Summer Reading

It goes without saying that there’s been a lot of reading going on here this summer. In terms of “work reading,” I’ve been thoroughly immersed in him and her. And then there was my Summer I class. But all work and no play gives Heidi a dull summer, so I’ve been doing lots of “fun reading,” too. Here are some highlights:

1) The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, by Junot Diaz. Everyone’s been talking about this book for awhile now, and for good reason. I picked it up in January, plowed through the first 100 pages or so, then had to put it down as the semester got really crazy. For me, it just wasn’t the kind of book I could read the way I read for fun during the semester—30 or 60 minute clips before bed or longer blocks over weekends. Once May hit, though, I turned back to it and read it in long and indulgent sittings. And it’s amazing—what a book! It might sound cheesy, but it’s almost like the book is alive in your hands. That’s just the way Diaz writes—the prose is so alive, so vibrant, so rich. And the characters are unforgettable.

2) When You are Engulfed in Flames, by David Sedaris. I am cheating a bit by calling this “Summer reading,” since I bought this book over a year ago when I was apartment hunting with Vogel in Philadelphia. (The receipt is still in the book and served quite well as a bookmark.) But, after I read the first few essays, I let it get buried in a stack of books by my bed, only really picking it up again in May, once the last exam was graded. If you liked David Sedaris’ earlier books, you’ll like this one, too. All the things I love about Sedaris—his funny observations about language, his unashamed revelations about his own character, and the way he sometimes slips sentiment into his cynicism—all of that’s in here, too. I always read with a pencil nearby. I have a habit of making little smiles in the margins when something makes me laugh. At some point, I realized how pointless these marks are in a book like When You are Engulfed in Flames. It’s like pointing out ants at a picnic or something.

3) Butterflies Dance in the Dark, by Beatrice MacNeil. My parents picked this book up for me last summer when they took a cruise up North and stopped in Cape Breton. MacNeil was signing copies of her book in a little shop. My dad says he read the back, thought it looked interested, and picked up a copy for me—complete with inscription from the author. (“To Dr. Heidi,” it reads. My parents never miss out on the chance to tell people that I have a PhD. If I did it, it would seem obnoxious. When they do it, it’s kind of cute, I think.) Anyway, the book is enjoyable and not at all what I was expecting. Mari-Jen is unlike any first person narrator I’ve encountered before: she’s intelligent and creative, but also suffers from a learning disability and, later in the book, something quite like mental illness or at least severe emotional disturbance. At times, I found myself tired of her and her reticence. But MacNeil renders her with rich detail and real skill. What is also accomplished quite well, I think, is a vivid depiction of the region. I am also quite fond of Alfred and Albert, the main character’s twin brothers. They might be my favorite thing about this book.

4) Interpreter of Maladies, by Jhumpha Lahiri. This book had been on my radar for years and I’d already read three of the short stories in this collection—and loved each one (“This Blessed House,” “Sexy,” and the title story). I’ve blogged about Lahiri before here. Not much to say except that each story in this collection is amazing. Considering only the stories that were new to me, “A Temporary Matter” stands out for its absolutely devastating conclusion. Lahiri is absolutely one my favorite writers still working today. Part of me can’t wait to dive into Unaccustomed Earth, her new collection. But there is also a part of me that wants to put off reading it, since once I am done with it, I’ll have to wait who knows how long for another Lahiri book.

5) The Madhouse Nudes, by Robert Schultz. Schultz teaches at Roanoke (he started there a couple of years after I graduated), and I found out about this book after reading that it had been selected by the newly-formed Lutheran Writers Book Club. I picked up an old library copy online for a couple of bucks. Like the MacNeil book, this one wasn’t what I expected, but if you are interested in how the body is represented in art (especially the female body), Schultz gives you plenty to think about. He’s also a poet—something that shines through again and again in his beautiful prose.

6) Portisville, by Steve Cushman. Steve and I were first-year TAs together at UNCG. We even shared an office at one point. He’s a great guy so it makes me happy to hear he’s found success. Last summer, I picked up a copy of the book at Ed McKay's in Greensboro. Once I began Portisville, I had the distinct memory of hearing Steve read the first chapter at his thesis reading back in 2002—a testimony to the power of that chapter. The reviews of Portisville on the back cover describe it quite well: “lean, cool prose…a story crackling with reality,” “taut, raw, and gritty.” Steve’s got a new collection of short stories out which I might have to pick up.