Serious November reading

We are nearly halfway through November and the impeachment hearings have begun. That's pretty serious by any measure. As befits the seriousness of this month, I have been reading serious books, four so far.

First I read a novel published in the 1930s, Of Lena Geyer by Marcia Davenport. I was inspired to read it after reading Willa Cather's The Song of the Lark a few months ago -- someone in some comment section somewhere mentioned it as being similar. Marcia Davenport was the daughter of famed opera singer Alma Gluck, and her book is based on the life of another famed (back then) opera singer, Olive Fremstad, as was The Song of the Lark. Fiction, yes, but serious old-fashioned fiction.

After that I read LaRose by Louise Erdrich, because my book group had read The Round House, which is actually the second book in a semi-trilogy (LaRose is the third -- I read the first book, The Plague of Doves, earlier). Again, fiction, but very serious fiction, all three about crime and punishment on an Indian reservation, with interesting things to say about the intertwined history of Indians and whites, different ways of dealing with crime, etc. All three books are sad, but I found LaRose to be truly depressing, not redemptive, didn't want to finish it, didn't really believe in its happy-ish ending. The Round House was the best book of the three.

Then it was time for a presidential biography -- #15 James Buchanan, thought by many to have been our worst president ever (present president excepted). I read the short bio by Jean H. Baker, in the American Presidents series. To my astonishment I found it utterly gripping. I finished it in a day. Here is a quote I took the time to copy out, from the last pages of the biography:

"He was that most dangerous of chief executives, a stubborn, mistaken ideologue whose principles held no room for compromise. His experience in government had only rendered him too self-confident to consider other views. In his betrayal of the national trust, Buchanan came closer to committing treason than any other president in American history."

Baker wrote that in 2004 (or before), long before we'd even dreamed of Trump as president. Dubya would have been president at the time. Was she thinking about his failings when she wrote this? It doesn't sound like it's about him. But so much of it sounds like Trump -- not the "experience in government" part, nor the "principles" part, but otherwise. God.

And then I read H is for Hawk by Helen Macdonald, a book I'd been wanting to read ever since it was published (in 2014/2015). Oddly, I found it a little disappointing. It wasn't quite the book I was expecting, or it didn't hit me right or something. The book is a memoir of how she dealt with her grief when her father died by getting a goshawk to train. Macdonald has described her book as also being part "shadow biography" of T. H. White, who also wrote a book about training a goshawk, and it was that part of it that made me sad -- White had such a sad life. On the other hand, the part about Macdonald's own grief didn't really move me, although I did understand what she was going through. She was about 37 when her father died, I was 28 when mine did, and like her, I fell apart. Looking back, I don't know why I grieved so hard. I wasn't very close to my father, though I admired him greatly. But his death was just devastating for me. A year after he was gone I wanted to kill myself. Drugs rescued me, just as they rescued Macdonald. I am not a fan of antidepressants, but they can work miracles with major depression. Anyway, this is a book I might have to think about some more.

Now I'm re-reading Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh, the book group's next choice, which is in its own way quite a serious book too, and after that I will read The Crucible by Henry Miller, because I'm supposed to read a "classic play" for the Classics Challenge, and THEN I will start reading Moby Dick, my choice of "very long classic." I was first going to read The Golden Bowl by Henry James for that category, but Jill Lepore's article about Herman Melville in The New Yorker steered me in that direction instead. As a teenager, I used to try to read Moby Dick off and on. Our public library had a large old illustrated hardback. I would check it out, return it, check it out again a few months later. I never got beyond the first few chapters. Later I found out that my future high school sweetheart, Greg Chediak, was doing the same thing at the same time. Such an odd thing to have in common. I wonder if he ever read it all the way through. I am finally going to do that soon.

Not much else to report. The Halloween candy is gone except for a few pieces that only Kid A likes, but Kid B won't let him have (dog in the manger). I did not steal a single piece of candy this year (the boys did give me some hated Almond Joys). Another item: the twins had their first band concert last night, which I thoroughly enjoyed. They have such a wonderful teacher! The 6th grade band played so much better than the 5th grade band last year, and the 7th/8th grade band was amazing. An excellent musical experience. And oh, how I missed Rocket Boy.

Other than that, I have been working my way very slowly through some cleaning projects -- made some good progress on the twins' room, and now am trying to face this mess in the living room. (Note that I am blogging right now, not cleaning.) My book group comes here next week (to discuss Brideshead), so I must deal with this by then. Wish me luck. One step at a time is usually a successful strategy for me, but this disaster looks like it will all fall apart if I pluck something off the top.

On the plus side, it's 59 degrees outside and our latest snow is melting. Hold that happy thought.