Carpe Libris - What I Did and Didn't Read This Summer

It's been a while since I've written a Carpe Libris post.  After my summer reading list post I'm almost ashamed to admit that about 90% of the books on my summer shelf are still sitting there gathering dust-- sorry Virginia Woolf and Julian Barnes, maybe next year.

That doesn't mean I didn't read this summer.  I did.  A lot. 

And it doesn't mean that I haven't been reading this autumn.  I've just given up on the idea of a seasonal reading list, although I am saving the Russians for winter . . . I'm hoping I can knock out Anna Karenina with one significant snowstorm and a lot of tea.  Until then, here are a few of the books that I've been reading lately. 

This is Water by David Foster Wallace
I don't know if it's exactly fair to call this a book, but since this is my blog and I make the rules here, I'm going to do so.  I've probably read more about DFW than read things by him.  Although I remember reading a couple essays by him in The Atlantic, in my mind he's always been tainted-- guilt by association from all the times he's been exhaled in the same breath with Jonathan Franzen.  I then came across an article about DFW that made me want to read words he actually wrote.  I put Infinite Jest on hold through my local library and while I waited my turn in the queue, I downloaded This is Water:  Some Thoughts, Delivered on a Significant Occasion, about Living a Compassionate Life, the transcript of a graduation address he gave in 2005 at Kenyon College. 

Wowza!  You can find copies of the speech for free on-line but this was something I wanted to have available to read and re-read, to carry with me (at least whenever I have my Android tablet in my purse) like a touchstone, maybe even to use with our Centering Prayer gathering.  Yes, that's right.  You heard me.  One of these nights the Centering Prayer gathering at Washington National Cathedral will be using David Foster Wallace as our text for discussion . . . because DFW articulates the human condition and our need to connect to something outside of and larger than ourselves in words and images as profound as gorgeous and true as any mystic or spiritual teacher, past or present.  Here's one example:

But if you really learn how to pay attention, then you will know there are other options. It will    actually be within your power to experience a crowded, hot, slow, consumer-hell type situation as    not only meaningful, but sacred, on fire with the same force that made the stars: love, fellowship, the mystical oneness of all things deep down.

I have to confess, that makes me cry every time I read it.  I feel like he could have been inside my head poking around when he wrote this essay.  And maybe it's knowing his fate that makes it seem more imperative for me to pay attention. 

The Child in Time, Enduring Love, and The Comfort of Strangers A Trio by Ian McEwan

On one of the recent episodes of "A Good Read" on the BBC Books and Authors podcast, The Comfort of Strangers was chosen as a good read by one of the guests.  It sparked a heated debate about whether or not a book can be deemed good if there are no redeeming aspects to the story, the characters are unlikable, the setting depressing, etc.  And while all of that is true about the book (McEwan managed to make Venice seem depressing and seedy even to me, who loves La Serenissima like no other place in the world) I think I come down on the side of it being a good read, as I do with the other two novels I read by him this past month. 

I know I've read McEwan in the past but I don't think I read him really paying much attention to his artistry as a writer.  He's a bit of an enigma to me.  For one thing, none of these three novels was exactly uplifting.  Although there was some redemption at the end of The Child in Time, reading a story of a man who's life has collapsed after his toddler was snatched from him in a grocery store line was painful.  Likewise, don't be deceived by the pretty cover and alluring title of Enduring Love, where a balloon accident triggers a case of obsession that slowly chips away at the lives of those involved.  As for The Comfort of Strangers, a few pages in I suspected it wasn't going to end well.  If this book had a soundtrack, the screeching violins warning of impending doom would have been playing softly in the background from chapter one and by the middle of the book would be deafening.  Yet just as the characters in McEwan's novels can't (or don't) change their fate, I can't put these books down.  Another thing that fascinates me is his lack of dialogue.  As a writer who has always developed characters through dialogue, the lack of actual conversation was at first unsettling, then distracting and now it intrigues me.  I think with McEwan I read him as much for what I can learn about writing as for the stories themselves, which may explain why he'll stay on my reading list for the fall.  On Chesil Beach anyone?

The Beautiful Mystery by Louise Penny
I was a relatively late convert to the charms of Chief Inspector Gamache and his side kick, Jean-Guy Beauvoir but in a way I'm happy about that as it meant once I made the discovery I could read the next book in the series straight away.  That it is, until recently.  I had to wait months for the The Beautiful Mystery to come out, and worth the wait it was. 

Penny's mysteries are smart and her characters are complex (and likable, Ian McEwan take note).  So what if I sabotage my diet as I end up craving Tim Horton's but settle for an inferior donut and coffee every time I read one of her books?  It is well worth indulging Penny's tasty plots and delicious writing.    In fact, there were few, if any, coffee runs by Beauvoir in this book although in hindsight I realize what a brilliant writer she is when it comes to food because she had me craving monastery food-- vegetarian soups, good bread, cheese and fresh butter.  (It doesn't hurt that most of my experiences with monastery food have been at Holy Cross in West Park, NY where the chef was trained at the Culinary Institute of America and the meals are this foodie's idea of heaven.)

Maybe it's those small, well written details of daily life that add to the richness of Penny's writing.  While the mystery itself-- who killed a monk in a remote monastery and the complexities of investigating the crime where obedience and silence are vows upheld by the insular community-- is the story on the surface, where Penny excels is in exploring what lies beneath.  The motivations for actions and reactions, the choices her characters have made, what their values are, these are all things that make Gamache and Beauvoir multi-dimensional characters in whose lives I feel invested.  Even after the mystery is solved, it seemed almost anti-climatic because what really concerned me was what happens next in the relationship between Beauvoir and Gamache.  So here I am again, waiting for the next installment in the series. 


So what have you been reading?