Book Review - The Dream Lover: A Novel of George Sand by Elizabeth Berg

I was so thrilled to receive an advance copy of Elizabeth Berg's Dream Lover. Berg is one of my favorite authors. Prior to reading this book I never had heard of George Sand or her writings, but I've since been intrigued enough to read some of her works.

This book is vastly different from other works by Berg, and I found it a fascinating look at French history and the lives of so many famous during that time period. George Sand, née Amantine-Lucile-Aurore Dupin was an influential French author during a time when women were not embraced for their intelligence, free-spirited nature, or even independence. George was successful and made her own way in a man's world, even through societal constraints she faced.

If the reader is looking for typical women's fiction with is Elizabeth Berg's normal style this book might be a challenge. It's the story of a strong woman forging a path in a male centric society, and a bit of historical knowledge might be gleamed along the way.


 Goodreads Review

Thoughts on Paul Harding's Tinkers, Life and Living

Book Review - Tinkers, by Paul Harding

Choosing books for a book club can often be a daunting task. It is so difficult to anticipate what members in the group will like or appreciate. I myself often don’t like the choices, but I am always glad to expand my own reading choices.

This month I selected Paul Harding’s Tinkers. The book won the 2010 Pulitzer Prize, so I thought if nothing else at least we could appreciate reading a quality novel. Book group meets this coming Tuesday, and I have already heard grumbles that it is too hard a subject, too meandering, too esoteric for most readers. Even my friend who has read every single book in the nearly four years our group has been meeting has been challenged to finish it. One of the couples in the group could not get past the first page – his father recently having succumbed to a similar death as the main character.

I admit it was a difficult book to start. I started and stopped a few times over the last month, until last week I knew I needed to get serious and get it read, so I began again. This time the book flowed for me. I found myself captivated, enthralled, engrossed by so many of the passages that I actually had to get sticky notes and mark the pages I found truly beautiful.

Tinkers is the story of George Washington Crosby and his descent to death to cancer. The story of his life is intertwined with that of his father, who left the family when George was a young boy, rather than be institutionalized by George’s mother because of his epileptic fits. George became obsessed with clock repair later in life, and the mechanisms and clockworks are woven throughout the story. Howard, George’s father, had a parallel life with his son, and their stories show the fabric of life and how deep inside, all of us are made of the same stuff as nature throughout the history of the world. Inside the red blood of our bodies lies the rust left behind from Roman armor, and our bones contain the same materials as the stars in the heavens. It is the story of life; of consciousness, of moments in life that can stay with us always, of living and of dying, and how none of us can escape no matter how we live our lives; deep inside we are all one in the same. The prose in this book  completely left me breathless on several occasions.

“..and my father’s fading was because he realized this: My goodness, I am made from planets and wood, diamonds and orange peels, now and then, here and there; the iron in my blood was once the blade of a Roman plow; peel back my scalp and you will see my cranium covered in scrimshaw carved by an ancient sailor who never suspected he was whittling at my skull – no, my blood is a Roman plow, my bones are being etched by men with names that mean sea wrestler and ocean rider, and the pictures they are making are pictures of northern stars at different seasons…” p. 136

This is an incredible book. Yes, it is a challenge to read, and the timeline jumps so much it is hard to keep track of who is speaking or when. I read that Harding printed his manuscript, laid it all out, then cut it up and formed it into what it is today by pasting the bits together. Whether or not this is true, I do not know. However, I can believe it is. Despite the challenges, I found this book to be poetic genius. Thank you Paul Harding.

Jerry's Magic

I was offered an advanced copy of a book called Jerry's Magic by W.W. Rowe through Net Galley. I don't think my words will make or break this book, and in fact I always hesitate to review a book I do not care for, yet there might be an older child or person who could benefit from this book, so I decided to share my thoughts.

This is a short read, and I think the intended audience is children around 10 years old, which is Jerry's age in the story. However, I think that Jerry's growth and ability to learn meditation and answer to a higher self might confuse a ten year old audience.

As an adult I can appreciate Jerry's choices, and Jerry's magic. I am not certain that a 10 year old would. The story starts out simply enough, but about halfway through becomes more about the higher power of our souls and our ability to discover the magic within ourselves and about how if we believe in something enough it becomes real. These are deep topics for a young audience. While a child might enjoy Jerry's mishaps as he struggles to make money pedaling magical wares to help his mom and enhance the family income and making a better life for them, Jerry's self-discovery was a little to mature a reaction for a ten-year old boy, in my opinion. It is not a book I cared much for, and I do not plan to recommend it to the children in my library.

https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1248839156

Falling Together

I just finished reading Falling Together by Marisa de los Santos. This, to me, was one of those stories I just did not want to end. I want to know what happens in the characters’ lives going forward. I want to be their friend; to be entwined in their lives.

This is the story of Will, Pen, and Cat and the friendship they formed early in their college days. They were the Three Musketeers; the St. Elmo’s Fire friends, whose friendship essentially went separate ways until several years after their graduation. Cat has disappeared, and Will and Pen reunite in order to find her and solve the mystery of her life since their split. Pen is heartsick over the death of her father; Will is stoic over the loss (but not to death) of his own father; Cat’s mystery surrounds the death of her father. The path of discovery is through each other.

The tale is told mostly from Pen’s point-of-view, but occasionally shifts to third person Will. Cat’s story is told from their memories of her. I found the characters well rounded and well developed, and their relationships to each other folded almost agonizingly slowly – I wanted to skip ahead to satisfy my curiosity! Their backstories unwind and fill in the blanks, leaving the reader to see that even book characters do have flaws in their personalities, and the road to love is not always paved with gold or is always smooth sailing. Although filled with much banter and humorous moments, to me, the best part was the prose and moments of self-discovery Pen experienced.

 

Falling Together by Marisa de los Santos

Thoughts on Being Busy and Waiting

A reading, quiet morning. I am feeling reflective, yet not. Restless, yet not. Waiting. I feel as if I am waiting for something, but I am unsure of what. Mostly I am feeling at quiet loose ends with myself; like I am in limbo for some reason. Searching? Wondering? Curious? Unsettled or too settled? Still, none of those words really describe how I feel. I think maybe this morning I am more about just being in the moment, and yet, not really. Disconnected? Maybe it is just a morning to purge some thoughts, think them, make them lucid, and then dispose of them. I don’t feel one way or another, passionate about any one topic just now. The birds are singing their morning songs, the sun rises over the pasture in all its silver and gold finery, casting green misty beams through the trees and the moss, sparkling dew drops in the grass. It’s a peaceful, quiet time. I want to say it is a fresh morning – that is what Simonetta called a similar morning in Adine-in-Chianti; that cool time before the sun comes up strong and true; a freshness in the air, a cool, calm that almost seems to exist solely to make a person smile.

To match this odd mood I am in I just read this passage from the book I am currently reading; Falling Together by Marisa de los Santos.

                On an impulse, Will asked, “What have you been waiting for?”
                When Pen answered, her voice was solemn and sheepish, “How did you know? Because you’re right. I am waiting. It hits me now and then: that I’ve been saving myself for something. A sign. A person.” She gave an embarrassed laugh. “Mostly, though, I’m just busy.”

I understand that. I just said this very thing to a friend yesterday. I feel as if I am waiting. For nothing in particular, but for something, somehow. In the meantime, I just feel like I’m busy. A while back I read an article on the word “busy”. Busy is a catch-all word that can mean most anything. Busy-work is work that just keeps a person occupied, maybe busy work is unfulfilling in ways; something to do in order to fill time. Busy is an excuse we use when we don’t want to really do something – I’m sorry, I’m busy now, that night, whenever. “I’m too busy” is an implication somehow that my life is much more important than you or whatever you want to do. There is a lot of stigma in the word “busy”. And yet we seem to consider it a true, honest word. We, as a society in general are just too busy. We fill our lives with so many things; it is almost a badge of honor to be so busy – to be too busy to go out with friends or to attend that concert, or to even find time for ourselves to breathe. Busy-ness is the norm now, and I am pretty sure it is not healthy in any regard. There is that old proverb that idle hands are the devil’s workshop – but I am pretty sure that does not mean fill every waking moment with something; slothfulness is a sin and all that. I guess I’ll get back to that thought when I am not so busy. J I think busy-ness is an excuse, plain and simple. I have been very aware of the word and how often I hear it over the last few months. I have found myself avoiding using it. It does not stop that fact that I often DO have conflicts in my over-booked schedule sometimes, but it does make me aware that I really do need to change what I try to fit into my life on a daily or weekly basis. I too often fill my days with things that are not fulfilling my soul. So Pen’s statement about waiting; I think that is true in a nutshell. Busy-ness, killing time, waiting. That is what I am aware of this quiet, reflective, yet not, morning. I’m in a waiting mood.

To Read is a voyage

“One glance at a book and you hear the voice of another person, perhaps someone dead for 1,000 years. To read is to voyage through time.”
― Carl Sagan

Pieces of a memory

March 3, 2015

As I walked to the mailbox tonight I found a piece of ceramic tile. Many, many years ago before this house was built, back when my father-in-law owned this property he collected “stuff”. One man’s junk is another’s treasure, and to him it was all treasure. One of his treasures was a load of broken pieces of tile. I am sure he had a purpose in mind for it one day – in his mind’s eye it was useful. After he died and we eventually built this house, Steve filled in the foot of the driveway with wheelbarrow loads of those tile pieces. We had dump truck loads of gravel put in, too, and all these years later, pieces of tile float to the top surface, especially after heavy rains.

 I’ve always thought of finding those pieces of tile a bit like stumbling on the memories of my life with Steve. Little pieces of the past, in a way. Several years ago I wrote in my blog about that topic. My blog disappeared a few months ago – poof, gone into cyber space, but I had the foresight to save at least some of my entries. So this is a piece of my past writing; past moments, all because just now I found another piece of tile in my driveway.

Dec. 29th, 2007

08:33 am - One Man's Junk

A long time ago my father-in-law was a junk collector. To him it was not junk, but future possibilities. To the neighbors, seeing his various dilapidated barns and piles of pipes, old washing machines, farm equipment, etc.; he collected junk. When I moved in here so many years ago, to me, it was junk. When we bought the place 20 years ago, to us both, Steve and I, it was junk. Steve tried hard to clean it up. He would have a pile sorted out and all ready to go to the dump, but somehow that pile mysteriously dwindled and days later he would find some of what he classified as junk back where it had been. To Mr. Foster it was treasure waiting for it's proper use. He knew most everything he had, too. In his mind there was order in what we perceived as chaos. When he died a few years after we bought the place, it was possible for Steve to finally get some of that stuff out of here. He had a friend who hauled off load after load of steel, metal, pipe, etc and he sold it for all for scrap and ended up making a good bit of money. Steve never regretted the money his friend made; he was just glad to have that stuff out of here! So the land was cleared, and seven years later we built this house To do so, we had to tear down the last barn standing. After the new house was up, the old house had to come down, and that was the end of the era of the junk collection here on this property. It has reverted back to grass and trees and nature, and it is a beautiful place to live. It is funny that now and then I long for those days. Not so much the junk (junk in Florida attracts roaches, snakes, rats, bull ants, etc). I long for the happiness of those days; for the order of my life in all of that chaos. It is as if when the junk left and the new house went up, the order of my life went with it. Did that junk somehow represent as the natural order of my life?

Part of the junk collection was a pile of ceramic tile. There were four inch squares that had been broken and of various colors that were mis-matched, but mostly the pile was tiny one inch square tiles. They were tiles from someone’s bathroom once; imagine the life they had? Lining someone’s bathroom floor, walls, shower stall? Laid ages ago, someone worked to keep them clean; they witnessed lives being lived, and then, poof, one day, they were removed. Maybe the house was removed to make way for a newer house, and somehow those tiles ended up here in the junk collection of an old man who saw their future potential, or maybe he just imagined their past; who can say? Steve used those tiles in the driveway as filler. After he dumped the loads of tile in the driveway, we got in a dump-truck load of fine gravel. It took him days, but he finally got it leveled. However many years ago that was, the fine gravel has basically all dissipated into the ground. Now the tiles pop to the surface of the driveway like memories. I find myself collecting them and saving them in a glass bowl. This morning on my way to the road to retrieve the garbage can, I found two more. I brought them to the house, washed them off, and I will keep them like scraps of my life; scraps of the life I had here, ceramic scraps of the past that remind me of my life and my happiness; of who I was, and who I want to continue to be.

Today is my wedding anniversary. I am divorced, and I hate that word, hate that state of being. I miss being married, I loved being married. I reserve this one day to myself each year. I let myself remember, I cry if I choose, I laugh at some thoughts, and I let myself wallow a bit in how it used to be. I can tell myself I am ok, I will be happy again, I will be loved again, and I mostly believe that. But this one day a year I let myself be alone with my thoughts and my feelings; whichever direction they take, and I give this to myself without judgment or justification, and I think that is fine. Finding two tiles this morning was like finding two memories waiting for me.

Current Location: The back porch

Current Mood: reflective but not sad

Current Music: The chatter of birds