Book Report: The Sweetness of Water

10. Nathan Harris, The Sweetness of Water (2021) (5/20/22)

I believe I found this book thanks to President Obama's annual reading list (2021). It is a beautifully written debut novel about a short period of time immediately following the Civil War, in and near the Georgia town of Ox Bow. At its center, at the start, is one George Walker, an older farmer who's never had much interest in farming but who inherited his land and knows it intimately from his frequent wanderings in the woods. On one such, he bumps into a pair of newly freed slaves, brothers, Prentiss and Landry, and he takes them under his wing, developing a new interest in raising tobacco in the process. (It is perhaps not insignificant that George's father was from Connecticut, so George is not a hardened Southerner.) 

Meanwhile, George and his wife, Isabelle, learn from their son's best friend that their son, Caleb, was recently killed in the war—a coward, running from battle. In fact, that proves not to be the case. Other things, too, turn out to be . . . different from what had been assumed. There is violence. Alliances in and around the town begin to change as George becomes more of an outsider than he already was.

The first half of the book is slow, establishing character and place, mood and emotion. Then the cataclysmic event occurs, and the pace picks up. The effect is a bit schizophrenic—not necessarily in a bad way: the second half is simply quite different, and the characterization and mood become a little less assured, giving way to action. There is also a shift in focus, as characters move in and out of the picture.

I very much enjoyed this book, especially given that this is Harris's first book. I learned something, given the historical setting; I felt for the characters and their situations; I was satisfied by the outcome. 

Here's an excerpt, which explains the title:

Landry roamed the countryside as he pleased. The desire to do so, the fascination with it, had once been a fear: whenever he'd stood before the forest with Prentiss in the flitting sunlight, the darkness in its farthest reaches had always felt like a monster lying in wait, one who had taken down his name long ago, eager to stake its claim on him. That was the dread Prentiss was blind to and that Landry could not describe: that these were two different worlds. That this new one might consume them as it had consumed their mother, and Little James and Esther [all of whom had run away from the slaveholder], and then what?
     But it turned out that each step did not bring danger. The unknown led only to more clearings, more sunlight on the other end, and so it dawned on him that there was less to fear than he'd once imagined, which was maybe a truth he'd long wished to believe—that all danger carried the faint trace of comfort, all wrongs the hint of what may be right. How else to explain a world of cruelty that had also carried in it the great joy of watching his mother at the mercy of Little James's fiddle on a Sunday afternoon, the miracle of a fresh tick mattress, the sweetness of water after a day spent picking in the fields?

I will certainly be looking for Harris's next book. His use of language is so beautifully assured, the world he creates complex.

Observations

We have been back from Portugal and France for a few weeks now. I have observations:

✧ Americans are so loud! You don't need to yell when you're sitting three feet apart!
✧ We need more roundabouts—so many more, and so many fewer traffic lights, never mind stinking left-turn arrows.
✧ We also need fewer cars. Rush hour in nearby Santa Cruz, over the hill from Silicon Valley, is worse than rush hour on the périphérique encircling Paris, with its 2.8 million-plus population. Seriously.
✧ American divisiveness did not go away while we were blissfully elsewhere. On the contrary. Hoo boy.

Which has me re-rethinking whether moving to France might not be good for our health. I'm not sure I can stand watching this country get demolished by right-wing thugs. Though when I think about it, it's been going on for well over forty, maybe fifty years. I shouldn't be surprised anymore . . . But I can still be horrified.

A few more observations, however:
✧ I thrive on wilderness, on nature—natural nature. The parts of Europe we visited are very civilized. Even the birch forests are civilized. Never mind the eucalyptus plantations all over Portugal, in tidy rows, which simply should not be. (I kept wondering, what did this land look like before?)
✧ I like banter, wordplay, having language as a quick-thinking thing rather than a slow parsing-it-out thing. My case in point tends to be a restaurant, and chatting with the server. Simple understanding. I have that at home, I have that to some extent in anglophone countries. I do not have that when I'm struggling just to grok what's on the menu . . .

These are the two main takeaways from our trip, which ostensibly was to gauge the possibility of picking up and moving to Europe. The midterm elections in November will no doubt give us more food for thought. And then, 2024.

We tried being tourists (of sorts) when we first got back: went out to breakfast! sought out bakeries for the best baguette! went to the farmers market, where we bought sweet onions, orange beets, and snap peas, and bunches of banksias for the dining room table!

But then, I fall back into my old (not necessarily good) habits and routines so quickly. It's a little frightening. Am I really so stuck in my ways? Is this it?

Perhaps undergoing the rumpus of a big move would give me a new lease on life. Perhaps that's reason enough (never mind 2024) to think about this more seriously.

You only live once. And we're not getting any younger.

Book Report: The Maid

9. Nita Prose, The Maid (2022) (5/13/22)

Well, I wanted something completely different from the last book, and I got it. I was beguiled by a review I saw somewhere in passing that mentioned the "lovable and quirky" heroine of this "smart, riveting, and refreshing" murder mystery. I bit.

And yes, all of the above is true. I enjoyed this book, though it's slight and light. But there's nothing wrong with that. It was, in fact, exactly what I wanted.

The story is straightforward: a young woman, Molly Gray, is happily and proudly employed as a maid at an upscale hotel. She is (though it's not stated as such) on the spectrum: she has trouble reading people, and she is honest to a T. Which gets her into trouble when she finds a guest dead in his suite. We learn about her relationships (real or imagined) with various other people at the hotel: a bartender she's enamored with, a Mexican dishwasher, the doorman, and . . . the dead man's wife. We learn about her beloved grandmother, who died not long ago but who taught Molly, via aphorisms and sayings, how to get by in life.

Suffice it to say, there are twists and turns—including one I did not expect at the very end (though there were foreshadowings of something).

Here's a brief, randomly chosen excerpt, from when the wife appears at Molly's door, in tears.

I rush to the kitchen, grab a tissue, and bring it to her. "A tissue for your issue," I say.
     "Oh my God, Molly," she replies. "You've got to stop saying that when people are upset. They'll take it the wrong way."
     "I only meant—"
     "I know what you meant. But other people won't."
     I'm quiet for a moment as I take this in, storing her lessons in the vault of my mind.
     We're still in the entranceway. I'm frozen in my spot, unsure of what to do next, what to say. If only Gran were here. . .
     "This is the part where you invite me into the living room," Giselle says. "You tell me to make myself at home or something like that."
     I feel the butterflies in my stomach. "I'm sorry," I say. "We don't . . . I don't have company very often. Or ever. Gran used to invite select friends round from time to time, but since she died, it's been rather quiet here." I don't tell her that she's the first guest to pass through the door in nine months, but that's the God's honest truth. She's also the first guest I've ever entertained on my own. Something occurs to me.
     "My gran always said, 'A good cup of tea will cure all ills, and if it doesn't, have another.' Would you like one?"

I worried that I'd grow weary of Molly's odd pluckiness, but there are enough characters and situations that I was entertained all the way through. 

Book Report: Night Train to Lisbon

8. Pascal Mercier, Night Train to Lisbon (2004) (5/11/22)

I don't know why I thought this book was a mystery and would be the perfect diversion during any spare moments on our recent trip to Portugal, and more specifically Lisbon—because like any good mystery set in a particular place, it would illuminate the shadowy, secret corners of that city. Ha ha: wrong! It's not a mystery, unless you consider life a mystery. Which it is. But I think this author thought he was concocting a deeply philosophical examination of just what that mystery might mean. And maybe he succeeded—if you weren't hoping for a... mystery. Light and plot-driven...

Anyway, this book, clumsily translated from the German (which didn't help), features a Classics teacher in a Swiss Gymnasium, Raimund Gregorius, who one day sees a woman who—oh no! appears to be about to leap from a bridge! He saves her, of course, and she, who turns out to be Portuguese, gratefully accepts his help, then... writes her phone number on his forehead. He then goes to a used bookstore and, rather randomly, buys a book in Portuguese by a physician named Amadeu Prado, quits his classroom, and takes the night train to Lisbon. Of course! Wouldn't you? 

Once in Lisbon, he obsessively sets out to meet anyone and everyone who knew said Dr. Prado: sisters, friends, a childhood sweetheart, colleagues. He also meets local inhabitants who help him on his quest. And throughout it all, he reads Prado's book, and then is introduced to other writings of Prado. So we get Prado's perspective on life and its confounded mysteries, from his words, and the varied perspectives of those around him.

It's an interesting artifice, but I have to say: Prado went on... (the philosophizing! oy! I confess I sometimes skipped ahead). (It may not have helped that I was reading this book via Kindle. I don't like Kindle. The typefaces are not conducive to pleasure...)

At this point—it took me almost two months to read this book—I don't even remember if Mundus, as he's called, ever tried dialing the number that was scribbled on his forehead. If he did, he got no answer: the woman on the bridge never figures into the story again. The juxtaposition of Mundus's predictable, reliable, boring life as a Classics teacher and the (relative) wackiness of his just lighting out for parts unknown for no real reason at all is sort of dealt with, but always as a background to Prado—who is a sort of mirror to Mundus, but less entertainingly so. Prado is just fraught. At least Mundus is alive.

Mundus eventually goes home, because he's having dizzy spells and needs some medical attention. But maybe he'll return to Lisbon? We don't know. And we're not sure we care.

(Sorry: this report is more a rant, but I'm just so ready to be done with this book. I think a good juicy mystery is what's needed next!)

Book Report: The Beautiful Mystery

7. Louise Penny, The Beautiful Mystery (2012) (3/22/22)

This book takes Chief Inspector Garmand and Inspector Beauvoir away from Montréal, never mind the village of Three Pines, to a remote monastery where a monk—the director of the twenty-four-voice choir practicing plainchant in honor of God—has been found murdered. The suspects are easy to keep track of, though the clues are few. One day in, Garmand's boss—and nemesis—arrives, stirring things up. The story refers us back to an incident in a previous book, to add an extra layer or two. 

All in all, it was a satisfying enough read, though a bit slow, with too little texture. I'm not sure I bought some of the premise—a long-lost book of Gregorian chants figures in, as does a recording these monks made that turned them from "long lost to the mists of time" into instantaneous celebrities. Some of the more philosophical points, like how to balance reliance on the will of God with material needs like roof tiles and heating ducts, or ego with community, were nicely done. The motive of the murderer I did not find convincing. 

The book ends with a crisis between Garmand and Beauvoir, so I am now keen to read the next in the series—which I am glad to see, from the coming-soon excerpt at the end, takes us back to Three Pines. There's plenty of texture in that little village.

By way of a sample passage from The Beautiful Mystery (a reference to plainchant), here's a conversation between Beauvoir and one of the monks, Antoine.

     "You don't like the monastery?" [asked Antoine].
     "Of course not. You do?"
     "I wouldn't be here if I didn't," said Frère Antoine. "I love Saint-Gilbert."
     It was such a simple statement it left Beauvoir dumbfounded. . . . No confusion, no ambuguity. It just was. Like the sky just was, and the stones just were. It was natural and absolute.
     "Why?" Beauvoir leaned forward. It was one of the questions he'd been dying to ask this monk with the beautiful voice and the body so like his own.
     "Why do I love it here? What's not to love?" Frère Antoine looked around his cell as though it was a suite at the Ritz in Montréal. "We play hockey in the winter, fish in the summer, swim in the lake and collect berries I know what each day will bring, and yet each day feels like an adventure. I get to hang around men who believe as I do, and yet are different enough to be endlessly fascinating. I live in the house of my Father and learn from my brothers. And I get to sing the words of God in the voice of God."
     The monk leaned forward, his strong hands resting on his knees.
     "Do you know what I found here?"
     Beauvoir shook his head.
     "I found peace."

Which is something that Beauvoir could use a dose of . . .

Book Report: Wilful Behaviour

6. Donna Leon, Wilful Behaviour (2001) (3/7/22)

I broke my rule of reading all the Donna Leon books in order, simply because this book jumped into my hands (I may have taken it recently from a Little Library?) and then because I figure there's not that much character development in these stories—they're mostly about Venice, and it's already got all the character it needs—so I wouldn't be missing anything crucial. I was right. This book was right in the same mold as the last few I've read (#s 1–5; this one is #11), which means there's some good food, there's an interesting geographical feature or two, there's corruption, and there are likable (as well as a few not-so-likable) characters. And of course there's a murder that must be solved. In this case, there is also some history stretching back to WWII. And art.

I'm afraid I didn't find the motive of the killer very compelling—or, more to the point, believable. But as always with the Commisssario Brunetti books, the mystery itself is somewhat beside the point. It's the richness of Venetian society that is the pleasure.

Here's the only passage that I dog-eared:

He recalled . . . something he had seen with Paola [Brunetti's wife], it must have been four years ago. They'd been at an exhibition of the paintings of the Colombian painter, Botero, she drawn to the wild exuberance of his portraits of fat, pie-faced men and women, all possessed of the same tiny rosebud mouth. In front of them was a teacher with a class of children who couldn't have been more than eight or nine. As he and Paola came into the last room of the exhibition, they heard the teacher say, 'Now, ragazzi, we're going to leave, but there are a lot of people here who don't want to be disturbed by our noise or talking. So what we're all going to do,' she went on, pointing to her own mouth, which she pursed up into a tight, tiny circle, 'is make la bocca di Botero.' Delighted, the children all placed single fingers on their lips and drew their mouths into tight imitations of those in the paintings as they tiptoed giggling from the room. Since then, whenever either he or Paola knew that to speak might be indiscreet, they invoked 'la bocca di Botero', and no doubt thus saved themselves a great deal of trouble, to make no mention of time and wasted energy.

Book Report: The Word for World Is Forest

5. Ursula Le Guin, The Word for World Is Forest (1972) (2/24/22)

I finished this book a week ago now, and I've dragged my feet on logging a report. I think, mainly, because it's such a sad, sad book. Which has weighed on me.

It's a story of colonizers and oppressors (yumans), trying to take over a world of peaceful beings (the Athsheans, aka "creechies"—three-foot-tall fur-covered people with deep deep eyes) in order to mine their resources—in this case, trees, since the yumans have denuded their own home planet of Terra of anything resembling lumber—and to prepare the logged areas for future agriculturalist settlers. 

Sound familiar? Well, maybe except for the furry people. Though in Le Guin's world, these beings all evolved from the same pregenitor. 

Again: sound familiar?

I have been curious about Le Guin, and have read a few of her many, many books (including, recently, this one). Not too long ago I ran into someone's list of favorite books by Le Guin. The Word for World was number 1. I bit. 

(I just now googled such lists and came up with a few. The Word  is on some of them, but not all. Obviously, Le Guin, in her richness, means different things to different people. Here are a few of those lists: 1, 2, 3, 4.)

Anyway, this one. It involves an awful opportunist (yuman, of course), a not awful anthropologist (also yuman: so we get the extremes on the scale), and Selver, an Athshean (for a while, an Athshean god), who does the unthinkable—murders—in order to save his home. 

This book is #5 in Le Guin's Hainish Cycle, so it's part of an entire ecosystem. Apparently the books can stand alone, and no, I didn't feel at a disadvantage for not having read #s 1–4. But now I'm curious about them too.

From this book and the one I read not too long ago, I sense a great depth of thought and feeling, and of the notions of truth and justice, in Le Guin's approach to her imaginary worlds. These places are rife with conflict, but balance is achievable—though, at least in this case, at a serious cost. 

Here is a passage I flagged:

Like most Terrans on Terra, Lyubov [the anthropologist] had never walked among wild trees at all, never seen a wood larger than a city block. At first on Athshe he had felt oppressed and uneasy in the forest, stifled by its endless crowd and incoherence of trunks, branches, leaves in the perpetual greenish or brownish twilight. The mass and jumble of various competitive lives all pushing and swelling outward and upward toward light, the silence made up of many little meaningless noises, the total vegetable indifference to the presence of mind, all this had troubled him, and like the others he had kept to clearings and to the beach. But little by little he had begun to like it . . . and now after four years . . . he was completely at home under the trees, more so perhaps than anywhere else.
     He had also come to like the Athsheans' names for their own lands and places, sonorous two-syllabled words: Sornol, Tuntar, Eshreth, Eshsen—that was now Centralville—Endtor, Abtan, and above all Athshe, which meant the Forest, and the World. So Earth, Terra, meant both the soil and the planet, two meanings and one. But to the Athsheans soil, ground, earth was not that to which the dead return and by which the living live: the substance of their world was not earth, but forest. Terran man was clay, red dust. Athshean man was branch and root. They did not carve figures of themselves in stone, only in wood.