The Girl Who Played with Fire (Stieg Larsson)

The Girl Who Played with Fire, as you may know, is the sequel to The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. It’s another murder mystery, which isn’t typically my preferred genre. But, like Tattoo, it grabbed my attention and earned my admiration. In fact, I liked it even better.

Here’s the spoiler-free nutshell: In The Girl Who Played with Fire, the celebrated journalist Mikael Blomkvist is preparing to publish a highly incriminating exposé of the illegal sex trade, but just before it hits the presses, a horrific double homicide rocks the investigation. Lisbeth Salander, the maverick hacking genius, is - of course - involved, but this time, she’s not tasked with solving the murder. Instead, she’s the primary suspect. Mikael staunchly asserts Lisbeth’s innocence despite hard core evidence against her, and in his truth-hound style, he battles to clear her name and bring down the real killer. Lisbeth, on the other hand, does not defend herself. Instead, she hides and hacks out an investigation of her own.

Noomi Rapace as Lisbeth Salander (from gozamos.com)

The book continues the theme of misogynism that Larsson began in The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. For the sake of a good story, the situations may be exaggerated, but the sexism is not. Along those lines, Larsson introduces some scary new antagonists (including a super-sized man who can’t feel pain) and surprising protagonists (such as a world-renowned professional boxer). Larsson also unveils some of Lisbeth’s tragic history, explaining much of the psychological idiosyncrasy that makes her such a brilliant antihero. The story’s inconclusive ending builds suspense for the third and final book in the series, The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest.

This story is better than the first for a couple of reasons. First, since fewer pages are devoted to character development and setup, the action starts immediately. Also, Lisbeth’s backstory builds empathy; she’s no longer just a freaky chick who’s great with computers.

Stieg Larsson

The Girl Who Played with Fire was translated from Larsson’s original Swedish by Reg Keeland, the same translator as its predecessor, so the linguistic style is the same: Smart, but not showy. Direct, but not terse. Plainspoken, but not bland. For pop literature, it’s about as good as you should expect. The art isn’t in the prose. Instead, it’s in the plot construction and robust characterization. Larsson’s got me now. Before long, I’m sure to pick up Hornet’s Nest, and I’m confident that I’ll love it.

Check it out on Amazon!

Crazy Salad: Some Things About Women (Nora Ephron)

Crazy Salad is a collection of twenty-five articles Nora Ephron wrote for her Esquire magazine column in the early 1970s, when she was actively involved in the second-wave feminist movement. A few of the articles are light, but most are not so much. She covers an expansive array of topics such as body image, health, porn stars, politics, business, marriage, and other social mechanisms. Ephron’s style, as usual, is honest and witty, and sometimes ruthless, but not quite as artistically expressive as her later works (for example, I Remember Nothing). She might have been more moderate in her approach since she was writing as an employee rather than an independent author. But this was relatively early in her career. Maybe her lyrical genius was still under construction.

By now, the content of Crazy Salad is historical original-source documentation. Even at the risk of diminishing her treasured cause, Ephron candidly exposes some basic weaknesses within the women’s movement, particularly how cattiness among the leaders resulted in lack of clarity in strategy and direction. But, looking back, her articles also prove American women’s progress as generally valued members of society. Some of the feminist events Ephron reports on would currently be considered radical expressions: onstage, do-it-yourself abortion demonstrations, public vaginal exploratory sessions with a speculum, and such things. If these kinds of events still occur, I’m unaware of them. Hopefully, American women are no longer compelled to such drama in order to make their point.

Despite its silly title, Crazy Salad is not one of Ephron’s comic collections. The most amusing article is a bittersweet monologue on breast size obsession. Another piece on feminine deodorant spray has a few chuckles, but it also criticizes the manufactured demand for such unnecessary and potentially harmful products. While product testing is probably better these days, marketing tactics don’t seem to have changed much. Women are still prime targets for oft-futile promises to correct our perceived imperfections, as evidenced by the ubiquity of beauty potions, cosmetic surgeries, and fad diets.

President Nixon and his daughter Julie (guestofaguest.com)

Of course, Ephron addresses the political maneuverings of the feminist movement, but that’s not the only place Washington shenanigans make an appearance. Ephron talks about the wives of politicians, whose job was to practice longsuffering and make their husbands look good. She writes about President Nixon’s daughter, Julie Nixon Eisenhower, whose Mickey-Mousish idealism smacked of stupidity, and Nixon’s personal secretary, Rosemary Woods, who was implicated in the alleged deletion of a swath of tape-recorded evidence in the Watergate scandal. Ephron describes how Woods and other political secretaries devoted themselves to their statesmen employers, sacrificing their own opportunities for families or personal realization, and how these women received precious little loyalty in return.

Per my standard preferences, I found the political pieces kind of snoozy, but I got through them without too much pain thanks to Nora’s deft pen, and I considered myself better educated in American feminist history. I was expecting something lighter and was therefore disappointed only in that respect. Being what it is, I recommend Crazy Salad for a great first-person look at women’s issues, succinctly written despite the intrinsic complexities, with Ephron’s famous blend of brutal honesty and easy grace.

Nora Ephron at the 2010 Tribeca Film Festival

Note: My edition of Crazy Salad is part of a bound two-book set also including Scribble Scrabble: Notes on Media, a title that sounds forebodingly political to me. Since I was ready for something big on adventure and light on politics, I decided to save the reading and review of Scribble Scrabble for later.

Check it out on Amazon!

Big Brother (Lionel Shriver)

Lionel Shriver’s new novel, Big Brother, tells the story of a forty-something woman, Pandora, whose brother, Edison, has recently grown grotesquely obese. Pandora’s husband, Fletcher, on the other hand, is a fitness fiend and nutrition nazi. When Edison comes for an extended visit, Pandora is distraught by his dramatic upsizing, and she determines to help him lose weight. In the endeavor, her marriage is compromised, and therein lies the story.

I bought Big Brother after hearing an interview with Shriver (also the author of We Need to Talk About Kevin) on NPR. Having read Kevin, I already admired her work, and the concept of this new novel captured my acute attention. As expected, the actual reading was excellent. The story is intellectual and psychological. Shriver’s prose, as in Kevin, is rich with observation, analysis, and intent, as she addresses the base human drives of food, love, power, and ego. The primary plot is simple, but because the key elements are so universally experienced, it’s surprisingly alluring. 

Big Brother’s characters are multidimensional and believable. You’ll root for each of them and shake your head at them in turn. Pandora, who narrates the story, is the wallflower type. She rose to national notoriety somewhat accidentally with the surprise success of her custom doll business. Since she’s uncomfortable in the limelight, she takes deliberate steps to maintain her humility and normalcy. Conversely, her brother is a self-important, unctuous, jargon-spouting jazz pianist who left home straight out of high school and flourished on the New York music scene. In his middle age, his career deflated, but his ego ‒ and his body ‒ did not.

Obesity in America (from www.foodarian.com)

While the primary plot centers on Edison’s food issues, Pandora and Edison also reminisce about their unconventional upbringing, each from their own contrasting perspectives. Their mother’s tragic death was a suspected suicide, and their father, a Hollywood television actor, was more attached to his onscreen children than his biological progeny. Throughout the pages, Shriver deconstructs these complexities without the coldness of an overt psychoanalysis. Instead, it’s a show-and-tell of dysfunction, and Pandora is, mostly, the voice of reason.

The surprise ending isn’t ‒ obviously ‒ what you’ll be expecting. But it isn’t even what you’d expect for a surprise ending. It’s strangely settling and unsettling at once.My only criticisms of Big Brother tie back to We Need to Talk about Kevin. First, Pandora’s narrative style is identical to Eva’s (the protagonist in Kevin). Although Pandora’s characteristics and circumstances are effectively differentiated from Eva’s, both women are hyperanalytical intellectualizers with expansive vocabularies, which probably means that Shriver is too. Shriver’s mind and lexicon impress me, but if she can’t find unique voices for her first-person narrators, she might consider writing in third-person next time. Also, and mainly, Kevin is still Shriver’s masterpiece. The characters in Big Brother aren’t quite as gripping, the development not quite as driving, the climax not quite as spectacular.

Lionel Shriver (from www.theguardian.com)

Nevertheless, Big Brother is a great psychological drama, and because of the subjects it addresses ‒ overeating and extreme dieting, marital power balances, family dysfunction ‒ it will easily appeal to most thoughtful readers. It certainly held my attention, exercised my mind, and earned my heartfelt recommendation.

Check it out on Amazon!

Einstein: His Life and Universe (Walter Isaacson)

This book took me so long to get through. Sometimes I loved it. Sometimes I dreaded it. I mean, Walter Isaacson’s biography of Albert Einstein is comprehensive and often captivating, but for liberal-artsy me, the science stuff was agonizing. Because I wanted to offer you a decent review, I read the (many) physics-centric pages closely enough to get the general gist, but not, I’m afraid, a thorough understanding.

On the other hand, the chapters on his life, his family, his personality, are great. Einstein often comes off as an average schmo, which makes me love him more. I also love him more for his nonconformism and nonchalance, his maverick approach to his work, faith, and politics.

Per the author’s modus operandi, the book includes a cast of characters, extensive endnotes, and an index. He details Einstein’s childhood, education, and coming of age, his scientific pursuits, his shifting perspectives on politics and religion, but most interestingly to me, his tumultuous personal and professional relationships.

For example, it’s clear throughout the book that Einstein was generally good-humored, but he also had a special gift for making the wrong enemies. As a young adult, he sometimes thumbed his nose at the established academic leaders, provoking their uglier sentiments. Consequently, he struggled to land even a low-end academic job. Instead, he worked as an assistant in a Swiss patent office from 1902-1909. Years later, his professional relationships hadn’t improved much. He was passed over for the Nobel Prize several times due to ill will, and although he was eventually awarded the prize in 1921 after significant political maneuvering, it wasn’t for his famous relativity theories. Instead, it was for “his services to Theoretical Physics, and especially for his discovery of the law of the photoelectric effect,” an almost insulting token distinction.

Einstein’s closest personal relationships weren’t much cozier. He had a mysterious illegitimate daughter whom he quietly abandoned, a hostile first marriage, strained relationships with his two legitimate sons, and multiple affairs which he barely bothered to hide from his second wife, Elsa. He openly believed in and operated on the principle that monogamy is unnatural.

Einstein's Princeton home (from einstein-website.de)

But in less intimate contexts, his geniality shined. My favorite anecdotes occurred at his Princeton home, where he cheerfully helped neighborhood children with their math homework, and where he brought out his violin and accompanied carolers who came to his door. He was also a press favorite. While Einstein claimed to dislike media attention, his actions demonstrated otherwise: He accepted most opportunities for publicity and sprinkled the interviews with pithy witticisms.

The description of Einstein’s intellectual evolution shows how fundamentally human he was. As he aged, he followed the same pattern of spunk-to-funk that most of us do. Early in his career, Einstein’s theories were considered audacious and rebellious, and he criticized the closed-mindedness of his scientific elders. But he himself settled into stubborn conservatism later in life, refusing to work with the hypotheses of younger physicists, especially regarding the random aspects quantum mechanics. He believed in a meticulously ordered universe designed by an inscrutably intelligent (but not personally relational) God who would not “play dice.” So Einstein sought a unified field theory until his death. He never discovered that theory, nor has anyone else. Even though his creative productivity was diminished in that pursuit, he significantly - although unintentionally - contributed toward the advancement of quantum mechanics: By arguing against it, he forced the young physicists to prove him wrong, and they did, thus strengthening their new theories.

Isaacson also demonstrates how Einstein’s sociopolitical shift followed scientific process: When presented with hard evidence that he was wrong, he changed his position. Before the war, Einstein supported pure pacifism and total disarmament, but after the Nazis came to power, and then in light of Russia’s brutal post-war policies, his stance became more mixed and unorthodox. He supported some armed defense but disdained nationalism. He favored social welfare but preached for personal responsibility. These seemingly contradictory opinions prompted criticism about his political naivete.

Einstein and his violin (from th.physik.uni-frankfurt.de)

Einstein fervently supported intellectual freedom and was repulsed by Americans’ mindless communist witch hunts. And, in the spirit of those witch hunts, he was consequently suspected of communism. Although the FBI compiled a large dossier of allegations against him, they never found anything incriminating. But he wasn’t altogether disrespected for his politics. In 1952, the new-ish nation of Israel offered Einstein the presidency. He declined. He was a great physicist, but not a great politician or manager, and he knew it.

Einstein died of an abdominal aortic aneurysm in a Princeton hospital at age 76, but the book continues because, well, the story doesn’t end. He was cremated per his wishes, except for his brain, which was - without Einstein’s permission or his family’s - commandeered by the pathologist who performed his autopsy, sliced up, and rather indiscriminately distributed among various neurologists for what turned out to be mainly haphazard research, very little of which proved beneficial for scientific purposes. Because of the method the pathologist used to preserve the brain, DNA cannot even be extracted from it.

Walter Isaacson

From Einstein’s birth to his traveling brain, Walter Isaacson has constructed another thorough biography - a little too thorough for my preferences this time. I can’t criticize though. Physics isn’t my passion, but it was Einstein’s, and after all, this is his story. Space-time-energy lovers will be all over this book. But if you’re more poetry-and-ice-cream like me, skim through that shiz, and eat up the descriptions of Einstein’s character - his optimism, determination, conviction, nonconformity. Celebrate his curiosity, which was his master, and he its happy servant. I wish I had passion like that.

Check it out on Amazon!

Water for Elephants (Sara Gruen)

I picked up Water for Elephants on a whim because I liked the title and the premise was cool: Old-timey circus workers rescue a trained elephant from cruelty. I understood that, while the story was fiction, the author did some research and incorporated several real-life incidents. So, based on this, I actually crossed the threshold of a physical Barnes & Noble, picked Water for Elephants off a wooden shelf, and presented my plastic card to a human cashier. For all this effort, I truly hoped the novel would be superb. In some ways, it was.  But overall, no.

Water for Elephants is the story of the struggling Benzini Brothers circus, for which the main character and narrator, Jacob Jankowski, works as a veterinarian. Jacob falls in love with Marlena, a kind and beautiful performer. Unfortunately, Marlena is married to the violently temperamental animal trainer, August. When the circus acquires an elephant, Jacob and Marlena struggle together to defend the sweet pachyderm against August’s rages. The story divulges the slimy underbelly of circus life, including gross mistreatment of both human workers and animals, right up to the stunning climax when Marlena ends August’s reign of terror.

Photo from www.nonhumanslavery.com

Gruen alternates the novel’s setting between a contemporary nursing home where 93-year-old Jacob now lives in a state of semi-dementia, and the 1931 traveling circus. In the nursing home, as Jacob waits for his family to escort him to a modern circus, he wafts in and out of lucidity and mentally revisits his old Benzini Brothers days. Although the flashback technique feels a little worn and, in Gruen’s hands, contrived, it does set up a finely constructed and sentimental ending, which is one of the novel’s strengths.

Aside from the tender conclusion, the story itself has other redeeming qualities. The plot is engaging enough to keep you reading, especially as it nears the climax. Also, Gruen exposes the abuses that occurred in depression-era circuses and, which I fear, probably still exist to some extent. Several scenes are emotionally excruciating, but responsible consumers should be aware of ugly realities.

Unfortunately, Water for Elephants also disappoints.  First, the characters are shallowly constructed. I didn’t walk away with a lasting identification with any of them, and in fact, by the time I wrote this post, I had to look up all of their names. Also, Gruen’s writing style is flat and unmemorable. While the premise was promising, her blasé rendering diminished what might have been a great novel in the hands of a more skilled wordsmith.

Photo by Lynne Harty (saragruen.com)

If you care about animals, you want a good story, and you’re not a finicky reader, then step right up! Water for Elephants will entertain and amaze, and it may even spur you to reconsider your attitude toward traveling animal shows. But if you’re hungry for something profound and beautiful, then move along, folks. There are lots of bigger, better shows out there.

Check it out on Amazon!

Fairy Tale Interrupted (RoseMarie Terenzio)

My sister suckered me into another JFK Jr. book. And I liked it. The first one, What Remains, was a lovely read by Carole Radziwill, the wife of John Junior’s cousin. While John isn’t the primary player in that memoir, RoseMarie Terenzio’s Fairy Tale Interrupted is unquestionably John-centric. Terenzio was John F. Kennedy Jr.’s personal assistant and was therefore privy to practically every detail of his life. And she shares a lot of that detail. Her stories are neither all-out scandalous nor across-the-board flattering. Instead, she describes John as someone both good and bad like most every man, but simultaneously so overtly unlike any other man. Overall, he comes off favorably, as someone who, despite his birthrights of extreme pressure and privilege, remained publically loved and privately liked.

Terenzio tosses in some tidbits on her own life too - family and friends, successes and failures, her struggle to be taken seriously - much of which is moderately interesting. But it’s not the reason you’ll read this book.

Map of JFK Jr.'s crash site (from jfkjr.com)

Although Fairy Tale Interrupted lacks the linguistic grace of What Remains, the writing quality isn’t horrible. Maybe Terenzio penned it herself, but it has a ghost-written vibe. No matter. If you want JFK Jr. stories more than pretty words, this book is for you. Terenzio dishes. She describes her awkward introduction to John and the development of their gibing relationship. She discusses his parentage over George magazine, his maneuvering for its legendary covers, and the personal burden he bore over its financial and popular struggles. She talks about John’s charm, his temper, his ditziness, his stalkers, his mountains of crazy mail...about Carolyn Bessette’s big heart and calming influence...about the ups and downs of their courtship, the top-secret wedding planning, and their often angst-ridden marriage...about their insatiable smoking habit, their high-fashion circle, and the intense pressure of the paparazzi, to which John was accustomed, but which drove Carolyn to tears and stole her natural joy.

Of course, Terenzio also tells the story of John and Carolyn’s deaths, and her perspective as both intimate friend and critical employee means that you’ll get the kind of detail you simply can’t find elsewhere. From her, you’ll learn the unsettling personal events immediately preceding their fated flight. You’ll better understand how the sudden loss handicapped George’s PR, provoked the media’s worst instincts, and roused the public’s best sentiments. But you’ll also see the up-close-and-personal side - how their deaths debilitated RoseMarie, as her entire raison d’etre was gone.

RoseMarie Terenzio

While you’ll never find Fairy Tale Interrupted listed in a roster of the literary greats, it is an impressive chronicle of John F. Kennedy Junior insider information. You’ll be humored and touched by Terenzio’s simple, heartfelt remembrances of one of the world’s most iconic men.

Check it out on Amazon!

The Giver (Lois Lowry)

The Giver is a Newbery medal-winning juvenile fiction featuring Jonas, a preteen boy of unusual equanimity who lives with his family in a highly controlled community. The town’s systematic management results in what appears to be, in many ways, a nearly idyllic environment. Families, with rare exceptions, get along well. There is gender equality and a fair amount of autonomy. People enjoy their work. All needs are met. Crime is rare, and personal contentment flourishes.

When the community’s twelve-year-olds are assigned their careers, Jonas is named the new Receiver, a position of singular distinction and great honor. In this role, he must receive and safely guard all ancient memories of the society, never sharing them with the other members of the community, because the memories will threaten the peace. As Jonas receives these memories, he begins to understand the enormity of the sacrifice required to sustain their ordered society. The more memories he receives, the less he can conform with the society and, in small ways, he starts to buck the system. Finally, he makes one huge move that will alter not only his life but the entire community irreparably.

  

"But suddenly Jonas had noticed...the apple had changed."

Based on the rave reviews I’d heard (from friends and family, on NPR, and on Amazon), I was expecting The Giver to be great. Instead, I found it, on the whole, only pretty good. The premise is spectacular, and the story will make children and adults reconsider much of what’s important and beautiful in our flawed world. But the book is undersatisfying because of what the author omits. First, Lowry fails to portray the community’s system as wholly undesirable. I admit, this may be deliberate and not an entirely bad move; the ambiguity can spur discussion and debate in a classroom of young readers. Nevertheless, I was hoping for a deep, dark dystopia. Yes, the story is written for a juvenile audience, and maybe that’s why Lowry keeps it fairly light. But I think that middle-school kids can - and should - handle more intense material. Ironically, and probably unintentionally, Lowry treats her audience like Jonas’s community: She overprotects them, and as a result, they lose an opportunity for emotional growth.

Worse yet, Lowry completely ignores huge and crucial elements of the story. We never see what happens within the community upon Jonas’s final rebellion, and we hardly know what becomes of Jonas either. Just when the book should ramp up, it ends. Maybe Lowry intentionally keeps the book short for her young audience, but if so, she underestimates them again. Children will read a long book if it’s great, and The Giver should have, could have been incredible. Perhaps Lowry will extend it into a series. Unfortunately, I’ve seen no indication of that so far.

Lois Lowry

Lowry’s writing style is perfectly appropriate for preteens. It’s simple but not childish, always clear, well-paced, and engaging. Without question, The Giver will help children and adults understand the importance of diversity and discomfort, as well as the drawbacks associated with heavy controls. Also without question, its premise could have been even more poignant if Lowry had gone bigger and bleaker. I’m casting my ballot for a redeeming sequel.

Check it out on Amazon!