Long books in July, so not as many. However, there weren’t any real clunkers this month, so I call that a win.
Abraham Verghese (2023). The Covenant of Water [Audible]. Narrated by the author.
Verghese's novel is a long and winding path through multiple generations, locations, and stories. I knew he would eventually bring them all together, but the meandering route was often as twisting as the river systems of southern India. While the words "covenant of water" appear in the text, water's role as giver and taker of life seem secondary or even tertiary. More dominant roles included medicine, tradition, colliding cultures, generational trauma, and secrets. Water was a source of fear for many characters who shared a common "condition," but it didn't always connect characters or storylines.
Listening to the book is probably harder than reading it. There are many different threads that seem unrelated until the last few chapters that being able to go back and refer to earlier sections would have been helpful. There are also drawings in the book that are available on Verghese's website, but seeing them in context might be a better option.
It is a good read, especially when completed. Once all the stories unite, it's nice to trace back each thread of the narrative tapestry. It's a tangled mess in the middle, but when complete, everything makes sense.
Bonnie Garmus (2022) Lessons in Chemistry [Audible]. Narrated by Miranda Raison, Bonnie Garmus, & Pandora Sykes. Random House Audio
I understand why this is a popular book club selection. It features strong women, relevant themes, and poignant backstories. It has been picked up by Apple TV as a series that I won't watch (sorry, fans.) It isn't a terrible book. It's well written and many of the characters are almost believable. The descriptions of rowing and rowers are spot on, which makes sense because the author is a rower.
So, why am I not raving about it like everyone else seems to be doing? Part of the reason is politics. It's not a political book per se, but the author inserts her progressivism into the text in ways that weren't necessarily part of the conversation in the 1950s and 60s. I'm a practical feminist myself, and I absolutely have dealt with sexism, particularly from men who make assumptions. But there were lines in the book (and I can't find them now since I don't have a hard copy) that sounded more like 2020 than 1960. More than the politics, however, was the utter improbability of the relationships in the book. They were often sweet (like saccharine, not sugar) and devoid of substance. Mad was far too precocious for plausibility, and 6:30 fit more into a fantasy novel than popular fiction. And then, the ending was utterly ridiculous. No spoilers.
I did like the connection between chemistry and cooking. I totally understand how women in the 50s and 60s might have dedicated themselves to a show about a woman chemist who taught both cooking and how it works. I was a fan of Alton Brown's "Good Eats" back in the day, so maybe it's just my nerdiness. But for an author who is not a chemist, these sections were well done. I do want to taste that coffee made with a Bunsen burner, distillation, and filtered to perfection.
Pet peeve: Jack LaLanne is pronounced "luh-layn" (/lə'len/). It's a little thing, but when you grow up watching his show (including the ballet slippers), saying his name incorrectly over and over again rubs me the wrong way. It only takes a minute to look up how he pronounced his name.
A.R. Shaw (2023) The Motel at the End of the World, Book 2: Room Service Revenge. ARBooks.com.
YES! It's been a while since I could recommend one of Shaw's books, but this novella gets it right. Light fiction, mystery, and some characters that readers might recognize in the people around them. It's short enough to finish in an afternoon, which means a longer review would include spoilers. The setting is an out-of-the-way hotel after a civilization dismantled by an apocalypse. The characters are making do as best as they can (aren't we all?). Guests trade skills for a place to sleep, and everyone tries to get along (mostly). It's what makes the story work. The inciting incident happens to be the arrival of a nun whose bicycle doubles as power for a sewing machine. She's looking for a friend, a priest who seemingly disappeared. And that's all I'll say.
Rowling, J.K. (1997). Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone [Audible, 2015]. Narrated by Jim Dale
Yes, I've read the book. But when Audible says I can listen for free, I decided to revisit it. The Potter series came out when my eldest just started reading. I was too busy then to do more than give it a cursory read before letting her at it. In my mind, it was a simple fantasy, something along the lines of Narnia or Middle Earth. The people at the church I attended at the time were horrified that I would let my child be influenced by magic. I asked one mother if she had read it. She said "never." At that point, I gave up on convincing anyone that fantasy books only have as much power as you're willing to give them.
Reading it again 25 years later (yikes!), I am even more confident that my own critical thinking skills are better than hysteria. It's a lovely book with characters to cheer for and villains to loathe. Magic is part of the story, yes (it is fantasy after all), but the real story is about friendship and courage and being comfortable in your own skin. An awful lot of current adolescents need that message today.
Barbara Kingsolver (2009). The Lacuna. HarperTorch Publishers.
History is not about dates and events. The dates and events are merely convenience stopping places to examine the human story. Kingsolver is a master storyteller. Her epic novels span decades to tell the human story of her characters, living their particular lives in light of the events and the dates. If you want to know facts, read an encyclopedia. If you want to understand history, read good fiction.
The Lacuna is ostensibly the story of Harrison Shepherd, born in 1916 to an absent father and a mother who could never be satisfied. In her search for wealth and comfort, Shepherd's mother took him to her home country of Mexico where he spent more than a decade. Being the only white child in the pueblo, Shepherd found himself ostracized and often alone. To entertain himself he tested his ability to hold his breath underwater, a feat inspired by a breach he saw in the sea cliffs as low tide. He wanted to know what was on the other side. The villagers called this place la lacuna, the lagoon. When he successfully entered, he entered a grotto grown around a round salt pool, rimmed with ancient cave drawings and bones of those who had been there before, perhaps as sacrifices in Mayan temples.
The Lacuna is also a metaphor for the life that would unfold before Shepherd. He worked with Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo during the time when the couple housed Trotsky. He grew into a successful author in North Carolina who found himself on the wrong end of McCarthyism. He returned to Mexico and disappeared at age 31. (Not a spoiler.) Shepherd spent his life in the empty spaces, the lacunas, of the world around him. He wasn't directly involved in anything but his fiction, but close enough to get burned when the social and political fires got too close.
Kingsolver's research into communism in the U.S. and Mexico from the 1930s-1950s is evident. This book is a work of fiction, but shows both the hopefulness of a world where people work together and share the bounty and the dark reality of power at any cost. She comments more than once that "Anti-communism is not very concerned with communism," a phrase that might equally be applied to 2023 with "Anti-racism is not very concerned with racism" (p. 423). She adds in a dialogue between Shepherd and his attorney:
"You want to know what the issue is?...It's what these guys have decided to call America. They have the audacity to say, 'There you sons of bitches, don't lay a finger on it. That is a finished product.'
"But any country is still in the making. Always. That's just history, people have to see that" (p. 424)
The true lacuna of our times is the same as it's always been: the human story is ignored when politics are at play. It doesn't take much imagination to see that power corrupts, and the quest for control endangers the powerless.
Also, that cozy apocalypse series looks right up my alley.
So glad to get your take on that Lessons in Chemistry book. I’ve read numerous glowing reviews that have nonetheless made me skeptical of exactly what you cited as the book’s flaws.