Review: A Moveable Feast

A Moveable Feast: The Restored Edition

by Ernest Hemingway

Simon and Schuster

copyright (original) 1964 - restored edition 2009

rating: 3 out of 5

I was so inspired by Jeremy Mercer's memoir, Time was Soft There, regarding his time spent in Paris, and in particular at The Shakespeare and Company bookstore, that I decided to read Ernest Hemingway's memoir taking place in the same City of Lights. I don't recall a time when I was so conflicted regarding an opinion about a book. On the one hand, some chapters were beautifully written and spoke to my heart; on the other hand, some chapters seemed rather random and abstract to my way of thinking. If I had a third hand, I would say that I often felt lost in the dark as he spoke about his relationship with Gertrude Stein, Ezra Pound, and F. Scott Fitzgerald --- all notable authors whom I have heard referenced, but unfortunately whom I have not read. I felt as though I really needed to be familiar with their works, if not their own biographies, before I could appreciate these chapters in Hemingway's book.

All in all I would say that I am glad that I read this classic memoir, and I am now inspired to read some of Hemingway's classic novels as I feel as though I have insight into the mind of this genius author. Perhaps once after I have read some these enduring works - as well as some of those by the above-mentioned authors, I will gladly re-read A Moveable Feast with a greater appreciation.

While my rating of the book at this first initial read is a mediocre 3 out of 5 stars, I would like to leave you with a few quotes that I found to be most memorable:

Now what can I say about the title? Mary Hemingway derives it from a reark made by her husband to Aaron Hotchner: "If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast." (page xii)

The final title of the book, A Moveable Feast, was chosen by Mary Hemingway after the author's death....The choice of spelling follows Hemingway's idiosyncratic preference to retain the "e" in words ending in "ing" and formed from the verbs that ended in "e." It adds the imprint of the author and the "ea" in Moveable also makes a pleasant visual repetition with the "ea" in Feast. (page 12)

...It had all been part of the fight against poverty that you never win except by not spending. Especially if you buy pictures instead of clothes. But then we did not think ever of ourselves as poor. We did not accept it. We thought we were superior people and other people that we looked down on and rightly mistrusted were rich. It had never seemed strange to me later on to wear sweatshirts for underwear to keep warm. It only seemed odd to the rich. We ate well and cheaply and drank well and cheaply and slept well and warm together and loved each other. (page 43)

You got very hungry when you did not eat enough in Paris because all the bakery shops had such good things in the windows and people ate outside at tables on the sidewalk so that you saw and smelled the food. When you were skipping meals at a time when you had given up journalism and were writing nothing that anyone in America would buy, explaining at home that you were lunching out with someone, the best place to do it was the Luxembourg gardens where you saw and smelled nothing to eat all the way from the Place de l'Observatoire to the rue de Vaugirard. There you could always go into the Luxembourg museum and all the paintings were heightened and clearer and more beautiful if you were belly-empty, hollow-hungry. I learned to understand Cezanne much better and to see truly how he made landscapes when I was hungry. I used to wonder if he were hungry too when he painted; but I thought it was possibly only that he had forgotten to eat. It was one of those unsound but illuminating thoughts you have when you have been sleepless or hungry. Later I thought Cezanne was probably hungry in a different way (page 65)

and finally, I was quite struck by his three page recollection of sitting in a Parisian cafe writing a story in his notebook, drinking rum St. James:

It was a pleasant cafe, warm and clean and friendly, and I hung up my old waterproof on the coat rack to dry and put my worn and weathered felt hat on the rack above the bench and ordered a cafe au lait. The waiter brought it and I took out a notebook from the pocket of the coat and a pencil and started to write.......

.....A girl came into the cafe and sat by herself at a table near the window. She was very pretty with a face fresh as a newly minted coin if they minted coins in smooth flesh with rain-freshened skin, and her hair black as crow's wing and cut sharply and diagonally across her cheek.

I looked at her and she disturbed me and made me very excited. I wished I could put her in the story, or anywhere, but she had placed herself so she could watch the street and the entry and I knew she was waiting for someone. So I went on writing.

The story was writing itself and I was having a hard time keeping up with it. I ordered another rum St. James and I watched the girl whenever I looked up, or when I sharpened the pencil with a pencil sharpener with the shavings curling into the saucer under my drink.

I've seen you, beauty, and you belong to me now, however you are waiting for and if I never see you again, I thought. You belong to me and all Paris belongs to me and I belong to this notebook and this pencil.

Then I went back to writing and I entered far into the story and was lost in it. I was writing it now and it was not writing itself and I did not look up nor know anything about the time nor think where I was nor order any more rum St. James....Then the story was finished and I was very tired. I read the last paragraph and then I looked up and looked for the girl and she had gone, I hoe she's gone with a good man, I thought. But I felt sad. (page 17-18)

Review: Surviving Hitler

Surviving Hitler

by Andrea Warren

published by Harper Trophy

copyright 2002

rating: 5 out of 5

Oh - was I in literary heaven last Thursday!

My daughter came home a couple of weeks ago and said that a local author, Andrea Warren, was coming to her school to conduct a writing seminar for AP Lang students. I simply could NOT let this opportunity pass me by. I contacted my daughter's teacher and asked if I might be able to attend if I promised to sit quietly in the back. The request was granted, and I am so grateful!

Andrea Warren lives in the same county as I do - in a town a few miles away. She has written several YA non-fiction books, most notably Under Siege, Pioneer Girl, Orphan Train Rider, and Surviving Hitler. My daughter had read Surviving Hitler a few years ago, and it continues to impact her life.

When I was told that I could attend the seminar, I immediately grabbed my daughter's book and began reading. Since the book is geared toward the YA audience, I could have easily read it in a couple of hours. However, the subject was such that I could really only digest a few chapters a time. The story is biographical - that is, Ms. Warren spent 4 months - several hours every Friday - interviewing Jack Mendelbaum in order to accurately tell his story (edited to reflect author's comments below). As I read the last chapter I realized, with surprise, that the story is told in third person. This was a surprise because as I was reading this book I felt such intimacy; the feeling that I would expect from a first person narrative. As I tried to analyze this, I realized that the author used so many direct quotes, that it gave the appearance of first person point of view. And yet.....I am somewhat grateful for the periodic distance that the third person narration allowed. I am not sure that I could have stomached such a personal encounter with concentration camps that the first person POV would have afforded.

Periodically throughout the eloquent prose is interspersed with dramatic photographs of the time period. The photos are haunting and with each one I wondered what was the story behind that particular picture. As many of you know, I have a great love of dogs - and believe that they are truly man's best friend. The photo that impacted me the most was that of a muzzled German Shepherd held on a leash by a gestapo guard. The hatred in that dog's eyes was truly evident. I know that once given the command, the dog would not hesitate to attack and kill. Oh, what did that dog have to endure to learn such hatred? Oh, what inhumanity did the German soldiers inflict on those in the concentration camps? What are we human beings truly capable of doing, if left to our own evil nature? It is quite the sobering thought.

As far as I am concerned, Surviving Hitler is the perfect book for any elementary school student to read. It provides enough information for students to understand the inhumanity and injustice of the holocaust - while at the same time it does not delve into unnecessary grotesque details. This book will find a sympathetic audience with nearly every audience: young and old; male and female; rich and poor. If you have not had the opportunity to read this book, I would strongly urge you to add it to the TBR pile of required World War II reading material.

I had hoped to add a bit of information regarding the writer's seminar - but I think that may deserve its own post. The impact of this novel should not be diluted in any way.

Review: Sixpence House

Sixpence House: Lost in a Town of Books

by Paul Collins

published by Bloomsbury

copyright 2003

rating: 3 out of 5

I discovered this book while surfing the internet for books about books - my current reading frenzy. While I had never heard of this book before, the summary from Goodreads was enough to intrigue me:

Paul Collins and his family abandoned the hills of San Francisco to move to the Welsh countryside-to move, in fact, to the village of Hay-on-Wye, the "Town of Books" that boasts fifteen hundred inhabitants-and forty bookstores. Taking readers into a secluded sanctuary for book lovers, and guiding us through the creation of the author's own first book, Sixpence Housebecomes a heartfelt and often hilarious meditation on what books mean to us.

Oh my goodness - what is not to like about a story like this?

I first heard of Hay-on-Wye when I read Lewis Buzbee's memoir, The Yellow-Lighted Bookshop, last spring (reviewed here). I simply couldn't imagine a small village with over 40 used bookshops. It sounds like a bit of paradise to me. I even did a little internet research and discovered that there is an annual book festival each year where thousands of bibliophiles descend upon this little hamlet for several days and partake of bookish festivities - and there is even a facebook group devoted to lovers of the festival. Yep, I am pretty enthralled about the possibility of someday visiting an entire town devoted to books.

So as you can imagine, my expectations were high - in fact, perhaps they were unrealistic. I think I was looking for a book that would transport me to a Utopian world, and that was neither the author's purpose nor the village's claim.

It seems that I can divide the book into two parts: when the author talks about the town of Hay-on-Wye and the evolution to its rise in the biblio-kingdom; and the other part where he talks about his life as an author, the ups-and-downs, struggles and victories of having his first book published. Obviously my main interest lie with the town - and I found myself skimming through the rest. It isn't that I am not interested in the publishing process, but for some reason I wasn't interested in his story. To be honest, I think it was in large part due to the fact that his setting totally overshadowed his character --- so to speak. Perhaps if he had written two books, each with a more narrow focus, I would have enjoyed it more.

There were parts of the book that I enjoyed immensely, and I bookmarked several passages that caught my attention. I thought that the subject matter was not only captivating, but the author's writing style was a perfect blend of accurate description with subtle humor.

For example, the author and his wife try desperately to find a house to purchase in this quaint town, but since everything is over a century old - and there are few who choose to leave the village - the choices are slim to none. Their last opportunity to purchase a home is when the Sixpence House is put on the market:

We have one last hope for a home in Way: Sixpence House.

We have shied away from the Sixpence before. It is a desanctified pub, huge and rambling and hundreds of years old, thumped down squarely into the middle to town. Everyone in town, it seems, knows about the Sixpence House. Here is what they know:

1. It is a dump.
2. Everyone who buys it tries to sell it again, except that
3. They can't sell it.

Corollary to this:

1. It has a cellar full of water, and, oh, yes,
2. It is a dump. (page 148)

After reading this description I discovered that perhaps my romantic view of a city of books in the Welsh countryside is perhaps a bit unrealistic. Ultimately, they do not purchase the house and instead decide to return to the states, a rather sad ending for someone like me who had hoped this quaint village was the equivalent of heaven on earth.

There are, however, some lovely descriptions of the town and the bookstores and the people who live-and-work-and-breath books there.

Hay-on-Wye, you see, is The Town of Books. This is because it has fifteen hundred inhabitants, five churches, four grocers, two newsagents, one post office.....and forty bookstores. Antiquarian bookstores, no less. And they are in antiquarian buildings: there are scarcely any buildings in Hay proper that are under a hundred years old; not many, even, that are under two hundred years old. There are easily several million books secreted away in these stores and in outlying barns around the town; thousands of books for every man, woman, child, and sheepdog - first editions of Wodehouse, 1920s books in Swahili, 1970s books on macrame, pirated Amsterdam editions of Benjamin Franklin's treatise on electricity, and maybe even a few unpulped copies of John Major's autobiography. (pages 22-23)

While I enjoy good used bookstores and the thrill of the hunt to find that perfect book that I don't know exists, but once found, know I can't live without... I wonder if perhaps this town would be a bit overwhelming for a suburban girl like me:

Not every book at Booth's is a lost treasure. You have to sift through a lot of rubble first. (page 101)

I suppose it depends how much "rubble" one would have to sift through. Some of the titles that the author references in his book, which he found and enjoyed --- I would not be the least bit interested in reading.

And yet there are many out there who seem to visit this quaint village in the middle of nowhere and decide to plant roots a stay awhile - becoming a fixture in the town's business scene:

One could fairly say that Clare and Diana, though not rooted in the town's past, are the faces of its future. For a town that once subsisted on butter and wool - selling it, not eating it - Hay has seen a great many changes in its economy and its populace. With the exception of the bookseller Derek Addyman, almost nobody in the town's book trade is actually from Hay. It is a town composed of refugees from London, Edinburgh, Liverpool, the states, anyplace but the Welsh countryside. The town bookbinder came from Illinois, the copy shop owner from California, and even Diana herself - to my shock, for I cannot think of anyone more English than Diana - was born in Chicago. Hay is a town of travelers who stopped; it is where urbanites come to hide from their home cities and from the tentacles of big-city traders and publishers. (page 103)

After reading this book I have decided that I would still like to visit this unique, quaint, antiquarian town --- but perhaps I do not aspire to take up permanent residence. I would recommend skimming this book for the shear purpose of daydreaming about a town of books - and realizing that the dream is a reality on the "other side of the pond."

Review: Time was Soft There

Time was Soft There

by Jeremy Mercer

St. Martin's Press

copyright 2005

rating: 4 out of 5

It is such a tangled web to discover how I come to find certain books to add to my TBR pile. The web for this delightful little memoir began last week when I read Fleur Fisher's list of books she read to complete the In Their Shoes Challenge. Out of the 18 books read, I was immediately drawn to the one entitled, Books, Baguettes and Bedbugs: The Left Bank World of Shakespeare and Co. Fortunately she provided the link to her review and even though she gave it a mediocre rating, I was still intrigued. I have been to Paris twice, but have never had the opportunity to visit the famous landmark, and the title of book was simply irresistible. However, when I tried to check it out from my own local library, I discovered the American title for this book is, Time was Soft There. I came home, opened the book to the first page, and was immediately drawn into the author's story.

It was a gray winter Sunday when I came into the bookstore.

As had been my habit during that troubled time, I was out walking. There was never a specific destination, merely an accumulation of random turns and city blocks to numb the hours and distract from the problems at hand. It was surprisingly easy to forget oneself among the bustling markets and grand boulevards, the manicured parks and marble monuments. (first paragraph).

Immediately I was transported to the cobblestone walkways of Paris, imagining the Eiffel Tower in the distance, the Seine flowing down the center of the city, and the outdoor cafes calling my name to sit down, order a coffee, and watch the time pass slowly by. While this book does not focus on the typical tourist spots of gay Paris (Notre Dame is mentioned occasionally, but only because it is located directly across the street from the bookstore), it does focus on the eclectic group of people living in this cramped, disorganized, antiquated bookstore who have such a passion for writing and books that it appears to transcend all other problems in life.

There is something rather romantic in the notion of fleeing the rat-race of America and escaping to Europe to follow the passion of one's heart. The willingness to leave all material possessions behind for the pursuit of an artistic lifestyle seems to tug at my heartstrings. Yet as I read the details of this kind of existence --- living with other strangers on a lumpy mattress on a dirty hardwood floor with the only communal bathroom caked with urine on the walls, I am quickly brought back to the reality that this would not be the life for me.

This is a true story of how a Canadian newspaper reporter, receiving death threats from a former informant, flees his country and winds up in Paris with little money and no emotional resources. The walk along the streets at the beginning of the book leads him to the famous, Shakespeare and Company bookstore where he learns that the owner, George Whitman, often provides housing for struggling writers in exchange for help around the store and the promise to read one book a day. While this arrangement is only supposed to last a week, most of those in residence stay for several months, sometimes dragging on for a year or more. I believe the author, Jeremy Mercer, stayed about 4 or 5 months.

While the author gives a personal account of his stay and the characters, or rather, people with whom he comes in contact, the true focus of the story is George Whitman -- a gruff, communist octogenarian who will publicly berate anyone - but always offer the shirt off his back.

George could stretch a franc to unimaginable lengths. No piece of bread was too stale or rind of cheese too dry. Once, I was soundly berated for pouring the leftover pickle juice down the sink while washing the jar. "That's a delicacy! I can make soup with that. I used to drink pickle juice," George roared. "What are you? A Rockefeller?"

....The practice of such discipline is how Shakespeare and Company survived, and how he was able to spend half a century feeding and housing people for free. George had discovered money to be the greatest slave master, and by reducing your dependence on it, he believed, you could loosen the grip of a suffocating world." (page 112)

I enjoyed reading the stories of George and his tough exterior but generous interior. I enjoyed listening to the dreams and aspirations of some of the writers in residence -- all passionate about the written word. There was something which captivated me as I read about the seedier side of the city -- perhaps it made Paris more approachable, more real. I find the author's writing style to be fluid, detailed, and easy to read. He has definitely instilled a desire in me to return to Paris and search out this literary landmark.

As a final note, I was curious as to how the U.S. title came to be. I mean, I totally understand the title used in Europe -- Books, Baguettes, and Bedbugs. Not only does it make sense, but the alliteration is memorable. It wasn't until I was half-way with the book that the American title was explained:

In the criminal world, there is a term, hard time, which refers to difficult prison sentences in maximum-security facilities or under some form of protective custody. This is for dangerous convicts, the murderers, the sex offenders. Hard time goes slowly and painfully and leaves a man bitter when eventually he does get released into the world.

At the opposite end of the spectrum were the medium-and minimum-security facilities, which were designed to rehabilitate offenders. Here there were libraries and weight-training rooms, high school equivalency classes and floor-hockey tournaments. One institution I visited had a farm inside the barbed wire where the inmates worked in the fields and provided fruit, vegetables, and eggs for the prison. Another prison had a baseball team that toured the region - playing in a community beer league. This was known as soft time, time that went easily, time that was a pleasure to do.

Time at Shakespeare and Company was as soft as anything I'd ever felt (pages 171-172).

I could say the same for the reading of this book. It was soft time --- time went easily, slowly, and it was quite enjoyable. And when I finished the book, I had indeed learned something about myself and humanity as a whole.

Review: A Big Little Life

A Big Little Life

by Dean Koontz

Hyperion (ARC obtained at BEA 2009)

Copyright 2009

Rating: 4.5 out of 5

Now I will admit that I am a sucker for a good dog story. Somehow these furry canine friends have a way of pulling at my heartstrings and never letting go. So when I was walking down the Book Expo of America aisles this past May in a bleary-eyed state of over-stimulation and noticed a free ARC with an adorable golden retriever on the cover, I was instantly attracted. The fact that the book was written by a well-known author (although I had not yet read any of his novels), I could not resist taking a copy. Unfortunately I had to immediately start summer school upon returning from the Expo, and the book has sat on my shelf ever since.

The week before the read-athon I had some free time and knew I didn't want to start a "deep" novel. While perusing my collection for a lighter read, this book seemed to fit the bill. I began reading on Wednesday night and finished early on Saturday morning. It is a quick read - but not fluff. I instantly fell in love with Trixie, but more surprisingly, I grew to admire Dean Koontz.

I believe you can tell a lot about a person's character by the way they behave around animals, and as I stated in one of my read-athon posts, Dean Koontz is an obvious man of character. He has been married to his wife for over 32 years, and while they have never had children, they both considered Trixie to be their daughter.

Dean and his wife have worked together for decades and their daily schedule is to be admired. They typically put in 10+ hour days and, until recently when they purchased a beach house to force them to take time off --- they also worked on weekends. While the old saying is partially true "you can't teach an old dog new tricks", the Koontz family had no problem assimilating this new pet into their hectic workaholic lives. Trixie would accompany them everywhere, and because she was a released service dog, she was very well trained.

I enjoyed hearing about the Koontz's devotion to the Canine Companions for Independence and the services that this organization offers to those in need. I have a personal interest in this kind of organization, and this book has caused me to want to learn even more. I have done some internet research in my own area and while Canine Companions does not have a local chapter in Kansas City, I did find an organization, Dogs Helping Humans, that does. I hope to someday visit their location and perhaps do some of my own research for a possible story idea.

Dean Koontz would say that his life was greatly enriched by having Trixie as a part of the family. I would argue that Trixie was also blessed to be a part of the Koontz family. While I dote on my three yellow labs (some would argue to excess), both Dean and Gerda lavished love and praise on Trixie. But they also spared no expense. Trixie had many health issues that required several surgeries and many different kinds of medical "procedures." They were fortunate to have the financial means to give Trixie the best care available. I am not sure that I would be able to do that for my canine children, so I will instead pray for their continued good health.

After finishing this book I felt compelled to read more of Dean Koontz's work. Since he is such a prolific writer (and continues to write and publish new material), I was somewhat overwhelmed by the selection. Ultimately I chose The Darkest Evening of the Year because of the great cover picture and the fact that the protagonist has "dedicated her life to the rescue of abandoned and endangered golden retrievers."

In closing this review, let me leave you with one of the many profound quotes I read in this memoir:

One of the greatest gifts we receive from dogs is the tenderness the evoke in us. The disappointments of life, the injustices, the battering events that are beyond our control, and the betrayals that we endure from those we befriended and loved can make us cynical and turn our hearts into flint on which only the matches of anger and bitterness can be struck into flame. Other companion animals can make us more human, but because of the unique nature of dogs - their clear delight in being with us, the rejoicing with which they greet us when we come home to them, the reliable sunniness of their disposition, the joy they bring to playtime, the curiosity and wonder with which they embrace each new experience - they can melt away cynicism and sweeten a bitter heart. (page 190)

Review: Confections of a Master Baker

Confections of a Master Baker

by Gesine Bullock-Prado

Broadway Books

copyright 2009

Rating: 3 out of 5 stars

This book initially caught my eye when it was sitting on the "new release" table at the local bookstore. The summary quickly told me that this memoir was right up my ally: a financially successful Hollywood business woman, totally dissatisfied with her day job, finds solace at night by reading recipes, making grocery lists, and baking sugary confections. Eventually she decides to risk giving up the rat race of LA to become a pastry shop owner in small town Vermont. This story chronicles that transformation in honest detail.

Now, the fact that the author is also the younger sister of Sandra Bullock, A-list female actress extra-ordinaire, truly has nothing to do with the enjoyment of this real-life story. While Gesine mentions Sandy quite often, this is really the story of Gesine, her relationship with ALL the significant female relationships in her life - particularly her mother and grandmother - and the courage and determination it takes to discover one's true place in life. Gesine was a trained lawyer and worked for her sister's production company for several years. In terms of financial stability - she had made it! But she was miserable. First of all, Gesine is an introvert, not the typical Hollywood wheeler-dealer type:

I'd been forever struggling with my crossed wiring since childhood. On the one hand, I was born pathologically shy with severe misanthropic tendencies. From day one, I wanted nothing to do with humanity. (page 28)

Secondly, she constantly felt used, as if she did not exist but was solely "Sandy's sister" and therefore good to help secure interviews with her more famous sibling.

It took nearly a decade, but eventually Gisene and her husband Ray moved to Vermont, found a small storefront, invested all their life savings into the renovation of the place, and opened up shop. Gisene not only prepares her famous macaroons in this shop, but she also bakes delicious whole wheat bread, decadent croissants, sugary pastries, and exotic German desserts. Each chapter includes a recipe from her shop, including one for her mom's amazing pecan chocolate torte, otherwise known as Orgasm Cake.

The story is told in chronological order of a typical day at the bakery, starting with the chapter entitled, The Witching Hour - 3:00AM and ending with the chapter entitled Running Regrets - 6:00 PM. Intertwined between the day-to-day narrative of running a small town bakery with a large internet business, are flashback stories of visiting her grandmother in Germany and memories of European culinary traditions. While Gisene has found true contentment in this life's vocation, she is very quick to point out that it is definitely a labor of love which mandates total commitment. Many home bakers, myself included, secretly harbor a desire to some day own a dessert company, and to us she offers these words of wisdom:

Don't do it!.....If I could do it again, I'd get my ignorant self educated. Because someone at some point would have said to me, 'You know, if you go out on your own and open a bakery, you're not allowed to sleep.' At the very least I would have learned how to manage such a place. So my first instinct is to tell that home baker with the big dream that they should hold fast to the joy they receive in baking for pleasure. And if they must pursue a career in it, go to school. Or work in a hard-core bakery, where the hours are abysmal and the production monumental. Don't mortgage your life to bake unless you know what the hell you're doing. (page 203-204)

While these are harsh words, she is also quick to add that she truly cannot imagine doing anything else. This work fulfills her life's calling.

This book is a very easy book to read - I managed to finish it in about 3.5 hours during the fall read-athon event, and there are several recipes that I would like to try, most notably the Focaccia bread, Golden Eggs, and of course, the Orgasm Cake. It was an eye-opening experience to read all the nitty gritty details involved in being the proprietor of a bake shop. I think I will stick with my day job for now.

Review: French Milk

French Milk

by Lucy Knisley

Published by Simon and Schuster

2007

Rating: 5 out of 5

Before I became an English teacher and absolutely enthralled with Victorian England, I was a French major and mesmerized with the Parisian lifestyle (I think I should have been born in Europe). In high school I was fortunate enough to be a part of a three week student exchange trip to France. We stayed four days in Paris, and then traveled to the south of France, Arcachon, to stay with French families and attend the local "ecole" I had great plans of returning to France during my adulthood, but other milestones in life took precedent: marriage, children, etc. I did have an amazing opportunity to revisit Paris for a whirlwind 3 day "all expenses paid" seminar about three years ago, and I am convinced that I will go back some day -- for an extended period of time - with my husband.

Not too long ago I read two amazing reviews for this book: one from Beth Fish Reads and the other from Joann at Lakeside Musing. The title alone attracted me to the book, but their reviews enticed me to immediately place a hold at my local library.

Because the book is in graphic novel form, it is a very easy, quick read. While I am not normally a fan of this genre (more due to lack of exposure rather than a true aversion), I think it is the PERFECT medium for this memoir. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, and in this case, I would say a cartoon is worth at least that many. I truly appreciated the author's talent. She has such a way of capturing the details of the moment in a very simple style --- deceptively simple. The entire time I read the book I kept thinking, "Oh, this would be a great way to journal my upcoming trip to London." However, once I try to draw a baguette of bread it would take on the appearance of a dead piece of wood (highly unappetizing).

Ms. Knisley also accompanies these wonderful drawings with journalistic entries that detail her daily emotions, thoughts, and activities. The 5 week trip to Paris was meant as a special celebration of her mother turning 50 and Knisely turning 22 and graduating from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. Both ladies are true artists, so there is lots of documentation on the Parisian museums. I am also under the impression that they are amateur "gourmands" as nearly each detailed meal is a culinary delight. Quite often they would visit the Rue Mouffetard marketplace and bring home such delicacies as fois gras and duck confit. I must say that I could read and re-read these sections every day. It is a real dream of mine to some day live close enough to an open-air market that I can daily visit the stalls and bring home whatever inspires me at the moment.

I would highly recommend this book to anyone who enjoys travel, art, food, and life. Knisley's young, care-free attitude is a breath of fresh air, although she does occasionally use a bit of profanity to express her current mood (I did not find this at all offensive, but there perhaps be some of you who might).

TSS: Columbine

Well, I managed to complete the first week of school! While there are still some logistical issues to work out between the school and the church, all in all I think the first week went fairly well. I must admit that I was totally exhausted by Friday evening. I teach six classes in a row and am basically on my feet from 7:45 until 4:15. It will take a couple of weeks for my feet to adjust to this new schedule - as well as my voice. I am pretty sure I collapsed around 8:30 on Friday night!

While I have been in the mood to read these past couple of weeks, I have just not felt like I have had the time to completely escape into a literary world; there has been too much real world happening. On Saturday morning, however, I discovered that my local library finally had my copy of Columbine ready for pick up. Since my lesson plans are up to date and it is too early in the semester to begin grading papers, I picked up the book before noon and immediately became engrossed in the ten-year documentary.

I am not quite sure why I have such a fascination for this subject matter. Some of you may recall one of my first reviews being Wally Lamb's The Hour I First Believed. I had mixed feelings about that novel, wishing the author had focused more on the Columbine storyline and less on the ancestral heritage. After reading my review, several suggested that I read We Need to Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver, which I did and thoroughly enjoyed - although in a haunting sort of way. When I learned that Dave Cullen had written a non-fiction book which chronicled the last 10 years since Columbine, I immediately put my name on the library list. Apparently it has been quite popular as I had to wait nearly 5 months to read it. I must say it did not disappoint.

I am in awe of the amount of tedious research that Mr. Cullen had to cull through in order to coherently write this 350 page summary of the events leading up to the massacre, as well as the investigation that took the better part of a decade to complete. Dave Cullen is a journalist and his instinct to sift through the 25,000 pages of data for the hard-hitting, significant details is exemplary. His crisp, to-the-point writing style is a pleasure to read. However, what truly sets this book apart from the others that I have read on this subject is that the author attempts to tell us WHY this event happened; a question that many of us have pondered since April 20, 1999. There were so many inaccuracies that were leaked in the early hours and days after the event that the truth was difficult to discern.

We remember Columbine as a pair of outcast Goths from the Trench Coat Mafia snapping and tearing throughout their high school hunting down jocks to settle a long-running feud. Almost none of that happened. No Goths, no outcasts, nobody snapping. No targets, no feud, and no Trench Coat Mafia. Most of those elements existed at Columbine - which is what gave them such currency. They just had nothing to do with the murders. The lesser myths are equally unsupported: no connection to Marilyn Manson, Hitler's birthday, minorities, or Christians. --- page 149

Contrary to what many of us believed, these boys did not seek revenge on a predetermined "hit list" but rather they had planned to kill anyone and everyone. Dylan was extremely depressed and suicidal. Eric hated the entire human race and had dreams of annihilating us all. Several professionals in the mental health field believe that he was a classic psychopath.

Ten years afterward, Eric still baffled the public, which insisted on assessing his motives through a "normal" lens. Eric was neither normal nor insane. Psychopathy (si-COP - uh- thee) represents a third category. Psychopathic brains don't function like those in either of the other groups, but they are consistently similar to one another. Eric killed for two reasons: to demonstrate his superiority and to enjoy it. ---- page 239

While the book is relatively short, it is quite comprehensive. Not only does it chronicle the events leading up to April 20, 1999 - beginning with the all school assembly the Friday before warning the students to have a safe Prom weekend, but is also gives background information on the planned attack beginning in January, 1997. Interspersed throughout the narrative timeline is the ongoing investigation after the massacre that took literally years to complete. Some of the injured victims are followed over the years and their recovery, coupled with their forgiving spirits, are an inspiration.

This is a book that has shaken me to the core. While we have a better idea as to why this happened - there is still the ever-present thought this could happen anywhere at any time. We as a nation have learned a lot from Columbine and have implemented many safe standards for schools to follow. The loophole in the gun laws have been plugged and suburban America is no longer naive in thinking it is immune to violent attacks. In some ways it is hard to believe that 10 years has passed since that tragic event, but in other ways the memory is still quite vivid.

One of the final chapters of the book begins:

The fifth-anniversary commemoration drew a smaller audience than expected. The crowds had grown progressively smaller each year, but the school foresaw a bigger bump for this milestone. Nearly everyone was pleased by the light turnout. It meant people had moved on.

Many survivors began to think in terms of how many events were let to slog through. Only two remained now: the ten-year and the dedication of the memorial. Surely they wouldn't have to come back in twenty. --- page page 338

While I agree that the survivors have been through enough and it is time to let them live in peace - I truly hope that we as a nation never forget Columbine and will continue to give special thought and prayer each April 20, for if we do not take the time to remember history we are doomed to repeat it.

If you are interested in reading more information about this book and the resources used in writing it, please visit the author's website.

A Gift from Brittany

I was very interested to read this book for several reasons. First of all, I LOVE France. I was a French major in college and still harbor the dream of someday living in a small European village, fully immersing myself in the culture. Until that time comes - I choose to live vicariously through the memoirs of others. Secondly, Marjorie Price is an artist and while I have no artistic talent myself, I truly appreciate the talent in others. I wanted to see how an artist captures life's experiences in the written word, anticipating beautifully vivid, visual descriptions of the common everyday normal occurrences. And lastly, I greatly enjoy travel memoirs in general (my favorites so far include A Year by the Sea by Joan Anderson and Without Reservations by Alice Steinbach). A Gift from Brittany did not disappoint on any account.

Here is the summary of the book, as it appears on GoodReads.com:

The enchanting memoir of an artist’s liberating sojourn in France during the sixties—and the friendship that transformed her life

While in her late twenties, Marjorie Price leaves the comfort of her Chicago suburb to strike out on her own in Paris and hone her artistic talents. Dazzled by everything French, she falls in love with a volatile French painter and they purchase an old farmhouse in the Breton countryside. When Marjorie’s seemingly idyllic marriage begins to unravel, she forms a friendship with an elderly peasant woman, Jeanne, who is illiterate, has three cows to her name, and has never left the village. Their differences are staggering yet they forge a friendship that transforms one another’s life.

While this is certainly an adequate and concise summary, its brevity does not allow a focus on the beauty of Ms. Price's language, nor the true depth of friendship formed between these two unlikely women. Ms. Price was an adventuresome youth, even by today's standards. As a young female graduate in 1960 she decides to head to Paris to spend a few months doing what she loves best: paint. She knows little French and has no contacts, yet she follows her passion to the city that epitomizes art. In 1960 one did not just board a plane and arrive in Europe 8 hours later; at that time the way to travel overseas was ON the sea. Marjorie saved enough money to purchase a ticket on the Queen Elizabeth and after several days of travel arrived at her beloved destination. I LOVE to travel - but I am not sure that I would have the courage to risk sea-sickness to venture to a foreign country in which I could not properly communicate with the natives in order to follow my heart's desire. I have tremendous respect for Ms. Price's focus and dedication to following her dream.

After only a very short time in Paris she meets another artist,Yves, and quickly falls in love. After two dates they are sleeping together and in just 6 months they are married. After about 4 years of marriage the couple decides that they need a summer getaway from the hectic Parisian life. They wish to find a place of peace and tranquility which will inspire their painting, and that will allow their 2 year daughter an opportunity to experience the country. Midge's idea (Yves's nickname for Marjorie) is a small seaside cottage, but Yves discovers half a hamlet with 7 dilapidated houses in varying states of disrepair and "convinces" her that this is what they need. The couple receives, as a belated wedding gift, money from her father to secure the down payment on the property. It is at this early point in the story that the reader discovers marital problems will soon overshadow this amorous relationship:

"Calm down, Cherie. Someday you'll thank me."
"Never."
"You'll get used to it."
"Never."
"You have to. You have no choice."
I winced.
At this point, Yves reminded me that we had been married in France, and under Napoleonic Law, the husband is considered the lieu conjugal. "That means," he explained with a roguish grin, "a wife is obliged to follow her spouse - me, in our case - wherever he decides to go, anywhere in the world. Whether she likes it or not."

Midge does follow her husband and makes the best of the situation. Living on dirt floors with no indoor plumbing, she manages to create a lovely home conducive to raising a small child and fostering a serene environment which inspires them both to paint. Again, I could not do what Ms. Price willingly chose to do: I draw the line at no indoor plumbing AND I just don't think I could overlook the macho Napoleonic attitude -- I don't care how sexy the French accent. In fact, the only fault that I found with this narrative was the hasty development of Midge and Yves relationship. She fell in love with him in 2 dates and the next thing the reader knows they are married, with a child, moving to Brittany to live on the half hamlet that they have purchased with her father's money even though she has no desire to live there. I wanted more information; the speed with which it all happened seemed unbelievable to me.

Yet...as I read the rest of the book I realized that this was not the relationship to focus upon. It is the relationship between Jeanne, the 70 year old illiterate peasant woman, and Mitch (her pronunciation of Midge) that is the crux of this story - AND Jeanne and Mitch would never have had a relationship if Yves had not been so insistent on their moving to this village in the first place. We needed to quickly introduce the catalyst in order to focus on the true story.

The saying that we will find love in the most unexpected places is most truthful here. On the surface there should be no reason why these two women would ever speak to one another, much less become close friends: one is a young mother on the verge of divorce, the other is an elderly grandmother still in love with her husband; one is an American from the large city of Chicago, the other was born, lives and dies in the same French provincial country town; one is well-educated who has a passion for the arts, the other never attended school, but has tended a working farm her entire life. When these two women first meet they do not even speak the same language, yet over time they learn to confide in one another their most intimate thoughts. How fortunate Mitch was to find such a confidante in her lifetime. The relationship they share is one that many of us long for, and we are privileged to have the opportunity to witness this friendship grow and develop into full maturity.

The beauty of this narrative is greatly enhanced by the beauty of the author's language. Notice her description of a sunset:

"One evening there was a breathtakingly dramatic sunset. As the sun went down, Danielle played nearby while Yves and I sat side by side on the grass, both of us painting a flaming vermilion and celadon sky suspended over a shimmering meadow reaching all the way to the sea.....Mine was a watercolor that set out to capture a setting sun with a gamut of delicate to brilliant colors, each one laid over another like overlapping plates of glass. Yves had painted with gouache, using hard, jagged edges and clashing colors to achieve a beautiful, dark, and stormy elegy to the last moments of light." (page 48)

Or this description of dawn:

"As the morning light filtered through the night sky, I set out my watercolors and began to paint while the cows grazed nearby, indifferent to my presence. Dawn unfolded with delicate mauves, beiges, and pale yellows, blending actors gliding soundlessly across a stage." (page 117)

Or the comparison of the sky from region to the next:

"I had never seen light in quite the same way before I came to the Morbihan. I had never been as acutely aware of its subtleties until I lived year-round at La Salle. The more I got to know the region, the more it inspired me. Unlike the mistral-swept, sun-dominated, unequivocally cobalt skies of the Midi, where the sky was rarely constant. Shifting clouds mirrored the ever-changing seascape as the moon-driven tide prevailed upon the waters to rise and sink and follow its whim. Morning light especially took me by surprise. Fog ruled the early hours and clung to the coast until - or if- the sun managed to break through. Morning haze hugged the meadows, emitting a fluid, silvery green light that filtered through the lingering fog, transforming moist fields into shimmering, verdant expanses....." (page 192)

I can practically see the canvas painting with the intensity of her words. Absolutely beautiful!

As a final, personal note on this memoir, I loved the way Ms. Price effortlessly wove authentic French expressions through the narrative. This gave the reader the feeling of being in France without the discomfort of not understanding the language. For me, however, a French major of long ago, I was thrilled that I could decipher the language before it was explained. It is nice to know that 4 years of college in a degree that I have never used in the "real" world was not completely wasted.

The Yellow-Lighted Bookshop

If you love reading - and bookstores - as much as I do, then you absolutely, positively must pick up this gem of a book! Lewis Buzbee was a bookseller for a number of years and this is a memoir of his life-long love affair with books. As Becky would say....."the book had me at hello." Here is a portion very first paragraph:

When I walk into a bookstore, any bookstore, first thing in the morning, I'm flooded with a sense of hushed excitement. I shouldn't feel this way. I've spent most of my adult life working in bookstores, either as a bookseller or a publisher's sales rep, and even though I no longer work in the business, as an incurable reader I find myself in a bookstore at least five times a week."

Ok --- someone who visits a bookstore perhaps even more than I do?! I did not know it was possible. I do believe there is some truth in the saying "great readers make great writers" - because not only is the author quite knowledgeable about this subject, but he is able to eloquently express that knowledge that leaves the reader wanting more - while at the same time wanting to pause and savor the moment. I wrote down 10 quotes within the first 50 pages and then stopped. I borrowed the book from the library, but I know that I will eventually purchase it - and soon. I can then mark the book with each and every quote that captures my attention. I am very anxious to sit down and re-read it again and again.

While I won't share all 10 quotes with you.....I will give you a taste for the style of writing that you can expect from this short (a little more than 200 pages) yet thoroughly satisfying book.

• page 6 - Books connect us with others, but that connection is created in solitude, one reader in one chair hearing one writer, what John Irving refers to as one genius speaking to another.
• page 9 - It's not as if I don't have anything to read; there's a tower of perfectly good unread books next to my bed, not to mention the shelves of books in the living room I've been meaning to reread. I find myself, maddeningly, hungry for the next one, as yet unknown. I no longer try to analyze this hunger; I capitulated long ago to the book lust that's afflicted me most of my life.
• page 10 - even though I was here (bookstore) yesterday morning, every day brings new arrivals, and while there's nothing startling today, there's still pleasure in looking at the same books again.....
• page 36 - the problem with libraries, I discovered, was that two weeks later, I would have to load up the bike and, with a sense of loss, return the books

There are parts of the book that detail the history of book making and the evolution of the publishing industry, and while interesting, I personally was far more interested in the author's personal connection with reading and "book lust" than with the historical facts and statistics.

In the final 40 or so pages of the book, the author gives personal recommendations for independent booksellers he has enjoyed across the United States - and even the world. In this section I have found a vacation spot that I simply must visit before I pass on: the village of Hay-on-Wye in Wales. With a population of only 1500, this small town is home to over 40 antiquarian bookstores! Sounds like a slice of heaven on earth to me:

I am so very grateful to Susan of You Can Never Have Too Many Books and Nymeth of Things Mean a Lot for their reviews and thoughts on this book. Without reading their blogs, I never would have stumbled upon this tremendous treasure.

The title of the book, by the way, was inspired by a quote from Vincent van Gogh:

I think that I still have it in my heart someday to paint a bookshop with the front yellow and pink in the evening....like a light in the midst of the darkness.