November Picks: Caleb's Crossing and The Mayflower

I guess I can blame Thanksgiving, but November always puts me in the mood to learn about American history. For my selections this month, we journey to Puritan New England in Geraldine Brooks’ latest novel Caleb’s Crossing, a beautiful story about the first Native American to graduate from Harvard. To provide some context for this tale, I have chosen Nathanial Philbrick’s Mayflower, the history of the Pilgrim landing at Plymouth Rock and the pitfalls they met as they tried to create a new society in a rugged world. Philbrick continues the narrative through King Phillip’s War, a series of engagements between English settlers and Native Americans that ended the stilted peace that had existed between the two peoples

Though the novel is titled Caleb’s Crossing, the story is told from the perspective of Bethia Mayfield, the knowledge-hungry daughter of a Puritan minister. The novel is told as a series of journal entries and flashbacks that include more information about Bethia and her experiences than they do about Caleb’s. Caleb at times appears to be a minor character, but this potential mis-titling of the story, should not be off-putting. Brooks is a brilliant storyteller, and she perfectly captures the constriction of Bethia’s Purtian world, as well as the challenges of Caleb’s crossing into both Christianity and Puritan society.

Bethia first meets Caleb when he lives with this tribe on the island now known as Martha’s Vineyard. Bethia, feeling confined and misunderstood by her father - who has decided that she shouldn’t be provided the same education as her dullard brother - escapes daily from her small cottage to enjoy the freedoms of the wild, peaceful island. She meets Caleb on one of her rambles and they begin an unlikely friendship, one that will last their entire lives. Caleb teaches her about the natural world and Bethia teaches him English and about religion. This primer stands him in good stead because when it becomes clear that the Native Americans on the island will need an educated representative with the Puritans, he is conscripted to live with Bethia’s family and be prepared for matriculation at Harvard. Various hardships ensue, but Caleb eventually makes it to Harvard and graduates, while Bethia struggles on her own path.

This is a subtle novel with a slow, steady pace, a moving portrait of an intelligent girl, and a hymnal to the beauty of Martha’s Vineyard. It is also an investigation of the racism and intolerance that plagued relations between Native Americans and English settlers before, during, and after King Phillips War. Caleb’s Crossing is not the 21^st century version of Puritan New England, but a faithful depiction of what life was actually like in 17^th century America. Brooks' illustration is clear, historically accurate, and completely absorbing. Brooks has a talent for creating delightful texts of seamless history and literature, and her fans will be fascinated by her latest achievement.

The Mayflower

Nathanial Philbrick's The Mayflower follows the Pilgrim's adventures from the early days in England to after King Phillip's War. The history is detailed, thorough, and clear. Each chapter presents the information in a balanced way and finishes with convincing analysis. The characters from history jump from the pages, and Philbrick succeeds in making the Pilgrims' trials and tribulations real for the reader.

The book is equally divided between the founding of Plymouth colony and King Phillip's War, a lesser known war to modern Americans, but, according to Philbrick, one of the shaping events of our early history.

King Phillip's War is considered to be one of the most bloody wars in North America. To provide contrast: America lost less than 1% of its male population in World War II, 4-5% during the Civil War, but Plymouth colony lost 8% during the 14 months of King Phillip's War. Clearly, this was a devastating engagement, and despite the heavy loss, it did not correct the "Indian problem" but heightened the issue. The thick barrier of 'friendly Indians' was eliminated, laying the colony open to attack by other, presumably unfriendly, Indians farther West. While some of the Indians that fought in KPW were obviously hostile and resentful of the Pilgrims, many were friendly and relied heavily on them for trade, goods, and income. Many of these were also recent Christian converts, named Praying Indians, and they, particularly the Praying Indians on Nantucket Island, stood staunchly against King Phillip and his plans for supreme power in New England. The myth that KPW was strictly Pilgrim versus Indian is not true.

Philbrick illustrates the inconsistencies of the fabled story of Thanksgiving and corrects other misconceptions. The Indians and the Pilgrims did work together at the beginning, but it was not as beautiful and peaceful as the story the elementary school children learn would suggest. From the beginning, there was controversy between the Pilgrims and the Indians over land and resources; though for the first few decades there was a peace, largely architected through Massoit, the leader of the Pokanokets and Edward Winslow. However, even this was tenuous, as Massoit, though powerful, could not speak for the entire Indian population. This initial peace, made between friends out of a shared need for resources, ended in the next generation when Winslow's son and Massosoit's son, King Phillip, realized that there was not enough room for both Indian and Pilgrim interests.

Our perception of the Pilgrims is largely the product of subsequent generations' memories or views of the true history. In the late 1600s, Thomas Faunce, elderly and feeble, wanted to return to Plymouth to see where his father first landed. He assigned a large rock near the original colony as the first landing spot for the Pilgrims. As a result of Faunce's assignation, the myth of Plymouth Rock was born. Philbrick makes clear that there is no mention in the journals written by Pilgrims from the Mayflower of a landing on a rock; in actuality, the Pilgrims most likely pulled their small landing boats onto the beach. Nevertheless, Faunce's 'memory' was too romantic a notion to ignore. In another way, the myth of Thanksgiving sprang out of the need for a shared history during the Civil War. Lincoln commemorated this day to provide a means for the North and South to find common ground during the war. Prior to this, Thanksgiving was celebrated, in a way, on Founder's Day, which was in December.

Today, many of these realities of this early life in New England have been wiped away to make room for patriotism and myth-making. As Philbrick says, history makes an odd jump from Plymouth Rock to Lexington and Concord, with no real attention made to the steps in between. Philbrick's book attempts to fill in some of this forgotten area.

Purchase Caleb's Crossing.

Purchase The Mayflower.

Nel Rand's Mississippi Flyway

I recently received Mississippi Flyway from my editor at BlueInk Review, an online review site that reviews self-published books. My review is also available on that site, but I wanted to post it here to spread the word about this wonderful debut novel.

Nel Rand’s debut novel is a picaresque tale that takes the reader down the Mississippi River and through the haunted past of its main character, Ellie. Ellie is recovering from divorce when her estranged father, Tiny Moon, a 300-pound gambler and eating contest champion re-enters her life. Despite her efforts to remember her deep-seated anger for Tiny, Ellie finds herself drinking wine with him and relaxing for the first time in months. When he asks her to join him on a trip down the Mississippi River, she readily accepts. But she soon discovers that this is no vacation: Tiny is running from a depraved sheriff with a penchant for murder. What begins as a trip to reconnect with her father on a rollicking ride down the Mississippi Flyway, ends up as a journey through suppressed memories that hold the key to her future happiness.

Rand’s characters fly off the page and though Ellie and Tiny are the primary focus, some of her ancillary characters – especially Tiny’s friends, the gamblers, madames, and moonshiners they meet along the way – are expertly drawn. Rand creates a believable world, taking time to develop atmosphere and complicated characters. The descriptions of the natural world, particularly depictions of the birds on the Flyway, are stunning. The novel’s twin storylines – Ellie’s journey through her past to discover elements of her childhood long forgotten and Tiny and Ellie’s escape from the law – intertwine in fascinating ways. The two together provide the novel with a complex narrative that will engage a variety of readers.

The novel is partially told in flashback, with memories of Ellie's childhood inserting themselves into her journey with Tiny. The flashbacks provide nice context and necessary information about Ellie's family, but the decision to reveal a key plot point early in the novel about Ellie's relationship with Tiny undercuts the reading experience. Ellie’s story is built around a hidden secret in her relationship with her father, and the novel would have benefited from a later disclosure. Still, this is a powerful tale of redemption and forgiveness, one that is as satisfying as it is thought provoking.

Purchase the book.

Readable Literature?

I depart from my regularly scheduled “Friday’s Catch” to throw my two cents into the ring about the Booker-literature-readability debate that has been raging this week. The Booker judges’ choice to select books that are fast paced with the “ability to zip along” has prompted a furious response from literary critics. There seem to be two points at issue: 1. Literature does not “zip along” and 2. The ability of a novel to “zip-along” and be “readable” should be the sole criteria for determining quality reading material. These two points are ridiculous. Literature can, and often does, “zip along,” and the notion of “readability” as the sole determining factor for a good book is severely, painfully, limiting.

The efforts of the past years to elide literature with genre fiction or popular fiction have grated on me, but the Booker committee's slump towards mediocrity has made me see red. Primarily, because I always held that Booker selections were literary novels that were highly-readable, intensely satisfying, “books that have it all.” I found Possession and Atonement to be two of the most delightful literary novels in the past twenty years, and The White Tiger was a hilarious romp through modern India that I found myself “zipping” through. Perhaps my tastes are not the norm (though book sales would argue with me on the above mentioned selections), but there are certain standards of excellence that should not be diminished, and the Booker Prize is one. Literature can, and should, stand on its own, and be respected as its own genre, without pressure to conform to lesser standards of reading quality.

But what are lesser standards of reading quality and what is literature? The notion of literature or literary novels can be elusive. Some people cite examples of literature – Emma, The Divine Comedy – without giving a definition of what the term is. In my opinion, literary novels are novels in which language is finely tuned to evoke strong emotions from the reader, characters are complex and elucidate truths about the human condition, and the themes with which the novel grapples are large and purposeful. On top of that, it would be great, in my humble opinion – because I like stories – that the novel have a riveting plot, but this is not necessary. Literature is a mirror for the world and isn’t obliged to double as story time around the campfire, though, many of the best novels have all four criteria. (Imagine Gatsby without the car chase, for example. Right, neither can I.) Jeannette Winterson’s attempt to define literature as being solely language based – “If the language has no power, forget it.” – is too limiting for me. Perhaps she would argue that if the language is working, the other elements will fall into place, but this strikes me as another way to describe poetry. Poetry is dependent on language; the novel has other tricks up its sleeves. She cites Jane Austen as an example of a writer who is read today for her language. Yes, her language is brilliant, and I wish I had her wit, but who among us would have warmed as much to Pride and Prejudice without Elizabeth Bennett?

Literature can be narrowly or broadly defined depending on how political you want to be, but what it is not is merely a story. There are many books out there that are merely stories, and they are lovely. I read them all the time, but they do not make me sit back and reflect on my life as a great novel does. Reading Emily Giffin will never prompt me to assess my peers like reading Jane Austen. Nothing against Giffin, she is beloved by many, but let us not confuse our categories. As readable as Giffin is, she will never be Jane Austen. We do ourselves few favors by trying to conflate the two.

The previous comparison seems obvious – clearly Giffin is not Austen - yet this is what we are trying to do to literature on a grand scale – pare it down, make it more readable, more accessible, more like genre novels – and we appear fine with this. The calls from major American critics to write more genre novels or put a zombie in your literary novel is taken with a laugh, but are we aware of what we’re saying? Once again, the pull is downward, and writers who could turn out beautiful, complex novels that inspire us are turning towards the grocery-store line and writing about vampires. Don’t get me wrong, I love a vampire novel as much as the average tween, but I emphatically do not love them in the place of something smart. (And, yes, I will say it: the last smart vampire novel was Dracula.)

If the critics – and specifically for this conversation, the Booker judges - do not continue to make us aspire to read great novels, then where will we be? It would be a dull world with only the Twilight series and James Patterson, especially if those novels are only available on a contraption, but I digress into another gripe. The waters have not been completely diluted, there are still remarkable literary novels coming out every day, but a troubling trend has emerged, one that we should heed.

October Picks: Morgenstern's The Night Circus and Gruen's Water for Elephants

This month, ladies and gentlemen, we are going to the circus. Erin Morgenstern’s mystical, magical love story set in the luscious world of the Night Circus pairs nicely with Sara Gruen’s gritty, gripping historical novel set in a 1930s circus.

Erin Morgenstern’s debut novel is a jaw-dropping feast for the senses. The Night Circus enters a city at dusk, erects its fantastical tents and takes visitors into a world of dreams. Readers, too, will be ushered into a world of dreams, as Morgenstern artfully unfolds the story between Marco and Celia, two magicians who are fatefully bound to each other. The Night Circus at first appears to be another example of artful illusion, a well-designed magic trick, but as the reader delves deeper, it becomes clear this is not a backdrop for two young Houdinis but for two young sorcerers, two true magicians who must fight ‘the game’ until the end. In fact, everything about this novel is different upon second glance, and, just as the circus holds endless revelations and fascinating illusions, so too do the plot and characters. This is not a straightforward tale, but something complex and remarkable. The novel assesses the place of magic and legends, the existence of which the story takes for granted, and wonders where these fabulous, nearly forgotten, elements can fit into every day life. Critics and early readers have marveled at this novel, and I have to say, I can understand why. It is a journey of wonderment paired with a beautiful love story. I’m thrilled that the movie is already, rumor has it, in the works.

Those of you who are interested in circuses, but shy away from some of the more magical aspects of the reading experience, may be interested in Sara Gruen’s Water For Elephants. I read these novels back to back, and I was intrigued by how Erin Morgenstern’s fantasy faded into Sara Gruen’s realistic, unflinching view of a 1930s circus, a place more wild west than magical. Here, the tent is thrown open for all to see what life was like as a member of a ragtag traveling circus, and it was not as wonderful as legend suggests. The circus owners are money-hungry, the animals are ill-treated, prohibited alcohol is hidden amongst the camels (they spit if disturbed, so the federal agents leave their car alone), and there is a strict division between the workers and performers. Still, the food is plentiful, and for Jacob, a young vet attempting to escape from his life, there is Marlena, the beautiful girl who dances with horses. This is a fast-paced jaunt through the small towns of depressed, middle America on a rollicking, barely-legal circus train, and the result is riveting. The characters occasionally feel as though they need to be plumped into the third dimension and the dialogue can sound unconvincing, but the story, and the glimpse into the different world that it gives, makes this novel a great read.

Purchase The Night Circus

Purchase Water for Elephants

Friday's Catch

Amazon gets into the publishing trade.

Steig Larsson trilogy becomes a comic book.

Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy are now solving mysteries.

Need more room on your shelves? Convert your give-away books to PDF

This is fun, though I don't know if I agree with many of them. The Madame Bovary-Hamlet relationship is just wrong.

These folks need to read the article above about changing books to PDF.

The 15 most butchered phrases in the English language

Lily Tuck's I Married You for Happiness

Marriage is a notoriously difficult topic for novelists to write about; or perhaps, I should say, happy marriages are. Shakespeare is famous for not having one happy marriage in his entire oeuvre, and even Jane Austen, the patron saint of the marriage plot, includes mainly dysfunctional marriages (with the Crofts in Persuasion providing a most wonderful exception.) Her novels promise happy marriages, but she, conspicuously, never gets around to describing them. "Dear Reader, I married her" is a common way to describe the conclusion of many 19th-century love-plots, but the description of marital bliss is usually left up to the reader's imagination. The 20th century isn't much better, with writers spending more time on marital dysfunction and happy love affairs then on the ins and outs of actual marriage. Lily Tuck's recent novel I Married You For Happiness faces the topic of marriage in all its shades of emotion without a blink. The result is thought provoking.

Nina dries the lettuce for the salad and calls her husband Phillip down for dinner. When he doesn't respond, she climbs the stairs to the bedroom to find him dead of a fatal, and unexpected, heart attack. In shock, she sits by his bed for the rest of the night, replaying moments of their 43-year marriage in her mind. There are memories from vacations in Belle-Isle, how they met, arguments they had, joys they shared, disappointments they shouldered and throughout these, the unsettling thought that Phillip is gone and Nina must find a way to live without him. Nina wonders if he was happy, if he was faithful to her, if she was fair to him, if she made the right decision in holding truths back from him. The writing is brilliant and Nina's stream-of-consciousness so convincing, that the reader gets a clear picture of the complicated nature of marriage, this institution that requires two people to live together for many, many years.

Though the novel is absorbing and the portrait of marriage unflinching, there is ultimately an unsatisfying element here. Perhaps it is the ending that opts for a supernatural conclusion, rather than something nostalgic or hopeful. Perhaps it is the nagging thought that Nina doesn't quite deserve Phillip. Maybe, finally, it's the unsettling realization that though Nina married Phillip for happiness, she never really found it, and that after 43 years, that's a major disillusionment. Despite this ambiguity, however, the novel is worth the read solely for the way it is told and the language it uses. Tuck can pierce a human emotion with a few words, and the spare thoughts, lean language that she employs to create complex moments are delectably artful.

Purchase the book.

What Helen's Reading: A Toddler's Guide to Halloween

On the one hand, Halloween is an easy concept for a toddler: look cute and get free stuff, like candy. On the other hand, it's not as easy as it first appears. What's the jack-o-lantern for? How do we choose a costume? And is it really scary? The following three books help to introduce Halloween to little ones.

Clifford learns the first rule about costume selection: it has to be comfortable! Once Emily Elizabeth decides that a piece of tissue wrapped around Clifford to make him a ghost is the best costume for the little red puppy, they are ready to trick-or-treat in style. Clifford learns that candy apples can be tricky, and Emily Elizabeth realizes ghost stories aren't real - especially when Clifford's around!

Biscuit does it all in this Halloween primer: he picks pumpkins, plays in the gourd basket, picks a costume and gets fun treats from the grandparents. Helen loves opening the flaps as we follow his adventures.

This is a slightly more in-depth selection that gets down to the nitty gritty on what this trick-or-treating stuff is all about. Sister and Brother Bear go out trick-or-treating for the first time. (This is clearly not something we'll let Helen do for a while, but these lessons are still good to know even if you're with ole Mom and Dad.) Sister and Brother learn that looks can be deceiving - even on Halloween! - stay in your own neighborhood when you trick-or-treat, and always let Mom check out the candy before you eat it. Rules to live by!