Category Archives: Books Worth Keeping

Plenty of books are worth reading once.
These selections are good enough that they deserve shelf space; to be remembered and referred to, and to cherish the prospect of one day experiencing them again.

The Golden Road – How Ancient India Transformed the World, William Dalrymple

It’s long been a curiosity to me that The Buddha lived and preached in the lands which we know as India, but the populace of that region today are mostly Hindu followers (with significant minorities of Muslims, Sikhs, and other less-publicized faiths).  Conversely, Buddhism is mostly associated in the modern mind with lands beyond India: Tibet, China, Japan, Thailand, the other southeast Asian nations… And then, of course, there is Indonesia, a massively populated sleeper nation (in the ‘Western’ view) which I have read holds more Muslims than the entire Middle East! And BTW, how come Marco Polo’s fabled Silk Road doesn’t show up on any maps except those created to illustrate editions of his dubiously sourced travel memoir?

William Dalrymple, a Scottish-born historian living in Delhi, is eager to explain it all to us, beginning with a valuable Introduction that quickly spells out several themes.  First, it demolishes the myth of ancient overland trade routes.  In this telling, sea-borne trade was far more effective at moving goods – one ship able to carry many times the load of a donkey or camel and at the same time less vulnerable to the myriad possibly-hostile territories through which a long land route must pass between origin and destination.  Add to that the reliable seasonal reversing of monsoon winds in the seas around India and you have a situation ripe for cross-culture pollination. Something I’d begun to consider recently through reading and viewing about Rome, its connections with Egypt, and recent archaeological work at Red sea ports which has yielded much evidence of sustained trade with India’s Western coast (via the Gulf of Aden and Arabian Sea).

As impressive as this dispersion is, it is hardly the end of the Golden Road’s story.  Even as Buddhist missionaries (itself a new concept this small mind) were carrying their faith to the east where various rulers of ‘Chinese’ states endorsed it to various degrees, Mongols sweeping down from the north and Macedonians from the west were bringing other traditions to India, fracturing its Buddhist establishment and driving many back to the emotional refuge of the Vedic/Hindu tradition with its abundance of attractive gods and goddesses and the reassurance of the Brahmin caste system. (I know I am garbling these distinctions, it takes a scholar like Dalrymple to keep them straight, if even he can, so please forgive me.) Mix in the eventual arrival of Western Europeans and Christianity and one begins to see what a melting pot (to appropriate one of our local phrases) the Indian Peninsula has become.

Through it all, Dalrymple’s central objective is to remind us that wherever armies go, religion goes with them, and wherever religions go, other knowledge goes too.  In astronomy, mathematics, medicine and other realms, residents of India were making momentous discoveries long before Europe or even China.  Citing various early writings (most of them previously unknown, to me) he traces the origins of this scholarship and its dispersal through the various centers of study and libraries of texts it generated.  Only when Islamic scholars brought those ideas and texts to the Middle East (Baghdad, etc.) and from there to the Iberian Peninsula (the Moors, as we tend to call them, thanks to Mr. Shakespeare), was it translated into Greek, Latin, Italian, German, etc. and thus available to fertilize the so-called Enlightenment which we like to think of as the foundation of our contemporary culture.

Dalrymple is an awesomely erudite guide to all this, his analysis of artwork in this or that cave in this or that obscure (to me) region of India is amazing, if sometimes overfilling.  For those interested in the premise but not able to work through a 500 page tome, just reading the Introduction will give the basic premise.  For those with time though, the depth and detail makes the case more convincing and imparts a vision of the rhythmic dance – the ebbing and flowing on a scale of centuries – which was required for this dance of cultures to bring us the world we know today.

At a time when the (supposedly) Enlightenment-based world order we have known and respected for generations seems in danger of self-destructing, it is appropriate to be reminded that we would never have gotten this far if not for the blossoming and dying of countless other orders.  And also, it must be admitted, the clashes, conquests and destruction of kingdoms, nations and empires on multiple continents, over multiple millennia.  No human creation lasts forever, but the best fruits of each can contribute to what comes next – though we may need to suffer a lot of wasted time, resources and lives before we get there.

Thank you, Mr. Dalrymple.

A Word to Aspiring Writers – The Marvelous Elizabeth Strout

Normally, these ‘Books Worth Keeping’ posts focus on a single work recently encountered and found (in one necessarily limited and idiosyncratic opinion) to be worth remembering and sharing.  This time around, although I’m spurred by a specific book (“Tell Me Everything”), the subject is its author.

In this reader’s view, anyone who aspires to be a writer would do well to read Elizabeth Strout’s novels and consider deeply what she does and how she does it.  Under the guise of limited lives in a limited setting, Strout illuminates the unlimited breadth and variety of what it is to be human. Out of deceptively ‘ordinary’ situations and circumstances, she mines complexity and contradiction (apologies to Robert Venturi for stealing your phrase) as her utterly believable characters struggle to understand themselves and the selves of those with whom they live, die and, especially, love.

Many other authors and books* are similarly revealing and rewarding, but few are as consistently insightful, illuminating and uplifting. 

Elizabeth Strout’s works are a treasure.

*Mary McGary Morris’s A Dangerous Woman, Clare Messud’s The Woman Upstairs, and Michael Dorris’ A Yellow Raft in Blue Water come quickly to mind, as do the works of Emma Donoghue, Kate Atkinson, William Boyd, Ian McEwan and… Thankfully, the list goes on and on.

Still Life, Sarah Winman

The romantic novel as still life painting – an unlikely assortment of exquisitely-rendered events (the objects) carefully arranged for maximum effect (starting with Evelyn and Dorothy in 1944, then moving forward in jumps and fits, then returning to Evelyn in 1901), the entire assemblage framed by the city of Florence in all its history and culture and gastronomic variety. 

When I search the text for ‘still life’ I find reference to all the still life paintings Evelyn inherited; thought by some to be no more than decorations, to her they are the grail, which seems perhaps a comment on the genre as a female space. Another instance, also, in which she, having become an art professor, theorizes on the genre’s power as coming from, not in spite of, the seeming triviality of individual objects or domestic situations which actually contain specific phrases of the overall painting’s meaning and purpose.  How it freezes time, raises up the contributions of those who provide for others (as opposed to the ‘movers and shakers’). And a final instance of the two words together in the passage  “…Empty bowls.  Rotting fruit.  Passing time.  But still life in all its beauty and complexity…” thus making clear the author’s multiple intents: still life as a genre of painting, life as a collection of individuals interacting and connecting as do the objects in a still life painting, an account rendered in the manner of a still life painting and, ultimately, that ‘life’ is still ‘life,’ whether one is old, or disappointed, grieving or alone or has serendipitously found what they’ve been looking for all along.

(Worth noting the large number gay characters; more than would be expected solely because of the novel’s interest in art, literature and other creative pursuits.  Clearly the result of many decisions by the author, who herself came out in the 1980s, and a welcome reminder that human variety is not a product of the late twentieth century.  Noted also that not quite all the hetero relationships in the book are constrictive, doomed and/or abusive, but the tally certainly trends in that direction.)

_______

Eight months after reading this novel and recording the notes above, I came across the title again and was not certain whether or not I had read it.  Reading my notes at this remove, I’m struck by how interesting and satisfactory they make the book sound and yet I did not recall it (sincere apologies, M. Winman). Entire reason I started writing notes like these was the hope of no longer doing that… 

Is it time, perhaps, to slow down and not consume so many books but rather to savor the few?  But what other way to find those few, given that recommendations and reviews are so unreliable?  And isn’t that dilemma just what life itself is all about?  One has to experience its entirety – the exciting and the tedious, the success and failure, the love and the rejection, the yin and the yang and the black and the white and the good, the bad and the ugly – in order to learn what is truly astonishing and beautiful and we wish we had done a better job of savoring and holding onto – what will be so difficult to say goodbye to when one finally shuffles off.

Maybe it’s simply time for me to re-read some of those books which a first read confirmed to be worthwhile. 

Like Sarah Winman’s Still Life.

Dark at the Crossing, Elliot Ackerman

Ackerman, takes a risk here, venturing into the mind of an Iraqi-American attempting to join the Syrian resistance to Bashar Al Assad’s brutal regime.   Published in 2017, this may have just predated the current literary judgement that any such attempt at empathetic fiction constitutes an unjustifiable act of appropriation.  For this reader, the complexity he portrays in both the would-be fighter and the rest of his cast – all but one of whom are also of Middle Eastern nationalities and ethnicities – justifies the premise.  No, this is not the novel a native Iraqi or Syrian might have written, but neither is it an opportunistic rip-off spawned in ignorance.  Ackerman’s record as a journalist and as a Marine (decorated for actions during tours of duty in both Iraq and Afghanistan) gives him enough credibility, in my view. Besides, his writing of his book in no way prevents anyone of other background from crafting their own. (That he gets published and someone else might not is more properly a comment on the nature of the publishing industry/market than on the right of any author to spend their days following their own visions.)

Moving past all that, Dark at the Crossing presents a convincing and valuable portrait of the desperation endemic to a wartime refugee movement – boys living on handouts along the side of a highway, families hoping to subsist on what they can grow from a single envelope of seeds, a mother’s love warped beyond repair by the unmanageable violence of urban insurrection, lives casually dispatched by blasé warriors barely out of adolescence and under no close command.

More deeply, this dramatic and eventful story is concerned with the question of why men fight such wars.  Yes, there are individuals or moments in which the desire to topple an illegitimate regime is clear and pure, but often the motives are more muddled. Revenge against previous cruelties and atrocities is a deep strain, the need to be active in one’s fate rather than a passive victim seems another.  Also, and perhaps wrapping around all those, is the need to become part of something which feels simply too large to ignore: when your entire world is burning, is there not a moral obligation to pick up a bucket, no matter how small?  Is that not actually an act of love – for those who might be saved today, tomorrow, next year or next decade?

In that, the novel recalls Chris Hedges’ War is a Force That Gives Us Meaning (though Ackerman does not judge such a search for meaning nearly as harshly), and also John Krakauer’s Where Men Win Glory (despite a perspective which could hardly be more different, its depiction of the personal cost such impulses can exact raises similar issues).

For raising and considering such questions, Dark at the Crossing is more than worthy of the time it takes to read and the fraction of an inch it now occupies on my shelf.

How to Get Filthy Rich in Rising Asia, Mohsin Hamid

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Posing as satire of the Western world’s self-help book genre, this clever volume starts out strong (“Look, unless you’re writing one, a self-help book is an oxymoron.  You read a self-help book so someone who isn’t yourself can help you, that someone being the author.”) and finishes even stronger.  There is a stretch about three quarters through its slender 220 pages that treads close to familiar crime and corruption thriller terrain, but happily that is only a dalliance, employed by Hamid to bring his protagonist down to earth and set up the final chapters wherein we realize what sort of wealth is really being promoted here, and in what way this book truly proposes to help its readers help themselves.

Along the way, we get a glimpse of what life is like for many hundreds of millions across the globe.  A lesson given greater impact by being written in the second person, casting the reader as protagonist (“The whites of your eyes are yellow, a consequence of spiking bilirubin levels in your blood.”) This choice is particularly effective at impressing readers from prosperous northwestern-quadrisphere cultures (such as myself) with the realities of life for those who indirectly support our affluence (“The virus affecting you is called hepatitis E. Its typical mode of transmission is fecal-oral.  Yum.”)  Later, when a different range of emotions arise among characters in circumstances superficially different from our (my) own, this second-person setting makes plain the conclusion that we are all the same underneath, no matter how different our economics make us seem at first glance.

Lest this sound like a civics lesson, I want to emphasize that the writing throughout is full of wry insight and humor.  To that, the final chapters add great warmth and sympathy for the human condition and an understanding of love, aging and the grace with which those can be faced – when complex and imperfect beings rise to their best potential.  An unexpected and very welcome reward at the end of a brisk and entertaining trip.

Ultra-impressive work by Hamid, who is fast becoming a favorite author.  Originally from Pakistan, he has dual English citizenship, degrees from Princeton and Harvard Law and experiences in the worlds of corporate law and McKinsey consulting to complement his South Asian frame of reference. Author of five novels so far and at least one work of non-fiction (Discontent and its Civilizations: Despatches from Lahore, New York and London, 2014), his is a voice which deserves to be heard, and widely.

Paris Undercover

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Paris Undercover – A Wartime Story of courage, Friendship and Betrayal, Matthew Goodman (2025)

At times inspiring, at others horrific, this is an impressive example of historical scholarship and its value in setting the record straight – as opposed to its all too prevalent effect of skewing history to the writer’s preferences.

In the midst of WWII the Etta Shiber’s purported memoir Paris-Underground is published in New York describing the exploits of herself and Kitty Bonnefous, two female resistance workers in Nazi-occupied France.  How that book came about, how much it was fact and how much fiction, and what were the effects its publication, are this current book’s subjects.

Part One of this volume gives us a factual record of the women’s actual lives and actions, up through Etta’s capture trial and imprisonment by the Nazis, thru her eventual release and arrival in New York. (At least I believe this is the factual version.  Given what follows, I do wish Goodman gave us a more explicit assurance to that effect.  In particular, his choice to open with the moment of Etta’s arrival in New York and then backtrack to their exploits confused me when, in Part Two, he informed us that is the way in which Etta’s book was structured.)

Readers looking for a pleasant and inspiring book could perhaps stop right here, and be somewhat satisfied.

Part Two is Goodman’s account of how Etta’s book came to be, how it was or was not written and by whom (there are differing accounts), and the impacts it had on her life..(This is where Goodman details that book’s departures from fact, and where I became a bit confused as to whether what I’d previously read was the true facts, or a replaying of the wartime book’s fabrications.  Perhaps a more diligent reader would not experience any confusion, but I did). What does seem clear though, is that Paul Winkler, himself a Jewish refugee from France, had the leading role as publisher and assembler and probably came out farther ahead financially than anyone else did.  Certainly the book sold well, and Etta Shriber did not get much for it.  What is also clear is that the book’s publication would certainly cause the Nazis to revisit Kitty’s case with even more sadistic vigor than before, likely with deadly consequences for her and others.

By the end of this section, one is angry with Winkler and others, but mostly on the edge of one’s seat, impatient to learn where Kitty has been imprisoned how she has fared while this profit-oriented sideshow was taking place in the safety of North America.  An excellent demonstration of how even a nonfiction book can be structured to maximize its suspense.

Part Three: Into the Night and Fog is the crux of Goodman’s work, a detailed account of Kitty’s imprisonment and mistreatment, the effect of Etta’s book on her such, the terrible  privations she and other prisoners of the Nazis had to endure to survive and even after being ‘freed’ by Soviet troops and, at long last, Kitty’s eventual return to the land of the living, where she lived to very nearly 80 years of age, at last enjoying some comforts and peaceful pleasures despite the debilitating effects of her ordeal.

(Given the chaos and destruction endemic to wartime, especially the end of a World War, it is amazing that Goodman is able to reconstruct this period in such detail and anecdote.  Since the overall purpose of the current volume is to expose the fabrications of Etta’s earlier book, it would have been worthwhile for him to address head on how he is able to be so comprehensive and how he avoided inserting his own imaginings in it, though the extensive Acknowledgements, Notes and Bibliography do help in this regard.)

As with other accounts of wars and particularly the Nazi Reich, one comes away from Paris Underground near despair at the eagerness of some men (and a few women, too) to inflict unnecessary pain and agony on other humans.  And, at the same time, amazed at the ability of many humans to survive mistreatment and hardships that would seem, if described in the abstract, unendurable.

A compelling and thoroughly worthwhile read, but not pleasant, and not for the faint of heart.

 The Netanyahus: An account of a Minor and Ultimately Even Negligible Episode in the History of a Very Famous Family, Joshua Cohen

Started reading this in the mistaken belief that it was non-fiction and was immediately put off by the narrator’s (and, I assumed, author’s) arrogant attitudes and artificial style of speech. Once I realized it was fiction, those became crucial elements of the narrator’s character and the entire story, rather than obstacles.  A chastising lesson in the difference between forms and the expectations they set up in a reader – and the responsibility of the reader to know what sort of a book e is opening up!

That said, this impressive novel is not without its challenges.  Cohen is knowledgeable and compelling on Jewish culture and Zionist history and politics. His “Credits” make clear this is based on a real incident involving real individuals; the literary critic and educator Harold Bloom, whom Cohen knew well in his last years and on whom he loosely bases his narrator, Ruben Blum; Benzion Netanyahu, a Polish born scholar of medieval Judaism and activist for the creation of the State of Israel – and the father of Israel’s current strongman, Benjamin ‘Bibi’ Netanyahu (who appears briefly, as a child); and, to a lesser but critical degree, Benzion’s father/Bibi’s grandfather, Nathan Mileikowsky, a Russian born activist, Rabbi and author.  The incident – Benjamin showing up at Blum’s university for an interview with his wife and children unexpectedly and chaotically in tow – is also real, though to what degree is up for debate.

The first half of the novel is serious to the verge of textbook, if a bit satirical, showing us the attitudes of Blum and the surrounding culture (nineteen fifties/sixties backwaters US academia) toward Jews.   One note that struck this reader was how closely the described intentions of Zionist theorists appear to confirm the contentions of Rashid Khalidi’s The Hundred Years’ War on Palestine, which I had begun prior to reading Cohen’s book and am still working my way through (it’s dense).  In this view, it has always been the intent of core Zionists to possess not just what the UN mandated, but all of what have been called, at one time or another, Palestinian territories (reduced today, through a rolling mix of annexations, wartime seizures and occupations, to Gaza and The West Bank – minus the many Israeli settlements already inserted within those boundaries).  The Balfour Declaration and subsequent legalistic measures to enact some sharing of those lands between Israel and the ‘non-Jewish residents’ (to avoid taking a side by describing them as ‘Palestinians’), which I naively believed bestowed a solid legality to the nation, have never been fully accepted by the more ardent Zionists.  Rather, they acceded to these grudgingly and only as temporary accommodations for short term benefits, with always the hope and/or intention that eventually the nation would take by force what it could not win politically.  That even the Balfour Declaration came about only because Zionists and settlers (who were mostly recent arrivals, rather than having been resident prior to the early 20th Century and Zionist movement) backed the British and other nations into conceding it through raids, sabotage and what some have called terrorism, foreshadowed this long-term belligerence.

The novel’s tone changes dramatically in its second portion, as the Netanyahus (or Yahus, as Blum comes to call them, in one of the author’s most amusing bits) arrive and what had been an academic exercise turns into a slapstick comedy of poor manners, poorer parenting, arrogant presumptiveness, cliché infighting between spouses and barbed daggers at academics in general.  For this reader, who finds nearly all ‘comic’ writing an oxymoron, that sectionis less successful and somewhat overextended.

The Netanuyahus is saved in part by the aforementioned orientation on Zionist history and in another part by the insight it provides into the making of one future Prime Minister.

To wit: if the actual Bibi Netanyahu comes from such stock as these fictional father and grandfather, then there seems no way in hell or heaven that he will ever honestly support the idea of a Palestinian state.  Coupled with his actions so far since the tragedy of October 7, 2023, this leads one to conclude there will be no other outcome of the present Israeli/Palestinian conflict than Israel’s elimination of the Palestinians as a people or political entity and the integration of all previously Palestinian-controlled lands into an increasingly theocratic, increasingly Orthodox and bindingly-Jewish state of Isreal. 

Benzion’s scholarly opinion that this tragedy is a result of Medieval Iberia’s choice to maximize economic advantage by portraying Judaism as a race rather than a religion makes it more tragic, not less.  History and religion are not so far apart as some of Cohen’s characters would like them to be.

An impressively erudite novel, depressingly timely.

P. S. – As Cohen tells us, the literal meaning in Hebrew of ‘Netanyahu,’ the surname which Benzion chose to replace his father’s (‘Mileikowsky’) is “gift of God.”  This suggests that the attitude of supreme arrogance and entitlement which Cohen portrays in the character modeled upon Benzion is likely very true to its original.

P. P. S. – Early on, Cohen depicts the anti-progressive bent of conservative strains in Jewish and early Zionist thought.  This reader was struck hard by the similarity of that reactionary and absolutist world view with that of America’s present-day nuovo-populists and MAGA fundamentalists.  One more reason for our Mr. Trump and his fundamentalist Christian supporters to side so strongly with Mr. Netanyahu’s Israeli policies, if their shared paternalism, avarice, brutality and need to perform Alpha Male masculinity were not sufficient.

Karla’s Choice, Nick Harkaway

Picked this up less than fully convinced that a John Le Carre novel sans Le Carre was really needed.  Fact it was penned by the master’s son, Nick Harkaway, made it somewhat more promising than the various Ian Fleming-less Bond retreads by unrelated followers (of whom Harkaway is one, the admirable William Boyd another).  Was encouraged before the start by a statement in the Author’s Note that “There were always supposed to be more Smiley books.”  LeCarre’s having graciously left ten years of blank foolscap between The Spy Who Came in From the Cold and Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy also suggested room for this insertion.

From the start, what I found was encouraging, gliding along quite happily to the familiar rhythms and contexts of LeCarre’s world as scored and conducted by Harkaway (who has the benefit of having actually been present and somewhat privy to his father’s creative processes).   A pleasant enough experience, but not eye-opening – until somewhere around 80% of the way through – stop reading here if you don’t want to spoil the experience for yourself…

Just as I’d begun to worry this might be all retread, Susannah, the naive civilian whose cry for help initially set the entire story into motion, despairs at Smiley’s apparent lack of principle and crosses the Iron Curtain into Hungary (at the time a Communist autocracy tightly leashed to the Soviet Union) to commandeer his mission for herself.  Though believable based upon her earlier actions and personal history, this impulsive act nonetheless flips us into another plot entirely, as Smiley and his professionals must improvise in hopes of catching up with her.  Then, just as I’d accepted that and begun to anticipate the excitement it must generate, Harkaway switched form entirely – stopping the clock to preview various character’s future reminiscences on whether Smiley’d had no idea this was coming and was now in totally reactive mode, or had anticipated and accepted Susannah’s action as inevitable and gone with the flow or had, in fact, callously conceived, arranged and ensured such a dangerous act in order to achieve his own ends at the probabl cost of her innocent life.  By dancing a follow-spot rapidly over Smiley’s talent, skill and commitment even as it highlights several canonic characters’ own abilities and relationship to the master, Harkaway makes clear that moral principle, guilt and regret are the true subjects of the novel, assuming LeCarre’s mantle very nicely, thank you. 

Minutes later (in reading time, that is) we’re back into thriller form, watching as George discovers he has been made and is being tailed, and then as this unassuming ‘little man’ deals brilliantly with the challenges (including a car chase with Smiley at the wheel – never thought we’d see that!).  These scenes are virtuosic for both character and author, and from there it is a race to a signature LeCarre finish: bloodshed held off-screen, morality front and center and more than a hint of anticlimax, until Harkaway surgically exposes just what values and choices lay behind the various participants’ actions. Despite the infamous Karla (through-line villain of the entire Smiley oeuvre) having appeared very sparingly and with minimal back story, it turns out that his ‘choice’ is indeed the true point of this novel.  Not to mention a worthy gift to the fans in how it adds color and insight to Le Carre’s own chronologically-later volumes. Very nicely done!

Credit where credit is due:  I read this in e-book form – one of the more benevolent byproducts of our evolving digital hegemony.  An e-book I had borrowed online from a public, i.e. ‘government funded’ (cue the sinister theme music) library – one of those many liberal-culture institutions from which our marginally-elected leaders are currently scrambling to rescue us.  Had downloaded it in moments and for free – another benefit of the ‘mommy state’ imposed upon us by the ‘deep state’ which is now being shredded in favor of absolute free-market fundamentalism. Who knew we had so much to lose?  Anyone with eyes…

Having thus tested the waters and found them delicious, I’ll now be purchasing a hard-copy of Karla’s Choice so as to compensate author and industry for conspiring to make such an entertaining and worthwhile title available.

Kköszönöm mindenkinek – ’Thank you everyone.’

Demon Copperhead, Barbara Kingsolver

Kudos to the 2023 Pulitzer Prize Board for a totally worthy selection.  Kingsolver ticks a literary box by channeling Dickens and his David Copperfield without crass imitation, a societal significance box by addressing child poverty, abuse and the epidemic of rural drug use (especially opioid addiction, calling out some of the companies and their owners by name) and the readership box by creating a captivating and moving tale featuring flawed but valuable characters of realistic human color and complexity in an interesting land- and culture-scape.

The opening chapter or two induced a little hissy fit in this reader – knee-jerk objection to spending time with a self-destructive junky single mother and a narrator who seemed, at first, kind of stereotypically hillbilly.  The prize award was helpful then, inducing me to power through to where it began to dawn on my urban elitist New York-raised mind that the mother was not going to be our companion all the way through, the child/narrator quite a bit more self-aware than my prejudices first supposed, and the hillbilly voice (along with my dismissive reaction to it) was central to the moral view of the novel. Just as it is best not to judge political speech on the speaker’s accent, neither should the reader allow Demon’s voice, which cements him into his milieu, to obscure his story.

Kingsolver’s craft extends also to the novel’s plotting, following Demon’s trials and tribulations for long enough to make the reader feel his despair and self-doubt while every now and then throwing us the lifeline of a gentle soul or a positive experience before descending again into the long, slow slide.  By the time his fate takes its most significant downward turn (page 333 of 546) we are fully invested and watch the slow-motion pileup with horror until around 508 when a ray of sunshine begins to probe the rotted-out shutters of doom.  Even then, we’re on pins and needles till very nearly the end, hoping against hope that he will find it in himself to succeed and when he does, in the final twenty pages, the payoff brought tears to these eyes. 

I gather some readers have said that happy ending (one should say tentatively happy, having been reminded in the preceding pages of the regression statistics on addiction treatment) feels false and not credible, after all that came before, and it would certainly be possible for an author to have ended this story on the downbeat of despair.  Possible, but not as rewarding and not as true to the model’s modus operandi. Dickens too was writing to entertain a wide public and so needed to grant them the satisfaction of a good story with a rewarding culmination even as he fed them the unvarnished truths he believed they needed to hear.  His legacy over the intervening 175 years is sufficient to suggest that he, and now Kingsolver, made the correct choice in that.

As a writer one can well imagine the fun Kingsolver must have had transcribing character names into the nicknaming vernacular of mountain folk: David Copperfield to Demon Copperhead, James Steerforth to Fast Forward, Uriah Heap to U-Haul, etc.  While Mr. Micawber made a modest move to Mr. McCobb, the author seems to have hewn closer to model the more admirable the cast member:  Aunt Betsey gets the slimmest change of spelling as Aunt Betsy, the Peggety family becomes the Peggot clan and Dora morphs into Dori, still trying her young husband’s patience and love just as much despite the different vowel and dying an early tragic death as well.  Demon’s other romantic interest retains her original name, Agnes, despite being referred to throughout as Angus (for reasons the novel explains).  A further twist is necessary for her father, who in Dickens is Dr. Strong.  Since the physician in that part of the story will turn out to be a villain whose neglectful care and wrong-headed prescriptions start Demon on his steepest and deepest slide, Kingsolver names him Dr. Ward (as in ‘ward of,’ perhaps?) while Agnes’ father and Demon’s putative rescuer becomes the high school football team’s Coach Winfield – as in ‘win on the field,’ perpetuating Dickens’ own custom of punacious character names.  

Another interesting bit of craft regards how reticent the cover quotes and inside flap summary are (at least in the hardcover edition I read).  A potential reader would never know from them what a harrowing story they are in for.  One suspects that was a calculated choice, aiming for potential readers to be drawn in by Kingsolver’s previous commercial successes and the Pulitzer award so they would read far enough to become emotionally invested before seriously questioning whether or not to continue.

One could say a lot more, but I’ll just leave it that Demon Copperhead has already taken a prominent spot on the shelf so I’ll frequently glimpse its spine and be reminded that highly satisfying and truly worthwhile fiction is still possible – even in this age of internet, AI and attention spans measured in microseconds.

Another Side of Bob Dylan, Victor Maymudes (Co-written and Edited by Jacob Maymudes)

Subtitled ‘A Personal History on the Road and off the Tracks,’ and found by happenstance in a used-book store, this is a bit of marketing, in that it’s real subject is not Dylan at all, but Victor Maymudes, a longtime roadie and tour manager for Dylan, who spoke much of the text into a tape recorder in anticipation of a memoir he did not live to write.  Son Jacob (intriguing note: Dylan also has a son by that name) found the tapes after nearly every other possession or memento of his father had been destroyed in a fire, and put together this volume out of loyalty, respect and love.  Intertwining his own recollections, he added also quite a bit of explanation regarding the drifting apart that separated Maymudes from Dylan for years, how they came back together and how they fell-out again, more deeply and permanently, superficially due to business issues touching upon Jacob and his sister, but really thanks to Dylan’s own mercurial and dictatorial personality.  End result, the title is a deliberate misdirection but – as no doubt intended – induced me to pick up and read a book I’d likely not have been interested in if it had been titled more accurately.

Part rock/pop music hagiography, part social history of the sixties, part family paean, what resulted is an oddity but worth the reading.  Maymudes is interesting and unique, his journey intermittently exciting and at other times reflective.  The glimpses of Dylan depict savantic brilliance within the realm of music and songwriting coupled with a chilling inability to understand, consider or forgive those close to him.    As if, being so successful on his own terms at the one or two things he believes matter, he can barely spare a moment or a thought for anyone who is not equally blessed.  This seems confirmed by scenes of his collaboration with other musicians whom Dylan found satisfactory to his craft’s needs and so deigned to treat in a more-humane manner.

A dual portrait then, of two very different characters, their colorful journey and the tragic end of their always-unequal friendship over misunderstandings and slights that by rights should have been, given Dylan’s extraordinary wealth and independence, inconsequential.  Obscure and oddball, but definitely worth holding onto once you’ve come across it.

(Another note: Treehorn Books, Santa Rosa CA, is all a paper-hound could ask for.  Narrow aisles, shelves piled high, well-categorized and welcoming.  Stopped in for the first time to see if they had any G. B. Shaw for a birthday gift and found the perfect Collected Prose; inches thick, hard cover, great condition including library-style plastic over the dust-cover.   I will be back…)