Month: November 2012

Okay, so I just completely forgot to post a book pick yesterday.  Today, I’m featuring two good books for Advent reading.  The first recommendation is written by the wonderful Steve Gershom (Catholic, Gay, and Feeling Fine, Thanks).

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The Golden Key by George MacDonald

illustrated by Maurice Sendak

Everybody runs the risk of doing what Revelation 2:4 warns about: forsaking their first love. I come back to The Golden Key often, to remind me what my first love was and is.

It’s a children’s story, and my mother first read it to me when I was maybe eight years old, but it laid the groundwork for all the things that, when I am at my best, I am able to remember about life: that it is terribly good and terribly exciting; that the stakes couldn’t be higher; that real goodness is a thing that glows white hot; that our final destination is a beauty so deep you could never hit bottom.

Not that kids will get all of that at first. It works as a standard fairy tale, too: the quest for a magical object, the strange, sage-like figures met along the way, the tests and trials. The adult will see further, and if he’s reading it out loud, should probably have several kleenexes at hand.

                                                                                                                                                                                                   –Steve Gershom

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Today’s book pick is one I just read to my kids last night, and it’s just as good as I remembered it from my childhood.

The Flying Carpet by the wonderful Marcia Brown 

(retold from Richard Burton’s translation of The Arabian Nights)

Very lavish and rhythmic, so much fun to read out loud (warning:  plot spoiler!)

“Alas!  We have traveled far and wide for hope of wedding the Princess Nur-al Nihar.  But in vain!  She lies on her bed, sick unto death.  Her women weep and wail in sorrow.  O my brothers, if you would see her for the last time, take a look before she is no more!”

Ali and Ahmad looked into the tube.  Indeed Nur-al Nihar was about to die.  Ahmad turned to his brothers.  “Come, she is not yet lost.  I can save the princess!” He pulled from his pocket the magical apple and told them what it could do.

“My carpet!” cried Prince Husayn.  “It shall fly us in the twinkling of an eye straight to our beloved!”

The illustrations are like what you’d get if Marc Chagall were an Arab — gorgeously gaudy,  just absolutely perfect to completely satisfy a child’s thirst for brilliant color, emotion, texture, and action.  We love this book!

Today’s book pick is from my father, Phil Prever, who not only read us The Odyssey, but he let us act it out as he read, which must have been the most annoying thing ever.

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   About a hundred years ago when I was a college freshman, I took a survey course in Western literature.  One of the reading assignments was excerpts from Homer’s Odyssey.  The book made no particular impression on me then, but I do remember a comment offered by a bright young woman during a class discussion.  “The only thing remarkable about it,” she said of the Odyssey, “is that anyone could have written it so long ago.”  I knew she was wrong, but I didn’t know why.  Now, after reading it close to a dozen times over the decades, I know why.

   The Odyssey is remarkable in many ways.  On one level there are the fabulous adventures: magical encounters with the gods, brutal conflicts with hideous monsters, a terrifying visit to the land of the dead, and audiences with wise and legendary kings.  These adventures make the book a wonderful read-aloud, as I believe all eight of my children will attest.

    On another level, Homer probes with startling psychological depth the relations between husband and wife, father and son, and citizen and homeland.  Furthermore, the Odyssey records the reintegration of a man’s soul as he is redeemed from the wreckage wrought by war and pillage by his struggles to reclaim the things in life that are most important.

   Above all, the Odyssey appeals to and satisfies the desire we all have to make things right, to correct injustice, to restore the divine order in our lives.  At the end we can say with Shakespeare, “Jack shall have Jill, nought shall go ill…and all shall be well.”  And even more, we can look forward to the time when “God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.”

   So the question is not, how could anyone have written the Odyssey so long ago but, why in almost three thousand years has no one written anything better?  Since I have failed in my feeble attempts to learn Homeric Greek, I have had to read the Odyssey in translation.  If you like that sort of thing, Richmond Lattimore’s version reads like it is incised on marble tablets.  Robert Fitzgerald’s is airy and fast-moving, but I find that Fitzgerald’s Homer sounds an awful lot like Fitzgerald’s Virgil.  Last time around I read the translation of Robert Fagles.

It was delightful, with real meat on real bones, and seemed to me to have the best of everything.  I read it very slowly because I didn’t want it to end.

Today’s book recommendation for our 50 Books list, which I’m assuming will even out to about fifty books at some point, is written by my mother-in-law, the inestimable, unflappable, indefatigable Nana Fisher, also known as H. M. (which stands for “Helen Mary.”  She also sometimes goes by “H.”  Crazy side note:  I once met a midwife who was named “Mary Helen,” and she went by M. H., or “Maitch”), who keeps her head when all about her are bugging out; whose cookies and fudge sustained my body and soul through many a pregnancy; who can make anything, anything at all, with a sewing machine or enough papier mache; who will let you stay at her house until you get back on your feet, no matter who you are or what your feet smell like; who can feed a small army in style at a moment’s notice; who cleans with a razor blade and kerosine, but who understands how to step over a mess when other things matter more than cleaning; who is one of the original and most loyal members of the Rocky and Bulwinkle fan club;  who always finds the right music for any occasion; and who never stutters and stammers over the names of her eight children or eleven grandchildren, because she calls all the girls “Toots” and all the boys “Sugar Booger”).  H. M.  recommends for us:

The Princess Bride by William Goldman

H.M. says:

The Princess Bride speaks to children and grown-ups in a quirky and familiar way.

Anyone who has seen the movie will enjoy William Goldman’s style in telling the story, set in Renaissance Europe, of adventure, an evil prince, revenge, a ‘dread’ pirate, and of course, true love.

It’s a great book to read aloud boys and girls of any age.

From Margaret Wise Brown to a book that I can’t believe I didn’t read sooner:

Gorky Park by Martin Cruz Smith

Boy, did I have the wrong idea about this book.  Maybe because it was so popular when it came out, or (look, I’m shallow) maybe because the author’s name is so snazzy, I somehow assumed that it was a trashy beach book, or some kind of dated, two-bit thriller.  Boy, was I wrong.  This is the real deal — real literature, a genuinely great novel.  Almost Dostoevskian at times.

The characters are so real.  Their sorrows and loves are so real.  The places are so real.  My memories of passages I read are as strong as memories of places I’ve actually, physically visited.  The plot is insanely complicated, but it’s never outside the realm of what might, actually possibly happen to someone who is as unlucky, as talented, as driven, and as flawed, and as Russian as Moscow homicide investigator Arkady Renko.

I honestly don’t know why my kids love this book so much:

The Golden Egg Book by Margaret Wise brown, illustrated by Leonard Weisgard

Okay, so Margaret Wise Brown, best known for Goodnight, Moon — kind of a difficult author, in my opinion.  They couldn’t have chosen a more grating color scheme for the colorized version, and I have a really hard time with books that sometimes rhyme, but sometimes just use the same word twice, because that rhymes.  I have a hard time with the fact that they leave the bowl of mush out all night at room temperature.   I have tried really hard to see this book as charming and comforting, but it just always strikes me as dreary and creepy — like a Twilight Zone episode where alien rabbit drones enslave mankind and try to replicate a quaint nursery atmosphere, but since they’re aliens, something is disastrously off.  Or are they kittens?  I forget.  Luckily, my kids aren’t especially attached to this book.

I do actually really like The Big Red Barn, which just talks about how there’s all these animals doing stuff, and then they go to bed, and then it’s dark.  Very nice, and I enjoy the delicate shifts in the color of the sky as the sun slowly sets.

Okay, so back to the original book, the Golden Egg Book.  There is no actual golden egg involved (it’s a “Golden Book,” that’s all), nor is there a highly decorated egg like on the cover.  It’s a perfectly cute story:  bunny finds an egg, doesn’t know what’s inside, and harasses the egg in various ways until he falls asleep.  Then the egg hatches and the duckling who comes out harasses the bunny in various ways until he wakes up.  The pictures are pretty and old-fashioned, and have lots of atmospheric detail.

Well, according to my kids, THIS BOOK IS A RIOT.  It’s comedy gold.  I don’t know what it is, but they just can’t get enough of it.   They laugh and laugh and run around the room yelling with sheer excess of enjoyment.  I don’t know if that will make you want to buy the book or not, but if you do, your kids will probably like it.  (The kids in question are ages 7, 5, 3 and 11 months, by the way — all girls.)

Of course it’s Thanksgiving that gave me the idea for today’s book pick:

The Fannie Farmer Cookbook by Marion Cunningham

My constant companion.  I have never found a cookbook I like better.  It taught me all the basics — how to make pie crust and rolls, stock, gravy, meatballs, muffins, and so on (with suggested variations);  how to carve a chicken, how to tell when eggs and different types of produce are fresh, how to measure various types of food, what to substitute when you’re out of a certain ingredient, how to tell when food is done cooking, how to fix a recipe gone awry, and when you can and cannot get away with cutting corners.   It also has a truly useful index, which not all cookbooks do.

You never get halfway through a recipe and think, “Wait, wait, what do you MEAN?” or “Why didn’t you warn me?” or “Who the hell has one of those in their kitchen?”  Marion Cunningham gives just the right amount of instruction, never springs anything on you, and obviously enjoys eating.   It’s kind of amazing how many cookbooks are written by people who clearly have a problem with food.  But Marion Cunningham is like a patient aunt who likes being in the kitchen and is happy to help, but doesn’t think her skills are the be-all and end-all of life, either.

I still consult this cookbook several times a week.  A great gift for anyone just starting out, or for someone who has a shelf full of fancy, specialized cookbooks, but needs an anchor book.