The Yiddish Policemen's Union: First Impressions

My comments this week on The Yiddish Policemen's Union by Michael Chabon will be fairly brief as I've read only 53 pages. But please don't take my scant reading as a reflection on the book's quality. It's not. The book is, so far, a fast, enjoyable read.

Rather, my scant reading is a testament to how much busier English professors are when they have mid-term papers to grade. Sadly, my personal reading has been supplanted this week by a mountain of student essays.

Having said all that, here's what strikes me in the first 53 pages of The Yiddish Policemen's Union:

• Meyer Landsman. This is the book's main character, and I like him. He's a homicide detective, and on the surface he's got a real Mickey Spillane thing going on. He fits all the hard-boiled detective stereotypes. He's tough talking, doesn't sleep, drinks too much, and has a failed marriage. In spite of all of this, though, he's still interesting. Chabon gives him just enough insecurities to make me like him. For example, he's literally afraid of the dark, and he even avoids investigating a dark, cramped crime scene because of this phobia. I've long believed that its characters weaknesses that make them interesting and not their strengths. Meyer Landsman is yet more proof of this.
• The Alternate History. This book is set in Alaska in a fictional Jewish city that was established in the aftermath of WWII. The state of Israel doesn't exist, and Alaska is no longer a safe haven for Jews as they're being systematically deported. Usually, when I read books with alternate histories, I roll my eyes, but for some reason, I'm tolerating and even enjoying the alternate history in this book. I'm not sure why I like it, but I'll try to answer that question as I read.

That's all I've got time for now, as I still have a mountain of essays on my desk. Wish me luck.

June's Featured Book: The Yiddish Policeman's Union

I've long believed that one of the most delightful questions in the English language is this:

"What should I read next?"

What I love about this question is its vast openness. A graduate school professor once explained it to me this way:

Giving all of your attention to one good book is like sitting on a bench at a crowded street corner and gazing at a beautiful woman who walks by. For a few seconds, you study her every move. Maybe you're struck by the unusual shape of her eyes or the delicate line of her cheekbones, and so for a brief moment, even though the world is big and crowded, only those eyes or cheekbones exist and you sit there with no desire in the world but to study what it is that makes this woman beautiful. And then, before you're quite ready, she's obscured by the crowd and disappears.

But real beauty is in what happens next. Because at this point, you have a choice. At this point, with the beautiful eyes and cheekbones gone, you can choose to dwell on her, to re-live in your mind the moments of her appearance and disappearance again and again, or you can blink your eyes a few times, take a deep breath, clear your mind, and look once more into the crowd.

Choosing a new book is like this beautiful moment. It's choosing to look into the crowd.

Now, I'm fully aware that this analogy is more than a little voyeuristic and creepy, but I do understand my former professor's point. He was saying (I hope) that while beauty is often fleeting and temporary, our quest for it shouldn't be. Our quest for beauty should be ongoing and permanent. When one beautiful thing passes from us, we should blink, sigh, and look forward, because beauty exists neither in the past nor in the future, but in the eternal present.

So the question, "What should I read next?" is a good question. It's a mark of those who have chosen to permanently seek beauty. It's a question that's full of hope and anticipation. It's an optimistic question. It believes that beauty really exists and implies that we can find it if we will only seek.

And I like that.

So here's what I'll read next:

The Yiddish Policeman's Union by Michael Chabon. I'll forego telling you much about it since I've written about Chabon on this site before, but before you choose to read along with me, you should know this is a work of science fiction. Don't, however, let that put you off. I've read some of Chabon's other work, and I trust him entirely. Beyond that, The Yiddish Policemen's Union has won a slew of prestigious awards.

You can read a review of The Yiddish Policemen's Union here, and if you'd like to get a copy and read along with me, I'll start posting about this book on Friday.

Just a Good Poem

Here's today's dilema:

I talked with my students this morning about how today's readers -- especially internet readers -- don't really read all that slowly or carefully. Instead, they skim and skip around. They click here and there, and they get easily distracted. They tend to have short attention spans. So, here's the dilema:

QUESTION: On this blog would it be better for me to write literary analysis which you'd likely skim or skip altogether or would it be better for me to link you to one good short poem you'd be more likely to read?

ANSWER: I think I'd rather have you read one good poem than anything I have to say.

And it just so happens that I have a new favorite poem. I love it so much I even copied it and hung it on my office door (which is a university professors ultimate tribute).

So today, feel free to skip and skim over anything I have to say (which you probably already have) -- but please read this carefully.

Featured Book Friday: A Poem by David Wagoner

Last night, for the first time this spring, the pieces finally all fell into place. The hurricane winds in Rexburg stopped. The cold disappeared. My children went strait to bed, and the sun powered out enough of a dusky, orange glow that I could read outside.

I grabbed a book, headed for the back porch, and plunked down in a lawn chair. After a few minutes, the two neighborhood teenagers on motorcycles who, for hours, had been terrorizing the late afternoon stillness called it a day. Then, a previously distracted parent realized it was his child screaming bloody murder in the backyard and tended to her. The workmen down the street finished re-shingling a roof and loaded up their air compressors, nail guns, and radio.

All at once, engines rested. Doors closed. The sun began to set. And the day-people vanished.

Then, I read this poem ten times over, stopping again and again to think, to listen, and to breathe it in.

Thank heavens for moments of stillness.

Featured Book Friday: Two Good Poems

I've been a lousy blogger this week. I've been busy with work and home tasks, and I haven't, sadly, read as much of Good Poems as I'd like (though this "Featured Book Friday" post is showing up a few hours early, so that should count for something).

When I have read though, I've been glad I did. Good Poems is, I think, a true literary gem. Sure, there are probably much better collections of poetry in the world, and there are certainly smarter, more complex, more layered poems out there than the ones that appear in this book. In fact, if Good Poems has a flaw, it's that a lot of the poems in it are dangerously simple. Some of the poems are even downright coherent (gasp!).

But there's immense value in this simplicity. Too often, English professors and academics like me tend to value complexity and depth and even difficulty more than we value clarity and beauty. This is one reason, I think, I hear so many people complain about poetry and literature and English classes from their past.

You'd probably be surprised, incidentally, just how comfortable people are, after they find out I'm an English professor, throwing all of their literary angst in my direction -- "I hate poetry!", "You're not one of those professors who makes people agree with your interpretation, are you?", "You're an English professor? I'll be careful what I say around you" (conversation ends) .

Maybe there'd be less angst over literature in the world today if we taught more poems like the ones Garrison Keillor puts in this collection. Take this poem, for example, by Wendy Cope. It's so simple and easy to understand that I wouldn't hesitate teaching it to a class of children. It's got a playful, sing-songy meter and easy-to-listen-to, end-stopped rhymes. And yet, it's not mundane. It's important and captures the beauty that comes from simple pleasures.

Or consider this poem by Sheenagh Pugh. It's just a simple expression of well-wishing for the reader. People get this poetry. And yet, I could read this poem ten times, back-to-back, without getting bored. I could sit down to memorize it without growing tired of it.

These are the poems I most admire -- poems that are simple, but still beautiful; accessible, but still meaningful. Good Poems contains a host of these, and stumbling on one is like finding a twenty-dollar bill you'd forgotten about in your pants pocket.

"Oh," you think when you find it. "There's that wonderful little thing. I knew it had to be somewhere."

Featured Book Friday: Poems Are Short!

This month, as I'm reading Good Poems edited by Garrison Keillor, I'm discovering yet another benefit of reading poetry, an obvious benefit that presumably everyone on earth already knows and I'm only just figuring out. It's this:

Poetry is short, and you can read a good poem in no time at all.

This is fortunate because I've had a remarkably busy week. My wife's birthday is this week. My anniversary is this week. Mothers' Day is this week. I'm in charge of a major community project this week. I've had meeting after meeting. I've been grading papers.

And yet, I've read a lot of poetry this week, but never in long, sustained stretches. Instead, I've read in snippets. I read a few poems in the 10-minute break between my classes. I read a bunch of poems while I was cycling at the gym. I read a poem while walking to class. I read a poem while waiting in line at the bank. I'm even contemplating reading poetry later today while I mow the lawn. I could just prop the book up of the lawnmower's handle and go at it. I'll bet it would work, and my neighbors already know I'm weird, so what would I lose?

In two minutes of down time -- in the time it takes to check your email or drop a bill in the mailbox or make yourself a sandwich -- you can read a good poem.

So, read this. It's one of the poems included in Good Poems. It'll take you about a minute to read, and it'll show you something beautiful.

And to those who say they're too busy to read, go get a copy of Good Poems and try carrying it around with you. If you do, you'll find a few minutes here and there to read -- maybe in the grocery store or at the dentist -- and before you know it, you'll have read dozens, maybe even hundreds, of beautiful poems.

The Book Thief: Final Review

SPOILER ALERT: If you've not yet finished The Book Thief and you're one of those people who hates it when people give away the ends of books, skip this review.

Human beings are a frightening and incomprehensible bunch.

This, at least, is Death's final assessment of humanity in Markus Zusack's The Book Thief. The Grim Reaper, having witnessed both the worst examples of hateful human behavior (in Hitler and Nazi Germany) and also the best that humanity has to offer (in the Hubermanns' sacrifices for Max), ends his story with the words, "I am haunted by humans."

This haunting (which is a wonderful reversal -- Death afraid of humans instead of the other way around) seems to stem from Death's recognizing the inconsistent and indefinable nature of humanity.

How can it be, Death implies in his tale, that a people so capable of nobility and kindness and sacrifice can also be so capable of absolute hatred and evil?

For example, consider this description Death gives us of Jews being murdered in gas chambers at Auschwitz:

"When their bodies had finished scouring for gaps in the door, their souls rose up. When their fingernails had scratched at the wood and in some cases were nailed into it by the sheer force of desperation, their spirits came toward me, into my arms, and we climbed out of those shower facilities, onto the roof and up, into eternity's certain breadth. They just kept feeding me. Minute after minute. Shower after shower" (349).

And then, on the next page, Death makes an important observation, directed at his readers:

"They were Jews, and they were you" (350).

They were human, Death says, and yet, other humans did this to them. Other humans caused this holocaust and let these murders happen.

All of this gives special meaning to one of Death's earlier statements:

"You want to know what I look like? I'll help you out. Find yourself a mirror" (307).

Death knows that at times he is simply an agent of humans, and the face of Death really is the face of mankind.

And yet, Death also knows that humans are so definitely capable of kindness.

For example, when Death comes to collect the soul of an Allied pilot whose plane has crashed, he witnesses this:

"[Rudy] reached into his toolbox again and searched through some picture frames to pull out a small, stuffed yellow toy."

"Carefully, he climbed to the dying man."

"He placed the smiling teddy bear cautiously onto the pilot's shoulder. The tip of its ear touched his throat."

"The dying man breathed it in. He spoke. In English, he said, 'Thank you.'"

And while Rudy's kindness should seem to soften Death's attitude towards humanity, it only makes humans even more incomprehensible. Death is haunted by humans because they are so immensely unpredictable. Humans are both noble and despicable, both giving and hateful, both great and selfish. What makes us either good or evil is a mystery, and nothing rings so hauntingly as an incomplete answer to the mystery of human nature. Are we good? Evil? Cruel? Kind? Pathetic? Divine? Not even Death knows.

But that's only half the brilliance of The Book Thief. The rest is this:

Death's final words -- "I am haunted by humans" -- are more than just a declaration. They're also an invitation. Because I've read Death's story, I've also seen the mystery of human nature. I've also seen both the god-like and the evil sides of humanity, and so in Death's final words, he invites me to recognize the mystery and be haunted with him.

And I am.

That's why The Book Thief is spectacular.

The Book Thief WWADY Rating = 9/10

May's Featured Book: Good Poems

Since April is National Poetry Month, I've been spending more time over the past few weeks reading poetry than I normally do. This has been good for me for a lot of reasons. Here are two of them:

1. I've slowed down.

What is it about poetry that's just so dang relaxing? Now, I know that some of you who were forced to analyze poetry in college or high school will question just how relaxing poetry really is, but hear me out.

I felt so relaxed reading poetry this month because I was reading it of my own choice. I wasn't ever going to take a quiz on what I read, and I certainly wasn't ever going to write an essay and submit it for a grade. I wasn't even going to teach any of the poetry I was reading in my college classes. I was just reading poetry for fun.

This means I didn't have to feel any pressure while I read. If a poem was obscure and difficult, so what? I didn't have to get it. I didn't even have to finish it (and I'll admit, I read more than a few first halves of poems this month). Sometimes I read poems this month that didn't do anything for me other than show me one clever phrase or one interesting image. But so what? Isn't that enough?

Kicking back and reading poetry with a total disregard for whether I was "getting it right" proved liberating, and let me tell you, it's the most restful thing I've done in ages.

2. I've been paying more attention to words.

This month, I started reading billboards again. I started reading junk mail. I even started reading the printing at the tops and bottoms of receipts. I did this not because I cared any more about advertising or junk mail or receipts than I used to, but because I wanted to see if there were any interesting phrases or images in the words I'd been ignoring.

And it turns our, there are. I even found the perfect title for a short story I've been working on in a letter from a lawn care company. Reading poetry this month awakened me once again to a world of everyday words.

So, I'd like the WWADY featured book for May to be a book of poetry. I'd like you to have the same experiences I've had this month with words and poetry and peace.

For the month of May, then, I'd like to feature a book titled Good Poems, edited by Garrison Keillor. Admittedly, I'm kind of cheating on this one, as not all of the poets in the collection are still alive (e.g., William Shakespeare, Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost, and others), but I'd say that roughly 85% of the collection is made up of contemporary poetry.

And to those who shiver at the thought of reading poetry, let me say this: Good Poems is easy to read. The poems are meant to be accessible and decipherable (even the one from Shakespeare is pretty manageable). Good Poems is also organized by topic, and a few topics include "Music," "Lovers," "Day's Work," "Sons and Daughters," "Failure," and my personal favorite, "Complaint."

If it's been a while since you've really given poetry any attention, I'd ask that you get a book and read along with me. You'll be glad you did.

I'll make my first post on Good Poems on May 8th, so get your copy soon.

The Book Thief: Young Adult Literature?

For the past few years, I've subscribed to The ALAN Review, a journal published by The Assembly on Literature for Adolescents. As their name suggests, The Assembly on Literature for Adolescents isn't really an organization for adolescents. After all, what thirteen-year-old would want to tell their friends they belong to an "assembly"? To do so would only conjure images of stodgy old British folks sitting around in leather chairs wearing black robes and pre-colonial wigs.

"No," our nation's teenagers would rightly say, "but thank you."

What's more, The ALAN Review includes articles with titles like these:

• "From Basketball to Barney: Teen Fatherhood, Didacticism, and the Literary in Young Adult Fiction"
• "Critiques and Controversies of Street Literature: A Formidable Literary Genre"
• "Adding a Disability Perspective When Reading Adolescent Literature: Sherman Alexie's The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian"

As you certainly already know, vocabulary words like "genre" and "didacticism" and "critique" scream to any adolescent, "STOP READING ME NOW AND GO TEXT SOMEBODY."

But, despite its academic snobbishness (ahem), The ALAN Review does provide a valuable service to parents and teachers. Other articles have titles like, "Reaching Reluctant Readers" and "Books for Boys." Overall, I've found The ALAN Review to be a fabulous resource in helping me find books for my students and children and, mostly, myself.

The one thing, however, I've never found in The ALAN Review (or anywhere else for that matter) is a decent definition of young adult literature, which brings me to the question The Book Thief (a supposedly young adult book) has me pondering today. Here it is:

Is The Book Thief really "young adult literature" and what does that term even mean anyway?

I've been exploring this question for a long time now, and through my study of young adult literature and through various conversations I've had with a good friend who's a professor of young adult literature, I've determined that there are two dominant and largely unstated definitions of young adult literature in the literary world today. Neither of them, however, seems to be very good. In fact, they both seem to be pretty belittling to young people.

DEFINITION #1: YOUNG ADULT LITERATURE AND EASY, SIMPLE, OR TRASHY BOOKS

The first definition I see of young adult literature looks something like this:

"Any literature we adults would like to read but don't necessarily want associated with us because, after all, grown-ups are grown-ups and a lot of this literature is just too short, too simple, or too trashy."

I think this definition is why books like Twilight end up getting the young adult label slapped on them despite the fact that their readership is made up primarily of adult women. A lot of adults are uncomfortable reading cheap, sloppily-written, lit-candy. But if they can call their lit-candy "young adult," they never really have to acknowledge that the book is part of their own world. They can see the book as a part of some other universe, one they explore, but never inhabit.

Practically speaking, the young adult label lets insecure adults say things like, "I'm only reading this to see if it would be appropriate for little Jennifer" or "I'm reading this to stay in touch with young people." To these folks, I'd say this:

Please. We see through you. So do book publishers, but they're quite happy slapping a young adult label on something if it'll make you more comfortable buying it.

TANGENT: I know by calling Twilight "cheap, sloppily-written lit-candy" I've invited the scorn of the masses. Bring it on. I'm ready for it, and I can take it.

The result of this definition is that a lot of the shorter or easier or trashier literature on the market ends up being sold as young adult literature, not because young adults enjoy short, easy trash any more than adults, but because adults (the people who buy books) want to read short, easy trash without having to claim it.

I should clarify here that I don't believe by any stretch that The Book Thief is trashy. It is, however, written in simple, accessible prose. It has pictures. It's full of breaks and white space. So, when deciding whether this book was an adult book or a young adult book, what impact might these details have had?

DEFINITION #2: YOUNG ADULT LITERATURE AND CHARACTER

The second definition I see of young adult literature looks something like this:

"Literature in which a typically adolescent main character experiences a coming of age."

This definition seems flawed to me for two reasons. First, it's far too broad. Arguably, every story is a coming of age story. Characters grow and evolve. Without this growth, literature becomes stagnant, and stagnant stories are typically bad stories.

Second, because this definition is so broad, it also ignores content. The assumption that books about young adults are for young adults is silly.

After all, Romeo and Juliet is a story about asolescents, but I'd argue that it's not even remotely for adolescents. Romeo and Juliet isn't even a love story (sorry, Taylor Swift). Romeo and Juliet is a story about bad parenting, and Shakespeare has far more to teach parents in Romeo and Juliet, I'd argue, than he has to teach adolescents. Yet, we thrust Romeo and Juliet onto young people and tell them it's a love story simply because the main characters are young.

Which all brings me back to my original questions:

Why is The Book Thief being called a young adult novel? What is young adult literature? When is a book more appropriate for young people, and when is it more appropriate for adults?

Your thoughts?

The Book Thief: Opening Questions

In teaching college, I've learned that sometimes the best way to begin a book discussion is simply by throwing out a few genuine questions and seeing what comes of them. So, to begin our discussion of The Book Thief, that's exactly what I'm going to do.

Here are a couple of questions that have been banging around in my head as I've been reading this book. If you have any answers, please feel free to share. Even better, I'd love to see what questions about this book you have roaming around in your heads, so feel free to drop those in the comments.

Here goes:

QUESTION 1: Why would Zusak choose to make Death the narrator of this story? The most interesting narrators are, I think, narrators that evolve and change simply through telling their tales (think Nick from The Great Gatsby or Ishmael from Moby Dick).

For these storytellers, the very act of storytelling transforms them in some important way. It gives them heightened morality or answers to their own personal problems, so is it possible that Death could evolve through his telling of Leisel's story? Death is supposed to be constant and unchanging, and yet in this book, Death seems terribly sad (and bored). He longs for something. Perhaps this is coldhearted of me, but so far, I'm more interested in what's going to happen to Death and how he's going to change than I am interested in Leisel. Why make Death a storyteller? What is that achieving?

QUESTION 2: What am I supposed to make of the strange interludes? You know, these things:

* * * A QUESTION * * *

What's up with these things

in the middle of the story?

I'm not sure I like these things. True, they make the book easy to read. ("Hey, I cruised through that page in no time!) But they're kind of getting in the way. Each time I encounter one, I'm reminded that I'm reading a book. For just a moment, I see the page instead of the story (that probably makes no sense), and when I'm into a story, I don't like to be distracted. I'm not sure what to make of them yet.

QUESTION 3: Why is Death so interested in colors? I've always figured Death to be a very black and white kind of thing. Again, I'm more interested in Death so far than Leisel, and his fascination with colors intrigues me. What should I do with that? Do specific colors mean specific things?

Well, there they are - a few of the questions I've been working through so far. No answers yet. Just questions, but I think that's a good place to start.

So, as you're reading The Book Thief, what questions are you thinking about?

Announcing April's Featured Book

This Friday we'll wrap up our reading of March's featured book, Unaccustomed Earth, so it's time to announce the book we'll be featuring in April. (Drum roll, please.)

As April's a time for youth and all that energetic kind of stuff, I'd like to use April to make a foray into young adult literature.

But as I live in Idaho and it snowed last night and spring may still be weeks away, I'm not completely content reading a "springtime book" just yet. In fact, I'm kind of in the mood to read something unusual, something different, something narrated by the Grim Reaper -- by none other than Death himself.

So behold, The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. (Cymbal crash!)

The Book Thief, which really is narrated by Death, tells the story of Leisel, an abandoned German girl in 1939. Leisel, surrounded by the horrors of a war-torn world, finds in books a temporary refuge.

The Book Thief has received much critical acclaim, including an award as a Printz Honor Book for 2007. It's also been on the Children's Best Seller list of The New York Times for more than 70 weeks. If you'd like to learn more, read Janet Maslin's review of The Book Thief in The New York Times here.

Zusak, an Australian author, has published six books including the critically acclaimed I Am the Messenger.

We'll begin discussing the book on Friday, April 10th, so dust off those library cards and track down your copy soon.

Unaccustomed Earth: A Simple Question

It's "Featured Book Friday," which means it's time to talk about this month's featured book Unaccustomed Earth by Jhumpa Lahiri.

So far, I'm loving this book. As I mentioned last week, I'm impressed with Lahiri's handling of strained and delicate family relationships. Her sensitivity to these kinds of relationships, whether they exist between husband and wife, parents and children, or even traditional and "adopted" family members (as is the case in "Hell-Heaven"), is acute and reveals Lahiri's gift as a careful observer of human relationships.

I'm hoping those who are reading along have finished the five stories in part one, because I'd like to ask a fairly generic question about them. Here it is:

Which of the stories in part one is your favorite and why?

As for me, I like "Hell-Heaven" because I think the narrator's mother is fascinating. She's desperately lonely (and we don't learn just how lonely she is until the very end), and yet she maintains her image of a dutiful wife. Her pent-up sadness is so endearing and so disturbingly real.

Anyone else?

Unaccustomed Earth: First Impressions

To make discussing WWADY featured books simpler, I've decided to dedicate one day of the week (Friday) to our monthly featured books. I'll refer to future Friday posts as "Featured Book Fridays," and you can expect a post about WWADY featured books every week. This way, if you're reading along, you'll know when to get online and share your thoughts. I hope that this will make it easier for you follow along and share your ideas with the rest of us.

So, on with business. Here are my first thoughts about Unaccustomed Earth. I look forward to hearing yours. I'll limit my observations to the first story in the book to keep myself from spoiling any more of the book than I have to for those who haven't started yet.

The main point that's struck me so far is this:

Jhumpa Lahiri addresses the complexity of human relationships as well as anyone I've read.

I was particularly struck by two passages in "Unaccustomed Earth." The first is when Adam, Ruma's husband, is urging Ruma to see if her father would like to move in with them. Adam questions why it's hard for Ruma to approach her father by saying, "He's your father. You've known him all your life," which is followed by this truth:

"And yet, until now, she had not known certain things about him."

Lahiri understands just how difficult it is to communicate honestly and really get to know other people -- even family members. Most people, I think, are fiercely private, keeping their innermost fears and doubts and wishes and desires secret from even those they love the most. After all, how well do we really know our parents or children or friends or even our spouses, should we be lucky enough to have these people in our lives?

In Ruma and her father, Lahiri shows us two people who do, in fact, care for each other but who aren't really able to open up and communicate honestly. Ruma is unable to tell her father how she feels about her mother's death, her life in Seattle, her role as a stay-at-home mom, and most importantly, the care she has for him. Similarly, Ruma's father has his secrets. He can't tell his daughter he's fallen in love with Mrs. Bagchi even though he's had many chances to do so, and he takes great pains to hide the postcard he's written to Mrs. Bagchi. He even writes it in a foreign language just in case Ruma happens upon it (though it's contents are pretty mundane).

The second passage that struck me is on page 53. Speaking of Ruma's father, we read:

"He did not want to be part of another family, part of the mess, the feuds, the demands, the energy of it."

I'm struck here by what Lahiri is willing to say. True, families are beautiful, natural, good things. True, most people love their families and lest anyone doubt it, I love mine and trust that you love yours.

But having said that, I'd bet cold, hard cash that you've occasionally felt like Ruma's father. I'd bet virtually anything that you've had moments when you became tired of the baggage families sometimes bring. That Ruma's father decides to enjoy his family at a distance and on his own terms seems perfectly understandable. He's found an independence in being alone, and he's unwilling to give that up. This doesn't, however, make him at all unlikable. In fact, I think it makes him human.

That's all for this week. Next week, I'll include all of the stories in part one in my post (the first five), so if you want to avoid having any stories spoiled, read at least that far.

And now it's your turn. Please feel free to add a comment and chime in. I'd love to know what you're thinking.

March's Featured Book: Unaccustomed Earth

It's been a while since I've posted about February's featured book So Brave, Young, and Handsome, so my next post (coming hopefully Friday or Saturday) will be dedicated to that.

Today, however, I need to announce the featured book for March so you'll have time to track it down and read along with us.

March's featured book will be (. . . drum roll, please) Unaccustomed Earth by Jhumpa Lahiri (big cymbal crash).

If you're not familiar with Jhumpa Lahiri, here's some background. Unaccustomed Earth was published in 2008, and it's Lahiri's third book. Her first, a collection of short stories titled Interpreter of Maladies, came out in 1999. It explores in sensitive and soft prose cultural assimilation and the impact globalization has on the individual. (Lahiri is a bit of a world traveler -- she's of Bengali Indian descent, was born in London, and currently lives in Brooklyn.) Interpreter of Maladies won a Pulitzer -- not bad for a debut book.

Her second book, a novel published in 2003 called The Namesake, was recently made into a movie. I've neither read the book, nor seen the movie, so I'll refrain from commenting on it here (but I will add it to my Netflix Queue).

The New York Times review of Unaccustomed Earth has this to say: "The fact that America is still a place where the rest of the world comes to reinvent itself — accepting with excitement and anxiety the necessity of leaving behind the constrictions and comforts of distant customs — is the underlying theme of Jhumpa Lahiri's sensitive new collection of stories, Unaccustomed Earth.” (See the complete review here).

Lahiri is brilliant, and even a few non-readers I've known discovered Interpreter of Maladies and devoured it ravenously.

We'll begin our discussion of Unaccustomed Earth the first week in March, so get your book today.

WWADY Featured Books - So Brave, Young, and Handsome

It's February, which means it's time to start reading WWADY's first featured book, So Brave, Young, and Handsome by Leif Enger. We'll be posting about this book all through the month of February, sharing favorite quotes, occasional insights, and general observations. We hope you'll feel comfortable chiming in.

Also, if you haven't secured a copy yet, it's not too late. You can still get your book and join in the discussion.

And now, a bit about this book.

Those who have read Peace Like a River will know what we can expect from Enger this month -- playful stock characters who push the limits of cliche; gritty, western prose that's tough to stop reading; and a witty narrator who's human, likable, and interestingly flawed. Publishers Weekly writes of the book:

"An inviting voice guides readers through this expansive saga of redemption in the early 20th-century West and gives a teeming vitality to a period often represented with stock phrases and stock characters. Novelist Monte Becket isn't a terribly distinguished figure; his first and only published work hit five years before the story's start and he is about to reclaim his job at a smalltown Minnesota post office when he meets Glendon Hale, a former outlaw who is traveling to Mexico to find his estranged wife. He persuades Becket to join him, and the two set off on a long journey peopled with sharply carved characters (among them a Pinkerton thug tracking down Glendon) and splendid surprises. As Monte's narration continues, the tale veers away from Monte's artistic struggle and becomes an adventure story. The progress has its listless moments, but Enger crafts scenes so rich you can smell the spilled whiskey and feel the grit."

It sounds like we're in for a good ride.

Finally, for those who struggle to finish books once they start, consider this. So Brave, Young, and Handsome is 285 pages. There are 28 days in February, so if you read just 10 pages a day, you'll finish right on time.