here), but his father was the real heart of the novel for me. You can't help but feel bad for Howard, but a decision he makes when George and his siblings are still young rocks everyone's world to the core.

This book reminded me a lot of Robinson's own Gilead. Like that book (also a Pulitzer Prize winner), it's about fathers and sons, life and love and grief. It's prose is beautiful and rooted in nature. [Side note: Apparently, Harding was Robinson's student in the Univ. of Iowa's MFA program, the lucky bastard.] But for some reason, I found it a little wanting. Maybe I still can't get over how bored I was by the first few-dozen pages, but I think Harding might have to write a couple more novels before he gets to Robinson heights of excellence. Also, while the blending of narrative over time and place was used to strong effect, it seemed a little messy at times. And all those clock metaphors? A tad too on-the-nose for me.

But I don't mean to poop all over this good book. What Harding does in the last two sections of the book are really quite wonderful. At one point, we get to see Howard remember his own father, a minister who lost his mind too early. This may have been my favorite part of the whole book. Harding's writing is particularly strong in this section, and seeing these three men - fathers and sons all - grow close and recede in each other's lives is nothing short of awesome. Finally, Harding earns my respect by creating two final paragraphs that couldn't have ended the novel better.

I don't know if this book is as great as some critics say it is, but I do think Harding is extremely talented and should do some incredible things in the future. And if a poetic little book like this gets this kind of media attention (and it's been getting a lot), then I can't complain.


Book Reviewed: Tinkers, by Paul Harding

Poem of the Week: "MCMXIV," by Philip Larkin

It's Memorial Day weekend, so I think a war memorial poem is in order. I love this devastatingly ironic Larkin poem about the beginning of World War I, particularly the final stanza. Also, I'd be lying if I didn't say that part of my desire to post this poem comes from it being referenced in one of my favorite plays, Alan Bennett's The History Boys. If you've never seen or read the play or watched the movie, then you might not understand just how much this poem links into the story. But for those who know Bennett's work, you can see the connections he bridges between literature, history, and ideas of bygone innocence. I highly recommend The History Boys, and I highly recommend this poem.

MCMXIV, by Philip Larkin

Those long uneven lines
Standing as patiently
As if they were stretched outside
The Oval or Villa Park,
The crowns of hats, the sun
On moustached archaic faces
Grinning as if it were all
An August Bank Holiday lark;

And the shut shops, the bleached
Established names on the sunblinds,
The farthings and sovereigns,
And dark-clothed children at play
Called after kings and queens,
The tin advertisements
For cocoa and twist, and the pubs
Wide open all day;

And the countryside not caring:
The place-names all hazed over
With flowering grasses, and fields
Shadowing Domesday lines
Under wheat's restless silence;
The differently-dressed servants
With tiny rooms in huge houses,
The dust behind limousines;

Never such innocence,
Never before or since,
As changed itself to past
Without a word - the men
Leaving the gardens tidy,
The thousands of marriages
Lasting a little while longer:
Never such innocence again.

Beth's Ten Favorite Short Stories

Apparently, there's been all kind of talk in the literary world about celebrating National Short Story Month. Some writers think that because poetry gets its own month-long celebration in April, then short stories should get the same. And apparently, many are using May as a kind of unofficial short story celebration. So, even though I don't think short stories really need their own month, I've decided to participate in my own way with a brand new list!

I am a big fan of the short story form. A really good short story can have the same emotional punch as a novel or poem, and I often find that my all-time favorite ending lines in fiction tend to come from short stories. Here is a list my ten favorite short stories, in no particular order.

Beth's Ten Favorite Short Stories

1. "Babylon Revisited," by F. Scott Fitzgerald: There's a reason this story is considered the best short piece of fiction written by The Fitz. Fitzgerald really pooled together all his feelings about the end of the celebratory Jazz Age in this one. It's haunting, beautifully written, and humanizes every single character. And the last sentence is a doozy. Soooo good.

2. "A Temporary Matter," by Jhumpa Lahiri: Lahiri is probably the best short story writer of the last twenty years. Her writing is impeccable. If you can read this story about the end of a marriage in the face of tragedy without getting choked up, you might not be human. This story stuck with me for a long time after I finished it.

3. "For Esme - with Love and Squalor," by J.D. Salinger: I've mentioned before how much I love Salinger's Nine Stories, particularly this story. A story about war and peace and memory, it's ridiculously good.

4. "The Sojourner," by Carson McCullers: This story rarely makes it at the top of the list when critics list McCuller's best work, but I'm a huge fan of it. It's got another killer ending line (in fact, the tone of the story reminds me a lot of Fitzgerald's "Babylon Revisited"). I'm not sure why most of my favorite short stories seem to be about men realizing they can't get back their happier pasts, but what can you do...

5. "Pop Art," by Joe Hill: I only read this story a couple months ago, but it's already managed to make my list of favorites. Sure, stories about the loss of a childhood friend are a dime a dozen, but how many of them are about the loss of a childhood friend who happened to be an inflatable person? And how many of them are so wonderfully understated and tragic and wonderful as this one?

6. "Zoanthropy," by David Benioff: There's really no reason why I should like this story as much as I do. Benioff is a good writer, but he's not exactly Hemingway. And then there's all the weird stuff: lion hunters and spying on neighbors and a super-awkward narrator. But for some reason, I enjoy the story so much while I'm reading it that I can't really make myself NOT like it.

7. "The Minor Wars," by Kaui Hart Hemmings: There's really nothing more I can say about this story than I did in a past entry, but obviously, it had to make this list. Like "Zoanthropy," it's one of those stories that I enjoy reading so much it almost hurts. I think Hemmings just hits all the right notes in this one.

8. "Lull," by Kelly Link: This story is quite possibly the single strangest thing I've ever read. It's a story about storytelling, built up around layers of narrative. There's demons and aliens and a kind of haunted house in it, but there's also that beloved theme about wanting to return to an idyllic, if not exactly real, past. The first few pages make me want to write fan letters to Kelly Link.

9. "Murder Mysteries," by Neil Gaiman: Surprise, surprise; Gaiman made the list. Like Link's "Lull," this one is as much about storytelling as it is about anything else. The title comes from its central story about the first murder investigation in heaven, but there's a hell of a lot more than just that going on here. I don't really like heaven and hell and gods and angels entering into my reading life too much, but Gaiman always manages to push all the right buttons. This is one bad-ass short story.

10. Every story in Bring Me Your Saddest Arizona, by Ryan Harty: This is a major cheat since there's eight stories in this collection. Harty's wife, Julie Orringer, is a much more loved author in the literary world, but for some reason, I am more of a fan of this guy. It's probably because this book's stories touch on a lot of my favorite literary tropes - brothers, parents and children, lonely dudes looking to reconnect with their lives; this book has them all. Harty's writing always looks effortless, and his characters break my heart over and over again. The biggest standouts here are "What Can I Tell You About My Brother," "Crossroads," "Don't Call It Christmas," and the extremely gut-wrenching piece about family and robots and death, "Why the Sky Turns Red When the Sun Goes Down." I think everyone should read that last one. It's really quite wonderful.

Well, there you go, everyone. I'm sure I'll be kicking myself for leaving stuff out in the next few days. You can probably check the comments over the next few days to see some additions.