My review ran in The Seattle Times Jan. 17, 2014:
Scott Stossel’s new book on his lifelong struggle with severe anxiety is outstanding in the fullest sense of that word. “My Age of Anxiety: Fear, Hope, Dread, and the Search for Peace of Mind” (Knopf, 400 pp., $27.95) is both conspicuous and superior within its genre. Stossel, who also wrote a fine biography of Sargent Shriver, brings his dogged fact-digging skills to this work, which is peppered with humor and humility, remarkably balanced — and generous to the point of philanthropy with his deeply personal, hard-won knowledge.
Plus, the man is a lovely writer.
If I sound surprised, I am. So many mainstream books on mental health insist on leading the reader into one revival meeting or another — where Big Pharma is a pill-pushing Satan or the best lifeguard on the beach; where the ubiquitous reference guide, “The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders” (DSM-5 came out in 2013), is a helpful tool or an insidious guide that unnecessarily labels thousands more people as mentally ill.
Stossel, in contrast, answers questions about the fitness of various diagnostics and treatments with the only truth: It depends.
See the rest of the review on the Seattle Times Books page.
Seattle writer David Laskin wrote a strong book, using his search for knowledge of his own family to paint vivid history of Jews across the world. My review ran in The Seattle Times on Dec. 12, 2013:
“The Family: Three Journeys into the Heart of the 20th Century” by David Laskin (Viking, 400 pp)
Somewhere in the hallways of David Laskin’s publisher, there must be a sturdy soul whose editorial judgment helped ensure that this talented writer could tell his family’s story in plenteous detail. Many publishers would be more likely to winnow the manuscript, ending up with a shorter book that fit more neatly on one side or the other of the history/memoir divide.
Fortunately for us, that did not happen here. Laskin has a broad canvas on which to depict the interwoven stories of a far-flung Jewish family in Eastern Europe, Israel and the United States, from the turn of the 20th century forward. It takes some pages to get acclimated to the many players in this drama (a family tree and wonderful photos help), but once readers are fully grounded, they can happily disappear into the book.
See the rest of review on the Seattle Times Books page online.
“Book of Ages: The Life and Opinions of Jane Franklin” by Jill Lepore (Knopf, 464 pp)
My review ran on the Books page of the Seattle Times on October 5, 2013:
Historian Jill Lepore is a professional genre buster. Or, at least a genre blur-er. She’s a very popular Harvard professor who started her career in those ivy-covered towers as a temp secretary. She’s written several respected books that take on conventional interpretations of war, language and American history — apparently without alienating those peers who cling to the dusty path. She’s an essayist for The New Yorker; a critic, creator and challenger.
Now in “Book of Ages: The Life and Opinions of Jane Franklin,” she brings her various skills and quirks together to tell the story of Benjamin Franklin’s younger sister, and in so doing depicts the famous brother and their times in fresh, sharp colors. This book is a … well, what? A picaresque biography? A dual-ficto-bio? We may need to employ a new term here.
See the rest of review on the Seattle Times website.
Author Reza Aslan has been getting a lot of press, largely because of a Fox News “interview” displaying one of those moronic performances for which the network is known. (I won’t link to it. Google if you feel the need.)
I reviewed his new book for The Seattle Times:
A scholar who sets out to put the record straight on Jesus is an anomalous creature, eager (perhaps even driven) to share diligent research and original conclusions with the very people most likely to be rattled by his findings.
“Zealot” by Reza Aslan is a fascinating book, and no doubt will be chosen by many a well-meaning and hurried gift-giver who imagines a devout Christian recipient will be delighted. Be advised, dear reader, Sunday school this isn’t. Yet Aslan may come as close as one can to respecting those who revere Jesus as the peace-loving, turn-the-other-cheek, true son of God depicted in modern Christianity, even as he knocks down that image.
For the whole review, click here.
I was able to review this book for The Seattle Times. If you know someone who is wild about early American history, jot down this title for use during frantic holiday shopping.
Revolutionary Summer: The Birth of American Independence by Joseph J. Ellis
The best thing about Joseph Ellis’ vast writings on Early America is his ability to construct unvarnished and original accounts, clear away myth and yet leave the reader with a sense of the color, irony, humor and — dare I say it? — the great good luck present throughout our country’s history.
More than once I’ve had the thought that his award-winning books should be issued to every family with fiercely opposed politics and loyalties, with instructions to read one or more of them immediately prior to Thanksgiving dinner. Just imagine it: intelligent arguments about the character of our nation.
His latest, “Revolutionary Summer: The Birth of American Independence,” is not the fully transporting sort of book, as was his “American Sphinx” on Thomas Jefferson. And it won’t inspire people to become public servants or professors, as I believe his works on John Adams et. al. can actually do.
Yet it is an absorbing read and is aptly named, for it takes a fresh view — as his subtitle puts it — of the birth of American independence.
It requires a kind of donnish confidence to focus on the buildup to a great change, and the University of Massachusetts professor shoves off with a characteristically good one-liner at the start: “By the spring of 1776, British and American troops had been killing each other at a robust rate for a full year.”
Read the rest of the review in The Seattle Times by clicking here.
My review of this book ran in The Seattle Times:
“Counter Clockwise: My Year of Hypnosis, Hormones, Dark Chocolate, and Other Adventures in the World of Anti-Aging”
by Lauren Kessler
Rodale, 223 pp., $24.99
I have a rotten gene pool — the family tree is a bonsai. Whatever my predecessors lacked in health, they made up for in drama: fatal tumbles down stairs or whacks on the head during polo matches, all before cancer, diabetes or dementia could claim them.
With my genetic loading, I am absurdly pleased each time I renew my magazine subscriptions. Hence, I am not too worried about aging.
So I turned with some curiosity to Lauren Kessler’s new book, “Counter Clockwise,” in which she plumbs the depths of her own valiant battle to hold back the forces of time. What, I wondered, could she add to our society’s endless discussion of age-retardant strategies? Quite a bit, as it turns out.
For the rest of the review, click here.
I reviewed this for The Seattle Times. Bartley’s book has been nominated for both the Pulitzer and the National Book Award.
“The Boy Who Shot the Sheriff: The Redemption of Herbert Nicolls, Jr.” by Nancy Bartley (Univ of WA Press)
It’s the stuff of movies: An abused, ragged 12-year-old boy shoots and kills a sheriff in a small, poor Depression-era town in southeastern Washington state. He is sent to prison for life. Advocates work tirelessly to free him, jailers endeavor to protect him, and he grows to intelligent manhood behind bars.
In the hands of Nancy Bartley, a staff writer for The Seattle Times, the story of Herbert Niccolls, Jr. is told with perspicacious detail borne of careful research.
It’s a safe wager that every daily newspaper reporter comes across a story that cries out to be turned into a book. For the few who actually do so, many pitfalls lurk. The reporting often goes on for years, making the author reluctant to part with a single hard-won fact. The writing itself can suffer from the narrative albatross of attribution — that lifetime habit of inserting “police said” after each and every fact.
For the rest of the review, click here.
I have been AWOL on this blog for a long time. I’m welcoming myself back with this tip:
This column in The New York Times is beautifully written. Under the bluntly worded headline of “You Are Going to Die,” Tim Kreider writes about life in a way that will resonate with people of all ages. He is funny without being flip, sober without gloom, hopeful and worried at the same time. A lovely accomplishment.
Click here and enjoy.
Longtime readers of Russo’s fiction will recognize the woman at the center of this memoir. His mother, Jean Russo, and his childhood with her have fueled most of his novels.
My review in The Seattle Times begins this way:
Richard Russo has mined his childhood with enormous energy, humor and craftsmanship. He’s populated most of his stories and novels (one, “Empire Falls,” a Pulitzer Prize winner) with wonderfully believable characters found in fading mill towns nestled in upper New York State.
These towns, once vibrant, clattering, stinking centers where animal hides were turned into famously excellent gloves and other leather goods, were dying by the 1950s when Russo was growing up just north of the Adirondacks foothills. His hometown was Gloversville, in what was later labeled the Central Leatherstocking District — two names so simultaneously sad and absurd that Russo might have made them up . (A place proudly named after an extinct industry not once, but twice, is the sort of stuff Russo appreciates.)
Read the rest here.
After I wrote the post below, this excellent commentary by award-winning sportswriter Rick Reilly was published. He says it all.
The trial of Jerry Sandusky is in the works–he’s the former Penn State football coach charged with more than 50 counts of abusing boys and young men over a decade.
The testimony is graphic. (I’m not linking to it. It is not hard to find.) And, now a 30-something man who was adopted and grew up in the Sandusky home has come forward to allege abuse. This is going to get worse.
Sandusky is innocent until proven otherwise, and I firmly believe that witch hunts do happen. But it is an impossible stretch to believe there is no truth to the charges. Before one word of testimony, and on his very best day, Sandusky was a man with boundaries made of air who made it his life’s mission to be around vulnerable kids.
People working with kids who are molested know all about the societal structures and pressures that protect serial abusers. But as one more helpless observer, not a professional, I continue to be shocked.
I do know that priests, coaches and the like have been able to get away with this stuff because of the respect and love (and sometimes fear) they are afforded by kids and parents. Way back in the 1960s, before “inappropriate touching” was a term known to first graders, I had a mother who was crystal clear when explaining to me what adults were not supposed to do to kids. Even she let me go to church and synagogue events unsupervised. Later, living at boarding school, I would have walked off a cliff (or worse) for a beloved teacher or coach. But I was one of the lucky ones; my authority figures were the good guys.
But what is more striking to me now as I read the Sandusky coverage is the elaborate protection systems that grow up around serial abusers. Some powerful factions in the Roman Catholic Church got so good at circling the wagons that the collateral damage will never be sorted out. Sandusky’s world is quite skilled at playing hide-the-villain too. I find myself being ever more appalled by those who stood by, burying their suspicions or even actual knowledge.
I don’t know what combination of genes, environment and inexplicable evil it takes to create a sexual predator within an institution meant to teach and protect young people. I do know that it takes some gutless wingmen to allow it to keep happening.
First, some good news: No need to keep saving up for liposuction. Rats who get the procedure (now isn’t THAT an image…) end up gaining fat back in unhealthy places, specifically their tiny rattish midsections. Bad news: All that money you spent on Vitamin D and Calcium? Probably won’t prevent fractures, old girl.
The Sunday New York Times today (June 10, 2012) has some rich rewards within its pages.
–A very well-written feature on a group of elderly women in a public-housing apartment building in New York City. They’ve become friends, rallying around one who lost her daughter to a stabbing attack. What could have been a brief or shallow look at a bunch of old gals who bring each other coffee is instead a thoughtful and evocative essay on late-in-life friendship. Reporter John Leland should be proud…as should the headline writer who came up with “The Neighbors Who Don’t Knock.”
–The kindness in that piece may be counteracted by the one headlined “Forced to Early Social Security, Unemployed Pay a Steep Price.” I’m saving that one to read later. No need to ruin the mood immediately. (Plus, I know several people who are taking their Social Security early, so I can predict some of the findings.)
–The centerpiece on A-1, “Risky Rise of the Good Grade Pill,” about kids snorting their way to longer attention spans is a major (pardon the pun) downer. The problem is enormous. Adderall, Ritalin and other drugs prescribed to treat ADHD and other conditions are swallowed or crushed and snorted by students from all walks of life to allow for high energy and “tunnel” concentration that is perfect for taking college boards and other tests. With abuse, the resulting damage to health (of both body and mind) is invariably serious. Most sobering is the observation that many kids taking the drugs are unaware that the pills are amphetamines, and that sharing them with others can be the same as selling them, which is a felony. The story is well reported and well written. Reporter Alan Schwartz did a ton of legwork for this one. Among the take-aways for me: (1) There is no mystery as to why so few sources would let their names be used, but watch as Big Pharma manufacturers use the lack of conventional attribution as they refute the size of the problem. (2) I would have been popping these things with both hands if they’d been available when I was in high school.
–The impressive Sunday magazine cover story by Amos Kamil on abuse in the prestigious Horace Mann School in New York is also very well done. But, for God’s sake — I’m beginning to wonder how any kids manage to escape such predators. I was raised to keep a weather eye out for dangerous guys (they were always “guys”) presumably prison escapees who waited in the bushes on the route home from school. What do you tell a kid now? Watch our for priests, teachers, coaches, babysitters, doctors, Scout leaders and camp counselors? No wonder so many kids are snorting their ‘scripts. You need energy and powerful focus to dodge all these dirtbags.
Finally, there’s the Q&A with author John Irving in the Book Review. When asked which famous author he’d like to meet, he replies that he prefers reading writers to meeting them. Excellent answer.
This is a very good novel just out by Kim Barnes. The top of my review in The Seattle Times:
In the 1960s, the Arabian American Oil Company, the big boy in the international oil business, created gated compounds for its American workers in Saudi Arabia, or more accurately, for the workers’ wives and families whose husbands went off to work on oil rigs.
A portrait of life inside the gates in 1967, drawn with skill and filled with evocative period detail by novelist Kim Barnes, depicts a sort of Saudi Barbie Dream House. The narrator is young bride Virginia “Gin” McPhee, a transplanted Okie and heroine in the enticing tradition of plucky outsiders who find themselves in a new society with complex social rules and secrets.
For the rest, click here.
The death of folk and bluegrass great Doc Watson has prompted everyone from NPR to small-club musicians to play some of the man’s wonderful songs. His version of “Tennessee Stud” is often the chosen gem. I keep waiting, but so far I’ve not heard or read anyone mentioning the author of that song–Jimmy Driftwood.
Not to take anything away from Watson, but Jimmy Driftwood (1907-98) and his 6,000-plus songs gave more to American folk music than pretty much anyone else. (Yup, that’s right: 6,000 songs written.) His real name was James Corbitt Morris, according to the excellent entry about him in the online Encyclopedia of Arkansas History & Culture.
Jimmy Driftwood (fans always called him by both names) was a poet and a teacher by trade, and teach us he did. In preserving folk songs of the Ozark Mountains region by performing the ones passed from generation to generation, and writing more in the same vein, he set important history of early America in amber.
I grew up listening to his albums, and on long car trips, I still sing the one that starts this way:
I’m just a Damyankee way down in the South
I love to kiss Southern belles in the mouth
I laugh when they say all Damyankees are bad
For nobody knows I’m a Damyankee Lad.
And after several verses, it closes out with:
When I get so old that I’m ready to die
I’ll put on my uniform blue as the sky
They’ll march ’round my coffin and won’t they get mad
When they learn that I was a DamnYankee Lad.
My voice isn’t pretty, but neither was his.
My escapist reading for the past couple of weeks covered a lot of ground–the old West, the new Midwest, the future North America and modern-day Manhattan. I grabbed two at the library based on my scientific method of good cover, good summary, an author not known to me, and enough pages to keep the entertainment coming for several days. The third is a mega-hit young adult book I could not resist any longer.
“Criminal Seduction” by Darian North (Dutton, 1993; Signet 1994) is a juicy thriller built around a murder case, complete with a mysterious widow charged with killing her husband, a well-known and troubled artist. The narrator is Owen Byrne, a Kansas cowboy-turned-author who is writing his first true-crime book about the case. I’m a sucker for a good story about a struggling writer. This one has enough plot twists and turns to keep even jaded mystery/thriller readers hooked. It’s not easy to segue from courtroom narrative to sex scenes, but North manages quite nicely.
“Doc” (Random House, 2011) was a surprise. Author Mary Doria Russell manages to mix the myth and generous servings of true history about Dodge City in the 1870s together to make the legendary Doc Holliday come to life. Her humor is dry and clever — if you loved the irreverent HBO series Deadwood, this book is for you. Russell is a talented writer across genres, with a gift for focusing on unlikely friendships and love affairs as a means of understanding her characters. Doc’s liaison with a whore who converses with him in Latin is most memorable.
Other books by North and Russell are on my to-get list now. Is there anything better than discovering an enjoyable author with other books to her/his credit?
The third book is The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins, a fantasy set in the future, a genre I used to rate right below appliance manuals. Author Kevin Brockmeier (“The Illumination”) helped me realize the idiocy of this bias, so I finally picked up “The Hunger Games.” The book is inspired by Greek myth, reality TV and bleak war news, according to interviews with Collins, a former TV writer. The story is told from the point of view of Katness Everdeen, a tough teenage girl who is the hunter-gatherer for her fatherless family, and who must go off to fight to the death in the televised Hunger Games. Collins manages to indict today’s political and corporate villains without preaching, and throws in enough suspense and survival-by-wits to keep the reader riveted. Small wonder that two more books and a motion picture have popped up.
Buy all at Powell’s — best bookstore in America.
–Kimberly Marlowe Hartnett
I was fortunate to be able to review Carole King’s new autobio for The Seattle Times:
The title of Carole King’s autobiography is a good fit for the humble, glamour-free portrait she paints of her seven decades. It’s also a stroke of marketing genius.
“(You Make Me Feel Like A) Natural Woman” was the megahit King and her first husband and longtime collaborator Gerry Goffin wrote for Aretha Franklin in 1967 that’s been sung by countless rockers, rappers, divas and secret shower-
soloists. It is also likely the best-known track on King’s 1971 smash album “Tapestry,” which has sold upward of 25 million copies. Now those of us who wore out our record players listening to it are a publisher’s dream demographic: young enough to still have rock ‘n’ roll in our heads, old enough to pay full price for a hardcover book without feeling ripped off.
For the rest of the review, click here.
Check out my latest book review in The Seattle Times, here.
Go to Powells.com to order this or any other book
I am still on my “sabbatical” from the blog, finishing up (please, God) my book project. But I had to yank Type Like The Wind out of mothballs to post this link. Writer Marla Williams is one of the funniest and smartest newspaper writers to come down the pike. I had the good fortune to work with her some years ago, including a trip during which we were supposed to be writing travel stories about a quaint island getaway. We got there, we both fell asleep, and we woke up when the weekend was over. The story, while short on facts, was funny. Thanks to Marla.
Check out this story about her dog, Carl.
Etta James died January 2o.
James had a lot of demons: heroin and cocaine to name two. Her lifelong partner–music–got her through it. She sang through hard times, good times, in sickness and in health. She was enormously gifted, hilariously raunchy and tough enough to make it in a world notoriously unkind to women of color. She was fifteen when she recorded “Roll With Me Henry” and she never looked back.
Rest in Peace, Etta James.