A new year, a new January. It's almost the end of the month, so I'll go ahead and post this (I don't expect to finish another book in the next 2 days, but if I do I can always come back and edit this). So, this year I decided to read things that at some point I said I wanted to read. In January I focused on fiction by white writers (because white = cold, snow, etc.). Some of the books were really good, some weren't -- but in general this was fun and I read a lot.
Books I said I'd like to read
Grendel by John Gardner (1971). In November 2023 I read On Becoming a Novelist by John Gardner and really enjoyed it. And I discovered that...
...his most famous novel, Grendel, is about the monster in Beowulf. I went right out and got a copy of Grendel at the Bookworm yesterday.
I should note that I adore Beowulf (at least the Seamus Heaney translation). So I was planning to love this book. Hmm. Unsurprisingly, it's pretty strange. Seems very difficult to get into the mind of a monster, in Anglo-Saxon England, and often I just didn't buy Gardner's attempts to do so. But I tried to give him a chance. Then I read in Wikipedia that Gardner gave Grendel the mind and arguments of Jean Paul Sartre. What the heck? Do you have to know Sartre to understand this book? I thought knowing Beowulf would be enough, but apparently no. So I don't know. It was interesting, kind of, but I was hoping for something different...
Frost by Thomas Bernhard, translated from the German by Michael Hofmann (1963). In September 2024 I read Wittgenstein's Nephew by Bernhard, after which I wrote:
I may or may not read more of Thomas Bernhard. Probably I will... Have to be in the right mood, though.
So I gave Bernhard another try this month, reading his first published novel. It was pretty weird. A medical student is asked by his mentor to stay in an inn in a small village (in Austria) and observe his brother, a painter, who lives there. The medical student stays there for 27 days and the book consists of his reporting on the painter and all the crazy things he says. It's winter, and extremely cold and snowy (lots of "frost"), and they go for long walks in the woods. People die, animals die. I have no idea what the point was. Anyway, I can check Frost off my list, and I probably will read more of Bernhard. This is supposed to be his longest and most difficult book, so everything else will be easy by comparison. He's an interesting writer, but this book. Hmm.
Blue Water by A. Manette Ansay (2006). In 2019 I read Ansay's Good Things I Wish You, and in my end of year reading roundup I said it was my favorite novel that year and
...I want to catch up with Manette Ansay -- I've missed her last few books and she's such a good writer.
So in 2020 I read Vinegar Hill and in 2023 I read her memoir, Limbo. The only novel of hers I still hadn't read was Blue Water, so this month I took care of that. I had been avoiding this book because it's about a woman whose young son is killed in a car accident caused by her former best friend, who is drunk. And then she and her husband go and live on a boat to escape their pain. Oh, man, that did not sound appealing! But I shouldn't have worried. Manette Ansay writes about horrible things, but she doesn't do it in a horrible way. You know almost from the start that you're in the hands of a writer who is not going to be mean to you. I ended up really liking the book, and at the end I just couldn't stop reading it, wanting to know what happened.
So now I've read all her work except her collection of short stories, which I'll get to eventually. Interestingly enough, Ansay now lives in the Boulder area and helps high school students write their college essays. So maybe someday I'll meet her. She sounds like a nice person.
Elizabeth Costello by J. M. Coetzee (2003). Two years ago, after I spent February reading J. M. Coetzee, I wrote...
I can see myself becoming a real Coetzee fan.
I've had this book sitting in my TBR pile for a while -- it came from a Little Free Library -- so I was happy to read it. Many people really like it. Do I? It's an odd book, I'll say that. Its eight chapters are mostly a series of lectures that Elizabeth Costello, a famous older writer (kind of a female Coetzee) gives to various groups. (In one chapter her sister gives a lecture, which Elizabeth listens to and responds to.) In between the lectures we get to know a little about her personal life. In the last chapter she appears to have died and is trying to get into Heaven. Maybe.
So often, reading Coetzee, I think, I do not understand. But then a few paragraphs later he'll make sense. I will probably go on reading him, but he's challenging.
The Colour of Memory by Geoff Dyer (1989). In September 2024 I read a couple of books by Geoff Dyer and liked them and him enormously.
I plan to go on reading Dyer. He's a lot of fun...
So this month I tried his first novel. It's loosely fiction, but originally was supposed to be a sort of diary of his time living on the dole in London in the 1980s. I was in London, briefly, twice in the 1980s, and he's only two years older than me, so I feel like I have a vague idea of what he's writing about. As he says, in the introduction,
A couple of years ago I said somewhere that "I like to write stuff that is only an inch from life -- but all the art is in that inch." The importance of that inch -- and the fun to be had within it -- first made itself apparent in these pages.
First novels can often be really bad, but in this one you can already see Dyer being Dyer. On the other hand, it's rather dull. The absence of a plot is notable. Sometimes it's OK. I could read his little anecdotes forever. But sometimes he spends a lot of time describing something and it's boring. I noticed that on Goodreads most people gave the book 4 stars (out of 5). In other words, great writer, fun book, not outstanding. I will keep reading him, though.
The Rings of Saturn by W. G. Sebald (1995), translated from the German by Michael Hulse. At the end of 2022 I noted that I hadn't read much "general fiction."
The exception, and my best discovery, was W. G. Sebald. I read two of his novels, enjoyed them both [the other was Vertigo], but I think I would pick The Emigrants as my favorite. And I definitely plan to read more of him.
I have since then read Austerlitz, which is wonderful, and now this, his third novel, is my last. It breaks my heart that there aren't any more, because he died in 2001, at only 57. But I have to be honest: I didn't enjoy this book. All his books are dour, somber, but this one was really depressing. It's a description of a walking tour he took of Suffolk in 1992 (maybe -- it's never clear if this is more memoir or more fiction). On his walk, he muses about all sorts of seemingly unrelated things that somehow do relate to each other and to what he's encountering. They all seem to involve terrible tragedies. As he says, at the end,
Now as I write, and think once more of our history, which is but a long account of calamities...
That's the book: a long account of calamities, each one more upsetting than the one before. This is probably not a good book to read when you're depressed. I wish I could read his books in German, though. According to Wikipedia,
The German original is written in a curiously quaint and somewhat precious and old-fashioned language that often disregards the common placement of German verbs at the end of sentences and instead puts them in unusual places.
There are collections of essays and poetry by Sebald that I haven't read, so maybe I'll try them. But his novels are so wonderful. Except maybe not so much this one. I'm still glad I read it.
Aquamarine by Carol Anshaw (1992). I've always liked Carol Anshaw, ever since I first ran across her in 1998. In the summer of 2021 I found her latest book, Right After the Weather, at the Dollar Store, bought it, and read it. In this blog, I wrote,
She's a good writer. I read her novel Seven Moves a long time ago, liked it a lot, and then more recently, Carry The One, didn't like it as much but still liked it. In the back of my mind I planned to read her other books eventually...
Anshaw really is a good writer, and I'm sorry she's kind of vanished in the haze. Aquamarine was her first book, of five, and it earned a lot of praise. It's the story of Jesse, an Olympic swimmer who takes the silver medal (her crush takes the gold), and three possible ways her life might have gone after that. That's the whole book: three long chapters about Jesse's three possible lives, each of which seems plausible. I started out not liking it so much, but it grew on me. I read the whole thing in less than a day -- she's that kind of writer. So, she has one more novel I haven't read, Lucky in the Corner, and it's supposed to be good. I'll get it from the library.
The Correspondent by Virginia Evans (2025). This is the book for the book group (we meet next week), but it was also something I wanted to read. I put a hold on it at the library, but on January 22nd I was #373 out of 675, something like that, so I gave up and went to Barnes & Noble and bought the hardcover.
I liked it a lot! But at the same time, I don't know, it's not the greatest book ever. A retired lawyer in her 70s writes to a lot of people every week, including famous writers (who write her back). The novel is nothing but letters -- hers, and some of those she receives. Through the letters you learn all about her life and how she gradually comes to terms with it. She's fairly well-off, plus gets richer as the book goes on (inheritances), so there are no pesky real-life concerns to worry about, other than the fact that she's going blind. And things get wrapped up too neatly at the end. So, it was good, I liked it, but I'll probably end up giving it away to someone. Maybe. I'll see.
Night Waking by Sarah Moss (2011). In December 2023 I read Moss's first novel, Cold Earth, and loved it. I noted that I wanted to read more of her. So I tried this one, which is about an academic who has gone with her husband and two young kids to live on an island so that he can study puffins and she can do all the childcare and housework and cooking while also trying to finish an academic book. I thought I might like it, but I didn't, in part because I felt like she wasn't firm enough with her toddler. Don't let him do that, I kept thinking. Say, "No!" Eventually I decided it wasn't for me. I'll try some of her other books later.
The Girls from the Five Great Valleys by Elizabeth Savage (1977). Savage is the author of one of my favorite books of all time, Happy Ending, and in May 2024 I read three of her other books, only liking one of them (Last Night at the Ritz).
I think I will continue to explore Savage's books, at least some of them. I read a review of her 3rd novel, and it didn't sound very good, but I definitely want to try her 6th, 7th, and 8th novels, just in case they're wonderful.
The Girls is Savage's 7th novel and I liked it a lot. It's the story of five teenage girls in Missoula, Montana, in 1934. The story follows them from the end of their junior year at Missoula County High School to graduation night the following year, and a little bit beyond. Savage was born in Montana in 1918, so this is her story, her era. In the beginning I loved it, then it got a little dull, and then it got very dark. But I loved the last line. This doesn't replace Happy Ending as my favorite Savage book, but it's similar to it in some ways and I will definitely keep it and reread it.
Books from the New Yorker's "Briefly Noted" reviews
By the Fire We Carry: The Generations-Long Fight for Justice on Native Land by Rebecca Nagle (2024). I chose this book to read back in November and I had it checked out for six weeks before I finally read it. But it's a really good book, although terribly depressing, and not unlike one of my favorite books from last year, Killers of the Flower Moon. The author, who lives in Oklahoma, is a member of one of the tribes she writes about, the Cherokee Nation.
The book is very well researched, very fair, and about halfway through I suddenly thought, wait a minute, my great-grandparents participated in one of the Oklahoma land rushes (of 1892) -- did they steal Native land? So I did a little research, and sure enough, my great-grandparents' land, in Blaine County, Oklahoma, was originally given to the Creek and Seminole tribes, taken away from them after the Civil War, then given to the Cheyenne and Arapaho alliance, and then taken away from them. So the land that gave my grandmother a good life, leading ultimately to my father having a good life and to me having a good life... was stolen from four different Indian tribes.
I do feel as though I owe someone some reparations.
Other reading
Delilah Green Doesn't Care by Ashley Herring Blake. I saw this "sapphic" romance novel discussed on Reddit and was fascinated that such things exist. So I read it. But it was terrible. All the characters did was drink heavily and wear attractive outfits. I simply did not see the point. This makes me think I should read some other romance novels, to see if I just don't like the genre (I don't think I do) or maybe this was a really bad book. Or maybe I'm just not the intended audience...
Red Winter by Anneli Furmark, translated from the Swedish by Hanna Stromberg. An odd little story about an illicit (and doomed) love affair between a young Communist and an older married mother of three, in 1970s Sweden, during the long cold winter. It's a graphic novel, with evocative illustrations. Very well done, kind of sad, kind of weird, intriguing.



















































