been reading: Forever by Pete Hamill

I guess I would categorize this novel as historical fiction, which is not a genre I've ever been interested in. But I thoroughly enjoyed this book, perhaps because it is much more than historical fiction. It is a swashbuckling tale, an epic adventure, a love story. Oddly enough, those sorts of storylines don't usually interest me either. But ah, at the heart of this novel lies something I can't resist: New York City.

Cormac, the main character, has been gifted with immortality provided he does not leave the boundaries of Manhattan. This premise is clearly an excuse for Pete Hamill to relate the history of Manhattan, his favorite subject, in a way that is approachable and engaging. He does this with a tale that is both rousing and reverent, and one that perhaps no one but Pete Hamill could pull off.

Through Cormac's eyes, we see Manhattan grow from a forest-covered island to a world metropolis. He fights in the Revolutionary War, and then 200 years later watches the Twin Towers fall. Everywhere he walks, he remembers things as they were before, and as they were before that. He knows the history behind every building, every neighborhood, every community. He has outlived lifetimes of friends and lovers; his only constant companion is the city itself.

Before reading this novel, I had not viewed places as living entities, and yet in many ways they are. Everywhere we go, there are histories we don't know, stories we can't see piled high all around us. Sure, accounts get written down (however accurately or inaccurately), but people forget to pass them down, which is something else entirely. And so with each generation, more of the past gets buried until it is forgotten completely by the collective consciousness. The stone steps of the courthouse or the trees in the park become our only witnesses to the past, and they aren't talking. A place has more permanence than the people passing through it, and in that sense it is alive.

Also, this novel reminded me of the importance of perspective. Throughout the history of New York, Cormac witnesses (and sometimes suffers from) many a scandal and scourge, crises that at the time seem impossible to recover from. And yet, society always manages to sustain itself, and eventually even to succeed. With all that is happening right now - national and global events I don't want or need to enumerate - it is encouraging to realize that throughout a history, and even just a lifetime, terrifying times become mere memories. Sometimes we overcome challenges and sometimes we are overcome by them and forced to adapt. But always there is a steady march forward - of time, yes, but also of progress.

This novel requires a suspension of disbelief similar to The Time Traveler's Wife. What's interesting to me about novels like this is the great reward that comes from not being restrained by reality. As a reader, I tend to prefer fictional situations that seem real and thus relatable; and yet, in both novels, the authors are able to explore things they couldn't if they played by the rules of reality. And that means I'm exposed to thoughts and ideas I wouldn't be otherwise, in real life or realistic fiction.

In many ways Forever is a study of what it means to truly live. Cormac is directed to spend his immortality living, not just living. He discovers that, for him, truly living means continually learning and coming to know and fully understand a subject. He becomes absorbed in painting, then delves into the intricacies of playing piano. He reads every book by an author so that he can become part of the writer's world. He believes that intimately knowing another person is also a way of truly living. And, he says, "Knowing a place [is] another." Observing and memorizing Manhattan is Cormac's greatest joy and, perhaps, Pete Hamill's as well. I can't help but wonder if Cormac's eternal life is wish fulfillment for Hamill, if he would wander Manhattan forever if he could. But then, Hamill's immortality will come not from living forever in Manhattan, but from forever bringing Manhattan to life for others.

been reading: Then We Came to the End by Joshua Ferris

Freaking loved this book. It was perhaps enhanced by the fact that I read it during an annoying office move at work. Most of the people in one office building switched places with most of the people in our other office building, a move which solved some problems and created just as many new ones. I actually think it was a good "big-picture" idea, but it was so poorly planned and executed that we lost at least a month of productivity because people became utterly preoccupied with this move. Partly, this is because it was dragged out over 9 months. If I had conceived a child on the day the move was announced I would have given birth before switching offices, I'm just saying. And the thing is, people cannot handle "imminent" change that looms for month after month, and so it became a major distraction. So that was part of the problem.

And it didn't help that people got bent out of shape over stupid things. For example, DESKS. Holy hell, people care about their desks. I had no idea. Several of my co-workers pitched a fit over the thought of a different desk. These people were (begrudgingly) okay with a new office, and even tolerated the fact that they'd have different officemates. But a different desk?! No chance in hell. Because it's an L and not a U shape....because it doesn't have a file drawer....because it's made of oak and not cherry. Good lord, it's a DESK, people! Maybe I'm the strange one, because I was like, "Um, I just need a flat plane, preferably with four legs....and maybe a drawer, if it's no trouble?" Now my chair, on the other hand....

Then We Came to the End was the perfect antidote to all this absurdity. It was almost as if Joshua Ferris were one of my co-workers:

How we hated our coffee mugs! our mouse pads, our desk clocks, our daily calendars, the contents of our desk drawers. Even the photos of our loved ones taped to our computer monitors for uplift and support turned into cloying reminders of time served. But when we got a new office, a bigger office, and we brought everything with us into the new office, how we loved everything all over again, and thought hard about where to place things, and looked with satisfaction at the end of the day at how well our old things looked in this new, improved, important space. There was no doubt in our minds just then that we had made all the right decisions, whereas most days we were men and women of two minds. Everywhere you looked, in the hallways and bathrooms, the coffee bar and cafeteria, the lobbies and print stations, there we were with our two minds.

There seemed to be only one electric pencil sharpener in the whole damn place. (7)

It's eerie how in tune this book is with the workings of work. Because I swear, hand to God, that on our first day in our new office, my officemates and I were consumed with three things: arranging our office, admiring how we'd arranged our office, and searching for the goddamn electric pencil sharpener. And the thing is? We don't even use pencils.

Even if you aren't suffering your own workplace dysfunction, you will relate to this novel if you have ever worked behind a desk or sat in a meeting or read Dilbert. The book is written in the first-person plural, which I imagine is hella-hard to do, but was extremely effective in creating the group mentality of a workplace. In this case, the workplace is an advertising agency. There are massive layoffs happening, which creates among the staff both a desire to protect oneself and the need to cling more tightly to each other, since no one else truly understands what they're going through.

So many pages I dog-eared because they contain passages that made me say, "Yes! That's it! That's exactly it!" What is brilliant about this book, though, is that not only does Ferris provide amusingly accurate depictions of office life, but at the same time he is examining our interactions and psyches and vulnerabilities. His novel is hilarious while also driving to the heart of what it means to be human. This is a compelling, intelligent, impeccably-written book that is also a fucking blast to read.

been reading: Good Grief by Lolly Winston

This is a novel about Sophie, a woman in her 30s, and the path her life takes after her husband dies from cancer.

I shouldn't read books like this because just the thought of losing my husband puts me in a funk for days. The book claims to be "laugh-out-loud" funny, although I was doubtful of that from the start. What part of being a widow is hilarious? Soon after her husband dies, Sophie goes to work in her bathrobe and slippers because she has only enough energy to either get dressed or go to work, but not both. Reading the description of her walking around the office in her bunny slippers, I got the impression this was intended to be a bit hysterical, but I only found it depressing. And completely understandable.

I considered quitting the book several times, but I wanted to power through if for no other reason than a small curiosity about how Sophie ends up. Had I known the answer to this, I would have stopped reading immediately. Within a year of her husband's death, [spoiler alert] Sophie has discovered her life's passion (baking), opened her own bakery, turned a troubled teen's life around, and been proposed to by her handsome actor boyfriend. I mean, really? Total crock of chick-lit shit.

For realistic, profound reflections on life as a widow, read this instead. It actually makes you think, and cherish the people you love, rather than just causing you to crave a cupcake.

been reading: Dreams from My Father by Barack Obama

I've been reading this book for the entire primary season because during my EMT class I only had time for a snippet here and there. I bought the book because I was intrigued and inspired by Barack Obama. Or at least I thought I was, and the opportunity to read about his life, as written in his own words, seemed a good way to learn more about him. I was perhaps halfway through the book on the day I voted for him in our state's primary election. And I read the last page yesterday, the last day of the primary season. It's been a bit surreal for me to see Barack Obama simultaneously transform, on the pages, from boy to man and, in politics, from longshot candidate to the presumptive Democratic presidential nominee.

I don't talk outright about politics much here, although anyone who reads can certainly ascertain where I stand. I have written about not being particularly proud of this country, or at least of the way things are now. To be honest, I'm not sure any president can begin to fix what Bush has phenomenally fucked up. But I do believe Obama is the best one to try. There is sincerity and soul in this man, passion and perspective. There's lots I could say about why I'm behind him, but perhaps the most comprehensive reason is that he seems to be in every way the complete opposite of Bush.

As for the book itself, I have to say I was impressed. It is well-written (and there were no ghostwriters). It reads like a novel. Obama paints pictures of the people and the places he encounters, and his narrative voice is honest and reflective and compelling. Obama's journey is a search for himself and a search for his roots, a journey to understand who he is and who he's meant to become. It is a typical coming-of-age story, except that nothing about his story is typical.

In many ways, his search for self is what comes to define him. In trying to find his place in the world, he becomes a person who fosters community and seeks the similarities that unite us all. He is acutely aware of the injustices that surround him and yet he chooses to focus on the good and to work for change. Somehow, he is both realistic and optimistic. One example of this almost paradoxical perspective comes at the end of the book, as he describes his disappointment at what he often finds in law books:

...for every Brown v. Board of Education I find a score of cases where conscience is sacrificed to expedience or greed. And yet, in the conversation itself, in the joining of voices, I find myself modestly encouraged, believing that so long as the questions are still being asked, what binds us together might somehow, ultimately, prevail.

He seems to have this inherent belief that he can be better, that we can be better. And that message gives even a cynic like me some hope.

been reading: The Emperor's Children by Claire Messud

Our Christmas has lasted an entire week, from the first family event last Saturday to the final one yesterday. We've had some sort of family get-together every day in between (and on some days, several), some consuming the entire day and others only hours. Both of our families are local, and so this is what happens. Everyone feels the need to get together in the small space of the week that surrounds the actual day of celebration. It's a nice thing, of course. And yet every year afterwards, I find myself slightly irritable and considering a trip (to anywhere) next year that just happens to coincide with Christmas.

I had the week off from work, and Rob took off; this has been the first time in a long time that we've had a week of vacation in which we didn't go anywhere. Except the myriad houses of relatives, of course. We've also had a decent amount (although, in my grinchy opinion, not nearly enough) of downtime at home. Time to work on projects. Time to waste. Time to read.

On several occasions this week I've had the luxury of reading for hours. I'll curl up on the sofa, my head propped on the cushioned arm, and read from the moment we finish breakfast until the rumblings in my stomach announce that lunch is long overdue. Bridget comes and goes, curling on my lap for an hour at a time, only to stand and stretch and roam the house and then return again. Last evening I read for several hours until bedtime, and then read some more in bed. I have done little else that's leisurely - have even only turned on my computer once or twice until today - except read. I'd forgotten what a reprieve reading can be.

The book to which I've been so devoted is The Emperor's Children, a novel I began in October and liked immediately but have had little time to give to until now. It's the story of three early-30-something friends who live in New York, the story of their lives from March-November of 2001. It's the first novel I've read that discusses the events of 9/11/01. And yet in no way does this novel revolve around that day or exist only to lead up to a description of the impact of that day. It is handled, frankly, as just a fact of life - albeit a fact that changes everything. What the novel is about is how these three people, and the people who both tower and cower around them, experience life. How they attempt to understand what the hell they're doing, how they express themselves honestly to one another, how they lie to protect themselves.

If I were reading this novel for a college course, this is the book I'd choose to write my final paper about. It is layered and intelligent and I can think of 15 theses right off the bat. But even for a person who doesn't have English major tendencies, it's a worthy story about the moments that make up our months and the days that make us wonder what the hell we're doing.

been reading: The Know-It-All by A.J. Jacobs

The premise of this book is that the author reads the entire Encyclopaedia Britannica. Why I picked this up I have no idea. It sounded intriguing. And it was supposed to be funny. And I was at Powell's, the famous Portland bookstore, and wanted to buy something. The fact that this was in the sale bin should have been a red flag.

In each chapter, which correlates to a letter in the encyclopedia, Jacobs shares some interesting facts that he learns and also details how his quest is affecting his daily life. I made it to the H's. There are so many books I want to read, and this just isn't one of them.