Tinkers by Paul Harding (31)

Tinkers is the story of a family. The first (but also last) patriarch is George, who is dying. His family gathers around him as he fades away, hallucinates and experiences the last epileptic seizures of his life. It is a sweet and sad picture of a family as George's grandchildren read to him and shave his stubble and he recalls pieces of his life but is unable to speak and share them.

The omniscient, lyrical narrator alternates from George's death bed to his childhood home and his father, Howard. George tinkered with clocks in his retirement. Howard was a tinker by trade, fixing household items and selling wares from a mule-drawn wagon through the forests and farms. The reader also hears bits about Howard's father, a country preacher who wrote beautifully but was a bore at the pulpit. The families are different and fascinating. Epilepsy is hereditary and each generation reacts differently. Despite medical advances, the seizures are still shocking and sometimes frightening for the men who suffer from it and their loved ones.

The book is honest poetry. Sometimes Paul Harding's language is the cold meter of the cosmos, sometimes the warm and comforting rhyme of the grass and sunshine. I was lost in Harding's wandering poetic musings and detailed descriptions of clocks and tinkery items. It's been a while since I've read something written with such care.

Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller (28)

A lot of memoirs I've read lately have tried to balance guilt and regret with humor. Self-deprecation is easier to take with a spoonful of humor.

Miller doesn't try to alleviate the vulnerability in Blue Like Jazz with jokes. The book is full of his mistakes and he shares some very personal thoughts, but it never feels intrusive or uncomfortable, perhaps because it is so introspective. Miller is really pondering himself, his motivations, and his past. He really cares about knowing what he believes and treating other people with love and respect.

What I like best about Blue Like Jazz is that it reminded me, during a very selfish portion of my life, that I really need to care about the people around me. I need to stop letting little things bother me, show my affection in actions, and really admit my mistakes. Blue Like Jazz is about spiritual mystery and Miller's rise to spiritual, emotional, and social maturity.

Yeah, yeah, I know. I grew up in the church and just got to reading this book two years after college.

Lit, A Memoir by Mary Karr (27)

Lit is the third of poet Mary Karr's not-so-poetic memoirs. I was immediately repulsed by the phrase "knobby head" in the foreword dedicating the memoir to her son. I took a few days' break and returned to the book. I'm glad I let it (and myself, really) mellow.

The foreword may be filled with sentimental landmines of motherly love and devotion, but the memoir is honest, funny, self-deprecating and fair to all those involved. I loved that Karr often included caveats about remembering mean things her husband said because they were uncharacteristic, or that she was selfish in her addiction or irrational when pregnant. She didn't use her story to absolve or explain herself. She just told it. And for a reader with a practically anti-addictive personality, it gave me a true picture of an alcoholic's life.


It looks a lot more like my life than I would have guessed.

Let The Great World Spin by Colum McCann (17)

Let The Great World Spin, a mosaic of stories in the tunnels of New Yorkers lives, is the best Manhattan-based novel I've read. The characters are caricatures, cliches, and exaggerations of New Yorkers. The story I liked best was the one with the most regular characters - a group of mothers meeting to commiserate over the loss of their sons in Vietnam. It was full of the tension, uncertainly, awkwardness and regret of real life.

It is a quick read because it is precisely written, with paragraphs of concrete examples pulled from characters' thoughts. It is also a good, fulfilling read, and pretty much worth all the hype.

Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami (16)

Reading Murakami is like listening to someone describe a vivid dream. He writes in contradictions, broken metaphors, mystic poetry. Sometimes you're not even sure he knows what he talking about.

Kafka on the Shore was sometimes indecipherable, occasionally shocking, mostly lovely - full of art and music and natural beauty. There are a two characters I absolutely adored - Oshima, a wise, transgendered librarian assistant with a charming smile and Hoshino, a Hawaiian shirt-wearing truck driver who feels protective of grandfatherly types and learns to like Bach. It was a mystery, coming of age, epic journey fantasy. It felt like a race to the answers at the end of the book, but one through Wonderland. Most of the questions are left mysteries, and though that is a little confusing (like the whole novel), it's better. It wouldn't be as beautiful with all the secrets revealed.

Peace Like A River by Leif Enger (13)

Once when I was reading Peace Like A River on the subway, I bumped into a friend as I got off at my stop. She was right next to me the whole ride, but said that I looked so happy reading my book that she didn't want to interrupt me.

This is a story of a small family in rural Minnesota in the '60s. The protagonist is Reuben, an eleven-year-old with severe asthma. He adores his family and so does the reader. His father is the school janitor (what horror for a kid!), but is wise and kind and a man of such great faith that he performs miracles. Reuben's younger sister is Swede: fiesty, smart, and obsessed with westerns. His older brother, Davy, is convicted with murder early in the book. He is a cowboy type of hunk: he escapes prison, rides horses through the prairie, expertly wields a shotgun, and drifts in an out of his brother's life as he pleases, evading the law.

It is a great story, one that's been told and retold, but is always worth hearing. The familial relationships are precious and deep. The characters are well-crafted, and the landscape is unfamiliar and wild. Peace Like A River is also full of religious experiences, Biblical references, and talk of faith, but it never feels preachy. Perhaps because the reader sees it all from Reuben's perspective, with childhood bewilderment and awe at the separate world of adults.

On Beauty by Zadie Smith (12)

After reading The Elegance of the Hedgehog, On Beauty was uncomfortably corporeal. Zadie Smith's Love is not ethereal, philosophical, communal. Smith's Beauty is not a form or an idea. Beauty is in flesh, Love is in decisions.

This beauty isn't shallow - it is tangible. It manifests in people attractive and average, in paintings and music, poetry and actions. Something the reader has probably at least once seen and described as beautiful.

The Belsey family at the core of this novel is realistic. I keep saying that in these reviews - these characters are so real. But that's because real families fall apart, or fall into that limbo between deciding to tough it out and leaving the hurt and mess behind.

The only unbelievable thing is the recurring phrase "meant to" when anyone I know would say "supposed to." (Born and raised on the East Coast, I have never heard someone say "What am I meant to do?") It was oddly distracting.

On Beauty is intense and emotional. I think I'm still digesting it, a week later.

A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole (8)

This book tested my ability to endure disgusting characters, unrelated scenes and unending, argumentative dialogue. I pressed on, hoping for a little direction in the plot, a hint of the main character's fate. It really only comes together in the last 100 pages. Dilemmas are resolved, characters and plots finally intertwine, and even though something eventually (meaning, in the last 8 pages) happens to Ignatius, it is still mysterious.

Ignatius is the most disgusting character in the novel. I was repulsed by descriptions of him. If he was heading for a seat next to you on the subway, you would move. He is a baffling, chronic liar, living in his own version of the universe and hoping for a reversal of the Renaissance. And yet, throughout the book, I pondered the meaning of sanity. Ignatius is odd, obviously, and manipulative and selfish, but is he insane? Maybe we only think people are insane when they disagree with our worldview. First the reader sees Ignatius from one perspective - he is an obese, pseudo-intellectual snob and a lazy, ungrateful son. Then the author's tone changes, and maybe Ignatius isn't so bad, with an alcoholic, abusive mother and some childhood trauma, how could he not become eccentric to cope with his squalid life?

A Confederacy of Dunces could be a thesis subject, but was still a good casual read. Toole writes intuitive, understandable and hilarious dialogue in a variety of accents. The descriptions of characters and settings would be beautiful if the subjects were pleasant. And even when I was completely confused by the events, I still laughed and enjoyed the novel.

Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout (1)

Olive Kitteridge is a collection of short stories that create a picture of the title character. Some of the vignettes are told from Olive's perspective. In others she is practically unmentioned, except for a single comment she has made to a former student, or an appearance at a local restaurant. Olive is not a particularly likable character. She is the scariest teacher at the local junior high, critical of her neighbors and family, unapologetic for her faults and mistakes, and seems incapable of reflection or introspection. So why write a book about an ordinary town and its crankiest old lady?

Few characters in this book are admirable. But they are all so real. Olive may be the bitchy wife and mother that she seems from the initial story, but she is also compassionate, individual, unrelenting. Olive and the locals don't play archetypes. They are sad, struggling people, in the way that the readers probably are. Anorexia, divorce, affairs, strokes, unhappy families, suicidal thoughts, unemployment, break ups are all quite trivial in a global perspective. They don't live with a global perspective, no one really does. We all have absolutely common problems that plague, confuse, and transform us.

I was bored, occasionally, by the ordinariness, but Strout's writing was pleasant and strong. It was unusual to read about the conflicts and hardships of the elderly, so much death, loss and change. I never came around to liking Olive. But you don't have to like Olive, or any of the other characters, to learn something from the book. It left me wondering how well I can really know other people. It made me certain that I need to be willing to change and accommodate others if I want to be happy. It also reminded me about the importance and rarity of genuine kindness, acts not coated in fake sweetness, but done for the good of doing them. Goodness is not a thing people are, but a thing people do.

You're Not Too Old If You're Still Alive

I'm not sure what it is that prevents us from realizing we can mold our identities as we age. Perhaps it is a culture of youth worship, societal laziness or communal pessimism, but we get the message very early: You must decide who you will be for the rest of your life when you are a child.

I was ten or so when I became aware of this discouraging idea. I noticed that girls in my dance class who had been there since age 3 had a distinct advantage over me, even though I began at age 6. I didn't consider at that time that it was merely more time dancing and practicing had made them better dancers. They only had 3 years of a head start. Instead, subconsciously looking for an excuse to underachieve, I determined that only those who had been dancing since infancy had any chance of tap dancing enlightenment. I was too late. I would never be good. This message I absorbed is contradictory to the parental mantra "You can be anything you want" and Disney's inescapable "Believe in yourself and your dreams will come true." My mother was always telling me that I just needed to practice more, but honestly, who listens to their mother?



Of course, my mother was right. I was a child and quit dance class at 14 to pursue the more promising High School Track & Field career. No one ever questioned my worldview: succeed young or die a failure.

What I didn't know was that I could live my life differently. My quest for an identity, an occupation that thrilled me didn't end with my teens. In 2009, I realized that as long as I think, I am, and I can change directions, start a new hobby, seek a better career. So what if I didn't learn guitar in my teens? I'm starting now. My identity is not fixed, neither is my vocation.

I'll never be too old to learn something new as long as I'm alive.