The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay (Michael Chabon)

The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay tells the story of Sammy Clay, an ambitious young Jewish New Yorker, and his cousin, Josef Kavalier, newly immigrated from Prague in a harrowing escape from the encroaching Germans in 1939. Soon after Josef arrives at Sammy’s apartment, the cousins discover their uncanny artistic compatibility. Joe is a masterly sketch artist, while Sammy’s head whirls with thrilling plots of heroic adventures. Together, they create a comic book superhero, and their comics become national bestsellers.

Despite a parasitic contract with their publisher, the guys pull in pretty good money. They find love, success, and joy, until – as must happen in all good stories – tragedy strikes. The story spins on how each young man escapes his individual crisis. Chabon takes them on their separate journeys, and ultimately reunites them, revealing how, while they were apart, each has been the inadvertent protector of the other.

Artwork inspired by The Amazing Adventures
of Kavalier & Clay (John Cassaday, cover art for
Michael Chabon Presents the
Amazing Adventures of the Escapist #4)

Besides the retro snapshot of New York Jewish culture in the 1930s-1950s, this book also stashes a trove of all the stuff that literature nerds love: foreshadowing, symbolism, suspense devices, character foils, vivid dialog, a brilliant denouement, an expertly spun theme, and tons of vocabulary words. If you’re like me, you’ll want to keep your dictionary app on the ready.

While the book recalls lots of old-timey things the unassailable culture shift has diminished, like superhero comic books, public smoking, and automats, Chabon keeps the vibe current by addressing issues like dysfunctional families, homophobia, and anti-Semitism, which never seem to go away.

Michael Chabon at the 2019 Comic-Con in
San Diego (photo by Gage Skidmore)

Even though The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay was written in 2000 and won the Pulitzer Prize in 2001, I hadn’t heard of it before this year. I don’t know why. It should be ubiquitous. Buy this book, and brace yourself. It is legitimately an amazing adventure.

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The Radium Girls: The Dark Story of America's Shining Women (Kate Moore)

When one of my bookie friends told me about The Radium Girls: The Dark Story of America’s Shining Women, her verbal summary simultaneously appalled and intrigued me. Who couldn’t pay attention to such an account of astonishing corporate greed and coverups, unscrupulous deception, and grotesque deaths?

Radium Girls is set from 1917 through 1939 in two American towns – Orange, New Jersey, and Ottawa, Illinois. In these towns, respectively, stood the factories of the Radium Luminous Materials Corporation and the Radium Dial Company, where luminescent dials for watches and instrument panels were produced. The companies hired young girls, mostly aged from their mid-teens through early twenties, to hand-paint the tiny numbers on the dials with radium paint, hence the luminescence. It was a coveted job in their communities, the highest paying opportunity for young ladies at that time. The girls had to work fast and precisely. In order to form a superfine point on the paintbrushes, they were instructed to “lip point,” in other words, to moisten and shape the brush hairs with their mouths. Having achieved the requisite fine point, the girls would then dip the brush in the radium paint, paint a numeral, then put the brush directly back to their lips to reform the point. “Lip, dip, paint. Lip, dip, paint.” Over and over. All day long. Every day. Deliberately and directly ingesting radium.

Dial painter with radium
induced growth

At this time in history, the dangers of radium, which had only been discovered in 1898, were known but underestimated. The luminescent paint was thought to be harmless since the quantities of radium were so small. In fact, radium was so poorly understood that it had become a fad health treatment, and the girls’ employers assured them that the paint was not only harmless, but beneficial. “Radium will put rosy cheeks on you,” they were told. Oblivious, the girls would playfully dust their faces with the dry paint base, then go out in the evenings, glowing in the darkness. The shining girls with the glamorous jobs were the envy of their communities.

A few years later, the painters began suffering debilitating symptoms – aggressive tooth infections, jawbone disintegration, tumors on faces, loss of hip motion, etc. No doctors had ever seen ailments like these, especially in such young and previously healthy girls. Some physicians believed radium poisoning was the cause and urged the girls to quit their jobs. A few even conducted experiments and scientifically confirmed that the girls were radioactive. But as the powerful company-appointed doctors and lawyers denied any workplace association, girl after girl was accused of being a “nervous case” or given misdiagnoses such as syphilis and phossy jaw (necrosis of the jaw from overexposure to phosphorus). The dial painters kept suffering. Their medical bills surged. One after the other, they died, and their families were left destitute. Yet their employers were unswayed. 

Kate Moore
(photo from theradiumgirls.com)

In Radium Girls, Kate Moore details the dial painters’ struggle and ultimate victory, at enormous cost, over powerful businessmen. She illustrates the criticality of governmental regulation to mitigate the threat of capitalistic greed. Moore’s writing style tends toward the journalistic. It’s factual, fully annotated, and undramatized. The stories of individual dial painters coalesce and compound to form a juggernaut that drives this book forward. And of course, an underdog win always satisfies. Moore follows the girls’ stories with an epilogue that brings us to the current-day environmental repercussions of the factories’ recklessness, and the regulatory and scientific advances that the girls effected.

Radium Girls is the book that brought me back to my blog after a two-and-a-half year hiatus. That’s how important it is. I hope you’ll buy it, read it, and share it.

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The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat (Oliver Sacks)

The title The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat first came to my attention in an advertisement for an opera, which was, unbeknownst to me, inspired by the book. I was offput. It was nonsensical, and I dislike nonsense. I did not buy the opera tickets, and then I forgot about it until I heard a discussion of agnosia on a podcast. This book was a key component of that discussion, and I realized that it was not nonsense, but medical science. The author, Oliver Sacks, is a neurologist, and the book is a collection of his case studies.

The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat was originally published in 1970 and had a second run in the mid-1980s with followups on the patients and information from newer studies on similar cases. Obviously, medical and social advancements have occurred since then, and some of Sacks’ terminology, such as “moron,” “imbecile,” and “retarded,” is downright cringe-worthy now, but used without a hint of insult here. Sacks’ empathy for his patients is obvious, and he has a gift with words uncommon among medical professionals. When you read his stories, you’ll realize that these conditions could happen to you, or to someone you love, at any time, for no reason. It’s sobering. But Sacks’ attitude is optimistic and encouraging, and his viewpoint is fascinating.

A scene from the 

Indianapolis Opera production

(from http://jayharveyupstage.

blogspot.com/)

The book is divided into four sections: Losses, Excesses, Transports, and World of the Simple. Each section features case studies of patients in that category. For example, Losses describes patients with a neurological loss or deficiency, including the man in the title, who loses his ability to recognize objects and people by sight. It also tells the story of a “disembodied” young lady who had a devastating response to a drug and can no longer sense the position of her body. In contrast to Losses, the Excesses section includes cases where a neurological function is overactive, for example Tourette's patients who have too much nervous energy, and a case of Cupid’s Disease, where exaggerated libido is triggered by previously latent syphilis. Transports describes people who experience fantastic visions and auditory phenomena, as well as incredible recollections. Finally, World of the Simple describes patients with intellectual disabilities ‒ and their surprising gifts and skills.

Oliver Sacks, Brooklyn Book Festival, 2009

(© Luigi Novi / Wikimedia Commons)

The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat is neatly structured and easy to follow. Sacks has a formal, florid writing style, and there’s a fair amount of medical terminology, but don’t be intimidated. The book is accessible. Just have your dictionary app handy. You’ll want it every now and then. I hope that, someday soon, more postscripts will be added to address medical advancements since the last publication. Even so, you’ll put this book down with new empathy for the ill, new awe for the human brain, and if you’re neurologically healthy, gratitude for your wellness.

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Burr (Gore Vidal)

You probably remember Aaron Burr as the man who killed Alexander Hamilton in a duel. To be honest (and humble) (and ashamed of my history education), before I read Gore Vidal’s Burr, I didn’t even know that. But Vidal’s novel will tell you much more about this infamous man and maybe even convince you that he’s not such a villain. He’s flawed, yes, but he’s also principled, and he bucks a corrupt system.

The people in this novel (except the narrator) are real, researched historical characters﹣everyone from the presidents to the prostitutes﹣and all events (with three exceptions which Vidal notes) are also established history. Of course, detailed dialogue is necessarily construed, but it supports the official events. So even though this book falls under “fiction” in my lineup, don’t consider it a fabrication. “Historical novel” is the genre the author ascribes.

The story begins when Burr is old but still spry and newly married to a wealthy French widow. The narrator, Charlie Schuyler, is Burr’s young law clerk, but he prefers his side gig as a newspaper writer. Burr asks Charlie to write his biography and gives him drafts of his history from the time he was a young soldier in the Revolutionary War, throughout his political career﹣including details of the fateful duel﹣until his fall from society’s graces. During their meetings, Charlie grows to love Burr, but he has also been tasked by a powerful newspaperman to secretly discover whether a scandalous rumor is true: Is Burr is the biological father of Martin Van Buren?

Even though Charlie is the narrator of the novel, the bulk of the book is Burr’s narrative via his own biographical notes. Naturally, Burr comes off as a hero﹣charming and witty, a masterful soldier and military strategist, a balanced politician. But he’s occasionally self-deprecating and admits that he’s a lousy master of his money and his libido. 

The glaring takeaway from this book is that politics has always been a nasty business. The pages are filled with sex scandals, bribes, hot tempers, lies, secrets, irrational egos, and mercenary military plots. There’s great dirt on Washington, Adams, and Jefferson. After reading Burr, you’ll have no rose-colored views of your favorite founding fathers.

Gore Vidal, Los Angeles Times Festival of Books, 2008
Photo by Mark Coggins from San Francisco
 - Gore Vidal, CC BY 2.0,
https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3956646

Gore Vidal is a prolific author, but this is my first reading of his work. He’s eloquent and sharp. He constructs vivid settings. I love his depiction of historical New York City, but especially intriguing is nascent Washington, D.C., while the White House is under construction, and the city is so dank that people hate going there. My only criticism reflects my deficiency, not Vidal’s. As I’ve mentioned in previous reviews, I’m meh on politics, and some of the detail in this book was beyond my scope of interest. But the great writing and history made it more than worthwhile. I recommend Burr the book for its broader perspective on Burr the man, and also on our founding fathers. Vidal helped me see that modern politics is really just politics as usual, since the very beginning of our country.

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Moneyball: The Art of Winning an Unfair Game (Michael Lewis)

Moneyball is the story of how the Oakland Athletics in 2002, under general manager Billy Beane, became one of the most successful major league baseball teams on one of the lowest budgets. But Moneyball isn’t just a feel-good story of an underdog baseball team. It’s also a detailed explanation of the methodology Beane applied, including hard data science and magical wheeling and dealing. The book balances plain information with personal stories to create a surprisingly engaging educational experience. You’ll learn about economics and statistics and data analytics, but also about key players, managers, and trainers ‒ the hot-shots who flamed out in a hurry, the cool-heads who just kept doing their thing, and the longshots who surprised everyone (except sabermetrician Paul DePodesta) with their game-winning performance.

I have a personal history of pronounced indifference to team sports, baseball included. But I’ve always loved money, and I’m totally into tips and tricks for managing it wisely. So it’s the Money, not the Ball, that attracted me to Moneyball. But the book had a different plan for me. The economic strategy ‒ in a nutshell, finding players who are undervalued due to some perceived but largely irrelevant flaw ‒ sucked me in and kept me there.

Chad Bradford with the Baltimore Orioles,
pitcher originally undervalued for his
unorthodox throwing style

Then, as I went along, the personalities and the stories got me interested in the game. Unexpectedly, by the time I was three-fourths through, I found myself yearning to sit in a stadium with my fists full of Cracker Jacks, sweating alongside thousands of other humans, and booing and cheering the action that I was now beginning to understand.

And that, my friends, is the magic of Lewis’s writing. It feels simultaneously journalistic and dramatic. He gives us the facts ‒ lots of them. Sometimes the stats were unduly heavy for my preferences, but he bejewels the numbers with lovely philosophy, smooth wit, and anticipation. He weaves a story like Walt Disney, dangles suspense like Stephen King, and then, like Aesop, brings it back home with the lesson learned.

Michael Lewis
Photo credit: Justin Hoch at
http://www.jhoch.com -
_MG_2932, CC BY 2.0,
https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/
index.php?curid=16662078

When I finish blogging about a book, people often ask, “Did you watch the movie?” Usually, the answer is no, but on this rare occasion, I can say yes. Unfortunately, but not unexpectedly, the movie couldn’t hope to cover in such lively detail all that Lewis offers in the pages of his book. If I had only seen the movie without reading the book, I would not have been nearly as educated on the brilliant economic strategy, nor would I have been as entertained, nor as delighted by the author’s literary gifts. If you’ve only watched the movie, you’ve bunted. Do yourself a favor. Buy the book and read it. You’ll have a better game at life having done so.

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The Bonfire of the Vanities (Tom Wolfe)

Sherman McCoy is a wealthy Wall Street trader at his peak, with an opulent home, a beautiful wife, an adorable daughter, and a hell-hot mistress. Although Sherman basks in his success, he’s not just an egoistic snob. He’s frustrated by his wife’s limitless extravagances. He’s disdainful of the superficiality he’s surrounded with. He works hard, he respects his superiors, and he cherishes his little girl. But when he and his mistress inadvertently drive his Mercedes off their planned course and into the Bronx, Sherman’s perfectly aligned world is tipped off its axis by a run-in with two young black men, setting off a slow spin that gains frightening momentum page by page. Sherman is flung into a universe that he was previously untouched by ‒ protesters, press hounds, detectives, thugs, corrupt clergy, hardened attorneys, and a walloping media frenzy.

Tom Hanks as Sherman McCoy
(photo from mauiwatch.com)

I don’t remember how The Bonfire of the Vanities found its way onto my bookshelf, but based on the author, I knew I had to read it. (And as usual, no, I haven’t seen the movie.) It’s a pop-culture hit from the 1980s, so it feels a little dated, but if you were awake during that time, you’ll love how accurately Wolfe captures the zeitgeist. He titillates your schadenfreude as Wall Street Whitey topples from his pinnacle, but he nurtures your empathy as Sherman is humanized by his struggles. You’ll likely find yourself rooting for Sherman, especially given the distastefulness of most of his foes, whose ego-driven motives are arguably more shameful than his own.

The novel is rife with casual racism and sexism. To me, it seems exaggerated for the era, but I was, admittedly, sheltered, so maybe the attitudes aren’t inaccurate. If you offend easily, you’ll be challenged. Approach it as an education.

Tom Wolfe at the White House Salute to American Authors,

March 2004 (photo credit Susan Sterner)

I’ve been in love with Wolfe since I read The Right Stuff over a decade ago. The Bonfire of the Vanities also delivers in his characteristic sharp, masculine, high-energy style. The setting is old-pop, but the writing prevails. It’s true literature, the kind of stuff that makes Americans proud of our great authors, and Tom Wolfe is one of them.

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The Liar's Club: A Memoir (Mary Karr)

If your family is normal, or even quasi-normal, then The Liar’s Club will showcase a whole new cultural experience for you. Mary Karr’s memoir describes her 1960s childhood with her sister Lecia in hilarious, horrific detail. For our reading entertainment, the profoundly dysfunctional Karr family takes the proverbial stage in "Leechfield," Texas (a pseudonym for the Port Arthur area). Leechfield is a lower-middle class town where the land and the air, and a lot of the people, smell like oil.

Per Mary’s telling, her mother (whom she simply calls Mother) is a tortured artist, full of inner grandeur, and stifled by the bounds of poverty. She’s philosophical, passionate, and brilliant in her own ways, but she’s immobilized by mental illness and alcoholism. Her artistic flamboyance is so out of place in Leechfield, no one knows what to make of her, and the community writes her off as lunatic. But their assessment doesn’t seem unfair. Mother’s wildly destructive behaviors are the primary thrill factor of the book. Only the glowering, disapproving grandmother can subdue her, to the astonishment and disappointment of young Mary.

Mary’s father (Daddy) is the saner parent. He’s an alcoholic too, but since he’s unplagued by mental illness, he isn't ostracized. He holds a job in the oil refinery, feeds his family, and dotes on his little girls. Daddy is famous in Leechfield for his masterful telling of tall tales among friends (inspiring the title The Liars’ Club).

Although Mother and Daddy do love Mary and Lecia, Mother’s illness overshadows every aspect of their lives with insanity. Mary and Lecia have few boundaries. While Lecia assumes the responsibility that her mother shirks, Mary grows sassy and wild.

Motiva Oil Refinery, Port Arthur, Texas
(photo from aramcoservices.com)

When Mother comes into some money, they all move from oil-permeated Leechfield to an idyllic ranch in Colorado, where the girls roam the wild countryside on horseback in mountain-fresh air under wide open skies. But as it has been said, no matter where you go, there you are. Addiction and illness follow them. Mother and Daddy divorce soon thereafter, and the children are abandoned to themselves and tossed around with fantastical carelessness.

To conclude the memoir, Mary skips to her young adulthood. Mother’s new money has been squandered, Mother and Daddy have reconciled, they’ve returned to Leechfield, Daddy is bedridden, and a great family secret is disclosed. Suddenly, the insanity makes sense. But don’t read ahead. You need the blindness to appreciate Mary’s bewildering, focusless upbringing.

Throughout the book, Mary hints that she and Lecia have grown into contributing, productive humans, but as she describes her childhood, you may wonder how that outcome is possible. Maybe this is what saves the girls: Despite all the chaos, a thread of love is evident. The girls are not rejected by either parent, nor by each other. They learn attachment.

Mary Karr

Karr’s narrative is a mashup of childish perspective and grown-up introspection. Her lexicon is deliberate and selective. She crafts each sentence like a poet (which she also is). In her writing, you’ll see glimpses of the good genes she’s inherited. She’s an artist, like her mother, and a taleweaver, like her father. Enjoy The Liar’s Club like wine: Some of it is unsavory. Some of it is exquisite. All of it will alter your outlook.

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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.

Check it out on Amazon!