Six Feet of Books (continued)

Does your reading come in pairs? Books with a common theme, narrative device, use of language, or subject matter? I am not sure this has always been the case for me but several months ago, I noticed the books I was reading seemed to come twos. Is it happenstance, a subconscious choice or something else?  I have no idea.

First, two novels, Francis Spufford’s Golden Hill, and His Bloody Project, by Graeme Macrae Burnet.  Both mysteries, of a sort.  And each written in the dialect of the time and place in which the action is set, at least in parts—Spufford’s book in pre-Revolutionary War New York, with its jumble of languages, and Burnet’s in a remote Scottish farming community in the mid-19^thcentury.  The dialect takes some getting used to, finding the rhythm of the language. Burnet helpfully provides a glossary, although it is really not needed after you get the hang of it. I enjoyed each of them, the Spufford book being an easier read.  The Burnet book is darker, constructed of a long “confession” by the alleged criminal, supported by other documents and testimony. I will leave you to determine where the truth is to be found.  Golden Hillis written from the protagonist’s point of view as he, new to the city and its ways, and clearly on a mission of some sort, navigates his way through the society he finds there.  The truth, obviously known to the narrator, emerges only at the very end. Both are challenging but gripping reads.

Two non-fiction books, both chosen for book reviews done as part of my writing program.  East West Street, by the British barrister and international law scholar Phillipe Sands, weaves the stories of three Jewish men from the same city in Poland—or the Ukraine or whatever country claimed it over the years—sometimes called Lviv.  Two of the three were lawyers or legal scholars who, working separately (they never met), developed the two legal theories that formed the legal basis for the Nuremberg trials, the first use of international law to trump the domestic laws of a sovereign state, and for many international trials since—crimes against humanity and genocide.  The third man, the author’s grandfather, was a contemporary of the two lawyers but not otherwise connected except as a member of the same community decimated by the Nazis.  In addition to telling their interwoven stories, Sands describes in great detail the detective work needed to uncover these stories, particularly those of his own family, the research being both masterful and lucky, in a “you make your own luck” kind of way.  And of course there is a villain.  The writing is excellent and the stories important and compelling. Also relying on braiding, with interesting, but not wholly successful results, is Thomas Ricks’ Churchill & Orwell.  Using existing sources and research, Ricks recounts the roles played by each man in fighting fascism (among other things). The connection between them–they too never met–is tenuous, belonging to different classes, different professions and known to each other only as public men.  Both opposed fascism from their respective pulpits, Churchill fighting to alert his country to the dangers of the Third Reich while so many of his class were appeasers, if not sympathizers, and Orwell through his writings.  And while Churchill’s career petered out after World War II, Orwell’s reputation has, if anything, endured and grown.  Notwithstanding the questionable linkage, and the occasional unsupported statement, the book is a fascinating read.

And then, two food-related books.  Chefs, Drugs and Rock & Rollby food critic Andrew Friedman, tells the engaging story of the development of “American cuisine” beginning in the 1960s and 1970s and features a roster of well-known chefs and food figures. Fasting and Feasting, by Adam Federman, is the biography of the English food writer Patience Gray. Both are somewhat standard forms—Friedman’s book a general non-fiction treatment, almost a collective biography, of a group of chefs to whom he ascribes credit or responsibility for a uniquely American food culture, and Federman’s, a meticulously researched and detailed literary biography. Each is engrossing, but not without its flaws.  I enjoyed the Friedman book—I love reading about restaurants and lives in food–although I was not particularly taken with the writing.  Nor do I have a way to assess whether the contributions of the chefs and restauranteurs he describes are as significant as he makes them out to be. The Patience Gray biography suffers from a slightly different problem.  Patience Gray is a fascinating subject, brilliant, eccentric, demanding, adventurous. Calling her a food writer is likely too limiting. The writing is fine, the research thorough, the work extremely detailed.  But like many biographies, there is almost too much information, too much detail.  While I was drawn to her, I found the reading sometimes tedious.  I did not want to leave her story but at times could not read more than a few pages at a sitting. Maybe it is just not the kind of book to be read late in the evening. I began carrying it around the city with me—the subway ride up to my son’s school was perfect for getting my few pages in, interrupted only by the need to change trains.  And much more civilized than looking at a screen. 

Finally, I was surprised to realize that the last two novels I read also were a pair—in each book, the protagonist is a well-known historical figure. Jasmin Darznik’s lyrical Song of a Captive Bird, tells the real and imagined story of the Iranian poet Forugh Farokhzad, while the main character in Whitney Scharer’s The Age of Lightis the American war photographer Lee Miller. Darznik’s book is beautifully written, using the life and poetry of Farokhzad to describe a life and world unfamiliar to me. Lee Miller’s story, and many of the characters in the story, denizens of the artistic bohemia of pre-war Paris, may be better known to many readers.  Each uses the framework of the protagonist’s life, family, lovers, and friends, and imagines the thoughts, motivations, and emotions of the heroine within that framework.  It is an interesting and challenging conceit—having the life of the main actor based on a real person, as opposed to having historical figures as ancillary characters, cycling through or moving the action forward. Scharer’s writing is not as accomplished, and at times the story verges on the romance novel, but she does convey the spirit and energy of the artistic and bohemian life of pre-War Paris, as Miller first works with and then becomes romantically involved with the influential photographer Man Ray. Intertwined with the story of Miller’s relationship with Ray are flashes of her experiences as a war photographer and her later years and marriage. Miller was among the first journalists to document the liberation of the concentration camps at the end of the war and the book convincingly conveys the devastating effect of the horrific scenes she can never erase from her mind. Both books are good reads, not page turners exactly but not difficult to read.  Darznik’s book left me with that somewhat exalted feeling you have after seeing a wonderful art exhibit or listening to a magical concert, while Scharer’s book was a fun read but without that thrill.