The Yellow Phantom

The Yellow Phantom by Margaret Sutton (1933) This is the 6th Judy Bolton mystery, and the first in which she ventures to New York City (and she has a much better time of it than the Hardy Boys, who a couple of years earlier, stumbled into NYC like a couple of hayseeds, got pick-pocketed and had to sleep in Central Park). Judy, Pauline, and Irene take a bus, and take Blackberry, Judy’s cat along! They meet a novelist on the bus, get embroiled in some odd business right off the bat, and stay at Dr. Faulkner’s swank Gramercy Park townhouse. In order to get to the bottom of the new mystery, Judy gets a job with an odd literary agent who enjoys a little “medicine,” gets involved with poets, and eventually ventures deep into Brooklyn. This is a pretty crazy story, by the end of it, but I won’t give any more away. It’s not my favorite of the Judy Bolton books I’ve read, but it’s good—and like I said before—it’s much better if you read the Judy Bolton books in order, from number one—as it is, so far at least, like one continuous story. Was there ever a Judy Bolton movie or TV series? There should have been!

The Sea-Wolf

The Sea-Wolf by Jack London (1904) I realized I had never read anything by Jack London except that story that everyone reads in high school—so I picked out The Sea-Wolf, more or less at random—wanting to read some sort of nautical tale, as I’m always fond of. I went into it not knowing a thing about the story (even though countless movies were made, based on it, over the years). It was quite a revelation—not so much that it’s a great book, seeing how it’s a famous book from way back—but I was surprised at the story and scope of the book and where it took me. It’s exciting and satisfying, because each step of the story was a surprise—and I didn’t see where it was going, for the most part. It’s about a well-off gentleman who is rescued from a shipwreck by an oceangoing ship, a schooner, which is embarking on a seal hunting journey. Instead of returning him to shore, the ship’s captain, an amazing character named Wolf Larsen, essentially kidnaps him and makes him work on the ship. He only survives because he’s remarkably resilient, and also, the captain takes a liking to him, as they are both readers and they enjoy discussing their various philosophical views. There are lot of great characters, actually, but Wolf Larsen is exceptionally complex. He’s a monster, but you have to admire a side of him, an incredible human being, too—his strength, skill, and willpower—but not without weakness. The reader is pulled into the moral quandary—would you kill this man if you had a chance—or try to escape from him—or even follow him? The story takes some vicious turns—to say the least—and constantly defies expectations. Eventually, a woman is rescued from another shipwreck, and her introduction into the mix brings things to the boiling point—as one might expect!

The Operation That Happened to Rupert Piper

The Operation That Happened to Rupert Piper by Ethelyn M. Parkinson (1966) This is the first of four full length Rupert Piper books, by Ethelyn M. Parkinson (after three collections of Rupert Piper short stories). It has the feeling of the stories, but I like it better, in that it’s not merely humor; it’s a longer, fairly serious story, but still very funny. The convoluted plot of this one has to do with Rupert needing an appendectomy, and his parents and doctor kind of tricking him into the hospital—acting like there is a patient identity mix-up with one of his friends who has accidentally swallowed a coin. It sounds crazy, but it has to be read to believed—it’s totally logical and quite clever. The ongoing drama in the saga is about Rupert and his friends trying to help the cause of getting a local public swimming pool financed and built. There is ongoing anxiety among the boys about pleasing the pool’s wealthy patron, the competition with their female classmates, and the possible romantic interests of a teacher the boys all have a crush on. The real heart of the story, though, is a boy who Rupert meets in the hospital who is recovering from a horrific accident in which both of his parents were killed. This sounds terribly heavy, and it is, but the whole thing stays fun and delightful because of the way the author really gets into the perceptions of kids this age—the kind of irreverence and eccentricity that is so seldom evident in stories that get mired in sentimentalism. It’s not light, but it’s always entertaining, sometimes weird, and often hilarious. This book is a classic that should be reprinted year after year by some major publisher, but probably will not be—and may only be remembered by the loyal fans of the amazing Ethelyn M. Parkinson.

The Big Sleep

The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler (1939) I had a similar experience reading this to reading The Long Goodbye (1953) in that it was hard to forget the movie versions. In the case of The Long Goodbye, it’s the crazy 1973 Robert Altman movie, which reimagines the story for contemporary (at the time) Los Angeles. The equally as good 1946 Howard Hawks movie is closer to the book, but perhaps even more strange than the Seventies reimagining, but in a more subtle way. I’m kind of obsessed with that movie, actually, because of the oddball screenplay, written by Leigh Brackett, William Faulkner, and Jules Furthman (I guess—something I’d like to read more about someday—likely influenced in equal parts by high-mindedness and alcohol—or something). So, anyway, there was no chance for me to read this book without thinking of the movie version—just because I’ve seen that movie as many times as I’ve seen any movie, ever. If you happen to be someone who has somehow never seen any of the movie adaptations—and haven’t read this—consider yourself (like people who need people) to be among the luckiest people in the world—in that you can read this book first, and then later see the movie. But I did my best to reimagine the characters—the versions in this book—who are similar, but different. (Sean Regan is Rusty Regan, and so forth). A lot of the pleasure of the novel is the language—concise, no-nonsense writing that still has plenty of style. Ultimately, I was able to get involved in the world of the novel. It's an incredibly involved and complex story. There’s a lot to follow. My favorite thing, though, isn’t even the story, it’s the names of the characters, and the southern California setting—the place names, the feeling. The way Philip Marlowe moves though it all is, of course, what it’s all about. I guess this was the first Philip Marlowe novel—followed by several more—all of which are worth reading—and perhaps rereading—because Raymond Chandler is the best.

Donna Parker at Cherrydale

Donna Parker at Cherrydale by Marcia Martin (1957) This is the first book of the of Donna Parker series, from Whitman Publishing. Somehow, I have about six books from this series—a couple of them have amazing covers—so it was hard not to buy them, I guess. In this one, Donna and her friend, Ricky, get jobs as counsellors at a summer camp called Cherrydale, and it's a pretty detailed depiction of the duties and responsibilities they have, looking after younger children. It sounds really hard, actually, and they both experience a lot of anxiety, but eventually learn a lot and get comfortable with it. I wonder if the summer camp story is kind of a sub-category of children's series books—there seem to be a lot of them. I never went to camp myself, aside from a brief stint in the scouts—I don't think I even made it to Webelos. I sure don't think I'd have been able to put up with being a camp counsellor—it sounds pretty rigorous. The girls don't even get paid for it, either! They struggle a bit, but ultimately learn a lot and enjoy it. Donna is hardworking and responsible, but Ricky is a bit of a troublemaker, and kind of pushes Donna into a mystery, somewhat against her better judgement. The mystery in this book is pretty much a subplot. This is actually a fairly long kid's book, and I practically felt like I spent the summer at camp, myself. I'm ready for autumn—to get back to school and so forth! The most interesting thing to me was this one character, a young boy, who has had some kind of trauma and doesn't speak. We later find out that he had been sick with encephalitis, which might have affected him mentally. I had encephalitis myself when I was about seven, and was hospitalized with the worst headache I've even had. All through school, the one thing I was known for was being quiet (though not totally mute like this kid) but I never thought of it being related to any illness. Maybe it was, and maybe I had a number of good people like Donna Parker helping me through things, for which I'm thankful.

Tender Buttons

Tender Buttons by Gertrude Stein (1914) I read this book years ago, at which time I was pretty excited about it because I'd never seen anything like it. When I recently reread it, I found it oddly comforting. I still have not read anything about how Gertrude Stein wrote this—which might be illuminating—but it's fun to guess. An object makes you think of a phrase connected to the object, maybe a memory. But if you try to eliminate that, then what? What if you try to eliminate nostalgic connections to words and ideas? If there is no narrative, as you read along, is it possible to connect what you're reading now to what you just read? It's a lot of fun and, for a book that's over a hundred years old, feels oddly contemporary. If I live long enough, I'll probably read it again. One funny side note—I just realized there is a subtitle near the beginning: “A PIECE OF COFFEE.” When I saw that, this time, I remembered that I wrote, in my novel, “The Doughnuts,” about a character in a donut shop writing in his notebook, writing about a character “drinking a piece of coffee.” I must have “stole” that from “Tender Buttons,” I realized. Without a conscious memory of it, of course—but the stuff goes in your brain, and who knows where it will come out. Of course, it's likely my “character” stole that from Gertrude Stein, without realizing it. On the other hand, it's possible that my character and I stole it (unconsciously) from some noir passage, either a book or a movie—whose author may have stolen it from Gertrude Stein, whether consciously or unconsciously. I guess we have this relatively tiny palate of words to work with, and we put them in order, and it creates meaning, maybe no meaning—and each person reading the words is going to interpret them in their own way, anyway. It's a lot of fun.

She Said

She Said by Jodi Kantor & Megan Twohey (2019) The subtitle of this book is: “Breaking the Sexual Harassment Story That Helped Ignite a Movement.” When you read about the scope of Harvey Weinstein's sexual assault, harassment, and misconduct (allegations so numerous as to warrant their own Wikipedia page) over such a long period of time, you have to think: how could this be? But then, reading this book—about the New York Times reporters Jodi Kantor and Megan Twohey, who were pursuing an ongoing investigation and exposé on Weinstein—you get an understanding of how could it be—and an understanding of how difficult it was to expose him. This is a really fascinating and well-documented account of the methodical and inspired work going into this investigation—including pretty harrowing accounts of the bravery it took by a lot of women for the case to get anywhere. The investigative journalism part of this story is pretty riveting, even though you know the outcome. A later section of the book is about the Brett Kavanaugh hearings and looks at what Christine Blasey Ford had to go through in order to testify—because she felt it was was right thing to do. I found this pretty terrifying, actually—when I tried to put myself in her position, and ask myself what I'd have done, I had to admit I'd probably have disappeared. I found both of these depictions to be believable. The people involved are admirable and heroic, without it feeling like a false victory. That's because it's also realistic—in that power is power, nothing is really fair, and much work still needs to be done, and that's always going to be the case.

I Am the Cheese

I Am the Cheese by Robert Cormier (1977) I became intrigued with this book because I saw multiple copies in my local used bookstore—I mean more copies than any other book in the children's section. So I figured I'd just read it before looking up anything about it. What a total bummer this book is! Not to give anything away—but it seems like I am the only one who didn't know about it. It's odd, because it's considered a “young adult” book—and it came out when I was a young adult—and in high school, even, so you'd think it would have been something I'd have read. To be honest, I probably would have liked it much more then. In 2021 it feels unnecessarily bleak. I wonder if older adults have less patience for tragic stories—I mean, once you've experienced enough real tragedy. Still, though, I liked the mystery involved, and finding out little by little what was going on. And it's got an interesting structure—alternating between time periods (or seeming to)—even if that structure does get annoying, eventually. But ultimately I didn't care for the resolution—and the danger, the threat, felt like more of a fantasy than reality—which led me not to care. It felt a bit pointless. Also, I couldn't help feeling that this should have been a short story—and as a novel it was stretched a little thin.

Eminent Hipsters

Eminent Hipsters by Donald Fagen (2013) Donald Fagen has a particular sensibility that reminds me of a couple of my friends were are about ten years older than me, which he is, so it makes sense I would relate—he's kind of cranky, a little angry, and has a dry sense of humor. If you're not a fan of his music, including his years as the co-leader of Steely Dan, I don't know why you'd read this book—unless you like reading music related essays and memoir—and in either case you'd be in luck. The writing is good and consistently interesting. There are a number of essays on the odd and not so odd cultural influences on his younger self—including The Boswell Sisters , Ray Charles, Ennio Morricone, visiting jazz clubs, and listening to a late-night radio DJ. My favorite chapters, though, are the last two, which are the bulk of the book. One is about his time at a Bard College—which is the most Steely Dan related chapter in the book—and we get a bit of insight about the formation of that band. And then nearly half the book is a fairly contemporary tour diary, while touring with the Dukes of September. I'm just generally a fan of tour diaries, and this is the best one I've read. He manages to sound both totally miserable and like someone relating the excitement of doing exactly what they want to be doing in life—which is what I'd imagine a tour to be like. We also get a really intimate look at Donald Fagen—if you've ever wondered—because you don't necessarily really know anything about him from his lyrics (other than he's a fine lyric writer). This is probably the most personal look we'll ever get at Fagen, unless of course someone makes a full length documentary about him—which, as it seems to be rage lately—might be underway, right now, for all I know.

Puzzle in Purple

Puzzle in Purple by Betsy Allen (1948) I have to admit, I'm really kind of a sucker for the book series that use colors in their episode titles, like this one. Other ones I know of are Walter Mosley's “Easy Rawlins” books (they start with Devil in a Blue Dress and A Red Death), and John D. MacDonald's “Travis McGee” books (starting with The Deep Blue Good-by, Nightmare in Pink, and A Purple Place for Dying). Connie Blair books also start with Blue, Red, and Purple—coincidence? I also have to admit that a book series I'm currently working on also has colors in some of the titles—and I'd love to continue that—but sometimes it's better not to force the color issue if you don't have to. A good title is the best title the book can have, regardless of the gimmick. Anyway, this is the third book in the Connie Blair Mystery series, and the third one I've read. Once again, Connie is living and working in Philadelphia, and this time she enrolls in art school, which is where the mystery takes place. Art school in a big city in the late Forties seems like a an enticing setting. It's not exactly “Art School Confidential,” but it is a somewhat cynical look at the personalities of the young people in question. There are some baffling crimes, of course, and among the possible suspects we get a pretty good cross-examination of three very distinct types—three different young men who all seem to excel in this particular program, but also have flaws. The three are also somewhat vying for the attention of the new girl at school, Connie Blair—and she completes fairly thorough character profiles of each of them in the course of both deciding who she likes best while also considering them as suspects. The crimes involve the defacement of art—on both a prank level and a serious, criminal level—which is also an interesting twist in the mystery. I hope it doesn't give anything away if I say the outcome is a bit “Scooby-Doo-ish”—but what it comes down to, that's not really the most interesting part of the book, I don't think. For me, I like the social aspects, and the well-drawn characters that we get to know. And, kind of a bonus, Connie's twin sister, Kit, is somewhat more involved in this book—so we get a little identical twin mischief, which is always fun.

The Ghost Parade

The Ghost Parade by Margaret Sutton (1933) I believe this is the fifth in the Judy Bolton mystery book series, which I'm reading in order—a plan I'd recommend for Judy Bolton books. Also, I'd just plain recommend this book—it's the craziest one yet. It's also the first to take place in a location away from Judy's hometown region, in rural Pennsylvania. She and a group of friends head north, just over the New York state and Canadian border, in the the Thousand Islands region, where they stay at a summer camp. Sadly, there is no depiction of them eating salads with Thousand Island dressing, but there is plenty of other bizarre food related elements to the story, for people (like me) for whom the food descriptions are a close second to the mystery. On the way to camp, they stop off at an auction, and Judy bids on these surprisingly large, odd, and inexpensive Native American masks—of course wins the auction—so they have to take them along—and naturally, they are at the center of a mystery. It kind of reminded me of that Brady Bunch Hawaiian episode where one of the kids comes upon a powerfully cursed Tiki idol. I'm not at all superstitious (ha), but I was saying, “Just get rid of those masks!” The funny thing is, they'd have had a pretty eventful time even without the mask angle—partly due to meeting the eccentric “Cat Lady,” who is the best character in this series so far. I can't go more into detail there without ruining it for first-time readers. The other funny thing is they take along Blackberry (Judy's cat) and The Ghost (Horace and Irene's cat) without really checking to see if it'd be okay, in advance, at the camp. Well, this was 1933—it's seems like there were a lot less rules then. Anyway, the cats do get significantly involved in the mystery.

Let Me Tell You What I Mean

Let Me Tell You What I Mean by Joan Didion (2021) I must admit I have not read very much by Joan Didion—just a little here and there—never an entire book before this one. Haven't gotten around to it. Don't know why that is, really—besides being the slowest reader I know—because what I have read by her has been worthwhile. It might be because her last name is the same as my next door neighbors, growing up, and though I know that's silly, it can be hard to reconcile the baggage you have with names. Especially for someone like me who attaches a great deal of significance to things—no matter how much it might seem like superstition. If Joan Didion, say, wrote books about kids making a treehouse out in the woods, I'd be more than comfortable with that. The little I've read by her, however, here and there, has impressed me, surprised me, and sometimes challenged me. This recent collection is a dozen or so previously published but uncollected works—with no real focus or theme—other than Joan Didion telling you more or less what she means—which is never simple—and always takes me to a different level than I had expected. I liked them all, and got something out of each piece, usually more than I had anticipated, at surface level. I especially enjoyed, and was compelled to reread, the articles about director Tony Richardson (“The Long-Distance Runner”), and Ernest Hemingway (“Last Words”), as well as an article called “Why I Write” and one called “Telling Stories”—which are quite fascinating takes on what is admittedly my favorite subject to read about (and write about), which is writing.

The Terrible Troubles of Rupert Piper

The Terrible Troubles of Rupert Piper by Ethelyn M. Parkinson (1963) I have a hardback copy of this book from Abingdon Press. It's kind of a precursor to the four, later, Rupert Piper novels. There are 11 short stories here—adventures and misadventures of sixth-grade friends, and their families, in a small, fictional, Wisconsin town. All pretty funny, and some of them quite surprising. I like all of the Parkinson books I've read—though I prefer the long-form stories a bit more. But these are great. This book might be a bit hard to find—but fairly easy to find are its predecessors—Double Trouble for Rupert (1958) and Triple Trouble for Rupert (1960), which both went through multiple printings from Scholastic Book Services—so you'll see them, occasionally, in used book stores. They must have printed a lot of those Scholastic Book Services paperbacks over the years—and you can still find them—but because of their distinctive look and feel, and general excellence, one day they'll become quite collectable. I'm not particularly interested in collecting, necessarily, but rather books I like to read, and reread, and these books are all worth reading. If you're an Ethelyn M. Parkinson completist (and why wouldn't you be) I can report that all 11 stories here are included in either of the previous Rupert Piper books—so if you find those, you'll have all of this book's stories. But then, if you're a completist, you might want this one, as well. In all these books, illustrations by Mary Stevens are also excellent.

Tom Swift and His Motor-Boat

Tom Swift and His Motor-Boat by Victor Appleton (1910) As a gift, no doubt, I received a Tom Swift book when I was around ten or so. It was one published in 1960, and I've carried it around with me all these years and only recently tried to read it. I just couldn't get into it—far too contemporary! But what I didn't realize is this is the updated version of Tom Swift (by “Victor Appleton II”) and this 1960 Tom Swift is actually Tom Swift Jr., the son of the original Tom Swift, whose adventures are the focus of this earlier series, starting in 1910. (I realize that Tom Swift is a fictional character. So is Victor Appleton.) Anyway, once I knew that there was this earlier version, I picked up one of these older books, and I liked it much better. This book is the second of the series, (after “Tom Swift and His Motor-Cycle”) and is subtitled: “Or the Rivals of Lake Carlopa.” Lake Carlopa is the presumedly fictional like on which Tom Swift lives and most of the adventures in this book take place. And there's a lot of a adventures—no outing is with without incident. One of the most alarming jaunts is when Tom comes upon an older friend who accidentally shot himself while out hunting. There are a lot of secondary characters—the funniest is old Mr. Damon, who speaks with expression like “Bless my shirt studs.” Probably the strangest is a hot-air balloon pilot who Tom and his father just barely save from a truly harrowing incident that goes on for pages. The man almost immediately becomes part of the family, so it's easy to speculate he might be involved in the next book in the series, “Tom Swift and His Airship.” In spite of all that action and eccentricity, there is still time for some practical, even educational passages, as Tom constantly tinkers with the mechanics of the boat and the engine. I'm assuming the author knew what he was talking about, and enjoyed infusing the story with some nuts and bolts. And there's even a few meals (often my favorite parts of series books). After one lunch, Tom lingers on for “a second apple dumpling with hard sauce on”—after which he's taken with a “very comfortable feeling” and even a sense of forgiveness toward his nemesis, the bully, Andy Foger. At least until he discovers that his boat is stolen!

Bleeding Edge

Bleeding Edge by Thomas Pynchon (2013) I will be a lifelong fan of Thomas Pynchon because my experience of reading one of his books, Gravity's Rainbow (1973), was one of the most profound and intense reading experiences of my life. I read the entire book while riding the subway to and from work in New York City (thus, I read it primarily standing up and holding onto a metal bar with one hand). In order to read that book, I had to change the way I read—best I can describe it—to something more akin to listening to music. It was kind of a beautiful experience. If I was to be quizzed on the ins and outs, however, at this point, I'd no doubt fail the multiple choice. (I might be able to connect on an essay question, who knows.) Anyway, my writing has probably been influenced too much by Pynchon; so be it. Other books of his, like Vineland (1990), I've carried around for years (love that cover!) but have never been able to get into. (I have a feeling I'd like to reread The Crying of Lot 49.) This book, Bleeding Edge (2013), could possibly be Thomas Pynchon's last—I hope not, because nothing would make me happier than for him to come out with another one, and for me to be alive and of sound mind to read it. A big part of me not being able to connect (at least with my heart) to this book is that its scope is roughly the days of 11 September—which of arguably The Trauma of a generation. This may be the book for (among future Pynchon fanatics) those readers without a conscious memory of the event—people who are just now reaching Pynchon reading age. (What's more, it might even more the book for people born 15 years after 11 September.) I loved the protagonist, middle-aged mom, fraud investigator, Maxine Tarnow, who leads us through the story. The peripheral characters, and the story, not so much, as there are certain realms of conspiracy culture that send me in the other direction faster than a “MASH” (TV series—not mentioned in this book, I don't think) rerun. (For whatever reason, though, I'm endlessly onboard with “Gilligan's Island” and “The Brady Bunch.”) I realize with my own writing, the danger of trafficking in cultural references—whether film buff, Classical, or Pop—which carry the danger of alienating readers, who either get them or don't. (And how much work is the reader willing to do, even with “research” being the new channel surfing.) I know there are Pynchon websites that catalog his references, pop culture and otherwise—and if anyone's counting (I kind of hope not) this book might set some kind of record. You have to kind of love a guy, though, who in the midst of writing about some pretty serous stuff, manages to work in a pun (requiring a bit of buildup... someone's watching “Scooby Goes Latin!” (1990)) like, “And I would've got away with it, too, if it hadn't been for those Medellín kids!”

Seven Strange Clues

Seven Strange Clues by Margaret Sutton (1932) By pure coincidence, I read three books in a row that had an arson theme. Maybe that's not so weird—maybe half the books out there have arson as part of the story—but I can't think of another one, offhand. Anyway, this is the next book of the Judy Bolton series, after The Invisible Chimes. The Judy Bolton books, as much as any series I'm currently reading, benefit from reading them in order. It's not entirely necessary, but it helps, and you get a richer understanding of the wide array of characters and their evolving development and relationships. I liked this one a lot because ART is at the center of the mystery—part of the story is about a poster contest in town that a lot of the kids enter. Judy is convinced that she's terrible at painting, and it's quite funny. It's a pretty baffling mystery—quite satisfying—there's a secret passageway, bootleggers, and, like I said before, arson and art. Also, Blackberry, Judy's cat, gets involved, and that's always a plus.

The Library Book

The Library Book by Susan Orlean (2018) It's no secret that the author, Susan Orlean, was to some degree an inspiration for one of the characters in my novel, The Doughnuts. Not too close, of course, and only a starting place. I had visited the downtown Los Angeles library sometime in the 1990s, and when I started The Doughnuts, a decade later, I recalled my visit when I imagined this character visiting a friend who was a librarian there. So it was kind of a shock to me, having just finally finished my novel, to see this book emerge. It's the kind of coincidence I'm used to, however, and attribute to being “on the right track.” The Library Book starts out as an account of the horrendous Los Angeles Library fire of 1986, and then an investigation into, and portrait of, the primary suspect of arson. As I'm somewhat allergic to anything even close to “True Crime,” I was worried I'd not find enough to like here, but that's really only the frame for a much larger mediation on libraries—the concept, history, and evolution of libraries. Also, there's a lot of fascinating portraits of individuals involved in the history of the LA library system. Even the in-depth portrait of the arson suspect was fascinating—a certain type of character that most people will recognize. Most of all, though, the book is an inspiration for someone like me who really loves libraries. Any time I visit a new town—well, the diner is my first stop—but the library is my second, essential, stop. A lot of my best early memories are about our local Carnegie library (Sandusky, Ohio). We also had a pretty magical bookmobile park on the end of our street in the summer. A passage near the end is worth quoting, here—it kind of encapsulates the almost mystical quality libraries have for me: “All the things that are wrong in the world seem conquered by a library's simple unspoken promise: Here I am, please tell me your story; here is my story, please listen.”

Case of the Fugitive Firebug

Case of the Fugitive Firebug by Scott Corbett (1969). I've read a lot of kids' books by Scott Corbett—I believe he published in the vicinity of 100 books—and this was probably the first one I read. I got it through Scholastic Book Services at school. We would periodically get a catalog, then you'd check off the books you wanted to order, and then ask your parents for the money. A few dollars. The price printed on this edition is 60 cents. When the books eventually arrived it was like Christmas. Better than Christmas! Maybe it was the first taste I had of shopping addiction, which continues to this day. Not the worst addiction out there—especially when it pertains to books. This book is the second of the five-book “Inspector Tearle” series—about Roger Tearle, a precocious, twelve-year-old sleuth who solves local, small-town mysteries with his twin sister and best friend. This one involves arson on a neighbor's estate—and it is a pretty good mystery. The best thing about the book, though, is that Roger's office is a treehouse in his backyard. As someone who had a treehouse myself (with friends), I can say building a treehouse was one of the highlights of my childhood. The treehouse is well-imagined here, and is kind of—along with Roger's overly anxious inner monologue—the center of the story. The fine illustrations by Paul Frame add quite a bit to it, as well—it's hard to say just how much—but they work together with the story of make it come alive. I really feel like I've spent as much time in that treehouse as I have in Roger's head.

A Visit from the Goon Squad

A Visit from the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan (2010) A novel written in the form if 13 stories with radically different approaches that don't connect in a narrative line but are linked by characters common to each—who are all roughly connected to the music industry. There are multiple themes connecting the stories, as well—the main one, you could say is: Life kicking your ass. For those few who can't relate to that, give it time. I like how the stories take place in wildly different time periods, which is something a book does so much more gracefully than a movie. Goon Squad crept up on me slowly—I might have even despised it at times—until a particular story (I'm not saying which), late in the book, I absolutely connected with—and made me love the whole. Besides that, I have to mention the oddball chapter that's presented as a PowerPoint, which—though it seems gimmicky on the surface—works (though better on a webpage [Egan's website] than in book form). It works because of its connection to the rest of the book—and because it's very funny. Also, it's the first PowerPoint that didn't make me want to throw up. I got the sense that Jennifer Egan wasn't a music industry person or coke-head, necessarily—but maybe that sense was further confirmed after I read more about her. But I don't think a writer needs to be intimately part of the world they're writing about—I'm all for it when they're not, actually—and I feel like it's the oddly skewed distance of an author to a work that often makes it as compelling as it is. For me, this was one of those instances.

The Pigman

The Pigman by Paul Zindel (1968) I first read this when I was in junior high or high school, I don't remember, but it wasn't that long after it was published—it must have been a bit of a sensation. It was an important book to me. Interesting that it came out only four years before I started drinking. I guess this is considered a “young adult” book—and I suppose those categories might be useful if you're trying to figure out what to allow your kids to read, but otherwise I have no use for them. I've read that the book was banned here and there, which isn't surprising, I guess—the kids are drinking and smoking, and I'd imagine some parents don't want their kids reading books that depict kids drinking and smoking. It's not so great that I started drinking at such a young age, but I don't know that it was the result of any book. I think I was drawn to stories about drinking, though, naturally, and what I most remembered from this book was the kids drinking in a cemetery, which isn't that big a part of it. For those reasons, I thought it might be a bit of a drag to read now, but I wanted to read it again. It really holds up well, actually, and even though there's an oppressive feeling of dread hanging over it, the impending tragedy, it's also quite joyful. One thing that's interesting that I didn't remember was that it's a dual narrative, told in the voices of John and Lorraine, high school kids, as they're typing out their saga, the story if their friendship with this odd, lonely character they meet, Mr. Pignati (“The Pigman”). You really do get the feeling of the kids adjusting their memory of events to the written expression, and in relation to each other's depiction. Most impressive are the portraits of the adults, including John's parents and Lorraine's mother—particularly heartbreaking characters. As tragic as he is, Mr. Pignati's character at least has some spirt of life in him, due to his eccentricity. I suppose this was one of the books that really made me appreciate stories about human beings who are true to life, with flaws, who make mistakes, learning of course, but sometimes making the same mistakes over again. Good things happen, bad things happen, but no one is heroic, and no one is evil.