Author: gr4c5

I write. I read. I cook. I run. That's me, in a nutshell.

Guns of August

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Tuchman, Barbara. The Guns of August. New York: Dell, 1971.

My copy of The Guns of August is a squat, 576 page, dirty, and torn paperback. It has been taped several times over and written in much, much more. Nothing drives me more nuts than a library book with someone’s scrawl all over it. Donated or not, it never should have gotten into the collection that way. But, back to the actual book.

The Guns of August is nothing short of impressive. It should have won a Pulitzer for history but because Pulitzers for history can only be handed out for U.S. history, it got one for nonfiction. Same diff in my book. It was a national best seller, John F. Kennedy referred to it on more than one occasion as the end all-be all for political strategy and it was made into a movie. In other words, the critics have weighed in – it’s a good book.

Lines that (oddly) made me laugh: “Systematic attention to detail was not a notable characteristic of the Russian Army” (p 78).
“Messimy telephoned to Premier Viviani who, though exhausted by the night’s events, had not yer gone to bed. “Good God!” he exploded, “these Russians are worse insomniacs than they are drinkers”…” (p 109).

BookLust Twist: In More Book Lust in the chapter, “Barbara Tuchman: Too Good To Miss” (p 225). Indeed.
Confession: because of the length of The Guns of August I read it for the entire month of January.

Fool

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Dillen, Frederick G. Fool. Chapel Hill: Algonquin, 1999.

Fool is the kind of book that initially makes you squirm. Its main character, Barnaby Griswold is such the train wreck that you cannot help but be embarrassed by him, and worse, for him. You pity him because he is the epitomy of loser in addition to fool. He cheats. He steals. What he does not have in morality he makes up in enormous ego. Middle aged and homeless. Paunchy and divorced, Barnaby seems like the ultimate lost cause. While the book has a predictable ending and there are no stun-the-reader moments you cannot help but fall in love with Barnaby and root for him as the underdog, even in his worst moments. Sort of like the Cardinals in the superbowl…

Favorite quote: “Then he flared his shins to bend his knees, because evoking the gym on a good evening made him feel like an athlete” (p 132).

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust twice. In the chapter called, “Friend Makers” (p 95) and in the chapter called, “You Can’t Judge a Book By Its Cover” (p 238).

Good Patient

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Duisberg, Kristin Waterfield. The Good Patient. New York: St Martin’s Press, 2003.

I am a sucker for first books. I seriously love that first attempt that gets published; the I-Made-It book. The Good Patient is not only Waterfield’s first book, it’s a great first book. I loved nearly every word of it (and yes, I will get to the “nearly” part of that statement in a moment). But, first the general overhaul:

Darien Gilbertson reminds me of Brenda Leigh Johnson only in the extreme. Like Brenda, Darien is a force to be reckoned with in her professional life. She is successful enough to outshine the big boys. Yet, her personal life is a mess. Despite having a husband who adores her Darien has this insatiable need to self destruct. If she isn’t breaking her own bones, she is cutting and burning herself. She has more than come undone. When her husband forces her to seek professional help Darien is quick to accept, thinking she can do what she’s always done – outwit the therapist and beat the world of psychiatry at its own game. Little does Darien know she has met her match the moment she sits on Dr. Lindholm’s couch. In her own right Dr. Lindholm is a force to be reckoned with. There are times when The Good Patient gets a little extreme, a little over the top but for the most part, I enjoyed Darien’s first person account of how she puts herself back together. Filled with wit, sarcasm, humor and humility, I devoured The Good Patient in an afternoon and has been put on my “read again” list.

Favorite places: Darien taking about her own birth, “Broke my collarbone and tore a hundred-stitch hole in my mother, just to get into the world” (p 4). A quote I think my sister can relate to, “The truth is there’s something wrong with my wiring that makes me smile at the most godawful things, at the most inconvenient times” (p 28). A quote that reminded me of me, “I am suddenly angry in a way I can’t explain, small tidal licks of irritation building under my skin” (p 143).

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in the chapter, “Shrinks and Shrinkees” (p 221). I would have also included it in More Book Lust in the chapter, “Maiden Voyages” (p 158) because it is a worthy first book (IMHO).

No Wine But Roses

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I didn’t get my wine last night. After working all day, stressing about the house (or lack there of), the upcoming accreditation, and going out with the girls,  wine never seemed right. I thought about it. For a second.

We got to the place and it was busy. Finding a table for four was a feat unto itself – until they made us a table right in the middle of the dance floor. Center of attention. A table that easily sat eight had half. Then we were told the table would be going away in 45 minutes…so eat fast. Great. No problem. Until they took forever to take our orders and even longer to deliver the goods. We decided it was my fanned pear salad that caused the hold up (either that or they had to make the bread for my friend’s grilled cheese sandwich).

Wine would have been impossible after dinner as well. Jostling girls in show-it-all- outfits, boisterous boys with big (beasty?) feet, loudloudloud music. When the band started I slipped away from my girls to watch my drums. A minute showcase was worth millions to me. Even thought there were two all I cared about was the talent of one. It was good to see smiles. Even better to see laughs.

Here’s the thing. Three beautiful women came out with me to celebrate a milestone in my life. We couldn’t share conversation. We couldn’t share a taste for the music. Hell, at some point, we could even share eye contact it was so crowded. But, they stuck it out for what matters to me. So, no wine but three perfect roses.

Extraordinary Voyage of Pytheas the Greek

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Cunliffe, Barry. The Extraordinary Voyage of Pytheas the Greek. New York: Walker & Co,. 2001.

I have to admit that this little 178  page book took me by surprise. If the photographs and maps were removed it would be shortened to 166 pages. Take out the “further reading” section and all the quoted text and you would be left with only 156 pages (approximately) which meander just as much as Pytheas’s exploration. A good chunk of those remaining pages have large segments on periphery details like tin smelting and the electrostatic qualities of amber. Unfortunately for ancient history enthusiasts there isn’t much to refer to for first hand accounts of the travels of Pytheas. Unlike Cook or Columbus, the writings of Pytheas did not survive to present day. All that is left are the numerous documents either quoting Pytheas or written about Pytheas. Such as this book.

Favorite lines: None.

BookLust Twist:  From Book Lust in the chapter called, “Here Be Dragons: The Great Explorers and Expeditions” (p 111). Note: On The Ocean by Pytheas is also mentioned in this chapter. For obvious reasons I won’t be reading it.

Besides Being Late, February Is…

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February is the Superbowl. February is forty. February is rock and roll and houses. February is family. February is putting the mourning behind.

For books, February is a lot of really fun reading. All of them are relatively short (as compared to last months):

  • The Cult of Personality by Annie Murphy Paul ~ in honor of National Psychology Month (nonfiction)
  • The Good Patient by Kristin Waterfield Duisberg ~ in honor of National Psychology Month (fiction)
  • Fool by Frederick G. Dillen ~ in honor of Friendship Month (TBEL)
  • The Color Purple by Alice Walker ~ in honor of Alice’s birthday
  • The Extraordinary Voyage of Pytheas the Greek by Barry Cunliffe~ in honor of Expect Success month
  • Inn at Lake Devine by Elinor Lipman ~ in honor of Massachusetts becoming a state in February (Lipman is a Massachusetts writer).
  • Bedtime for Frances by Russell Hoban ~ in honor of Russell’s February birthday

If there is time I will add:

  • Powers That Be by David Halberstam ~ in honor of Scholastic Journalism Month

And. Because I forgot to include this in the January Was post – I have read a total of 217 books since starting the project. Seven were in the month of January 2009.

January Was…

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January started off and ended with a head cold (damn you, kisa), a really nice dinner party, a re-commitment to the houses HOUSE (glutton for punishment that I am), a re-commitment to charities with a big one – training for a 20 mile walk for Project Bread, a huge re-commitment to friendships and huge changes at the library. For books it was:

  • Death Comes to the Archbishop by Willa Cather in honor of New Mexico becoming a state in January.
  • Red Death by Walter Mosely in honor of Walter’s birthday being in January
  • Biggest Elvis by P.F. Kluge in honor of both Elvis and P.F. celebrating their birthdays in January.
  • Devices and Desires by P.D. James ~ in honor of mystery month.
  • The Eleven Million Mile High Dancer by Carol Hill
  • Edith Wharton: a Biography by R.W.B. Lewis ~ in honor of Edith’s birthday on January 24th.
  • The Guns of August by Barbara Tuchman ~ in honor of Barbara’s birthday.

For fun:

  • The Letters by Luanne Rice and Joseph Monninger ~ a story that partially takes place on Monhegan. How could I resist? This is the blog that was plagarized by some dumb-azz.
  • 30 pages of Nutritional Wisdom ~ a Christmas gift from my sister.

So I didn’t get a LibraryThing Early Review book in January. That’s not a big deal. I have certainly gotten my fair share over the course of the program so I’m not complaining. I do have to admit, I feel a little guilty. For the first time ever, I am really late publishing the review for the last ER book. Maybe that had something to do with it…who knows?

ps~ I did get one for February, or so I am told! 🙂

Blogger without a Brain

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Some say imitation is the highest form of flattery. Well, what do you call plagarism? A friend came up with the perfect word, asinine. In my world it’s “I am not smart enough to write my own sh!t.” In my world it’s “I’m so stupid I need to take other people’s ideas and call them my own.” Colin Deslage, if that’s even his real name, fits this description. IQ of a sand flea. Or, more accurately, a sand flea’s fart. Why else would he take my book review and post it on his blog? I don’t think he’s an azzhole. I think he’s just floundering in a sea of smart people and doesn’t want to drown looking like a dolt. When you are that obtuse looking intelligent is a really, really hard thing to do.

When I was first alerted to this odd occurrence I seethed. I thrashed around with so much anger I couldn’t sit still. Not long enough to write anything anyway. Then I considered the blog Colin Deslage stole – it’s an odd one to steal. Consider the facts: it’s a freakin’ book review (a very unprofessional one at that), it’s about chick lit (which says something about Colin’s reading preferences, or maybe I’m mistaken and he is really a SHE), and it mentions my hometown, a place where few people have ever heard of (let alone visited).

What does anyone have to gain by posting something that obviously isn’t original? Sand flea fart credibility.

Anyway, the rant is over.

Edith Wharton: a Biography

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Lewis, R.W.B. Edith Wharton: a Biography. New York: Harper & Row, 1975.

I had always know Edith Wharton was gifted even as a child. I think I was 16 the first time someone told me she was of my age when she first published. What they failed to tell me was that her literary voice fell silent for over a decade after that. I thought she had published all along and as a result I have always been impressed by her lifelong success.

Beginning with Wharton’s genealogical background and ending with her funeral R.W.B. Lewis’s  Edith Wharton: a Biography is at once both extensive and entertaining. Wharton begins her life as Edith “Pussy” Jones, the daughter of a socially well-to-do family. Her life is surrounded by all the things the culture of 1870s cherished – multiple family estates, social gatherings with citizens of good standing and trips abroad to places like Italy and France. With access to letters, diaries and manuscripts Lewis is able to give animated details to Wharton’s upbringing and subsequent literary career. It is no wonder he won a Pulitzer for his work. It also is easy to see how Wharton was drawn to a writing career when you consider the wealth of influences in that era: Henry James, Theodore Roosevelt, William Vaughn Moody, Charles Dickens, Gustave Flaubert, and George Eliot to name a few. What is amazing is her inability to stay the course of confidence. The slightest criticism could send her career out of commission for months at a time.

On a personal note – because Edith’s marriage failed and she never had kids there was on and off speculation about her sexuality. Rumors ranged from lesbian to frigid and everything in between. Edith did her best to remain privately passionate despite the talk, but I think, in the end, there was some overwhelming desire to prove something to her critics. At least, that is the explanation I am taking away with me when it comes to the incestuous, slightly pornographic appendix C.

Favorite Edith Wharton realization: During World War I, otherwise known as The Great War, Edith started up charities to help displaced refugees and war victims. Some if her tireless crusades were taken up by the Red Cross when they became too much for her.

Favorite passages: “She had learned from Bernhard Berenson…to take a professional librarian’s attitude towards her own private library, and the disposition of books..” (p 4).
“…but at this stage it was almost as important for her that the young Bar Harborites excelled at the art of flirtation” (p 39).

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust in the chapter, “Literary Lives: The Americans” (p 144).

Hellish Hope

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obsessiveBack in April I thought we had a house. I started thinking of knocking down walls and walling up old plaster. I started thinking about corner lots and corner cabinets. Back in April I heard the family ghosts welcoming me home. A little red house called home. I had hellish hope for a house.

Back in August I obsessed about a house. I started talking to my AnyoneWho WillListen. I started dreaming of treeshouses and tree swings; big back yards and big family cookouts. Back in August I thought I heard neighbors welcoming me home. A little white house with green shutters I obsessively called home. I had hellish hope for a house.

Back in November I held out an offering for a house. I started dreaming about 2,000 square feet of house. Big house. Lots of room house. I started planning master bedrooms and multiple bathrooms. Back in November I made deals with lenders who wanted to welcome me home. A little(big) grey house with no neighbors. I held out for the hope of a house.

Back in December I dreamed about a oldnew house. A haunting of what I dared dream of before. I started having visions of well stocked stockings hung by the fireplace; a Christmas tree with festive twinkling lights in the window; the Merrymen singing O’ Come All Ye Faithful. I wished and prayed for a golden, sunlit kitchen complete with breakfast nook and built-in cabinets. Back in December I dreamed of having a second chance at getting a first house. A little beige house with cute cape windows. My hellish hope for a house heated up. Again.

Now I am here. I dream of a house with a dragon bowl in the bathroom. I dare to dream yet again. The dream is so close to reality I am this close to nausea. I told my dearest friend I am sure to puke any day now. I don’t think I am up to all this wait and see stuff.

But, here is the thing. This is the one. I am past the little red house with the family name; beyond the white house. I have forgotten the grey house and gotten over the beige house (honestly, I have). I have moved on to a little green house on a big hill. Hellish hope yet again.

25 days and counting.

Eleven Million Mile High Dancer

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Hill, Carol. The Eleven Million Mile High Dancer. New York: Holt, Rhinehart & Winston, 1985.

Science fiction. I don’t make a habit of reading it. I guess if locations and characters become too much of a chore to pronounce, let alone remember or even enjoy then I’m not a big fan. Luckily for me, Eleven Million Mile High Dancer didn’t have far-fetched names or places. Everything takes place on Earth for the most part. Everyone has a normal name for the most part. I didn’t require a flow chart to keep the plot straight. Throw in a couple of robots, a magical cat and time travel and I’m all set. To be truthful, it did get a little tiring at the end. I wanted to skip the last 50 pages! Part I is definitely more entertaining than Part II and that’s all I have to say about that!

Amanda Jaworski is an astronaut who has already been to Saturn. She still has “Saturn dirt” on her shoes. She is passionate about every aspect of her life. Men (she has two), her job (teaching and space travel), and her cat (Schrodinger, the comatose cat) all orbit around her as she prepares for a trip to Mars. Written during the Cold War, Amanda is in a race with the Soviets. Who can get there first? Hill has the ability to weave “science talk” about subpartical physics, the second law of thermodynamics, swallowing molecules, spacenapping (as opposed to kidnapping) and “the Great Cosmic Brain” (which incidentally, created Earth) while telling a humorous story about a woman whose biggest problem used to be love.

Favorite lines: “He said something fabulous like “Oh,” or something very savoir faire like that…” (p 32).
“When cupid drew his bow and you were fourteen , you needed a recovery period, even from hello” (p 172).

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust in two different chapters, “Friend Makers” (p 95), and “Space Operas” (p 210).

Had To

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Someone pointed out to me that I’m a sucker. She got in my face and said “a deal’s a deal.” Said I went soft on a bargain. She’s right. It’s not that I went back on my word. It’s more like I jumped the gun. False start. Penalty for pushing it. I made a promise before the ink was dry. Signing my life away before reading the fine print. Making promises I can’t keep.

I really admire people who are true to their word. Say something and mean it. Say something and follow through with it. Know what I mean? I think I admire them so much because I have trouble with that “just do it” attitude from time to time. I’ll buy gifts for people and then forget to give them. I’ll write letters to people and then forget to mail them. I’ll buy expensive goat cheese and forget to cook with it. I’d like to think I have good intentions, but if I don’t follow through it’s just as bad as not intending at all. At least that’s the way I see it.

I’d like to get back to that Just Had To – as in “Just had to send you this gift because it had you written all over it,” “just had to call you because…” “just had to say hi because I missed you.” Find that good intention and make good on it. Seriously. 

So back to that jumping the gun thing: See, so I admire those people who say what they mean and mean what they say. I really do. Those industrious, get-it-done people. I made a deal with someone, they fell short. Should I sucker up my end of the bargain because they didn’t mean it in the first place? What does it mean when a deal’s a deal yet there’s no deal in the end? Maybe they should find that Had To attitude, too.

Just had to ask. Just had to.

The Way It Should Be

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We spent forever initialing and signing until it was time to go home. All I kept thinking about were the trees. I mean, we are in the 21st century, are we not? Will we ever get to that paperless (or even less paper) society? Never mind.

When we got home it was nearly 9:30 at night and I was no mood to walk anywhere. Treadmill be damned. Training schedule be damned. I have been walking. Just not blogging about it. Nothing very exciting to say when it comes to walking, sad to say. Some days I care about mileage and I churn and burn. Other days I want to walk and read. Leisurely. Like this morning. This morning it was walk, read and drink coffee. My husband almost didn’t want to give me a cup until I reminded him, “honey. I’m walking.”

But, anyway. Back to last night. I got a phone call. And this is what I’m talking about when I say this is the way it should be. It should be this: a friend should be able to put it all into perspective without even trying. A friend knows what to say – exactly what to say – that makes it all make sense. Such is the conversation I had last night. I had residual drama on the brain. Things that were sort of bothering me in a lingering, lamentful sort of way. Not in an insomnial, oppressive, rant-on-the-way way, but still there nonetheless. Like I said, residual. Like smudges on a glass. I was eager to wipe the drama clean and when I was finished, without even trying, the conversation cleared the air. Everything took on a new perspective – the way it should be.

So I learned a lesson. Even when things seem petty and unparticular it is always best to talk them out. In the light of a brand new day and put before a brand new ear persepctives can change.