Unruly Reader

Send for a child of two!

noreply@blogger.com (Unruly Reader) — Fri, 17 May 2013 12:52:00 +0000

OK, so the book reviews are not caught up here, so here's something lazier on my part. But I think it's hilarious.

Robert at 101 Books has been asking his 2-year-old son to tell him what a book is about, based on its cover.*

For example, for the classic cover of The Great Gatsby**, the little guy said, "This book is about singing. It's about singing 'Barbara Ann.' Those are the lights, and there are lions in those lights."

And there are lots more, and it's hella entertaining. Makes me wish there were a nearby 2-year-old I could consult on such things.

Head on over to 101 Books and check it out.

*Interestingly, I spent yesterday at a readers' advisory event at which one of the speakers talked about doing this same thing, only with a librarian's eye. Much less funny than the 2-year-old's view, but oh so much more practical.

**Currently The.Most.Popular.Book.in.America. I wonder why...?

This stuff ain't for sissies

noreply@blogger.com (Unruly Reader) — Fri, 10 May 2013 11:00:00 +0000

Daring Greatly: How the Courage to Be Vulnerable Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent, and Lead by Brene Brown

OK, raise your hand if you’ve seen Brene Brown’s viral TED talks.

TED Talk the First (that's it, just above there)

TED Talk the Second

Yeah, I've seen 'em, too. (After two people from completely different realms of my life mentioned her within the same week, I decided that was an indication I should check this stuff out. And I gotta tell you: it was at the perfect moment. [And I gotta tell you: there's probably not an imperfect moment to hear these ideas.])

If you’re intrigued by Brown's research about how we need to be vulnerable in order to really fully live our lives, then this book is just the ticket.

I found it fascinating, inspiring, terrifying, and eye-opening. (Why terrifying? Because vulnerability is not for the weak of heart, people!)

Here’s the other thing to know about Brown: she’s a great storyteller. So even though, yes, she’s an academic researcher, she puts the soul back into the data.

There are so many good ideas packed into this book, it’s hard to isolate them. But here’s what I carried away:

Vulnerability shows strength, not weakness.

If we numb the pain, we also numb the joy.

And guys, that’s all I’m gonna say. This book has life-changing capacities. ’nuff said.

Crashing into something amazing

noreply@blogger.com (Unruly Reader) — Fri, 03 May 2013 11:00:00 +0000

Crashing Through: A True Story of Risk, Adventure, and the Man Who Dared to See by Robert Kurson

Ever read a book and then you just can’t stop thinking about it afterward? This is one of those.

I mean, who knew how important our brain is, when it comes to our ability to see? (Guys, it’s hella important.)

Here’s the story: Mike May was blinded at age 3 in a chemical accident. His mom decided her son was going to have a normal life, so she expected him to do everything his siblings did—so the guy grew up riding a bike and crashing all over the place. Dude grew up to become a downhill skiing world record holder.

So… here he is, living his mostly wonderful adult life, when a doctor tells him there’s a chance he could see. Since May’s life was fine as it was, and the surgery and treatment carried risks, it wasn’t as obvious a choice as a person might think.

But in the end, he popped for it. Here it is in his words:

“‘I didn’t do it to see… I did it to see what seeing was.’” (p. 292)

So now comes the really fascinating part.

Turns out, May could recognize some things, but struggled mightily to tell his sons’ faces apart. Because his brain didn’t have the opportunity to make all kinds of connections by seeing when he was young, his brain still didn’t know how to do some seriously important things, like facial recognition.

Since he’s a can-do guy (to an extreme), he set about memorizing clues that would help him distinguish men from women, and flashlights from saws. (Does this sound exhausting? Um… yeah.) This part actually made my heart ache with admiration for his determination to Do.This.Thing.

So: there's the story itself, and there's the way it's presented. And both are stellar. Kurson's writing style is nothing but pleasant. There were moments I'd pause to admire the way a paragraph was put together.

And, happily, the book is masterfully and wonderfully illustrated, which helps a person understand all kinds of things: how optical illusions depend on our brains having learned certain visual cues, and also why kittens raised in the dark who weren’t allowed to walk didn’t develop the ability to see. This last part is amazing, guys. Here’s May again: “‘I think exploration is everything. I think that’s why I never grew up feeling like I couldn’t see.’” (p. 263)

By the end of the book, it’d been quite a journey, and I nearly wept. Not what I expected when I started reading this story, but it turns out it was full of remarkable surprises.

Crooked? I'll say...

noreply@blogger.com (Unruly Reader) — Fri, 26 Apr 2013 11:00:00 +0000

Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter by Tom Franklin

OK, so imagine being on house arrest and in solitary confinement, without ever having been arrested. This is more or less the life Larry Ott is leading, two decades after he first was suspected of murdering a girl who disappeared after their first date. The guy lives in a tiny Mississippi town, in the house where he grew up, and he’s universally shunned. He’s more caged than the chickens he keeps.

Man, that is sad (unless, of course, he actually did that crime).

So the book starts right off with something horrible happening to Larry. (Right in the beginning, so I didn’t spoil anything, guys!)

And the newest constable in town is Silas “32” Jones, who used to be Larry’s secret friend when they were kids. (Secret, because Larry is white, and Silas is black. And even in the 1970s in their Mississippi town, this was not OK.)

Meanwhile, another young woman has vanished, so all eyes are on “Scary Larry.”

So, unfinished business from the past rears its head, and finally, finally! the truth (and I mean lots of it) begins to emerge.

I’d call this book a pageturner, except that I listened to the (amazing) audiobook. So maybe we can call it a don’t-want-to-leave-the-car audiobook. But it’s not that this is a super fast-paced story; it’s that you just really want to find out how this whole thing is going to unfold. And it is not disappointing.

A great choice for a book discussion.

Also: hereby endorsed by three librarians. I only read it after one librarian thanked another for mentioning it.

I scream, you scream...

noreply@blogger.com (Unruly Reader) — Fri, 19 Apr 2013 11:00:00 +0000

The Rescue Artist: A True Story of Art, Thieves, and the Hunt for a Missing Masterpiece by Edward Dolnick

Hey, remember when someone stole The Scream?*

Yeah, me, too.

The thing I didn’t know until quite recently—when I was scouting books for a special book club—was that the story of its recovery had been documented in its very own book. And this is a ripping good yarn, people.

First: we know the painting was recovered, so there’s a happy ending to this story.

Second: therefore, the good guys win.

And the chief good guy in this book is the larger-than-life British/American Charley Hill of Scotland Yard. He was my favorite part of the book, because that guy is interesting. He appears to equally adore studying up on the art itself and putting himself into harm’s way in the company of thugs who might kill him. That’s not particularly normal. (And guys? “Normal” = boring, at least when it comes to people in books. [In real life, though… “Normal” = a remarkably wonderful thing, methinks.]

So here’s what’s great about this book: The author has a very pleasant writing style, journalistic in tone. (I adore that.) And the story rips right along, starting with a fairly simple break-in involving a ladder into a museum window, followed by the shockingly audacious move of sliding The Scream down the ladder to make the getaway.

Now, this book does that thing that some people really like, while others snarl, “Why didn’t he just make this an article?” Because here’s what: There are several stories of other art thefts blended in to the book. And I really liked that. (Though, for people who just want the story of The Scream, this is not an asset.) So you get to learn about other famous art heists—and marvel at how easily many of the thieves made off with priceless paintings.

For an art dolt like me, it was revelatory.

So…this is one of those books that has enough going on—art, crime, police investigations, the dark underbelly of society, a bit of international intrigue—that there’s probably something here that will appeal to lots of readers. Though I’m no fan of true crime, and my art expertise is laughable, this book just plain delighted me.

It's also the sort of book that prompts book clubbers to refer to it at random moments after having read it. This just may be one of the measures of a very fine book. Glad I read it!

*It’s happened twice in recent years: 1994 and 2004. This book’s about the 1994 episode.

Still a prince

noreply@blogger.com (Unruly Reader) — Sat, 06 Apr 2013 11:00:00 +0000

Guys, The Little Prince has his 70th birthday today. Or at least the 70th anniversary of the publication of his book.

It inspired me to yank my two copies from the shelf to gaze upon them fondly. (Someone did some rearranging of the shelves a while back*, so I had to actually think about where each copy was located. I guessed right [what a genius shelving system!] but it took a bit of thought first.)

So, yeah: I've got a copy in English and another in Spanish. The original French is well beyond me, I'm sad to say. (Actually, that's kind of OK. I'd rather know Spanish.)

And this whole thing just causes me to do some sighing-of-happiness-yet-sadness, thinking of this book and its author.

One of the happiest reading experiences of my adult life was when I read Saint-Exupery: A Biography by Stacy Schiff. That woman can biographize with the best of them, I'm telling you.

And then there was the news of the discovery of Saint-Ex's P-38, which took place 61 years and 1 day after the publication of The Little Prince. (Cripe, people: he was only 44 when he died.) Makes me sad. Yet glad that he was found after all those years. But still: sad.

It's just a frenzy of bittersweetness, this book. It's just the way it is.

* Yeah, that was me.

That's where the tall corn grows

noreply@blogger.com (Unruly Reader) — Fri, 29 Mar 2013 11:00:00 +0000

The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid: A Memoir by Bill Bryson

OK, so audiobooks have many fine attributes: someone’s reading you a story just like when you were little; you can listen while driving/gardening/cleaning the house/exercising; and when it’s done right, the reader’s intonations add a whole new layer to the reading experience.

My quarrel with audiobooks has everything to do with blogging. When I’m reading a book-book (as I like to refer to those archaic things with hard or soft covers and actual pages), I jot down on the bookmark (a measly scrap of paper) the page numbers where there’s something I really liked. With an audiobook, this just ain’t feasible, people.

So if I want to capture a perfect quote, I’m reduced to checking out the book-book of the audiobook and flipping pages in a rather agitated and annoyed fashion, searching for the something I heard that completely cracked me up or pleased me beyond measure.

So, to a great extent, I’m here reduced to speaking vaguely about why this audiobook is truly entertaining.

Well, first off: it’s written (and read aloud) by Bill Bryson, so if you’re Brysonite, you’ll be happy.

And the guy grew up in Des Moines, about which he writes with such fondness that I like him even more than I did before—because poor Iowa doesn’t get much respect generally, and certainly not in the printed word. But here’s Bryson: “Iowa’s main preoccupations have always been farming and being friendly, both of which we do better than almost anyone else, if I say so myself.” (p. 172) Amen, brother.

actual Jell-O recipe from the 1974 church cookbook my very own mom edited;
only one of *many* such recipes

And this true statement: “Iowa has always been proudly middling in all its affairs… We were slightly wealthier, a whole lot more law-abiding, and more literate and better educated than the national average, and ate more Jell-O (a lot more—in fact, to be completely honest, we ate all of it), but otherwise have never been too showy at all.” (p. 171)

Bryson grew up in the weird and wonderful 1950s, and he skewers postwar American society, even as he gazes warmly upon it. He had a paper route, where he was terrorized by neighbors’ dogs; he also was terrorized by neighborhood bullies; he skipped school with shocking regularity; his dad would eat his midnight snack in the buff; and his mom once sent him to school in Capri pants.

This is one of those childhood memoirs that’s funny and entertaining and not at all horrid (we’re looking at you, A Child Called “It”). Bryson’s childhood was refreshingly normal, and the only reason it’s book-worthy is that Bryson’s the one writing the book. And this fact alone makes it beyond worthy.

Unruly pilot

noreply@blogger.com (Unruly Reader) — Fri, 22 Mar 2013 11:00:00 +0000

Fate Is the Hunter by Ernest Gann

Lucky? Yes. Yes, I am.

Case in point: My flight instructor, from my flying days when I was but a girl, recently invited me to go flying. Hadn’t seen the man in over 15 years, and here, just when my life could use something truly good, he invited me to fly an airplane again.

moments before my second take-off,
which again would involve uncontrolled laughter

Seriously: lucky.

And I gotta tell you: that guy is brave. He put that airplane in my hands, and man, was I rusty. The few skills that came back… reemerged slowly.* I had us flailing all over the Iowa skies, laughing like a goon, and he didn’t even appear concerned. Nerves of steel, those pilots.

And that’s what this book is about (the nerves, not the laughing goon).

We had done some talking of books when we were on the ground, and he said this book gives a really good sense of what it’s like to fly on a crew. (He’s doing the airline thing these days.) And I’m all about the workplace memoir, especially when an insider has vouched for its veracity, so I scribbled down the title and placed a hold at my first opportunity.

The fascinating thing about this book is that it was published in 1961, but it still feels fresh today. Granted, the aircraft and the methods are archaic (Yikes! At one point, they’re plotting bearing fixes!) but the human dynamic rings true, and that’s the important part of the book, anyway, in my opinion.

And Gann’s narrative voice is easy and clever, and altogether a delight to read.

(Brief pause while we marvel at the fact that some people who do their day job admirably also can write books!)

So this book is full of male jocularity (all the airline pilots were male in those days [sad shake of the head]), and it’s enormously fun to read. It really does give a sense of the camaraderie of a crew—those that get along well, and those that are a bit less well-suited for each other.

And there are some funny moments here, too. During Gann’s time as a military pilot, he and the others got sent to some far reaches of the north Atlantic. Here’s their introduction to the base:

“Boyd took my hand as if we had flown to the moon and said, ‘Welcome to White Pigeon.’

And at once I was returned in thought to a more tranquil period when I had served briefly as his co-pilot. We had found ourselves flying a plane chartered from our line by a political team junketing around the United States. Our passengers displayed a constant and abnormal interest in their exact location—information we seldom had ready at hand. And so we would assume a solemn mien and point out a town, or village—any one visible would do—and we would say, ‘That is White Pigeon.’” (p. 177)

I’d heard of this book for years, and I never would’ve picked it up if it hadn’t been for the personal recommendation I received. Again, all I can say is: Lucky.

*Yeah, just before releasing the brakes and hitting the throttle at the threshold of the runway, I thought to ask, “What’s the rotate speed on this baby?”

Rejuvenation?

noreply@blogger.com (Unruly Reader) — Fri, 15 Mar 2013 11:00:00 +0000

(photo credit: shellac's photostream, flickr)

Here’s the update from Non-reading Central…

I think things are looking up.

Here are the promising signs:

1. I’ve hit my stride in the new book club book, and I’m yearning to return to it.

2. I’ve begun listening to an audiobook (fiction, even!—Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter by Tom Franklin) that’s completely holding my attention.

3. I’ve checked out a few books lately to dip into to learn some facts.

4. I’m doing a genre study, and I’ve just started a graphic novel, which I’m not at all into (as a format), yet I’m committed to finishing it on time.

So here’s the thing: I’m being careful with myself, because I don’t want to over-stress this fresh little shoot.

All I can say is...

noreply@blogger.com (Unruly Reader) — Fri, 08 Mar 2013 12:00:00 +0000

OMG

Caro does it again

noreply@blogger.com (Unruly Reader) — Mon, 04 Mar 2013 04:17:00 +0000

OK, guys, this fella's unstoppable.

Robert A. Caro just won the National Book Critics Circle Award for the fourth volume (The Passage of Power) in his multi-volume LBJ biography The Years of Lyndon Johnson.

I saw the news on Friday and got all smiley because I.Adore.Robert.Caro.

So, we'll add this to his big ol' list of honors: 2 Pulitzers, that earlier NBCC Award, the National Book Award, and heaven knows how many others.

(In related news, I've officially descended into fandom: I just Liked the dude on Facebook.)

Busted

noreply@blogger.com (Unruly Reader) — Mon, 25 Feb 2013 03:27:00 +0000

Yeah, not "busted" like "found out" or "arrested," but more like "actually broken."

I am a broken reader, people.

I'm declaring myself officially busted, given that this stuff's been going on for more than a quarter of a year now.

(Don't worry: I'm not in the midst of personal trauma. If I were, I wouldn't be writing about reading behavior.)

But, it's true: My reading is scattered and inattentive.

I feel like a standard non-reading person when approaching a book. I'm behaving like the majority of the population. (This fact actually causes me to make a horrified face and shudder [literally shudder.])

Here's further evidence that I'm no longer my usual reading self:

1. I've been reading the same 3 books for 3 1/2 months now.

2. The only books (all three of them) I've finished during this time were a book discussion book for work, one nonfiction book, and one nonfiction audiobook that magically held my attention.

3. I'm not placing holds on forthcoming books and then compulsively checking their release dates.

4. I've read exactly one page of the book club book that we're discussing in a couple of weeks, and that's all I'm gonna read. I tried the audio, lasted three minutes, ejected that puppy, and returned it to the library the following day.

5. I am freaked out, but not that freaked out by this behavior.

It's disturbing. It's troubling. It's strange.

It'll end; it always does. But this is the longest stretch of non-reading since I was in library school (no time for actual reading-for-fun in those days; ironic? oh, yeah...)

Just thought I'd mention it here, since I got nothing in the pipeline these days. When I finish a book sometime next month, I'll do some excited scribbling about it. Till then, I'll be acting like a more normal 21st-century American. Heaven help us.

Book club update

noreply@blogger.com (Unruly Reader) — Fri, 08 Feb 2013 12:00:00 +0000

Yeah, so we’ve been reading up a storm, we ladies of the book club. Here’s what we’ve been doing these past several months.

It’s a weird mix, my friends…

Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn

The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood

The Cookbook Collector by Allegra Goodman

The Woman Who Wasn’t There by Robin Gaby Fishers and Angelo J. Guglielmo, Jr.

Henry’s Sisters by Cathy Lamb

(OK. Confession: I didn’t finish this book; I was finding it tedious. And then I was sick and couldn’t attend book club anyway, so it actually all turned out, in a strange way. If I'd powered through to the end of the book, I'd've been darn vexed to've been sick and missed the discussion. [Regardless, I was vexed about being sick. But that's neither here nor there.])

Next up: Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides

And then I think it's my turn to pick a book next, and I already know what it's gonna be. (And I'm not sayin' yet; you'll just have to wait and see.)

Here's our complete book club list, since the dawn of time.

What I'm doing here

noreply@blogger.com (Unruly Reader) — Fri, 01 Feb 2013 12:01:00 +0000

Anyone who hangs out here will discover that I don’t often write about books I despise. Or even books I find mediocre. Usually I’m writing something like, “Darn good book.”

“Why?!” you may ask. “Does this nincompoop love every dang thing she reads? Has she no discernment?”

Oh, but, no. That ain’t it.

The thing is, if I don’t like a book, I usually don’t finish it (unless it’s assigned reading).

And if I’m iggis about a book, I might finish it, but then I usually stay mum. I could, I suppose, damn them with faint praise, and actually, sometimes I do.

But here’s the thing: I just feel mean when I write or say something snide about a book; that’s some author’s baby that I’m maligning, and that really ain’t so kind.

So, that having been said…

Here are some tells that I’m not all that thrilled about something:

- I mention it only in passing (sometimes with a bit of a tone)

- It appears on my Shelfari shelf over on the right column there, and I never write about it. (Though: you’ve got to give them some time before you really give up on them—I got a big old backlog of postings that are just all lined up, just waiting to be set free.)

There’s plenty-o-stuff I downright despise, and usually I just stay quiet about it. (But, usually, I do something even more cruel: I set it aside and ignore it forevermore.)

The secret, evil truth. It has been spoken.

My true s(h)elf

noreply@blogger.com (Unruly Reader) — Fri, 25 Jan 2013 12:00:00 +0000

Ever since I ran across this article about “you are your bookshelves,” I’ve again been thinking about posting photos of my shelves—and then thinking, “Yeah, that ain’t gonna happen.”

Because it makes a person feel a little bit exposed, you know?

For example, there probably are those who would judge me for placing a biography of Princess Diana a mere three books away from my (very small) middle-brow poetry collection. Heck, there probably are those who would judge me for owning a Princess Diana biography. (Oh, people, I’ve got more than one...) Or for the middle-browed-ness of the poetry, for pete’s sake.

And on this same shelf, you’d find the Bible next to a book about Buddy Holly.*

So instead, I offer you this one:

None of these books will be a surprise to anyone who’s spent more than a minute hanging around here. Here we’re plunked right down in the middle of the presidential history books, in the Johnson – Obama years. Then we’ve got my tragic fire books (oh, how I love them), followed by Buddy Holly (he’s all over the place), Walter Cronkite, Arctic exploration, football, and a couple of life-changing reader’s advisory textbooks.

This is one of my prime real estate shelves, located in the living room. Reasonably respectable, heavily hardcover, and suitable for their location on the glamour wall (built-in bookcases and fireplace).

You’ll just have to wait to see the Princess Diana/poetry/Bible/Buddy Holly/women’s history/shipwreck shelf. Someday. Maybe.

*Even truer confession: I was going to brave posting the photo I took of that very shelf, but the books are in a barrister bookcase, and the glass reflected the photographer who was still in her pjs. We don’t want that on the interwebs now, do we?

Fighter/writer pilot

noreply@blogger.com (Unruly Reader) — Fri, 18 Jan 2013 12:00:00 +0000

Viper Pilot: A Memoir of Air Combat by Dan Hampton

If you’re all about adrenaline and testosterone in your reading (which sometimes I am), this book will make you very happy indeed.

Hampton, a (now-retired) Air Force Lieutenant Colonel, flew an F-16 as a Wild Weasel, which means that his job was to intentionally draw enemy fire in order to locate the enemy and destroy them. So: nervy flying.

And his book is filled with some of the best fighter pilot writing I’ve ever read. He puts you right there with him, and that’s a pretty spectacular feat.

Dude flew on 9/11 (scrambled and told to take down any unidentified aircraft), in the

Iraq

war, and before that in the Gulf. And some of the stories are just plain stunning. At one point, I gasped, “No!” and nearly dropped the book into the bathtub. (Don’t worry: his wingman didn’t actually die. It just looked really bad there for a few.)

And he gives a solid sense of what life is like for would-be fighter pilots—the endless training and opportunities to wash out. It’s really kind of a miracle anyone survives it and then goes on to survive the kind of flying they do.

And this section, near the end of the book, made me further look in awe upon their work:

“Attacking a target in a modern fighter is a bit like playing several musical instruments at the same time. My left hand constantly adjusted the throttle. My left fingers worked the radar, fanned the speed brakes, and managed my electronic countermeasures. I also changed radio frequencies and accessed any of the hundred different functions of the up-front control head with my left hand.

I flew with my right hand. The F-16 has a side stick mounted on the right side of the cockpit, not coming up from the floor like older fighters. My right fingers danced along the Digital Management and Target Management switches while I flew. I also dropped bombs, launched missiles, and shot the cannon with my right hand. I really never needed to take my hands off the controls to do anything. It was a very well-designed cockpit. It had to be, for one pilot to keep up with five or six types of weapons, fly, navigate, and fight.” (pp. 268-269)

Guys, all I can say is: Damn.

It’s hard enough to fly a Cessna, for pete’s sake.

This guy? Not only can he fly, but he can write.

Here's the book trailer, delivered by the man himself:

Liar, liar

noreply@blogger.com (Unruly Reader) — Fri, 11 Jan 2013 12:00:00 +0000

The Woman Who Wasn’t There: The True Story of an Incredible Deception by Robin Gaby Fishers and Angelo J. Guglielmo, Jr.

Used to be, my inner circle knew that the thing that most drove me nuts was rudeness. But, as we humans will do, I’ve evolved and developed a new pet peeve.

Lying.

I’m one of them zero tolerance people when it comes to lying.

So. This book Pushed.My.Buttons.

Every last one of them.

Tania Head claimed to have been in one of the World Trade Center towers on September 11, and she had a gloriously inspirational story of recovering from the death of her husband, who was in the other tower. And apparently she had charisma, because all kinds of people got swept up in her story and didn’t think to ask questions about the inconsistencies.

So the first part of the book—nearly all of the book, actually—is the story of Tania’s deception, but it’s written almost as though we don’t know it’s all a lie. (Yeah, even more of it is a lie than I had anticipated.) It’s only at the very end that the loose ends begin to unravel, and she’s exposed as a fraud. (Guys, I’m not giving anything away here: the title of the book is The Woman Who Wasn’t There.)

And along the way, yes, she was able to organize the survivors and advocate for their rights, but she also was emotionally abusive to many of them. And… (this is where I get all clenched up with anger) she also raised doubts about the validity of some of the other survivors’ stories. The nerve!

So, yeah. This book has the capacity to raise one’s blood pressure. It’s also quite a pageturner, because you just can’t wait for her lies to be exposed.

At the end of the book, though, I was left feeling like some things were missing. I wanted some other examples of humongous lies that were public, and I wanted an analysis of why people tell these horrible whopping lies. I wanted some explanation. Instead, we’re left with this feeling that this was one sick person, but we have no understanding, really, of what drives this sort of behavior. Yes, her family experienced some trauma, but lots of people’s families go through difficult times without one of them becoming a liar of epic proportions.

That having been said, this last part fueled much of our book club’s discussion of the book, and it was lively.

Here’s The Daily Beast’s take on it, which includes an excerpt from the book.

Books that shaped a century. Hmmm.

noreply@blogger.com (Unruly Reader) — Fri, 04 Jan 2013 12:00:00 +0000

I’m a sucker for lists, and the Library of Congress cooked up this list of books that shaped

America

So that’s all exciting, and I thought, These are the books of my people! And then I checked out the list, and I went: Oh.

Here are my thoughts.

(If I’ve bolded the title, I’ve read the book.)

Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain (1884)
I've read it! I adore Huck Finn, I adore Mark Twain, and I adore this book.

Alcoholics Anonymous by anonymous (1939)
Never read it.

American Cookery by Amelia Simmons (1796)

Never even heard of it. (This would surprise few who have dined at my table.)

The American Woman's Home by Catharine E. Beecher and Harriet Beecher Stowe (1869)
Never heard of it. Again, since this sounds home-ec-y, no shock there.

And the Band Played On by Randy Shilts (1987)

Yeah, this one belongs on the list. I haven’t read it, but I think it definitely belongs here.

Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand (1957)

Ditto on this one.

The Autobiography of Malcolm X by Malcolm X and Alex Haley (1965)
Yeah, same thing here.

Beloved by Toni Morrison (1987)
Damn, this is a depressing book. But hella memorable.

Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee by Dee Brown (1970)

I tried to read this one. I tell you: his writing style: ghastly.

The Call of the Wild by Jack London (1903)

I think I read excerpts once, in school. It was enough for me.

The Cat in the Hat by Dr. Seuss (1957)

I’ve read it, and read it, and read it. (Though: the Dr. Seuss book I heard over and over and over and over and over again [my sister would trap each of us in the bathroom while we were in the bathtub -- she'd plunk down on the lid of the toilet, and read aloud (sometimes repeatedly during a single bathing session) to a truly captive audience] was Green Eggs and Ham. I do not like them, Sam I am.)

Catch-22 by Joseph Heller (1961)

I tried to read this book once, in library school. I just wasn’t captivated. And it didn’t make me laugh, as promised. I'm a hard case sometimes.

The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger (1951)

I read this sometime in my late teens or early twenties and thought: Holden, you’re really not as cool as you think you are.

Charlotte's Web by E.B. White (1952)

I remember reading this one on Thanksgiving or Christmas of 1^st or 2^nd grade at Grandpa and Grandma's house. Cried. Also, cursed E.B. White’s name for years, for [Spoiler Alert!] killing Charlotte.

Common Sense by Thomas Paine (1776)
I know it’s important, but I’ve never read it.

The Common Sense Book of Baby and Child Care by Benjamin Spock (1946)

Nope. Never touched it.

Cosmos by Carl Sagan (1980)

I think this would put me to sleep.

A Curious Hieroglyphick Bible by anonymous (1788)

What?!

The Double Helix by James D. Watson (1968)

This book always shows up on these lists, and I gotta ask: Has anyone actually ever read it?

The Education of Henry Adams by Henry Adams (1907)

Sounds like a snore.

Experiments and Observations on Electricity by Benjamin Franklin (1751)

Yeah, how come he shows up here three times? Isn’t Poor Richard enough?

Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury (1953)

Oh, the shame: I’ve never read this book.

Family Limitation by Margaret Sanger (1914)

Never read it.

The Federalist by anonymous/ thought to be Alexander Hamilton, James Madison, and John Jay (1787)

Man, have I read excerpts. Federalist 10 many times over.

The Feminine Mystique by Betty Friedan (1963)

This book told me I wasn’t crazy to be ticked off.

The Fire Next Time by James Baldwin (1963)

Never heard of it. Why not Go Tell It on the Mountain instead?

For Whom the Bell Tolls by Ernest Hemingway (1940)

Never read it. (Shame.)

Gone With the Wind by Margaret Mitchell (1936)

I’d say I’d think about this tomorrow… but I’ve already read it. Twice.

Goodnight Moon by Margaret Wise Brown (1947)

When I became an auntie, I finally read this book. Aloud. Over and over and over again. (This is a terribly fond recollection.)

A Grammatical Institute of the English Language by Noah Webster (1783)

Is this really the title?

The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck (1939)

When I read this book, I got so depressed. And didn’t think I liked Steinbeck. Then I read Travels with Charley and took him off the don’t-like list. I know this is probably his most important American novel, but I still don’t love it.

The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald (1925)
I read this in high school, then once after that. Probably should revisit it someday.

Harriet, the Moses of Her People by Sarah H. Bradford (1901)

Never heard of it.

The History of Standard Oil by Ida Tarbell (1904)

Oh, come on. Really?!

History of the Expedition Under the Command of the Captains Lewis and Clark by Meriwether Lewis (1814)

Sounds significant. Never gonna read it, though.

How the Other Half Lives by Jacob Riis (1890)
Probably was earthshaking at the time, and I just wonder about the writing style…

How to Win Friends and Influence People by Dale Carnegie (1936)
I read it and it sort of changed my life. (Introverts, we need this book.)

Howl by Allen Ginsberg (1956)

Ginsberg, I find you so tiresome and pretentious.

The Iceman Cometh by Eugene O'Neill (1946)
Never read it.

Idaho: A Guide in Word and Pictures by Federal Writers' Project (1937)

Oh, please. Idaho? (Who wrote this? Someone famous? I know that happened with some of these FWP books…)

In Cold Blood by Truman Capote (1966)

The only reason I read this (true crime = scary) was for a genre study. Creepy as hell. I’m still a bit haunted.

Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison (1952)

I’ve read excerpts.

Joy of Cooking by Irma Rombauer (1931)

Again, not in my kitchen.

The Jungle by Upton Sinclair (1906)

Are you kidding me? I’m squeamish enough as it is.

Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman (1855)

Selections only. (It’s sad, but get this: Every time I hear this title, I think of the fact that Bill Clinton gave a copy to Hillary and to Monica.)

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving (1820)

Probably would freak me out.

Little Women, or Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy by Louisa May Alcott (1868)

It took me a couple of tries, but I read this book as a child. I remember thinking it was overrated.

Mark, the Match Boy by Horatio Alger Jr. (1869)

Oh, how dull.

McGuffey's Newly Revised Eclectic Primer by William Holmes McGuffey (1836)

Yeah, I’ve got a copy on my bookshelf here…

Moby-Dick; or The Whale by Herman Melville (1851)

Dreadful thing. I’ve been force-read excerpts.

The Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass by Frederick Douglass (1845)

I’ve read excerpts.

Native Son by Richard Wright (1940)
Again, me with the excerpts.

New England Primer by anonymous (1803)

Never seen a copy.

New Hampshire

by Robert Frost (1923)

I’m sure I’ve read (maybe even memorized) poems from this collection, but I haven’t read the entire thing.

On the Road by Jack Kerouac (1957)

I skimmed this book for book club. I don’t like Kerouac. (Aren’t I curmudgeonly with this list? Yes. Yes, I am.)

Our Bodies, Ourselves by Boston Women's Health Book Collective (1971)

Important? Yes. Have I read it? Not so much.

Our Town: A Play by Thornton Wilder (1938)

I actually love this play. And I own a copy.

Peter Parley's Universal History by Samuel Goodrich (1837)

What the heck is this?

Poems by Emily Dickinson (1890)

Emily Dickinson, I love not your poems.

Poor Richard Improved and The Way to Wealth by Benjamin Franklin (1758)

This is the Franklin I’d choose for the list. I’ve seen excerpts.

Pragmatism by William James (1907)

Boring? I’m thinking so.

The Private Life of the Late Benjamin Franklin, LL.D. by Benjamin Franklin (1793)

Seriously?! What’s with all the Benjamin Franklin?

The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane (1895)

I’ve read this at least twice, for school assignments. It made an impression on me—the terrors of war.

Red Harvest by Dashiell Hammett (1929)

Yeah, I know it’s pivotal, but I’ve not read it.

Riders of the Purple Sage by Zane Grey (1912)

Have I read this, or do I only think I have? I’m thinking not… Anyway, I say keep it on the list.

The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne (1850)

I read this way back in high school and found it rather slow.

Sexual Behavior in the Human Male by Alfred C. Kinsey (1948)

Like everyone else in America, I’ve read about this book.

Silent Spring by Rachel Carson (1962)

Not read it, but I know it’s important.

The Snowy Day by Ezra Jack Keats (1962)
Not read it.

The Souls of Black Folk by W.E.B. Du Bois (1903)

I’ve read excerpts.

The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner (1929)

Not read it. Not such a fan of Faulkner.

Spring and All by William Carlos Williams (1923)
Never read it.

Stranger in a Strange Land by Robert E. Heinlein (1961)
I read this for a genre study. And despised it.

A Street in Bronzeville by Gwendolyn Brooks (1945)

An Illinoisian! Maybe I’ve read excerpts?

A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams (1947)

I was so confused, and so naïve, when I read this in high school.

A Survey of the Roads of the

United States of America

by Christopher Colles (1789)

We had roads back then?

Tarzan of the Apes by Edgar Rice Burroughs (1914)
So thankful I never have to actually read this. Nobody can make me.

Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston (1937)

I’ve read this book, and I recall so little of it. My brain, it is a pitiful object.

To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee (1960)

Yeah, didn’t read this till college. What was wrong with me? Really should re-read someday. In my ample spare time.

A Treasury of American Folklore by Benjamin A. Botkin (1944)

This sounds dull.

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith (1943)

I saw the movie…

Uncle Tom's Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe (1852)

Yep. Important. Not gonna read it, though.

Unsafe at Any Speed by Ralph Nader (1965)

I get the importance, but is anyone really dashing out to read this?

Walden; or Life in the Woods by Henry David Thoreau (1854)

Excerpts. Again, with the excerpts.

The Weary Blues by Langston Hughes (1925)

Not read it.

Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak (1963)

I’ll confess it: this book creeps me out.

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum (1900)

This, too, creeps me out. And I ain’t readin’ it.

The Words of Cesar Chavez by Cesar Chavez (2002)

Yeah, I know he’s significant, but I’ve honestly never heard of this book.

So here’s the tally: I’ve read* 22 of these puppies. Vaguely pathetic? Oh, yes…

*counting only those I’ve read all the way through, not merely dabbled at

Book club goes dystopian

noreply@blogger.com (Unruly Reader) — Fri, 21 Dec 2012 12:00:00 +0000

We didn’t do it on purpose. It just turned out this way. (Damn. Those could be the first lines of a book about a dystopian society.)

So, yeah. Our book club has read dystopian novels for 3 out of the past 6 months. And it’s beginning to wear on us.

Now, occasionally, we’ll do the theme thing: children’s books, short stories, books from our birth year. But this dystopian thing happened by accident.

We started out on this journey, blissfully innocent of the fate that awaited us. (Isn’t that always the way?)

Someone chose The Road by Cormac McCarthy. And guys? That’s one heck of a depressing book. I’m glad we read it, it was great for discussion, but man… Depressing. [Side note: even more depressing when read on the Megabus after wrecking one’s car. Don’t even think of trying this unless you are extremely stout of heart.*]

Then someone (oh, that would be me) decided, a couple of months later, that reading A Gate to Women’s Country would be a good idea. Many years earlier, it had helped me think through some things, and I thought now was the time to revisit it. And, of course, it didn’t have the same effect the second time around, so that was a bust. And the book was just not happy-making.

So, yeah: that, too, was depressing. And one of us got really honked off at that book, which actually was a bit entertaining because she is a calm person who usually doesn’t rant like that.

And then: a mere couple of months later, we were reading The Handmaid’s Tale. Dear Lord. Two of us were so burnt out, we didn’t even finish the book on time (and I pride myself on always finishing the book on time, even if it means wild bouts of skimming). This, too, was a book I’d read once before, more than a decade ago, and I remember it affecting me profoundly. (This was the book that convinced me completely that changing one’s name upon marriage was Not For Me.)

But after having read two other dystopian novels so recently, one of them also a gender dystopia thing, it was just plain too much.

So in the near future, I’m going to be saying No, No, No to any more novels of alternate societies that have gone bad.

*Turns out: That’s me

Blockbuster. Twisted blockbuster.

noreply@blogger.com (Unruly Reader) — Fri, 14 Dec 2012 12:00:00 +0000

Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn

Holy crap!

If you hear someone say those words—kind of loud—while reading, probably she’s reading Gone Girl.

A fellow librarian described the book to me this way, and she had it right: “You think you know what’s going on, then it all flips. And then you think you know, but it flips again.”

And guys, I’m telling you: that’s the truth.

The basic premise is that a woman named Amy goes missing on her 5^th wedding anniversary. And of course everyone always suspects the husband, so Nick is in deep trouble.

And the thing is: Both of them are completely despicable human beings, so if you’re a reader like me, who has to like at least someone in a book in order to be happy, you may struggle a bit as I did. I actually had to put it down for a bit. But then I dove back in, because the strength of the plot overwhelmed my need for a likeable character.

In addition to a plot that won’t stop, this book has some other good stuff going for it. Amy was the subject of her parents’ popular children’s book series, “Amazing Amy,” and those parents of hers… they are some weird ones. And Nick co-owns a bar with his sister Go, and they’ve got a bizarro relationship, too. And there are other suspects in Amy’s disappearance, including a strange stalker-ish boyfriend from her past…

So if you’re looking for a pageturner, or if you’re into twisted, hella disturbing psychological novels, this is a book for you.

Our book club hurls me out of my rut

noreply@blogger.com (Unruly Reader) — Fri, 07 Dec 2012 12:00:00 +0000

The Cookbook Collector by Allegra Goodman

I fall into these ruts of not reading fiction, and when it happens, it lasts a really long time and feels like it will never end. And then there’ll be a book—an amazing, magical book—that not only gets me out of the rut, it throws me way the heck out of it. This is one of those books.

And there's no way I would've picked up this book in the middle of a fiction rut had my book club not selected it.

Now, there is one thing about this book that’s bugging me, but first I’m going to tell you all the things I liked about it.

A wonderful relationship between two sisters is at the heart of this book, and I adore that, because there are few things better than a wonderful sister who loves you even when you’re not at your best. And that’s fully in play in this story.

The sisters are near-opposites: one leads a new dot-com in the days before the burst of the tech bubble, and the other is a wayward grad student who works in a bookstore.

And this is also a delightful comedy of manners. There are a couple of romantic relationships that evolve, and one of them is rather a pleasantly surprising one. I’m a sucker for a well-done comedy of manners, and this book is a wonderful one.

OK, so the thing that annoyed me. There were some coincidences that just seemed way too pat. I know, I know, these weird things happen all the time in real life. But in a novel, I set the reality bar higher than I do for real life. There it is.

Watergate: more truths emerge...

noreply@blogger.com (Unruly Reader) — Fri, 30 Nov 2012 12:00:00 +0000

Leak: Why Mark Felt Became Deep Throat by Max Holland

So yeah. We all now know that Mark Felt was Deep Throat.

But the question remains: Why’d he do it?

There’ve been various theories: he was appalled at Nixon’s flagrant snubbing of the law; he was ticked because Nixon didn’t name him director of the FBI after Hoover’s death; he didn’t like Nixon’s interference with FBI business; he thought it was the right thing to do.

Well, Holland posits that Felt did all that leaking because he was attempting to discredit his rivals for the top job at the FBI. He makes quite a good case for this argument.

So, in addition to the new analysis of Felt’s motivation, here are the facts I learned that completely blew my mind:

- Felt was leaking not only to Woodward, but also to Sandy Smith at Time. Who knew?!

- Nixon knew Felt was the source of the leaks by late 1972. Again… (say it with me now) Who knew?! And Nixon didn’t dare fire him, lest Felt spill even more secrets. (Oh what a tangled web we weave, Mr. Nixon.)

- Robert Redford suggested to Woodstein the style of All the President’s Men: that the book be the story of how they discovered the truth, rather than simply what they discovered. The result: a literary masterpiece.

The dauntless Unruly one, in the
*actual parking garage where
Woodward and Deep Throat met*

Each man—Woodward and Felt—was, of course, using the other for his own purposes. But it’s never before been so baldy stated as it is in this book.

The thing I find the most haunting, though, is this:

“In 2002, Roger L. Depue, the former chief of the FBI’s Behavioral Sciences Unit, studied the depiction of Deep Throat in All the President’s Men for NBC’s Dateline program. Depue concluded from the way Woodward wrote about Felt that he had very mixed feelings toward the man… ‘I detected that not only was Felt an angry man,’ Depue said, ‘but that Woodward didn’t particularly like him. It seemed like more of a utilitarian relationship…. There wasn’t much mutual respect there.’” (p. 157)

For some reason, this makes me feel kind of sad. The romance is all shot to hell, you know?

I feel like I’ve finished this book, only to find myself sadder and wiser. I’ve kinda had enough of that for a while.

P.S. Hey! You, too, can do the self-guided Watergate tour. I highly recommend it.

Cowgirl wannabe

noreply@blogger.com (Unruly Reader) — Fri, 23 Nov 2012 12:00:00 +0000

(photo credit: Library of Congress Prints
and Photographs Division)

I kinda wanna be a cowgirl.* This has been going on for years.

We could chalk up its origins to my feverish chicken pox brain, but I think there’s more to it than that.

When I was in 1^st (2^nd?) grade, I got the chicken pox, and I.Was.Elated. Seriously. I was blissing like I’d never blissed before. Because: I Had to Stay Home from School, Preferably in Bed… All Day Long.

And dudes, to this girl, that meant READING.

I could hardly contain myself.

Never mind the itching, I was in the lap of luxury.

I immediately made a plea for books. (There was a brief moment when I thought: Oh my gosh. What if Mom can’t leave my side to pick up library books?!?!) But my amazing mom made it happen. A pile-o-books materialized by the bed. (Truly: a marvel, that lady. Now I’m wondering how she managed that library run in the midst of chicken pox care. I have the sense that my babysitter may have been deployed.)

I had asked for, and I received (yes, it was nearly biblical in nature)… the Tizz books.

Tizz was a palomino pony who was part of a family that included a boy named Don and a girl whose name I’ve forgotten but who always had her hair in the perkiest ponytail (ponytail!) I’d ever seen.

Yes, it appeared at that young age that I might become one of those little girls who’s wild about horses. (But instead, I just became one of those little girls who liked reading about horses.)

After the best darn week of my young life (oh, chicken pox, why must you strike only once?) I continued my habit of reading darn near everything (even, as previously disclosed, a biography of Barry Manilow [so you can't ever say I don't tell all]), and that mix included a steady diet of horse books.

During the Nancy Drew years (confession: I’m still in the Nancy Drew years) I adored The Secret of Shadow Ranch because Nancy and her chums were all hanging around this old decrepit ranch and riding horses and solving a highly improbable mystery. And that’s one darn intoxicating blend.

Then there was A Morgan for Melinda, which I remember chiefly because there was a horse in it, and also because Melinda’s family decided to remodel a bathroom rather than take a vacation. As a child, I simply had to disagree with their logic. I still disagree. I mean, for pete’s sake, it’s 30 years later and I’m still making the frowny confused face at that episode. (And guys? Happiness experts would support my argument. They say that money only buys happiness if you use it for experiences, rather than things. Take the damn vacation!)

Then I grew up and thought I was done with the horse books. Then I ran across Hank and Chloe and Cowboys Are My Weakness.

And then the Pioneer Woman showed up with her blog and I got a whole new dose of the cowgirl lifestyle.

And I dreamed of it…. Oh, I dreamed.

But guys? The thing is: I don’t actually want be an actual cowgirl.

I don’t like the smell of manure.

I don't like the smell of hay.

I’m a compulsive hand-washer.

I’m not wild about the pre-dawn hours.

I’m not too much into hard physical labor.

And the blood and guts of ranch life… I’d pass out daily. (Seriously: At age 11, I was at a friend’s farm when a sheep was giving birth, and I kept dashing out of the barn back into the house to draw pictures of the Washington Monument to calm my nerves. [I was already a presidential history geek, and the Washington Monument was about all my meager artistic skills could render.] Then I’d feel like a ninny and head back out to the barn. For about 30 seconds. Then flee back to the house. This went on for some time.)

I Do Not Know How to Ride a Horse.

I am kind of afraid of horses. They are surprisingly big when you see one in real life.

And that branding stuff? Scary. Also: disturbing.

And then there’s that other procedure they do to steers… you know what I’m talking about, and it ain’t pretty. (Never seen it, and never gonna.)

And then the beef cattle get hauled off to market to be… slaughtered. (The vegetarian quivers.)

Yet on I read, all about the horses and the ranches and the cowboys. I’m reading my way right off into the sunset…

*But really, guys? Probably the moral of this story is that I really wanna be a librarian. In that case, mission accomplished.

Me & LBJ

noreply@blogger.com (Unruly Reader) — Fri, 16 Nov 2012 12:00:00 +0000

Indomitable Will: LBJ in the Presidency by Mark K. Updegrove

LBJ, signing the 1968 Civil Rights Bill
(photo credit: Library of Congress Prints
and Photographs Division)

OK, first: the author of this book has one of the coolest jobs in the world. He’s the director of the LBJ Presidential Library and Museum (a place I want to visit so bad it hurts). And he’s put together a terrific book.

I guess this style of book is sometimes called an oral biography (which is such an unfortunate phrase), but I think in this case it’s not an accurate description, because it also involves print sources. This one is a mix of snippets from interviews, memoirs, and biographies, all strung together to create a cohesive narrative.*

So, on one page, for example, we have a section from an LBJ interview, followed by an excerpt from a Barry Goldwater interview, then a paragraph from a book quoting Warren Rogers (bureau chief for Hearst Newspapers), followed by a Ted Kennedy interview snippet—all dealing with the complex relationship between LBJ and the Kennedy family.

This style of book—you can pick it up and read a little bit, and then put it down, knowing that you can dive right back in again where you left off. (Some books require a running start to resume reading them; this kind doesn’t.) So for a reader who’s feeling scattered, I highly recommend this format.

And with this book, I experienced that thing that happens with biographies: the feeling of dread as I reached the end of the book—because the person dies. And at the end of this book, I was blinking back tears. Of course, I already knew LBJ has the power to make me weepy.

And it happened again with this book. Here’s how:

After leaving the presidency, LBJ spoke of a story he’d been told by one of the Apollo 8 astronauts, who said that he went into his backyard and looked up at the moon and wondered if could be true that he had really been there. LBJ said he’d told that story to some friends and said, “Perhaps… the time would come when I would look back on the majesty and the power and splendor of the presidency and find it hard to believe I had actually been there.” Of the first night back on his ranch, he said, “But on this night I knew I had been there. And I knew that I had given it everything that was in me.” (p. 322)

Reading these words (that last part!) just a few pages before the end of the book, and then reading the final words about LBJ being buried near an oak tree on his ranch—it just did me in.

[Let's pause, as I collect myself... Hang on, it'll be just a moment...

All right. Now we may proceed.]

This portrait of LBJ paints out a few of the unpleasantnesses, and as long as a person recognizes that, I think it’s OK. But there also are some surprises here, and one of the big ones (BIG!) is that LBJ made the transfer of power (from himself to Nixon) go very smoothly. He was generous. In the words of Walt Rostow: “[The transition] was a magnificent performance to observe. But I think it goes back to a strand in President Johnson that I think is important and hasn’t been caught much, which is that he is a man of government—politics.” (p. 315)

A simply wonderful look at Lyndon Johnson’s presidential years, told by those who were there.

*Some other fine examples of this style of book:

Live from New York: An Uncensored History of Saturday Night Live, as Told by Its Stars, Writers and Guests by Tom Shales and James Andrew Miller

Truman Capote: In Which Various Friends, Enemies, Acquaintances and Detractors Recall His Turbulent Career by George Plimpton

Memories of Buddy Holly compiled by Jim Dawson and Spencer Leigh

True confession

noreply@blogger.com (Unruly Reader) — Fri, 09 Nov 2012 12:00:00 +0000

I love and adore nonfiction books about horrid tragedies. The horrider, the better.

Though I swear, I’m not a ghoul. My reading tastes just trend that way.

And I have a theory about why this is the case.

I think it has to do with the fact that I am wickedly annoyed by books/movies that drama things up beyond reason. [I also ain’t so keen on actual people who ratchet up the drama just for kicks.] The thought, “It’s not life or death,” comes to mind when high drama is occurring for little to no reason.

(Movies are the worst at this. At one point, I nearly swore off drama in film form forever, I was so peeved at the wailing violins that were cranking up the sadness factor in some dreadful movie that was going for an emotional response. I was so ticked I could barely see straight. Yes, I realize that my reaction was… dramatic.)

So when a situation is actually life-or-death (oh, say the Titanic is a-sinking, or the Hindenburg is aflame, or the plane’s in a tailspin), some drama is appropriate.

And the thing I love (LOVE!) is that often the drama is quite low-key in these real-life situations.* People actually step up.

I’m talking nonfiction here. Because in fiction authors often get so excited that there’s a tragedy happening to my poor character!! that they lose all sense of proportion. Some fiction authors can pull it off, but I place my trust in nonfiction.

If there’s gonna be a tragic event in the book I’m reading, I want it to be true.

Ghoul.

*Case in point: George McGovern (may he rest in peace). Now, I know you’re wondering where I’m headed with this, but stick with me. [No, we’re not going to talk about the fact that Nixon trounced him in 1972. That was a disaster of a different sort.] Here’s what I learned from Timothy Crouse’s The Boys on the Bus: McGovern had been a B-24 pilot in WWII. Did.Not.Know.This. And here’s what he said to the crew as he limped their shot-up plane back to safety: “Resume your stations. We’re bringing her home.” I swear to God, I got teary. That’s the way to handle a calamity, people.