2008 Books Read

… in the order in which I finished them, understanding that very often I read many books at the same time. I count re-read books, by the way. I’ll include links to any posts or book excerpts I might have done for each book.

If you decide to buy one of these books, and you click on the link I provided – I get a referral payment from that click. So you know. Thanks in advance.

I got more into fiction this year than I have been in a long time. But I like to mix up my reading – although you can tell when I go on a particular tear … the books stack up in certain sections, the Waugh period, or the Didion period. But I read a lot of NEW fiction this year, a real change for me (which really started last year – a new trend) – and I have really enjoyed it. I also went back and re-visited some old favorites.

1. Londonistan, by Melanie Phillips. I had no idea I started off the year on such a bleak note. An important book but really disturbing and upsetting.

2. The ABCs of Love, by Sarah Salway. A new writer I am very into. I loved this book. It manages to be funny, clever, and tragic, all on the same page at times.

Here is my essay on that book

3. Stalin: Breaker of Nations, by Robert Conquest, one of my idols. This was a re-read. You know me. Can’t get enough of Stalin.

4. Zodiac, by Robert Graysmith. True crime, serial killers, forensic details, horror and gore. Sign me up.

5. We Have Always Lived in the Castle, by Shirley Jackson. One of the best books I read in 2008. I had never read it before. I beg of you, if you haven’t read it: do yourself a favor …

6. Thomas Jefferson: (The American Presidents Series), by Joyce Appleby. Part of the ongoing American Presidents Series which I am reading in order. This is a challenge, because they aren’t being published in order – for example, Gerald Ford is out, but Abraham Lincoln is not. So I am learning patience as well as American history (although let’s be honest, there isn’t much more I can learn at this point – at least not from the period of 1781 to the mid 1860s). There are a wide variety of writers – historians and not – and the books are all about 150, 160 pages long. I adore the series. Even if it’s just review for me, I love them. Oh, and another reason I love them: they focus mainly on the man’s time as president. Biographical details are given, but the point of the series is to analyze each man’s time in office. So THAT’S different, and I really appreciate that.

7. James Monroe (The American Presidents), by Gary Hart. Yes, that Gary Hart. I actually did not know all that much about Monroe’s time in office – and so far, this book has been my favorite of the series. Well done, Mr. Hart.

Excerpt from the book here

8. John Quincy Adams: (The American Presidents Series), by Robert Remini. Good stuff. John Quincy Adams is someone I know a lot about – mainly because of the Massachusetts connection and the sense that the Adams family somehow has something to do with me, because of all the tours we took as kids of their houses and such. Adams was a rather morose man, troubled by depression, and was a major brainiac. His library in Quincy is a marvel. Go visit it if you are ever in the area.

9. Andrew Jackson, by Sean Wilentz. I am hard-pressed to think of a more fascinating President than Andrew Jackson. Your jaw just drops reading some of this crap.

10. American Presidents: Martin Van Buren, by Ted Widmer. Another man I didn’t know much about, including his friendship with Nathaniel Hawthorne. Again: the main strength of this series is that it dispenses with the pressure of writing mini-biographies of these men. The series is meant to be an analysis of the office of the President, and the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune that make up a man’s time in office. Brilliant approach, I think. I consider these books to be indispensable additions to my burgeoning US Presidents library.

11. Post Captain, by Patrick O’Brian. Loved it. Have not finished the series yet – I’m taking a break – but I haven’t been disappointed yet. They are phenomenal books – engaging not just on the visceral level, but intellectual as well. I adore those characters.

Here is my essay on the book

12. Christine Falls: A Novel, by Benjamin Black (aka John Banville). LOVED THIS BOOK. A noir set in 1950s Dublin. Great cast of characters, awesome atmosphere, and prose so good you want to scoop it up with a spoon.

I read it in one day when I was delayed for 10 hours at O’Hare.

More on the book here

13. H.M.S. Surprise, by Patrick O’Brian. More marvelous-ness.

My essay on the book here

More here

14. In the Heart of the Sea: The Tragedy of the Whaleship Essex, by Nathaniel Philbrick. A fascinating book – not only about the true story of the Essex being rammed by a whale (used by Melville as the basis for Moby Dick) – but a history of the whaling industry in New England, especially Nantucket. Simple clear prose, and some absolutely horrifying images that have stuck with me

15. Salvador, by Joan Didion. It’s been a very Didion-heavy year for me. I have read more books by her than anyone else, even Patrick O’Brian. There’s something about her thought process that I find very soothing (if challenging and difficult) right now. Also: her writing! God. This book is not, in general, beloved by Didion fans, but I liked it. She went to El Salvador in the 80s and wrote this book on her experiences there.

16. The Mauritius Command, by Patrick O’Brian. Love it.

My essay on the book here

17. Blood Meridian: Or the Evening Redness in the West, by Cormac McCarthy. No matter how hard I try, I will never, in all my life, forget The Judge. One of the most memorable and confronting characters in the history of literature. This book slayed me. A great American novel. No other country in the world could produce a Cormac McCarthy. He is quintessentially of here … and the stories he tells are brutal. Relentless. I find him very difficult. He is so damn good, in every paragraph, that you almost feel like you are staring at the sun. I had to put this book down periodically, for a break, but I wouldn’t wait too long to pick it up again, because I knew the danger of me deciding not to finish it at all was great. I find him to be a deeply unsettling writer. One of the greats.

My posts on the book here, here, and here

18. After Henry, by Joan Didion. A wonderful collection of essays. Not as mind-blowing as the Slouching Towards Bethlehem collection, but pretty close. A mix of personal, political, cultural … she’s my favorite.

19. The Sea, by John Banville. Very interesting to go from Benjamin Black to Banville. I highly recommend it. Same guy, but you would never know it. He won the Booker because of The Sea. It is more typical Banville stuff (albeit beautifully written), about a sad middle-aged man thinking about his memories.

My posts on the book here and here

20. The Pornographer, by John McGahern. How I love McGahern and how sad I am that we will have no more books from him. I treasure his books. I loved this one.

My post on the book here

21. Desolation Island, by Patrick O’Brian. So far my favorite in the series.

My post on the book here

22. A Sport and a Pastime: A Novel, by James Salter. This guy’s writing is beyond belief, and I have yet to really describe WHY. You just have to experience his books. This was what put him on the map – a typical coming-of-age story with a love affair between an aimless American student and a French girl. Hard to describe the book’s power, but all I can say is – he manages to capture a note of piercing sadness throughout the book, mixed with his acutely clear and accurate descriptions of, well, EVERYTHING: ice in a glass, kids on a soccer field, an empty bar. He is unbelievable.

My posts on the book here and here

23. That Night, by Alice McDermott. One of my favorite writers writing today. I adored Charming Billy (which won her the National Book Award some time back) but I think I might like this one even better. Yes, I love her because she (in my opinion) is THE voice of the Irish-American Northeast experience … that’s my family she is writing about. She just gets it so right. The grandparents with brogues, and the newer generation coming up around Vatican II and what all that means … but she’s not heavy-handed. She inhabits that world. She doesn’t just describe it. It comes to life. That Night is haunting – with, I swear, one of the best openings of any book I have ever read, period.

Here is my essay on the beginning of that book.

24. The Fortune of War, by Patrick O’Brian. Perhaps it’s now redundant to say, but I loved this book.

25. A Widow for One Year, by John Irving. OUCH. I have no idea how it happened, but this is what went down: I got caught up in the story, sure, I did. I fell in love with the characters. Of course I did. It’s John Irving. There were parts of it that felt contrived, but in a book that is mainly about writers – and how they basically narrate their own lives, and find ways to insert themselves into narratives that might have nothing to do with them – the feelings of contrivance fit somehow. Of course these people would be a bit contrived. They’re all artists. Writers. And then, with the last two pages of the book, I found myself bursting – yes, BURSTING – into sobs. How could I not have seen it coming? Even with the “contrived” feeling of the book, the ending sucker-punched me, and I cried for an hour, pacing around my apartment, having no idea what perfect storm had come over me, and why I was crying about my OWN life in the wake of reading the book. So that’s what happened when I read Widow for One Year, and it has very quickly become one of my favorites of Irving’s (and that’s saying a lot).

I touch on Irving’s book in my piece about Jeff Bridges

26. Then We Came to the End: A Novel, by Joshua Ferris. I have Siobhan to thank for making me read this book. I probably would not have picked it up otherwise, although I’ve honestly heard nothing but raves. It’s a first novel, and I usually avoid those (although I will loop back to check out first novels once the author has proved himself with more) – but this?? How can I even DESCRIBE it? A comedy about an office. Yet there are moments as highly tragic as any you will find in any serious novel. But when I found myself wiping tears of laughter off my face as I turned the first damn page I felt my heart start to flutter with hope … can he sustain this?? Yes, he can. I am gobsmacked by his talent. Here’s one thing: the book is written with a PLURAL NARRATOR. “We”. The entire thing takes place in an office, so … it’s hard to describe how perfect this ‘we” device is, and at first it feels like a device – and then you totally forget about it, and it becomes absolutely right for this book. Bravo, Mr. Ferris. This is one of the best books I read this year.

My posts on this book here and here

READ IT

27. Decline and Fall, by Evelyn Waugh. Along with Joan Didion and Patrick O’Brian, I had a big Evelyn Waugh year. This is his first novel, and I am basically madly in love with Evelyn Waugh. His books are manic, breathless, absurd … and yet when you close each one, it stays with you … These are deep books, insightful skewerings of the 20th century and its pretensions and delusions … Awesome stuff. Decline and Fall is Waugh’s spoof on the academic world, and education in general.

My posts on the book here and here

28. Enduring Love: A Novel, by Ian McEwan. This book really fucking upset me. I felt like I had been pressed through some horrible vice-like device by the end of it. Powerful stuff, but really unsettling.

My post on the book here

29. Nine Stories, by J.D. Salinger. Just because. This is, what, my 26th reading of it or something?

Some of my posts on the stories here, here, here, here, and here

30. The Surgeon’s Mate, by Patrick O’Brian. And that’s where I have stopped with the series … haven’t been able to read one since … but I will get back to it. I love every stinking word. I love those people.

31. Falling Man: A Novel, by Don DeLillo. I hesitated for about a year to pick this book up. It’s about September 11th, and … not that I feel I own that event, but I certainly feel proprietary about it, and a bit anxious about reading it turned into fiction. However, it was Don Delillo, a writer I love (despite the problem I had with Underworld, it being, oh, about SEVEN HUNDRED PAGES TOO LONG) and he’s serious enough I figured, what the hell. It’s fantastic. It was difficult for me to read because he so absolutely captures what it felt like on that day, the disorientation, the panic, the sudden clarity about your own personal relationships (“I love you,” came in the calls and emails … that’s what they all said … “I love you …”) … A wonderful book and I am very glad I read it.

32. The Yiddish Policemen’s Union, by Michael Chabon. I had a bit of trouble finishing this one – again, I felt it was about 150 pages too long – and Chabon’s fantasy that he was writing hard-boiled Dashiell Hammett prose was more like a delusion. He couldn’t write a simple sentence if he tried. I love Michael Chabon – he is one of my favorite writers writing today – but I did chuckle at what he SAID he was doing in the book, compared to my experience of it. Regardless: my brother told me to hang with it, and I am glad I did, because suddenly in the last 100 pages, the real heart and guts of the thing came pouring out, in a way that only Chabon could write. He is so so good with love and love lost and all of that. A master, really. Wasn’t really wacky about the book, though. I’ll read whatever he writes, so that’s all settled, but this one wasn’t my favorite.

33. Evil Genes: Why Rome Fell, Hitler Rose, Enron Failed, and My Sister Stole My Mother’s Boyfriend, by Barbara Oakley. What a title! This book felt like it was written FOR me – with my interest in cults and dictators and aberrations of personality and the question of evil in general. I loved it. Highly recommended.

34. The Loved One, by Evelyn Waugh. Another laugh-out-loud funny book that is about death and funeral homes and Hollywood. I am left in awe of his brilliance, but for the most part, reading his books, my stomach just hurts, due to the guffaws of laughter that embarrass me in public places.

35. The Writing Class, by Jincy Willett. She’s one of my new favorites on the scene, and her books are so eagerly anticipated that I find I cannot wait until paperback (my preferred way). I buy her books the day they come out, in hardback. She’s only written two novels, so this has only happened twice, but as I have said repeatedly: I am a fan, and once I am a fan to this degree, I am usually a fan for life. Even with someone like Margaret Atwood, and she hasn’t written a book I actually liked in 15 years. No matter. I’m a fan. I’ll keep investing, because that’s what fans do. The Writing Class was so much fun that I never ever wanted it to end. Willett is one of those writers who is laugh-out-loud funny but she also can just NAIL a person’s loneliness or pathetic nature or sadness in one or two perfect sentences. It’s the story of a writing class at a community college … and … to say more would ruin it. I loved this book.

My post on the book here

36. Inglorious: A Novel, by Joanna Kavenna. This book was a totally upsetting experience, and I had a hard time not taking it personally. There were times I had to put it down, because it came too close to what I have been going through this past year … and I felt a razor-edge there, something too close for comfort. It is the story of a woman who one day quits her job, spontaneously. She feels she needs to ‘shake things up’. Her boyfriend of 11 years or something like that has suddenly left her, and is now married to a mutual friend. This is no heartwarming Oprah tale where the girl learns some lessons, and goes on an Eating, Praying, Loving journey towards self-actualization where everything works out in the end. No. The world is not that simple. Everything DOESN’T “happen for a reason”. Leaving her job ends up being absolutely disastrous for her, a foolhardy ridiculous mistake, and she finds herself spiralling into a depression that is debilitating. Kavenna just GETS it. Depression is not sadness. It is a flatline of nothingness interrupted by jagged-edged moments of horror and agony. To say that Kavenna describes this well is to understate what she accomplishes in this wrenching book. I felt deeply uneasy reading this book. It is a serious work of fiction and I really look forward to whatever she does next, even if it brings me close to that razor-edge again. Kavenna is the real deal. An amazing book.

37. The World and Other Places: Stories, by Jeanette Winterson. A collection of short stories. I’ve read this one before. Winterson is another writer I am a fan of forever (and it has NOT been easy). I will have a lifelong relationship with this woman, even when she annoys me. If you write a book like The Passion you can count me “in” for life. I’ll follow you. I do like these short stories. I like Winterson best when she writes fairy tales.

Some posts on these stories here and here

38. Tanglewreck, by Jeanette Winterson. Gee, Jeanette, how do you feel about global warming? I can’t be sure from reading this book, I am still unclear on your opinion. Hmmm. This is a book Winterson wrote ‘for kids’, although it is hard to imagine a kid really getting into it. The kid audience Winterson writes for remains purely theoretical, and there are parts of this fantasy book that feel more like a political harangue, like she is trying to indoctrinate her young innocent readers, secretly, to her pet political causes. I was very annoyed by this book – especially when parts of it are SO MUCH FUN. Time tornadoes whipping through London leaving mastodons rampaging across the bridges? Marvelous!! Leave the pamphlets out of your books, Winterson. You’re getting to be a bore. But again: DAMN YOU, I’ll read whatever you put out.

My post on this book here

39. Miami, by Joan Didion. Didion excavates the culture and history of Miami. It makes me wish she would travel around America and do it for other cities, in a series. She’s so good. I’m sure some people from Miami might be pissed off, but then others might feel vindicated. Who knows. As always, Didion writes what she wants to write, in chilly accurate prose that makes me see things in a different way. I can’t say “I agree” or “I disagree” because … well, that’s the LEAST interesting response to anything, in my opinion. I mean, I have opinions, but they are not my entire context for my response to things. Whether or not I “agree” with Raskolnikov’s behavior is immaterial. What I feel like when I read Didion’s stuff is that here I am, in the presence of a writer, who likes to ponder things, who perceives things in a way that is against the grain at times – but who is, foremost, an individual. She is not in the pocket of any political party. Her background is Republican, Californian, and then East Coast – with her stint at Vogue, which launched her career. She was a member of the 60s generation, but the anarchy and drugs and free love was never for her. She is always somewhat separate from the themes of the day. It’s what makes her so damn good.

40. Savage Grace: The True Story of Fatal Relations in a Rich and Famous American Family, by Natalie Robins. All I can say is: Ew. I wanted to take a shower, 10 showers, after reading this oral history of the Baekeland murder case. Disgusting people, all of them. But I COULD. NOT. PUT IT DOWN. Allison made me read it. We still can’t stop talking about it. Unbelievable. On so many levels.

41. Where I Was From, by Joan Didion. Sick of her yet? I’m not. This is her book on California, her home state. Essays on politics, on water, on Hollywood … a must-read. I am not sure why I had not read it before, but this was my first time. Brilliant.

42. Srebrenica: Record of a War Crime, by Jan Willem Honig and Norbert Both. I’ve read a couple of books about Srebenica, but not one as in-depth as this one. Horror. Still hard to comprehend.

43. Hollywood, by Garson Kanin. I know he’s such a gossip-hound, but damn does he tell a great story. The Carole Lombard chapter is a classic.

44. Art Objects: Essays on Ecstasy and Effrontery, by Jeanette Winterson.
Essays on Virginia Woolf, mainly, but there are others. I enjoyed this book. She’s very wacko, but that’s the main reason I love her.

45. Heartless: The True Story of Neil Entwistle and the Cold Blooded Murder of his Wife and Child, by Michele McPhee. I bought this in the gift shop at Brigham & Women’s Hospital in Boston and mainly read it while sitting in the waiting room, or outside in the rain. I couldn’t read anything else. It was stupid, poorly written, and all I could handle. Also, it was there. So that’s what I read.

46. Conversations with Joan Crawford, by Roy Newquist. My cousin Mike sent me this book (and others). It is apparently what Newquist “remembers” from his conversations with Crawford, so take it all with a grain of salt, and yes, I did have a grain of salt – but I preferred not to use it – and just read the book up greedily, taking every damn word as true. Because that’s how I roll. I LOVED this book. Crawford: such a professional, such a smart actress … nobody’s fool, and well-liked in the business. The only person who didn’t like her, apparently, was her vicious daughter who has since destroyed Crawford’s reputation with her vicious whiny book. Time to put those ghosts to rest, Christina. You have dominated the landscape long enough. Your mother was a bigger giant than you will ever be. Maybe she wasn’t a good mother. Whatever. Get over it. I am more concerned about Crawford’s reputation as an ACTRESS. Not just a campy classic sashaying around in shoulder pads. But an insightful smart courageous actress, as good as it gets. This book, with these “conversations”, show that she was a conscious and intelligent performer. She worked damn hard at acting. She loved it.

47. A Tale of Two Utopias: The Political Journey of the Generation of 1968, by Paul Berman. Okay, so Berman is a recent discovery of mine (my bad) and he’s an intellectual giant. I consider this book to be a must-read. MUST-READ. To have experienced it on the ground-level, to have been swept away by it himself … but then to have the clarity later to sit down and right a history of that time … with a jaundiced eye, and a big-picture point of view … Unbelievable. I want to read more of his stuff.

No post on this book (it was too big and I was also deep in final draft of manuscript-mode at the time – no extra energy) – I did bring it with me on my writing retreat in the country.

48. Jimmy Stewart: A Biography, by Marc Eliot. A wonderful book, really insightful not just on the phases of Stewart’s career, in terms of his acting roles – but an examination of the deals made, the economics of the studios, and how it was that Stewart joined the millionaire’s club, a rare thing in those days of contract players. Cashel does a very good imitation of Jimmy Stewart.

My post on this book (which has a nice comment from the author himself in the comments section) here

49. The Way I Am, by Eminem. I rarely pre-order books, but I did with this one. As a matter of fact, I pre-ordered four of them. One for me, and one for each of my siblings for Christmas. First of all, the book is a work of art itself. The art direction is phenomenal. And the prose is not what you would expect. It is not angry or defensive. It’s actually a very sad book, and reflective as well. I read it in three hours – but LOOKING at it, and soaking it in will take me years. Beautiful book.

50. Oscar Wilde, by Richard Ellmann. Not quite as towering an achievement as his Joyce biography, which I would count as one of the top 5 best biographies of the 20th century – but wonderful nonetheless. Mitchell is reading it now and I was so happy when he left me a voicemail message saying, “I am deeply in love with Oscar Wilde’s mother.” I mean, who isn’t? Speranza! I ate this book UP. I have read all of Wilde’s plays, of course, and also read Dorian Gray – and knew the bare bones of his life because it was so infamous and notorious. Who doesn’t know that he was brought to trial for sodomy and imprisoned and then died a couple years later? But the details of that journey are all here … and it was truly fascinating. It left me feeling rather tragic and sad.

Some thoughts on this book here

51. Carpe Diem: Put A Little Latin in Your Life, by Harry Mount. At times a very funny book (he’s a lovely writer) – I bought it because I want to learn Latin again. It’s one of my ongoing projects.

More thoughts on Latin here. Ibid.

52. The Selected Letters of Tennessee Williams, Vol. 2: 1945-1957 – all I can say is: when is volume three coming out?? I have been working on Volume 2 for over a year now, dipping into it now and again, and I finally finished it. The breadth of his correspondence is enormous – the editing job here had to be unbelievable … and his back-and-forth with Kazan over various playwriting issues and thematic issues should be required reading for all playwrights, and anyone in the theatre. What a life. What a mind!!

53. Who Will Run the Frog Hospital, by Lorrie Moore. Not as expansive as Margaret Atwood’s Cat’s Eye, this book covers the same territory, which makes it almost radioactive for me to read: friendships between girls at a certain time in their lives … pre-puberty into puberty … and the wreckage that come out during the changes in a girl’s life. Lorrie Moore is one of the best writers writing today, and this book is so sad, so good (and also so funny). I can’t think of another writer who combines comedy and tragedy so seamlessly.

Excerpt from the book here

54. Vile Bodies, by Evelyn Waugh. I’m not sure but I might consider this to be his most scary-brilliant book. It’s always a sucker-punch with him. You are HOWLING with laughter for the majority of it (when the chick sleeps over what ends up being the Prime Minister’s house and appears at breakfast still in her Hawaiian costume from the party the night before – I DIED laughing) … and then, somehow, he sneaks up on you and the entire cataclysm that the world was wreching itself towards at that time becomes clear, horribly clear. It’s not a war book, but World War II is in Vile Bodies. It’s a sick and silly world he describes, and I guess I, the reader, am indicted by laughing so hard at it. He’s so damn good.

Some thoughts on the book here

55. The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde. I’m not sure, I have to check my records, but I think that this might be the gay-est book I have ever read. You can see why it caused such a stir and was part of his undoing. It is a breathless act of courage, seen in the context of the time in which it was written. Wilde is not hiding his message. It is right there, in plain sight.

Excerpt from the book here

56. Anagrams, by Lorrie Moore. Dear Ms. Moore, I wanted to slit my wrists after reading this book. Thanks! I began to realize, in the last 30 pages, that this would not, as they say, “work out”, and a feeling of dread started coming over me. I was not wrong. She’s such a good writer, but this book was a bit too bleak for me right now, and I can already feel myself blocking it out.

57. Rumble Fish, by S.E. Hinton. The last time I read this book, I was 12 years old. Having just seen the movie again, I figured I’d pick it up. This is one of the great things about having a nice library (even in an apartment of my size), because I actually have a copy of Rumble Fish – the same one I had when I was 12, with the cheeseball cover (two hotties with dark hair playing pool) – so all I needed to do was reach out to my shelf and start reading. It’s kind of a pretentious book and maybe it’s just me being an adult – but why do people think Motorcycle Boy is crazy? Yes, he is deaf at times, and yes, he doesn’t see colors … but his energy is one of sanity and clarity. Why do people (like Steve) say to him, “Someone’s gonna kill you someday”? It doesn’t really make sense. Maybe it would if you were a teenager, feeling persecuted by adults and all that. As a kid, Rumble Fish was not my favorite of her books, although I read them all. I was strictly an Outsiders fan – and I also LOVED (and still do) Tex.

My post on the movie of Rumble Fish here

58. Cal, by Bernard McLaverty. I have seen the movie made of this book (with the wonderful John Lynch and a hot – when is she not – Helen Mirren – and remember well its dark and muddy look, the headlights through the trees, the feeling of doom and violence on the outskirts of that love affair) – but I had not read the book. It’s a phenomenal piece of work – and it has the best last sentence of any book I have read in a long long time. It’s shocking, actually – that last sentence. And although it shocked me, I realized: yes. Yes. That is exactly where this book needed to go. That is exactly what Cal had been looking for. Amazing.

A book that makes “the Troubles” in Northern Ireland palpably real. You can smell it, touch it, hear it.

I love Ted’s recent post on the book (he’s been on a McLaverty tear). He writes:

When Cal first works at the farm, he hides in a disused barn for several days to avoid returning to the city. He has no change of clothes and no shower or tub. MacLaverty writes of the condition of his clothes, how they feel against his skin, how he cleans his teeth with cooking salt and soot – with the kind of detail that made me able to smell it the combination of mildew and human sweat, to feel the chafing of damp dirty pants against my legs. They are happening to Cal, but his discomfort is mine. You might think it’s silly to exemplify writing that deals with national struggles through description of banalities, but these are the things that turn a literary character into a human being for the time I am reading. The struggles of nations would not be important if they didn’t effect the lives of individual people.

59. Twilight (The Twilight Saga, Book 1), by Stephenie Meyer. Yes, I have jumped on the bandwagon. And I have never looked back since. My only sadness is that I cannot get my hands on books 3 and 4 right now, for various and sundry reasons. I TORE through Twilight. I never wanted it to end. I raced out and bought book 2 when I was a mere 20 pages into Twilight, knowing already that I would HAVE to read on. It is basically an erotic novel. The vampire thing is there as a smokescreen, and yeah, it’s interesting … but mainly this is just about the delicious and awful and soul-crushing feeling of lust, as experienced through 16-year-old virgins. She just GETS it. She gets it. The plot is great, too, though … and what can I say, I’m a total fangirl now. They are complete and utter BALDERDASH and I adore every word.

60. The Ghost Map: The Story of London’s Most Terrifying Epidemic–and How It Changed Science, Cities, and the Modern World, by Steven Johnson. A fascinating story (I love stories of epidemics and the development of medicine and science) – but wow, I sure could have done without the 60-page condescending lecture from Johnson that ends the book, where he basically tells us all the importance of recycling and state-sponsored healthcare – as though that will somehow stop another cholera epidemic. I could feel it coming through the book – I knew that this guy could not WAIT to get up on his little privileged soapbox and tell us all what it all “means”. It was insufferable. The story itself was AWESOME (how one pump caused all the problems, and how this one doctor and this one priest figured it out) – terrific stuff – but I also did not like (as a matter of fact, it enraged me) Johnson’s condescension towards medicine back then. Yes, they didn’t know everything. Yes, they put leeches on people and had no idea that water was the problem. That’s because – DUH – they were men of THEIR time, not ours. But Johnson, sitting at his desk on the upper West Side where he lives, has the freedom and privilege to tut-tut and pooh-pooh about how barbaric medicine was back then. It was infuriating. And he had the gall to say at one point, about Florence Nightingale and one of her medical opinions, “A little humility would have been in order.” He should take his own advice. I had to force myself to suffer through his undergraduate op-ed column at the end, just so I could say I finished the book. Just tell your story and stop telling me how to feel. And stop including me in your “we”. “We all feel that …” Oh, do we? Do “we” now? But don’t let my rant dissuade you. If you can weed your way through his condescending attitude towards everyone who doesn’t live in the 21st century – it’s a really good story he has to tell.

61. New Moon (The Twilight Saga, Book 2), by Stephenie Meyer. MORE MORE MORE MORE MORE.

62. Political Fictions, by Joan Didion. I had read some of these essays before (“Clinton Agonistes”) when they first came out. Here they all are together: her coverage of the political campaigns of Jesse Jackson, Dukakis, George W. Bush, Clinton, Gore – It’s brilliant stuff. And not only the campaigns but the entire culture of Washington, and the political-insider class. I found this book very depressing.

63. Fixed Ideas: America Since 9.11, by Joan Didion. Barely 100 pages long, this essay talks about her experiences on a book tour the week after 9/11, her experiences as a New Yorker, and her observations of what happened in the wake of 9/11. In general, it aligns with my own observations – but I read her to find out what SHE thinks, not to see a reflection of my own attitudes. Also, her way with language … I know that she agonizes over every sentence. She is meticulous with her words. Each piece is wrestled through multiple overhauls and drafts. Yet it always feels like it flows (in the end). She is probalby one of those writers never fully satisfied with what she has created – and perhaps that is what gives her her tremendous vitality.

Can you tell she’s a real idol of mine?

64. The Giver, by Lois Lowry. Jean gave me this book for Christmas last year (I think) and I finally got around to reading it just now. Jean is a great judge of books and this is one of her favorites. It starts slowly – you learn the rules of that weird world as you go, chapter by chapter – a world where all choice has been removed from the populace, all sense of danger or uncertainty … and how a little boy named Jonas starts to ask questions, to see things beyond, to experience things like fear, pain, courage … all because of his relationship with an old man called The Giver. A gorgeous book, and my eyes flooded with tears over the last three pages.

65. On The Pleasure of Hating, by William Hazlitt. I love Hazlitt. He’s so cranky. His essay on hating and the pleasure of it is well-known to me but this is a collection of 7 of his essays, many of which were new to me. If you haven’t read any Hazlitt, all I can say is – you really should check him out! He is much of a “hater” as Jonathan Swift, although not as well-known, perhaps. But you read his essay on monarchy, for example, and the rage just emanates off the page. His essay on the slave trade brought tears to my eyes. There is no prevarication here. No calm weighing of pros and cons. The system is “rotten to the core” as far as he is concerned. His opinions on religion, literature, friendship, sports – it’s all here. But it is his essay on the very human love and need of “hatred” is what really takes my breath away, and the last couple of lines knock me on my ass. I don’t want to believe it is true, but I know – I just KNOW – it IS true. He’s marvelous.

66. Crush, by Ellen Conford. Has anyone in the history of literature ever gone from William Hazlitt to Ellen Conford? I am here to tell you that anything is possible. Ellen Conford was one of my favorite writers when I was about 14. She wrote a book called Hail Hail Camp Timperwood which I loved, and also a book called Seven Days to a Brand New Me which I also loved. But I read most of them. This one, however, is one I have NOT read – so I picked it up to polish it off in about two hours. It’s 10 short stories about a group of kids in a high school, as the Sweetheart Stomp Valentine’s Day dance approaches and each story has a different protagonist from the high school – they all know each other, they stroll in and out of each other’s stories. Conford is funny, smart, and satisfying as a writer. She isn’t sentimental, but she really likes kids of that age and treats their romances and problems with respect and humor. I still find her books funny. There’s a great story where a girl at the school paper is interviewing Alexei, the Russian exchange student, and the whole thing is just a transcript of their conversation – he barely speaks English and she speaks no Russian, so it is an awkward comedy of errors. At one point, she over-explains something to Alexei and he snaps, “I am not moron.” But at the end, it becomes clear that Alexei is in love with his interviewer and wants to take her to the Sweetheart Stomp. The whole transcript breaks off suddenly at the end, because you get the feeling that they are making out like wild animals. Fun.

End this fucking year on a bright note!

Best of the books I read this year:
We Have Always Lived in the Castle, Shirley Jackson
Christine Falls, by Benjamin Black
Blood Meridian, Cormac McCarthy
Desolation Island, Patrick O’Brian
That Night, Alice McDermott
Then We Came To the End, Joshua Ferris
Inglorious, Joanna Kavenna
Oscar Wilde, Richard Ellmann
Vile Bodies, Evelyn Waugh
The Giver, Lois Lowry

2008 tally:

26 books by women
40 books by men
36 fiction books
30 non-fiction