All the Lives I Want: Essays About My Best Friends Who Happen to Be Famous Strangers

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Alana Massey’s book was a dumbed down version of Sady Doyle’s Trainwreck. I had high hopes at the beginning, really enjoying the essay comparing Winona Ryder’s substance with Gwyneth Paltrow’s lack thereof. Even the Britney Spears essay isn’t terrible, giving us glimpses into how hard she must work to attain that level of perfect body. Other pieces cover Sylvia Plath, Fiona Apple, Lil’ Kim, Courtney Love, Scarlett Johansson, the Olsen twins, and Princess Diana. Fairly vapid and forgettable stuff, especially when compared with the intelligent insights of Doyle’s much better work.

Inventing the Truth: The Art and Craft of Memoir

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William Zinsser’s collection of authors speaking about their process of writing memoir comes from a series of their talks at the NYPL and is quite digestible. I’m left with a long list of memoirs to check out in further detail and a dose of bravery to inject myself with to get the words flowing from my own pen. This collection includes inspiration from Toni Morrison, Annie Dillard, Jill Ker Conway, Eileen Simpson, Frank McCourt, and Henry Louis Gates Jr.

A reminder of that great quote from Annie Dillard, which is in this.

You have to take pains in a memoir not to hang on the reader’s arm, like a drunk, and say, “And then I did this and it was so interesting.”

 

 

The Ice Palace

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I put a note in the back of a library book I enjoyed asking future readers to send me book recommendations if they enjoyed that book as much as I did. So far, this is the only book that I’ve been able to get through of the handful that have been recommended via that method.

It’s a creepy book, two eleven-year-old girls on the brink of a friendship only to have one of them die in the ice palace of exposure to cold the day after they have their first confab. Siss is a local girl, the leader of kids at school, and Unn has just moved to town after losing her mother, now living with her aunt. Siss feels that there’s something different about Unn, and the two warily circle each other for weeks before finally Unn writes a note saying that she wants to see her. Siss walks over to Unn’s house at night, bravely facing her fear of the dark, clomping in the cold. The two girls shut themselves up in Unn’s room and struggle to find common ground. They ogle themselves in a mirror, and take off all their clothes before hurriedly getting redressed. Unn hints at a secret, but Siss goes home before she finds out.

The next day, Unn feels too shy about seeing Siss at school, so she plays hooky and goes to the ice palace, formed at the river by the waterfall. She slips inside through a small crack, wanders deeper and deeper, finally taking off her coat to squeeze into an even smaller space, and then can’t get back to it. She lays down, sleeps.

That night, Siss joins the search party and the men eventually go to the ice palace. Their lights dance from within the palace, but Unn is not found. Siss gets a fever and feels she’s been asked by Unn to keep a promise not to forget her.

In the spring, Siss asks the kids to go back to the ice palace because it’s about to give way due to melting. They frolic, but do not find Unn. Later, the ice palace cracks and gives way, sweeping all evidence into the river. Fin. By the Norwegian Tarjei Vesaas, translated by Elizabeth Rokkan.

Bay Area Book Fest

I’m not sure how I previously missed this book festival in my backyard, now in its third year. But newly aware, I hopped on the train today and headed east to rub elbows with the literati of the Bay Area. Whenever I emerge into Berkeley, I fall in love with it all over again, and today was no exception—sun shining, book nerds coalescing, scrappy jazz band playing clarinet/upright piano/trombone/trumpet in the street while families gather in a line for free ice cream samples.

The festival itself is a combo of lots of free outdoor events plus lots of ticketed (or wristband-accessible) events to hear authors indoors. An amazing assortment of booths lined the square behind City Hall, all catering to book lovers—local bookstores, authors, and all sorts of tempting treats for people in love with the written word. I picked up a magnificent magnet with Virginia Woolf’s portrait and a fabulous “holster” for my pen to attach to a moleskin notebook. Also a free copy of the Koran and pamphlets about Muslim women—what a fantastic idea, we’re all so curious about this religion that’s causing panic on the right, and what better idea than to staff a booth with a friendly guy answering question and handing out free copies of their book?!

I bought priority tickets to see Roxane Gay in conversation with Rafia Zakaria and Masha Gessen in conversation with Orville Schell, so after enjoying the upright piano/clarinet/trumpet/trombone magic on the street of John Brothers Piano Company I headed to Freight and Salvage and was overwhelmed by the huge crowd of women waiting to get in for Roxane, who was up first.

Notes from Roxane Gay’s interview:

  • “After Sandy Hook, I stopped believing in institutions.” We can no longer rely on institutions to make things right.
  • Best way for white people to help? Stop calling yourself an ally, which puts a barrier between you & the problem. Start feeling the oppression. “Make the oppression your own. That racial oppression is mine. That transgender oppression is mine. Disabled oppression is mine.”
  • References to Who Gets to Be Angry (NYTimes, June 2016), the Nov 10 interview with Kamau Bell on Politically Re-Active that I’m listening to right now.
  • Difference between rage and anger? Anger is more focused, rage is collective.
  • How to respond to someone who says “you sound angry” — they’re being lazy. Are they reachable? If not, fuck ’em.
  • “I don’t have low self-esteem about my writing.” (Hell yeah!) When she writes a good paragraph, she feels a “rush of energy beneath my skin” (this in response to an audience question, does she feel blown away when she reads the stuff she writes).
  • Re: hope. “If we don’t have hope, what are we fighting for?”
  • Living in the flyover states, she sees plenty of rage, but it’s “rage born of entitlement… ‘I did not get the white dream, I am really angry.'” We need to educate these folks about their real oppressor, rich white men.
  • Hilarious comment about LA, where you think everyone is just thin (Roxane has a book coming out about her struggles with weight): “People in LA are so self-absorbed that they’re not worried about you.” e.g. you’re overlooked, you get a pass.
  • What she’s reading? An American Marriage by Tayari Jones and Ellen Pao’s upcoming memoir. 
  • She hasn’t tweeted in 9 days, what’s up? Roxane mentioned having given a talk at Twitter HQ yesterday, but said she’d taking a break b/c she isn’t paid for the emotional effort she puts into fighting the trolls on Twitter—it isn’t worth it, she needs time off. Fuck you Twitter, fix your system.

Notes from Masha Gessen interview on Truth, Lies and Totalitarianism in Russia and the U.S.

  • Damn, I wish I was as smart and well-spoken as Masha Gessen. Her eloquence and intelligence will haunt me to the end of my days.
  • Of course the conversation turns to what she thinks about the current political climate in the U.S. She’s “not surprised, but always shocked.”
  • She moved to the U.S. at age 14 in 1981 before Gorbachev had unleashed perestroika & glasnost onto the world—her emigrant family wanted to believe the worst to justify their fleeing the Soviet Union.
  • Totalitarianism is all about the destruction of the fabric of society, of shared experiences. The huge absence of these things makes it impossible to recover from the big boot stamp of totalitarianism.
  • Rise happening now? The West lost the cautionary tale that existed in the Soviet Union. (THIS IS HUGE) Western democracies have steadily become less democratic since.
  • She doesn’t believe history has a direction, but rather believes in the “mess and idiocy narrative.”
  • Tim Snyder of NYRB said it best, that Putin is the person that Trump plays on TV. Trump sees Putin’s power and popularity and wants it.
  • Estonia is “one of the best places in the world.” !!!
  • The story around her article, Autocracy: Rules for survival, was fantastic. Apparently, she’d been tapped to write the reaction essay for Russia’s reaction to Hillary Clinton’s win for the NYT. “They did not have a plan B.” The A-team had gone home and Gessen emailed the on-call editor suggesting that she write rules for survival instead of a reaction piece. The junior editor nixed the idea, and Gessen offered it to NYRB. It was so successful it broke her smartwatch because it overheated after getting so many notifications about the piece.
  • We have a real problem of imagination. We couldn’t imagine Trump would get the R nom. We couldn’t imagine he’d be president. “The present defies imagination.” Thus we use crutches like, “Russia interfered!” instead of digging into the icky reason why millions voted for the Cheeto in Chief. We also immediately grabbed at straws thinking that he’d be “presidential” or maybe the electors would step in to not cast their votes for him.
  • Probably the most shocking comment was when she was asked her opinion of Russia, her home country. “Hopeless. Layers and layers of tragedy and awfulness.” After laying out this bleakness, she revealed that some of her friends have moved from big picture projects to small projects—small charities like an orphanage to handle disabled kids instead of tackling the whole system of orphanages. Moving to changing the world via one life at a time, which we know is somewhat futile.
  • The view of the world as “basically rotten” is the fascist view, and one that is being peddled mightily by the right. As a society, we need to return to talking about ideals.
  • Will America be able to resist totalitarianism? There is no such thing as American exceptionalism. The force that oversimplifies and says it can put all fears to rest is hard to resist. We will succumb.
  • Question about what the person-on-the-street likes best about Putin, what changes he’s made to their day-to-day life. Putin has not done anything to improve their particular life, but he projects a strong image that people like. He made Russia great again. This public vs. private self– public self identifies with strong country, likes that. Private self feels like it is always getting screwed by government, always being defrauded. Bifurcation of identity.
  • The U.S.’s Reichstag moment was 9/11. !!!
  • Wikileaks involvement in election: Julian Assange is “his own agent of destruction.” (Masha recommends watching Laura Poitras’s Risk, but I couldn’t take the inflated ego of Assange on display, which is her point.)  Ultimately, the NYT and WaPo share some blame for forging ahead with the material gained from the poisoned tree. Perhaps this will start a conversation about how the media does function as political actors. You can’t just shrug and say, it was out there, and publish it.

The Pickwick Papers

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The Marx Brothers have nothing on Dickens, as proven in his scenes of ragtag madcap drinking, jesting, capering, punning, joking. This is his first novel, fully titled The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club and you can actually watch as he progresses in honing his skills across the pages. The first chapters are universally despised as boring, but Dickens introduces the character of Sam Weller in chapter 10, breathing life into the story and carrying it to success for another 600+ pages. It gives off “an extraordinary sound, which being neither a groan, nor a grunt, nor a gasp, nor a growl, seemed to partake in some degree of the character of all four” (from chapter 52, where Sam’s dad is about to give the red-nosed preacher a beat down).

Pickwick roves the countryside with his band of merry younger friends in search of wisdom but adventures come knocking. Even in the early chapters we see glimpses of genius like “[the horse] wouldn’t shy if he was to meet a wagon load of monkeys with their tails burnt off.”

The scene with warring political parties also comes off well in chapter 8, where Pickwick cheers for the candidate that the mob just cheered and tells his friends, “Hush. Don’t ask any questions. It’s always best on these occasions to do what the mob do.” Mr. Snodgrass asks “But suppose there are two mobs?” and Pickwick recommends to “Shout with the largest.” Later, a politician is making the rounds and told to kiss babies to make a good impression on the crowd, to which the politician (Slumkey) resigns himself.

One of my favorite techniques Dickens uses is the nested story, having a character relate a tale that he heard, like the Bagman’s ghost story (Ch 14). Inevitably the people in the story get drunk, which explains the weird stuff they see later. In the Bagman’s Story, Tom Smart thinks a chair in his bedroom is an old gentleman, and begins to have an argument with it/him. The chair brags of having lots of ladies sit in his lap, then proceeds “to recount some other exploits of his youth, when he was seized with such a violent fit of creaking that he was unable to proceed.”

Another embedded ghost story in chapter 49 ended with a line that made me laugh out loud. The character walked home late at night, drunk (natch!), and sat in some dilapidated abandoned mail coaches, then woke to find them bustling about, brand new. He attempts to help one of the ghosts elude her captor, but wakes before they get to safety. The landlord who has listened to this tale asks “I wonder what these ghosts of mail-coaches carry in their bags,” and the storyteller answers, “The dead letters, of course.”

We get the first hints of Dickens anger about lawyers, courts, and debtor prisons here (prisons more fully explored in Little Dorrit and courts in Bleak House). Pickwick is entrapped by his landlady who thinks he’s made a marriage proposal and who sues him for breach of contract. When a jury finds him guilty, he refuses to pay the amount and prefers to go to Fleet prison instead. After a few months, the woman’s lawyers throw her into prison for non-payment of their fee, wherein Pickwick pays her out in return for a letter saying that he never made such a proposal. Unaccountably, Pickwick also helps Jingle out of prison, despite being made the butt of his schemes earlier in the book.

Besides this aborted marriage, there are plenty of sneaking around and pinching of barmaids. Several of Pickwick’s friends end up married off at the end, bearing children for him to godfather.

Possibly my favorite parts were those witticisms of Sam. If I read this again, I’ll try to collect all of them. A sample:

  • “Come sir, this is rayther too rich, as the young lady said, wen she remonstrated with the pastry-cook, arter he’d sold her a pork-pie as had got nothin’ but fat inside.”
  • “I rayther think you’d change your note, as the hawk remarked to himself with a cheerful laugh, ven he heerd the robin redbreast a singin’ round the corner.”
  • “Sorry to do anythin’ as may cause an interruption to such wery pleasant proceedin’s, as the king said wen he dissolved the parliament.”

Pickwick disbands his club with a farewell speech worth quoting, as it mirrors Dickens’ own farewell to the time spent writing this in monthly serials:

“I shall never regret having devoted the greater part of two years to mixing with different varieties and shades of human character: frivolous as my pursuit of novelty may have appeared to many. Nearly the whole of my previous life having been devoted to business and the pursuit of wealth, numerous scenes of which I had no previous conception have dawned upon me—I hope to the enlargement of my mind, and the improvement of my understanding. If I have done but little good, I trust I have done less harm, and that none of my adventures will be other than a source of amusing and pleasant recollection to me in the decline of life. God bless you all!”

The Princess Diarist

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I’ve been on a long waiting list for this at the library and it finally popped up. Apparently everyone wanted to read this in the aftermath of Carrie Fisher’s too-soon death last year. Personally, I preferred Postcards from the Edge more than this one, although if you’re a huge Star Wars fan, this is probably your favorite. She divulges the fact that she and Harrison had a three-month long affair while filming the first one, hampered from it becoming a full-blown relationship by his marriage and lack of conversation ability. This includes snippets from the diaries she kept during the filming, and comes with the heavy dose of Carrie-snark which her writing is usually salted with.

Twilight Sleep

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For some reason I’ve never ventured past Edith Wharton’s prime time novels (House of Mirth, Age of Innocence), but Twilight Sleep was mentioned in a book I read last week so I figured I’d take it for a whirl. Pub’d in 1927, you’re immersed in the dazzling world of wealthy pre-Depression NYC, and immediately confronted by the complex character of Pauline Manford. This middle-aged matron has a schedule that does not stop: “7:30 Mental uplift. 7:45 Breakfast. 8 Psychoanalysis 8:15 See cook. 8:30 Silent meditation. 8:45 Facial massage. 9 Man with Persian miniatures 9:15 Correspondence. 9:30 Manicure. 9:45 Eurythmic exercises. 10 Hair waved. 10:15 Sit for bust. 10:30 Receive Mother’s Day deputation. 11 Dancing lesson. 11:30 Birth Control meeting…”

From this, you can see that she’s bursting with contradictions, praising motherhood and yet supporting birth control, attempting to find peace through meditation and yet cramming it into a hectic schedule. Later, she’ll start giving the speech she prepared for the Birth Control group to the mothers, only to catch herself in time and say that this is what “they” say about mothers. Pauline is a divorcee on friendly terms with her first husband, Wyant, from whom she has a son, Jim (who’s married to Lita). Pauline also has a daughter Nona by Manford.  Lita does her duty and pushes out a baby boy, with the help of drugs during the birthing process that render “Twilight Sleep”… “Of course there ought to be no Pain… nothing but Beauty… It ought to be one of the loveliest, most poetic things in the world to have a baby.” Jim adores the baby and “Lita hadn’t minded in the least.”

But there is trouble in paradise, amid the bustle. Pauline’s husband Manford has fallen in love with Lita, or at least it’s quite obviously hinted at throughout, not declared outright. There was something missing in this treatment of the “affair” – it just didn’t sit right. Manford describes himself as having a fatherly feeling about Lita, but gets enraged when he sees a risque picture of her in a magazine and squanders a large part of his wife’s fortune trying to keep a handsome ne’er do well from arriving to lure Lita to Hollywood.

Nona is in love with her married cousin, and it comes to naught. She also is accidentally shot by her father who finds a “burglar” in Lita’s room (was it a burglar? who knows). The book ends with her dreaming of joining a convent of atheists, soured on the unraveling marriages around her.

The Razor’s Edge

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Not surprisingly, I did not “feel myself getting smarter, my brain expanding while I read this,” unlike the idiotic character in I’ll Tell You In Person, which is where I got the breadcrumb to check out W. Somerset Maugham’s classic novel. I’m actually quite tired of reading books by gay men that make women into the shallowest of characters, ugly, grasping, with no redeeming qualities, while the men are heroic, handsome gods. This book strained every nerve of that kind.

If I identified with anyone in the book, it was Larry, the quiet and curious character who the entire thing is about, following his strange travels around the world “to loaf” by which he meant to study and read up and discover the meaning of life. He’s adamant about rejecting the normal path of office work and ends up losing a girlfriend/fiancee as a result. Isabel doesn’t take too kindly to the monkish aesthetic that Larry cultivates in his tiny Parisian apartment and can’t imagine herself without access to society, gems, furs, etc.

After a separation of two years wherein Larry heads to Europe from Chicago to find himself, they meet up, and Isabel asks what he’s been up to. “I’ve been reading a good deal. Eight or ten hours a day. I attended lectures at the Sorbonne. I think I’ve read everything that’s important in French literature and I can read Latin, at least Latin prose, almost as easily as I can read French.”

Isabel then cuts off the engagement, not wanting to face life without scads of money. (Larry has a small living that he can get by on without having to work, but that’s not enough for her.) In response to her rejection, he says “I wish I could make you see how much fuller the life I offer you is than anything you have a conception of. I wish I could make you see how exciting the life of the spirit is and how rich in experience. It’s illimitable. It’s such a happy life.”

Much later, after he meets up with the author after burying Sophie (naked, throat cut, opium addicted prostitute from Chicago to Paris and almost married to Larry until Isabel tempted her into drinking again). Larry mentions his plan of giving away all his money and starting in America with nothing, taking a manual labor job because that’s how he’s able to think. “My mind is free when I’m washing a car or tinkering with a carburetor…”

 

The Village

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I’ve never wholeheartedly liked anything that Marghanita Laski wrote, including this novel, which is the only thing I’ve been able to finish of hers. Post-war destruction/erosion of the class system played out via the romance of an upper class yet poor as a church mouse woman and a hardy, hard-working, up-and-coming son of her old charwoman. They start seeing each other when they find themselves both stood up for movie dates on Friday night, Margaret with her girlfriend Jill and Roy with his ex-girlfriend. They carry on a clandestine relationship and once Roy finds them a place to live, break the news to Margaret’s parents who refuse to give consent to wed. Eventually, and by forcing the young couple to emigrate to Australia forgodsake, they agree.

West with the Night

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Fantastic memoir by Beryl Markham about her childhood on a farm in East Africa (Kenya), becoming a horse trainer and then a freelance pilot across Africa. She was the first woman to fly solo across the Atlantic from east to west (thus “West with the night” as the title), ending up with her plane nose-first in the mud on Cape Breton after it runs out of fuel. Incredibly well-written and entertaining, with equal parts adventure and understated philosophy.

“From the time I arrived in British East Africa at the indifferent age of four and went through the barefoot stage of early youth hunting pig with the Nandi, later training race-horses for a living, and still later scouting Tanganyika and the waterless bush country between the Tana and the Athi Rivers, by aeroplane, for elephant, I remained so happily provincial I was unable to discuss boredom of being alive with any intelligence until I had gone to London and live there a year. Boredom, like hookworm, is endemic.”

In the wilds of Africa, the Brits set a lush tea table, prompting this recollection: “I have sometimes thought since of the Elkinton’s tea-table—round, capacious, and white, standing with sturdy legs against he green vines of the garden, a thousand miles of Africa receding from its edge. It was a mark of sanity, I suppose, less than of luxury. It was evidence of the double debt England still owes to ancient China for her two gifts that made expansion possible — tea and gunpowder.”

Upon coming across a man knee-deep in fixing his automobile on a dusty road, “In Africa people learn to serve each other. They live on credit balances of little favours that they give and may, one day, ask to have returned. In any country almost empty of men, ‘love thy neighbor’ is less a pious injunction than a rule for survival. If you meet one in trouble, you stop—another time he may stop for you.”

After rescuing a hunting party trapped on a plateau by flooded rivers, she mulls her next step: “I wonder if I should have a change—a year in Europe this time—something new, something better, perhaps. A life was to move or it stagnates. Even this life, I think… I look at my yesterdays for months past, and find them as good a lot of yesterdays as anybody might want. I sit there in the firelight and see them all…. I have had responsibilities and work, dangers and pleasure, good friends and a world without walls to live in. These things I still have, I remind myself – and shall have until I leave them.” Later, she picks up this theme again, “All this, and discontent too! Otherwise, why am I sitting here dreaming of England Why am I gazing at this campfire like a lost soul seeking a hope when all that I love is at my wingtips? Because I am curious. Because I am incorrigibly, now, a wanderer.”

Spark: The Revolutionary New Science of Exercise and the Brain

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I know, I know, I know. I should exercise more. And this book points out the many ways it benefits not only your body but also your brain. I enjoyed this book, surprised that it was not just another “shoulda been an article but I beefed it up into a book” type book. I think what saved him was the inclusion of so many stories, of patients, or of research papers and studies. He gets pretty technical, and you learn some stuff about the old noggin, like the fact that serotonin, dopamine, and norepinephrine are all neurotransmitters.

It starts out strong, with two examples of schools that boosted their test scores by implementing a new way to do gym, that of focusing on heart rate for participation, not just performance. Exercise gets the blood flowing, gets your brain fusing new pathways, gets you ready to learn. Chapters touch on stress, anxiety, depression, and specific changes that women go through monthly and then through menopause. Throughout it all, a drum beat to get 5 days of exercise of 30 minutes at a minimum. This is just the safe side. Best? 6 days a week, 45min to an hour, four days longer with moderate intensity and 2 days shorter with higher intensity.

Duke of Deception: Memories of My Father

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What started out as a breathtaking memoir soured over the hundreds of pages that didn’t quite live up to the beginning, which had been so good that I read it aloud to a bemused hearer who feigned interest. The beginning paints a picture of a sunny day when death is the furthest thing from his mind, then leads you down a false trail where you think that the narrator’s son has died in an automobile accident with his 90-year-old grandmother at the wheel. But no, while death is in the air, it comes in the form of a phone call announcing the writer’s father’s death:

“We had been drinking rum… My wife’s brother-in-law John was called to the telephone… John returned to the terrace… I walked down that terrace to learn which of my boys was dead… John said: ‘Your father is dead.’ And I said: ‘Thank God.'”

The rest of the book purports to explain this reaction, to soften the blow. We learn that Duke, the father, was a con man, lying his way through decades of life, making up a Yale education, pretending not to be Jewish, scamming merchants and frequently fleeing town with creditors at his heels. Very Catch Me If You Can, but instead of feigning to be a doctor or pilot he became an aerospace engineer and worked on the bombing planes that delivered the end of WWII. These Duke-focused tales are actually quite good, but the author insists on his own position in the story, inserts himself. I yawned at his extended descriptions of boarding school and racing boats. Only when the end was nigh did my attention get re-engaged, when Duke is jailed in California and the author sending checks back.

Intriguingly, he mentions his father having a wooden suitcase that when unfolded became a boat that he paddled around the harbor in Martha’s Vineyard.

I’ll Tell You in Person

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Chloe Caldwell’s latest book serves as a cautionary tale to the publishing industry—do not bother printing the so-called writing or thoughts of anyone under the age of 30. She’s consumed with herself, a millennial on full display, proudly showcasing her lack of awareness and blithely blundering through her privilege. “It wasn’t my first trip to Europe. Maybe I just get depressed in Europe…” and “I didn’t have money for the Amtrak, and my mom generously bought my train tickets and gave me enough money to get my hair blown out…”

She loves name dropping, Cheryl Strayed is a BFF that she babysits for and has dinner with all the time, Maggie Estep, Ilana Glazer, Abbi Jacobson, Gaby Hoffman. Surprisingly, she had an unnamed celebrity in Hungry Ghost (how on earth did she control herself??).

A few stories were mildly interesting but most of this was shockingly bad. She’s had 2 other books published? In an interview with LARB, she actually said, “nothing I do is usually intentional… I like to stay in a bubble of idiocy. It keeps me creative.”

Night

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Elie Wiesel’s intense description of surviving Auschwitz but seeing the decline and death of his father is incredibly moving. He lost mother, father, and sister to the Holocaust but somehow made it out. Even more heartbreaking is that he and his father would have been liberated by the Russians if they’d just stayed put in the infirmary where Elie was recuperating from his foot surgery. Instead, they made a calculated decision to try for life, to leave with the rest of the liquidation. This is a must-read. I’m not sure how it’s slipped past my notice all this time. It’s very much a Moby-Dick-ish ending, “And I alone escaped to tell thee.”

Difficult Women

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Not the worst book, but not the greatest. I much prefer Roxane Gay’s non-fiction, if this collection of short stories is any indication. Seems like the most difficult part of the women was that they all enjoyed violent men and sadistic pleasures. Maybe the best story was the first, written in 1st person so you weren’t quite sure if the childhood kidnapping had actually happened to her and her sister. I suppose the next best would be the story of studying in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, falling in love with a logger and being the only woman grad student in the engineering lab. A bit of a letdown overall.