I wish I could be again the reader I was at age twelve, when each novel Mrs. Fermin the librarian handed me dependably launched me into a thrilling, expansive realm, after which I’d reenter the junior high halls bearing secrets—more than this grind is possible! Until encountering Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness in eighth grade, I had never read a book I genuinely disliked. (Miscellaneously, Machiavelli’s The Prince, assigned in tenth grade, sent me into the last full-fledged temper tantrum I’ve thrown. Perhaps one of the great disillusionments of growing up was encountering awful books.) Childhood for me was shot through with the steady, brilliant beam of reading.
No longer. I almost titled this newsletter, “The Year of Unfinished Books,” because for every book I completed I must have rejected five. Why remains a mystery. Am I growing more discerning? Less tolerant? Impatient with contemporary sensibilities? Are my standards too high? My attention span too short? Do the latest fictional trends simply not speak to me? Am I not finding the right books? (Along these lines, if you’re passionate about something you’ve read recently, please send me the title. I’m desperate.)
Regardless the reason, my inability to be swept away makes me sad.
When an interviewer recently asked me what makes a book good, I surprised myself with a simple answer:
Does love shine through the pages? Does the author love her characters, no matter how nasty they seem? Is the book’s worldview both realistic and compassionate? Do I sense hard-earned wisdom infusing the narrator’s voice? Do I close the covers feeling expanded beyond my usual smallness?
I want a book to take me on a journey to new dimensions of my own humanity. A gripping narrative or elegant prose or witty reflections make for a thrilling read, but they’re the icing. The cake for me are books with big hearts.
After the election, two people I know mentioned they’d picked up Tale of Two Cities as an antidote. I last read it in tenth grade (for the same teacher who questionably assigned Machiavelli), and jumped at the excuse to dive in again. Dickens describes a bloodbath. He doesn’t shy from holding evil-doers accountable, no matter what injustices they’ve known. When he portrays a humble French roadmender potting the revolution travel to adore with patriotic enthusiasm the royal family, I relished Dickens’ capacity to encompass human complexity. His is an unflinching look at the horror of which each of us is capable and which together we can swiftly generate—a warning for these unsettled times. Nonetheless, simple familial love permeates his story. The plot’s resolution hinges on sacrificial love. The cosmology Dickens offers is ultimately loving, and hopeful. I’m engrossed. I’ve lost myself; I emerge having found myself anew.
From the slim pickings of this year’s books, here are my favorites. Scarcity makes me that much more grateful for these fine authors. Enjoy.
Warmly,
Elizabeth
Best Novels
One of my perpetual critiques of American fiction is its hyper-focus on the individual, usually within dysfunctional families, always isolated from broader community networks and political systems. Have we lost the capacity to know ourselves in relationship to one another? Artists mirror our world as it is, but we also have a responsibility to imagine our world as it could be. Contemporary novelists could, if we choose, shine the spotlight on our interconnections.
There’s no main character in HEAVEN AND EARTH GROCERY STORE. Instead, McBride depicts the community as a whole–the poor hill and wealthier town, the white descendants of early settlers and the more recent immigrants, the Black folk and small Jewish population, the traditional southern Blacks and the ambitious, integrating Blacks, even the town government and the county hospital, all an interconnected organism–as the book’s focus. Wow. Here’s a multiracial story told with immense compassion, a fearless gaze at hardship, and great humor. McBride traces the consequences of individuals’ actions on this web of relationships, for both good and ill. We need tales like this to remind us that we’re not alone, that our presence and actions matter in others’ lives, and that together we can generate hope. Hats off to McBride.
I Cheerfully Refuse by Leif Enger
A vaguely futuristic, mildly dystopic Odyssey set on Lake Superior with a decidedly human protagonist–and the best novel for sweating out Covid in a porch hammock. The heroes in this tale are ordinary, the natural world fickle, fierce, and magnificent, the evil believable and prescient. Each sentence is a gem. This book is a praise-song for kindness.
“Lark’s theory of angels was that they are us and we mostly don’t remember.”
Best Memoir
My Family and Other Animals (Corfu Trilogy, #1) by Gerald Durrell
A British kid and his quirky, fatherless family move to Corfu on a whim; he spends his boyhood catching box turtles, raising a magpie, and creating havoc; the family moves away. There’s no plot here, no conflict, no deep meaning, only passionate immersion in the natural world and crazy family antics. Fondness drives this tiny book, which is why I’m so fond of it.
Best Kids’ Books
Ruby Holler by Sharon Creech
While the premises of this sweet middle grade novel are well-worn (ill-treated orphans rescued by gentle older couple; revenge is taken on nasty orphanage managers), the details are fresh: The kids’ psychological recovery follows the rough trajectory of trauma healing; the holler, with its mud, bugs, rocks to bury things under, and plenty of space for spitting, plays an active role in settling the children down; the wilderness adventures are both thrilling and hard. Adults here, even the mean ones, are both intriguing and complicated; the third person narration does them justice. This is a story about how kindness, and the freedom to romp in nature, heal.
The Inquisitor’s Tale: Or, The Three Magical Children and Their Holy Dog by Adam Gidwitz, Illustrated by Hatem Aly
A remarkably complex middle grade novel! With multiple adult narrators active in the plot, a vast cast of characters, the complexities of church policies in the middle ages, illustrations of interfaith dialogue, and a plot driven by theological questions, of course I was blown away. Here is a story with heart. Kudos to Gidwitz for nuancing discernment of God’s will in a children’s book—and getting away with it!
“I think we should pray,” Jacob whispered.
“A Jewish prayer or a Christian one?” William asked.
“I don’t think it matters,” Jacob replied.
Best Contemplative Nonfiction
What We Can Learn From the East by Beatrice Bruteau
As my intrepid study group works our way through scholar and mystic Beatrice Bruteau’s opus, we rounded out the year with this slender volume. What We Can Learn from the East uses teachings from Hinduism and Buddhism as a wildly fresh portal into the mystical lineage of Christianity. In an era when Christianity has been hijacked by moralistic, literal-interpreting institutions, here’s an accessible way back to the living heart of Christian faith. Here’s one small reframing, among dozens: “I suggest that ‘doubting’ means doubling the mind and ‘believing’ means keeping the mind single.” Beatrice, you’re the bee’s knees!
Primary Speech: A Psychology of Prayer by Ann Belford Ulanov, Barry Ulanov
I first read PRIMARY SPEECH twenty years ago. On rereading it today I’m aware, with immense gratitude, of how profoundly the Ulanovs have helped form the foundation of my prayer life. They begin with the radical statement, “Everybody prays,” made even more unbelievable by the four decades and collapse of Christianity since this book was published. “People pray whether or not they call it prayer.” Prayer, the Ulanovs posit, is a basic impulse–a primary, internal speech–inherent to all humans. “To pray is to listen to and hear this self who is speaking.” Prayer is how we relate to the ground of our being. It is the fundamental conversation each of us has with life itself, and as such is worthy of study, of a psychology. The Ulanovs turn to Christianity’s wisdom tradition not out of blind religiosity but because millennia of seekers have unearthed trustworthy insights into this dimension of our humanity.
Any authors willing to explore how our sexuality informs, speaks through, and is augmented by our prayer, or able to treat with utmost respect the critical role imagination plays in our prayer life, get my undying devotion.
Best Fluff
A Discovery of Witches by Deborah Harkness
Talk about the perfect escape! Vampire novels aren’t usually my thing, but when the witchy main character is a medieval manuscript scholar who falls in love with a vampire hundreds of years old in a cross-species Romeo and Juliet scenario, written by an author who’s both a historian and fantastic writer of sex scenes, and the plot hinges on a lost book, what’s there not to like?