Eden (Yael Hedaya)

Eden is one of several novels that my cousin Michal gave me to introduce me to Israeli literature, and it is a grand introduction, a shadowy exposé of lifestyles in a gentrified moshav. The moshav, Eden, is unlike the humble, workaday neighborhood described in Mier Shalev’s My Russian Grandmother and Her American Vacuum Cleaner. Instead, it’s a genteel outlying haven of older remodeled homes with price tags now beyond the reach of Joe Schmoe and his ilk. It’s the type of place you drive past and think, “Wouldn’t that be nice?” And what Hedaya posits here is that maybe Eden isn’t so nice.

Hedaya has structured the book so that each chapter is narrated by alternating characters, all residents of Eden, in their own stream-of-consciousness. Some of the characters are related or acquainted, others are not, and some will cross paths as the story proceeds. Not much real time elapses in its 486 pages, but as the characters spend considerable energy dwelling on past events, a strong sense of personal and relational history is constructed. 

The primary characters hail from two households. Daphna and Eli are a childless couple trying desperately to conceive. Alona and Mark are separated but friendly spouses with a troubled teenage daughter, Roni. When Roni embarks on an affair with Eli, their secret threatens to dismantle any remnant of happiness their families may be currently clinging to.

A home in a modern moshav
(from guideforisrael.com

Eden’s narrative is cerebral. Some characters are oppressively, even self-destructively, analytical. Like a soap opera, the story grows dark and explicit and becomes highly entangled. Eden isn’t all sex and sentiment though. It also addresses the modern political tensions from both liberal and conservative perspectives. But the political ideals prove as illusory as the idyllic moshav lifestyle.

The book I read is a translation from Hebrew, so I can’t authoritatively discuss Hedaya’s narrative style. The English-language version, translated by Jessica Cohen, maintains the Israeli feel that I’m starting to recognize ‒ declarative, opinionated, direct. The text is rich in literal and figurative content. The characterization is distinct, with a clear shift in voice from narrator to narrator. You’ll get a strong grasp of each person, and you’ll have strong opinions about them too. Hedaya also incorporates a book-within-a-book construction which, upon some analysis, can turn up discussion-worthy correlations with the primary plot.

Yael Hedaya
(from flickr.com)

The moshav Eden appears lovely, but sordid secrets lurk there. The book Eden is also full of beauty and darkness. The ending is grim but hopeful, as I like to think of the spirit of Israel ‒ resilient despite the country’s turmoil. Eden is a tumultuous but insightful story, and I’m glad to be among its community of readers.

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American Gods (Neil Gaiman)

Neil Gaiman’s epic American Gods would be a great subject for a master’s-level analytical essay. But since my humble blog promises to keep reviews “short and informal,” this post will barely address the intricacies of the masterpiece. Still, I hope the cursory glance I provide here will tempt you enough to savor the novel for yourself.

But before you do, you should know that it starts kind of befuddlingly and stays that way for a while. Let me clarify. Gaiman doesn’t write the ungraspable stream-of-consciousness gobbledeegook that we’re force-fed in Modern Lit courses. You’ll follow his every word and sentiment. What I mean is this: The story can feel plotless. It meanders down seemingly random threads to dangling ends. But KEEP READING! All of those threads are actually hot wires that will connect and detonate in a fantastical conclusive bang.

The story centers on Shadow, a lovable convict who practices coin tricks and misses his wife. Despite Shadow’s resolve to avoid trouble after his release, he’s inexplicably suckered into working for Mr. Wednesday, a prolific rule breaker, who also turns out to be Odin, the “All-Father” of Norse mythology. Shadow and Wednesday travel the country to recruit other old, forgotten gods for a great battle against the insipid contemporary deities.

Odin the Wanderer (1869)
by Georg von Rosen

Along the way, you’ll meet a motley cast of historical and present-day people, ancient supernatural beings, and also the modern gods who try to compel Shadow away from Wednesday’s service. In his loyalty to Wednesday, Shadow gets caught in some brutal physical encounters and several supernatural events.

For at least half of the novel, it’s unclear why Wednesday has chosen Shadow and why the contemporary gods are bent on his elimination. But chapter by chapter, the picture sharpens, and the brilliance of the story will emerge. Sex and love, intrigue and betrayal, con jobs and killings, all culminate in a great oblation, and finally, absolution.

I’m not a student of mythology, so I’m certain (and disappointed) that I missed a lot of beautiful nuances and allusions. But with my background in Christian studies, I can confirm that Gaiman incorporates several biblical references ⎼ shadows, if you will. Don’t get hung up on them. The author knows his stuff, but American Gods is not an allegory.

The edition I read is the “Author’s Preferred Text.” I don’t know how it differs from other editions, but in the appendix, Gaiman includes a passage that he omitted from the body of the novel. It’s where Shadow meets Jesus. I liked it. I think it would have been good in context. But based on the commentary, I understand why he kept it out, and why he couldn’t quite entirely keep it out.

Neil Gaiman

The only other Gaiman book I’ve read (so far) is the Graveyard Book, an excellent juvenile fiction. Based on these two reads, I can tell you that Gaiman has a leaning toward the macabre. His work is far from horror though. It’s just a step into a fantasy world that can be dark, maybe a little dangerous, but mostly an alluring adventure. His objective is not to frighten, but to present a new angle on things you might have otherwise considered scary. He writes for the masses, but this is no pulp thriller. He tells a great redemption story, but it’s not a religious text either. American Gods is lavish and complex and, honestly, deserves a second reading for full appreciation. I hope to have that second reading before long, but even more, I hope you pick up the book and get at least one great ride with it.

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Detroit City Is the Place To Be: The Afterlife of an American Metropolis (Mark Binelli)

Detroit City Is the Place To Be wasn’t what I hoped. Going in, I wanted to read about Detroit’s greatness and, maybe, get an honest nod to its struggles. The reality was vice versa. Mark Binelli writes at length about Detroit’s woes and only briefly acknowledges some points of optimism. But I wasn’t disappointed. The book is a thorough, insightful, and engaging history and analysis of the city’s challenges from its settlement by French fur traders in the late 1600’s to publication in 2013.

Like me, Binelli was raised in the Detroit suburbs (in my case, Warren, and in his case, Saint Clair Shores). He left Michigan for his career, and then returned to live in the city proper, specifically the Eastern Market area in Southeast Detroit, to research and write this book. His location at the writing gives him sentimental and practical clout. Binelli clearly loves the city, as he speaks fondly of his neighborhood and neighbors and others who turn up in the pages, but he describes the entity of Detroit like a disappointed father telling a friend about a wayward child.

Detroit as viewed from Windsor, Ontario

The book is organized somewhat chronologically, but mainly categorically. Each chapter addresses a particular topic: history, arson, crime, politics, schools, blight, etc. Binelli reports facts, but he editorializes too. He takes investigative field trips and conducts interviews with experts on each issue. The format works. You’ll get a surprisingly in-depth education on the individual subjects, and when viewed in whole, the big picture makes sense … or nonsense, as it can feel. You’ll begin to realize the enormous scope of Detroit’s problems and the formidable task of its economic revival. But Binelli, like anyone with Detroit in their blood, also recognizes and feels the pervasive undercurrent of hope.

Binelli’s writing is fairly highbrow journalism. His wit is sharp and sometimes bleakly poetic. But while he uses some big words and long, complex sentences, he’s not ostentatious. He writes to the average bright reader. (If you’re reading this book, I consider you bright.) You should approach the book expecting an education but not an intellectual strain.

Mark Binelli (from writersvoice.net)

I routinely tell non-Detroiters that Detroit is a fabulous city that gets a lot of bad press, that “You have to know where to go and where to avoid, but aren’t most cities like that?” I tell them about the Riverwalk and the orchestra and Belle Isle and the ethnic food and the rich arts culture. Detroit City is the Place To Be is, maybe unfortunately, more bad press. But to address our weaknesses, we must be aware of them. I think Binelli means well, and maybe he’ll help goad the town to faster, fuller healing.

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The Night of the Hunter (Davis Grubb)

Inspired by the true story of Depression-era serial killer Harry Powers, The Night of the Hunter, first published in 1953, is an old-timey thriller featuring the dynamic, psychopathic, mercenary preacher, whose name is changed to Harry Powell for the novel. Powell, commonly known as Preacher, seeks out and marries a widow, Willa, whose late husband hid a large stash of money somewhere on their property. Willa doesn’t know where the money is, but her two young children, John and Pearl, do. Powell sets off on a psychological-turned-physical hunt to discover the children’s secret.  

Grubb uses his novel to criticize the questionless credence some people give to anyone who declares himself a “man of God” and who publicly (emphasis on publicly) behaves according to those expectations. The book also takes a delightful feminist tack in the character of Rachel, the primary heroine, who demonstrates a superior level of resourcefulness, intelligence, love, and strength, independent of any man, standing in commendable contrast with the foolish, meddlesome, and sheepish townswomen.

Mugshot of serial killer Harry Powers, 1920

Grubb’s narrative is eloquent and smart, and his crafting of the townsfolks' dialect enhances his portrayal of rural Americana, which isn’t especially complimentary. While he employs stereotypes of small-town ignorance, the characters are never corny, and Grubb differentiates between simplicity and stupidity. His smart characters aren’t fancy, but they’re strong and sharp.

Davis Grubb
(Photo from lib.wvu.edu)

The story’s plot is compelling. The author creates suspense and evokes strong and appropriate emotions about each character, good and bad. The stereotypes are recognizable, but they don’t create a predictability that detracts from the story. Instead, the roles support and strengthen the telling of this classic American thriller. Read it and enjoy the retro ride. 

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The Masked Rider: Cycling in West Africa (Neil Peart)

Neil Peart is famously the drummer for the Canadian rock band Rush, but his book The Masked Rider: Cycling in West Africa is almost entirely not about his career. Although his musicianship gets a couple of side mentions, his career is as relevant to this book as my cycling hobby is to my career as a technical writer, i.e., pretty much not at all. The book is essentially a polished journal of Peart’s 1988 cycling tour through the West African country of Cameroon. Neil is a great writer and a substantial thinker, and while his name certainly helped sell several copies, the book is excellent enough on its own. I didn’t know him, and I loved it.

The Masked Rider’s timeline is linear. It starts when the tour starts, and it ends when the tour ends. Peart tells stories of towns, people, sites, lodgings, food, wildlife, and so on. He doesn’t paint an idyllic picture, nor is it poverty porn. He recounts his travels matter-of-factly, with opinions, many of which are lovely, and many not. The portrayals seem fair. Per the author’s telling, the Cameroonian people are often friendly and welcoming, quick to smile and help when they can. On the other hand, some locals try to swindle Peart and his travel mates (and tourists in general). Peart also notes his frustration with the accommodations. Even the “good” hotels are dives by American standards ‒ bugs, grime, polluted water, broken air conditioning, and “frozen” plumbing.

Map of Cameroon. 
The tour began in Duala and ended in N'djamena.

Throughout the book, an unexpected treat is Peart’s philosophical bent. He’s not the stereotypical dopehead rock star. This guy is obviously whip-smart and well-read. He opines insightfully on all aspects of the adventure and includes informed discussions on history and politics.

Peart sometimes comes off as a bit of a hot head. He doesn’t make great friends with any of the other cyclists, and he quickly develops a special disdain for one of them in particular. In his direct interactions with his travel mates, he seldom says or does anything outright abrasive. He’s sophisticated enough to exercise restraint in the moment. But his irritation simmers in the writing. 

Since I am the even-tempered, forgiving type, I’ll defend Peart by saying that this journey, with its excessive heat, roadblocks, irrational questioning, government run-around, horrible road and trail conditions, lack of sleep, foodborne illness, etc., would exhaust pretty much anyone’s patience.

Peart performing at the Air Canada Centre, Toronto, Ontario,
on October 16, 2012.
"Neil Peart3" by Shipguy - Own work.
Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons -
http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Neil_Peart3.jpg#/
media/File:Neil_Peart3.jpg

Maybe West Africa’s sociopolitical environment and infrastructure have improved since 1988. I haven’t done the research. But this book convinced me that I don’t want to take a similar tour, outside of a book, at least. It’s a fascinating trip via the pages of The Masked Rider, where you can experience just enough of Cameroon from your first-world cozy chair, without bug bites, intestinal distress, or threat of imprisonment. Maybe Peart will inspire you to fly your bike to Africa, but I’ll stick with the Tennessee hills for my real-life adventure rides.

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The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest (Stieg Larsson)

The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest is the final book in Stieg Larsson’s Dragon Tattoo series, and it picks up right where The Girl Who Played with Fire leaves off ⎼ the cliffhanger where Mikael discovers Lisbeth shot in the head and barely alive. Of course, the series can’t continue without its heroine, so Larsson starts Hornet’s Nest in the emergency room, where Lisbeth keeps fighting for her survival.

This book starts and finishes with some great action, including a hospital bed murder and a full-action battle between tiny Lisbeth and her gigantic brother. We also get some savvy courtroom drama toward the end. But the bulk of the book consists of strategy discussions. Police, journalists, detectives, and secret agents devise various plans, some with justice at heart, and others with evil intent. We learn the history and current operations of “the Section,” a special unit of the Swedish Secret Service with broad powers and practically no oversight, which was responsible for Lisbeth’s lifelong mistreatment.

Lisbeth making her magic happen (as played by
Noomi Rapace; photo from blogs.whatsontv.co.uk)

Throughout the pages, a dizzying swarm of bad players is awakened to a frenzy of schemes to take down Lisbeth. Hence the title. Throughout most of the story, Lizbeth herself is confined to a hospital bed, but even in her restricted state, she takes her own brand of action on a smuggled hand-held computer.

For some small mid-story action, Erica Berger gets a little subplot involving a stalker at her new job, and Mikael hooks up with a smart and sexy new lady friend. But mostly, the middle pages are comprised of strategy meetings, and because of this, I found the book dull compared to its predecessors.

Larsson’s writing style is consistent with the first two books ⎼ plain but effective. (The translator, Reg Keeland, is the same.) Like Dragon Tattoo and Played with Fire, there’s no profound symbolism or grand underlying meaning, but the author solidly stands on his anti-misogyny platform, bringing to light all sorts of abuses toward women, from subtle assumptions and downward glances to unspeakable violence. With the current popularity of Fifty-Shades junk fiction, Larsson’s feministic perspective is refreshing and socially important. His female characters are physically and emotionally strong and independent, but like all humans, not impervious to stress and upset.

Stieg Larsson (photo from
bernardsvillelibrary.org)

Despite the relatively lackluster plot of Hornet’s Nest, the book does conclude the series satisfactorily. The ending may feel too happily-ever-after for some readers, but I liked it. The bad guys lose, and the good guys ⎼ and girls ⎼ win. Lisbeth gets her revenge, but she gets a bit of her own comeuppance too. If you’ve already read the first two books, you’ll want to read Hornet’s Nest to wrap up the adventure. Get through the middle and pay decent attention. The end is worth the effort.

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