The Age of Lincoln by Orville Vernon Burton
So the only thing actually wrong with this book is that it is nearly impossible to summarize. I’ve tried to talk about it with a few different people, and I keep stating generalities. It’s getting a little bit frustrating. Here’s the thing: The book covers the time period from the 1830s through about 1900, and it revolves around the impact of Abraham Lincoln’s presidency. So Lincoln is the central figure, but of course he shows up for only about 4 years as president. But those 4 years make up the central focus of the book, which begins by setting the scene in the 1830s/1840s and concludes with the years following the Civil War. One way the author sums it up is to say that the book is about the expansion of democracy to include more people.
One controversial aspect of the book—particularly to Illinoisans, I’m guessing—is that Burton contends that Lincoln was a Southerner—by birth, in his sense of honor, and in his habits (of storytelling, use of Southern expressions, etc.) I’m not sure I’m buying it, but it’s an interesting premise that I’ve enjoyed mulling in odd moments.
The author writes beautifully—there are sentences here to savor. He weaves in fascinating anecdotes, and he intersperses small doses of wry humor. And he writes in such a way that trying to skim the book is a fool’s errand. I’ve tried; I’ve failed. Instead, I recommend you prepare for full immersion and just give yourself over to the reading of the book. It’s a rewarding experience.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Friday, March 20, 2009
The Original
The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett
While this book is known as the benchmark hard-boiled detective novel, which established p.i. Sam Spade as a cultural icon, I find Brigid O’Shaughnessy the most interesting character in this novel. I first read this book while in library school, as I was just returning to the joys of mystery reading. Now, reading it for the second time, over a decade later, knowing how it would turn out allowed me to look a little more closely at what Hammett was doing in this book. Spoiler alert: Knowing in advance that the damsel (dame?) in distress is actually a villain transformed the way I read this book. The fact that Hammett created such an intriguing female character at the same time he invented a new mystery subgenre almost pardons him for the way Spade and the other male characters treat women. Almost.
And, granted, Spade himself is quite fascinating. He’s vaguely despicable (what kind of person doesn’t even feel a bit of a qualm over his business partner’s death?), yet he lives by a code that results in some sort of justice in the end. At our recent book club meeting, one of my friends pinpointed the essence of the book: while the Maltese falcon causes people to lie, cheat, steal, and kill in their efforts to possess this priceless relic, the true mystery here lies in the characters themselves. In addition to Hammett’s skill at creating compelling characters (likeable though they’re not), I admire his writing style. His use of language still feels fresh to me, even though it’s been mimicked, updated, and parodied by others for years now.
A couple of other observations: I’d forgotten that The Maltese Falcon was told from a third person point of view. I found this absolutely fascinating, given that the p.i.-as-first-person-narrator is now a standard feature of hardboiled detective novels. In The Maltese Falcon, obviously, that would not do—because we need Spade to be inscrutable. And the other thing I realized anew is that the article I read back in library school, in which a writer described the current crop of private investigators in novels as “soft-boiled,” really hits the mark. Sam Spade was a whole different creature from today’s gruff, rule-breaking private investigators (who usually have at least one friend, often seem to be fitness fanatics, and rarely stray very far into the Dark Side). I’m almost tempted to feel sorry for the guy. Or… maybe not.
While this book is known as the benchmark hard-boiled detective novel, which established p.i. Sam Spade as a cultural icon, I find Brigid O’Shaughnessy the most interesting character in this novel. I first read this book while in library school, as I was just returning to the joys of mystery reading. Now, reading it for the second time, over a decade later, knowing how it would turn out allowed me to look a little more closely at what Hammett was doing in this book. Spoiler alert: Knowing in advance that the damsel (dame?) in distress is actually a villain transformed the way I read this book. The fact that Hammett created such an intriguing female character at the same time he invented a new mystery subgenre almost pardons him for the way Spade and the other male characters treat women. Almost.
And, granted, Spade himself is quite fascinating. He’s vaguely despicable (what kind of person doesn’t even feel a bit of a qualm over his business partner’s death?), yet he lives by a code that results in some sort of justice in the end. At our recent book club meeting, one of my friends pinpointed the essence of the book: while the Maltese falcon causes people to lie, cheat, steal, and kill in their efforts to possess this priceless relic, the true mystery here lies in the characters themselves. In addition to Hammett’s skill at creating compelling characters (likeable though they’re not), I admire his writing style. His use of language still feels fresh to me, even though it’s been mimicked, updated, and parodied by others for years now.
A couple of other observations: I’d forgotten that The Maltese Falcon was told from a third person point of view. I found this absolutely fascinating, given that the p.i.-as-first-person-narrator is now a standard feature of hardboiled detective novels. In The Maltese Falcon, obviously, that would not do—because we need Spade to be inscrutable. And the other thing I realized anew is that the article I read back in library school, in which a writer described the current crop of private investigators in novels as “soft-boiled,” really hits the mark. Sam Spade was a whole different creature from today’s gruff, rule-breaking private investigators (who usually have at least one friend, often seem to be fitness fanatics, and rarely stray very far into the Dark Side). I’m almost tempted to feel sorry for the guy. Or… maybe not.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Living the Good Life, Moment by Moment
Finding Flow: The Psychology of Engagement with Everyday Life by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi
Several years ago, I saw one of those little blurbs in the newspaper where the reporter asks a few people what they’re reading at the moment. One person said he’d just read Flow by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi and that it was a book that changed his life. That’s a pretty powerful statement, so I felt like I needed to check it out. And while I wouldn’t exactly say these books changed my life, they have changed the way I view my leisure time and my time at work.
In Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience, the author describes the state of becoming so involved with what you’re doing that you lose track of time. And he describes the usual factors that contribute to this experience: engaging with a project that is neither too easy nor too difficult, and that involves a certain amount of challenge. And the surprising finding is that more people experience flow while they are at work than when they are at play. Because most of us don’t know how to play well! (That's my dumbed-down interpretation.) For example, watching TV: not good. Practicing a skill or working on a hobby that challenges you: very good indeed.
In Finding Flow, the follow-up book, Csikszentmihalyi tells you… well… how to find flow. Both books are important in the lovely field of positive psychology. Because I like the practical application stuff, the one I purchased for my home library is Finding Flow. But I’m very glad I read Flow first, because it lays the groundwork that adds great value to the second book.
Several years ago, I saw one of those little blurbs in the newspaper where the reporter asks a few people what they’re reading at the moment. One person said he’d just read Flow by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi and that it was a book that changed his life. That’s a pretty powerful statement, so I felt like I needed to check it out. And while I wouldn’t exactly say these books changed my life, they have changed the way I view my leisure time and my time at work.
In Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience, the author describes the state of becoming so involved with what you’re doing that you lose track of time. And he describes the usual factors that contribute to this experience: engaging with a project that is neither too easy nor too difficult, and that involves a certain amount of challenge. And the surprising finding is that more people experience flow while they are at work than when they are at play. Because most of us don’t know how to play well! (That's my dumbed-down interpretation.) For example, watching TV: not good. Practicing a skill or working on a hobby that challenges you: very good indeed.
In Finding Flow, the follow-up book, Csikszentmihalyi tells you… well… how to find flow. Both books are important in the lovely field of positive psychology. Because I like the practical application stuff, the one I purchased for my home library is Finding Flow. But I’m very glad I read Flow first, because it lays the groundwork that adds great value to the second book.
Friday, March 6, 2009
A Book for All Seasons
The Mysteries of Glass by Sue Gee
A perfect book to read in wintertime; that was my first observation about this book, since it began in December. But then, as the seasons progressed in the story, I thought: What a perfect summertime book. Because the author is brilliant at evoking a scene.
I often avoid historical fiction (not sure why), but this story crept up on me slowly and pulled me in. In 1860, Richard, a painfully young new curate, arrives at his first posting at a country church in his native England, and he promptly falls in love with the vicar’s young wife. In the first part of the book, the author skillfully interweaves flashbacks into the narrative, without our hardly realizing it, and so we learn the story of Richard’s earlier years. It is charming to read of Richard’s settling in to his new home, serving a country church, and becoming part of this small community. And it is agony to read of his growing adoration of Susannah, the vicar’s wife. Even as she begins to return his long glances and he feels reason to hope she might feel something for him, they are both terribly aware of their roles and their commitments. And it is agony to watch as the vicar’s health deteriorates, and it eventually becomes evident that he is dying; and the poor man also realizes that he may also be losing his wife’s love.
Thanks to “A Work in Progress” blogger, where the short version of your review provided just enough information to entice me to give this historical novel a try. I’m so glad I did.
A perfect book to read in wintertime; that was my first observation about this book, since it began in December. But then, as the seasons progressed in the story, I thought: What a perfect summertime book. Because the author is brilliant at evoking a scene.
I often avoid historical fiction (not sure why), but this story crept up on me slowly and pulled me in. In 1860, Richard, a painfully young new curate, arrives at his first posting at a country church in his native England, and he promptly falls in love with the vicar’s young wife. In the first part of the book, the author skillfully interweaves flashbacks into the narrative, without our hardly realizing it, and so we learn the story of Richard’s earlier years. It is charming to read of Richard’s settling in to his new home, serving a country church, and becoming part of this small community. And it is agony to read of his growing adoration of Susannah, the vicar’s wife. Even as she begins to return his long glances and he feels reason to hope she might feel something for him, they are both terribly aware of their roles and their commitments. And it is agony to watch as the vicar’s health deteriorates, and it eventually becomes evident that he is dying; and the poor man also realizes that he may also be losing his wife’s love.
Thanks to “A Work in Progress” blogger, where the short version of your review provided just enough information to entice me to give this historical novel a try. I’m so glad I did.
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