The Bean Trees by Barbara Kingsolver

I had never read a Kingsolver novel before, but have been guiltily eying the Oprah's Book Club stash at our local library for several months. It seems like she has a major glitch for Toni Morrison, which is understandable, since she's a fascinating author. But sitting there, patiently biding its time among the bestickered collection, was The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver. See, this is the best thing about the library. I think to myself, "Who have I always wanted to read but just haven't yet?" Kingsolver would be one of those names!
So for the past two weeks, I've been picking up speed through The Bean Trees. I didn't exactly what to expect from the novel...the back cover made it sound like things could easily go sour on me in the minor odyssey.
I am happy to report that I really loved this book in the most pure sense. It was, first of all, full of newly realized truths for me about living in the desert. The simplistic beauty of it married with the ever-present thirst in your soul to see, feel, or even smell some water. But the story was also unique and touching. I finished the last page and thought, "Now that makes me me feel good."

The Pieces from Berlin by Michael Pye

The trouble with browsing at the library is that you often find a book with a strong spine on the dust jacket, but a lack of spine on the inner pages. That might be a little harsh, but this book, The Pieces from Berlin by Michael Pye, began so strongly. It piqued my interest with the issues it seemed to bring up -- possession, mysteries in the family, the mind's memory, and, of course, wartime and the aftermath it brings for generations to come. Sounded pretty good. And it was pretty good...until it became hard to follow.
It's difficult to read a book once you feel like you don't understand it anymore. The main character was an elderly lady sinking into a memory loss brought on by the despair she felt as situations became more difficult for her...I think. That's the trouble with this book. I felt like it was either a lot dumber than me, or a whole lot smarter. I think the latter is more likely, but still...if I have to stop and say, "Wait...what?" too many times during a novel, I am always happy to see the last page in sight.

Lost Time

Well, I guess that's just what happens at the end of the school year...I get completely sidetracked by the things that aren't as important as this blog!
Let's just play a little catch- up, shall we, and pretend the whole hiatus never happened!

About a month ago, I read Cat's Eye, by Margaret Atwood. This was a great Christmas gift from the Taosaians (how's that spelling?), and I enjoyed it very much. Is there anything Atwood has written that I won't adore? Probably not, but I'll keep searching and trying. The story is somewhat chilling, and this is the second book of hers (The Robber Bride being the other) where the main character has a fear for women in the next generation that is revealed as unnecessary. The mothers in both books live in fear that their daughters will run into the same troubles as they did -- sadistic girlfriends, empty relationships -- and in both books, the character sees the daughters as a sort of tough hybrid of themselves, not prone to the same difficulties, for whatever reason. As a woman from the generation after Atwood, I find this to be a fascinating idea -- that somewhere between her generation and the one I inhabit comes a hardiness whose origin is unknown. Of course, everyone likes to think they're tougher than they really are -- myself being no exception.

After that, I went on to a novel called The Book of Lost Things by John Connolly. I'll have to remember his name and look into his body of work, because this book was great. The last time I felt moved to tears at the end of a book was when I read A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving. (Don't even think about watching the horrific "Simon Birch" movie that is periously based on this fantastic novel -- it's all kinds of awful.) The Book of Lost Things is a quasi-modern fairy tale, reminiscent of Pan's Labyrinth, actually. Very good.

And then I fell into league with a series! Now, one of my guilty pleasures is monster books. Monsters like vampires, werewolves, and the like. Most of them can be pretty trashy, like this series. (I'm not kidding when I say this is a guilty pleasure. I can't believe I'm admitting that I enjoy some of these books in a public arena.) But this latest series I found is just plain fun! It's the Sookie Stackhouse series, by mystery author, Charlaine Harris. Plus, they'll be making it into an HBO series in the fall, called "True Blood," I think. The characters are great, interesting, and it's just great pop-fiction. Makes me feel not so guilty after all.

I also read Holy Fools and Sleep, Pale Sister by Joanne Harris. Holy Fools may be the best book of hers I've read. And I also just finished Daughter of Fortune by Isabel Allende. So even though I've been silent in cyberworld, I have been devouring those books and keeping up with my reading. Swear.
Now that summer is upon me, I know I'll have more time to write about what I'm reading. I just went to the library today for more Atwood, some Michael Pye, and Barbara Kingsolver!