The Book Nest opened in August 2011–just over five months ago. We are a stall in the Indulge! antique mall at 1461 Mohawk, in Springfield, Oregon. It’s a great venue, with more than 9,000 square feet of artfully arranged antiques, wi-fi, and a cafe with soup/salads/sandwiches, espresso, ice cream, and Sweet Life desserts.

The Book Nest feature a carefully selected collection of used fiction and nonfiction for adults and children, as well as some collectible volumes. Most of the latter are supplied by my mother-in-law, a lifelong collector of fine literature, with more than 5,000 works in her personal library.

We had a very successful book signing in December, with six local authors and an illustrator participating. I hope to post  reviews in the coming months. In the meantime, find us on Facebook for links and brief comments.

Our next scheduled  event is a reading and signing on Feb. 11, 4-5:30 p.m., with local author Shelley Houston. She has written Julia, Coming Home, an adult novel, and Allister, a chapter book for young readers. Read about her books here: Just Dust Publishers.

Check back frequently for more book reviews and events. Coming up soon: reviews of Rebel Bookseller, by Andre Laties, and Orthodoxy, by G.K. Chesterton (any irony in this combination purely unpremeditated).

I also can’t say how much of this progress is due to Elizabeth Pantley’s advice. But her book is worth perusing by any parent who wants to get more sleep. Above all, I appreciate Pantley because she acknowledges that every child is different and doesn’t expect parents to follow a one-size-fits-all plan.

As Pantley explains in the introduction, this book was birthed from her own desperate need to get a good night’s sleep and her unwillingness to let her babies “cry it out.” There just had to be another way. Her extensive research and her 60 test-group mommies convinced her that there is. Pantley shares that her own son, a co-sleeper, was waking every hour when she began her research; after she had employed the strategies she offers her readers, he was sleeping ten hours straight (still in her bed). Pantley also includes success stories from her “test mommies”–including testimonials from those who struggled with the approach, at least in the beginning. But she writes that by day ten, 42 percent of the babies were sleeping five hours or more without waking (none were doing this in the beginning). This had increased to 53 percent by day 20 and to 92 percent at the end of 60 days. Many of the babies went on to sleep nine to 13 hours at a stretch (17).

The down side is that this book is not the quick fix we all wish for, which Pantley is quick to acknowledge. To keep readers from giving up hope, Pantley encourages them to log their babies’ sleep habits for 24 hours in the beginning and then every ten days after that. Not only do the logs help parents assess the success of their sleep plans, they can provide reassurance that the plan really is working, even if only incrementally.

The up side is that there is no program to follow; the reader is in the driver’s seat. Pantley provides two sets of strategies–one for newborns and one for older children–from which readers can select options that fit their situation. These include ideas like establishing a regular routine, maintaining subdued lighting and activity levels for the hour before bedtime, diminishing the sucking-to-sleep association, gradually changing the way you respond to night waking, and composing a personalized book for older children that illustrates their bedtime routine.¹ She also includes targeted ideas for co-sleepers and co-sleepers who want to transition their children into their own bed or room.

Pantley provides a form to help parents create their personal sleep plan. It includes a short description of each strategy so readers can check those they intend to employ and then refer to the plan as needed. I found all Pantley’s charts and forms to be a great asset. In the past I have read lists of helpful hints to help baby sleep and then, in my sleep-deprived fog, wondered, “What were those suggestions?” I have also tended to regard keeping a sleep log as tedious busy work, but Pantley’s charts make it simple, and her analysis questions for parents following each log make the exercise a valuable assessment tool.

I appreciate Pantley’s compassionate stance not just toward babies but parents, too. I have come away from some sleep books laden with guilt because it is clear I am interfering with my baby’s ability to get adequate rest. But Pantley acknowledges that a family’s approach to infant sleep habits is a complex amalgamation of parents’ needs and babies’ tendencies. She writes, “If you or your baby get upset at any point, just go ahead and put her to sleep in your usual way and ditch the plan for the moment. Eventually she will get more comfortable with your new routine and she will go to sleep” (148).

Pantley also includes a section outlining all the factors that can interfere with sleep: teething, illness, developmental milestones, separation anxiety. During such seasons, Pantley encourages parents to take a break from the plan and just do what is necessary to help baby sleep.  I think my current situation is one of settling for the status quo. I’m not entirely happy with where we’re at, but Pantley’s methods take some work, and I’m not quite ready for that, either. Pantley addresses this situation, too. She advises tired parents to take two weeks put aside all but the essential responsibilities, sleep when their child sleeps, and do whatever else is necessary to get as much rest as possible. Then come back to the plan and consider whether they’re ready to give it a try. Maybe when we have two “free” weeks I’ll take her advice.

The foreword to The No-Cry Sleep Solution is an endorsement by William Sears, MD, whose parenting expertise and philosophy I respect. He writes: “At long last, I’ve found a book that I can hand to weary parents with the confidence that they can learn to help their baby sleep through the night–without the baby crying it out” (xiv).

Notes:
1. As an example, Pantley includes the text of a book she created for her own son, with pictures of him, beginning with infancy. A photo of his second birthday party is accompanied by the statement that “Mommy and David can cuddle at bedtime, and then they both sleep all night long” (154).

Why do we teach our children these sounds? What is the value of being able to differentiate between the a bear’s and a lion’s roar (my daughter can do this–at least in her dialect). This might be useful if you’re in a circus, but in small-town suburbia it seems like a superfluous skill. It has come in useful when I needed to distract a squirming toddler during a diaper change. And there’s a certain entertainment value in hearing her start roaring half a block away when we approach the stone lions down the street. But as far as essential life skills go, it’s low on the list.

Even the more common animals that my daughter can imitate are rare sights for most of us, at least at close range. As far as B could tell, the thing that goes “Moo” (or rather “Bvvvv!” according to her) most closely resembles a flat, roundish pillow with a pocket in its stomach and horns at one end that we put under her head when we change her diaper. It was a long time before she could correctly identify pictures of the animal. She’s still not certain that real-life bovines are not in reality goats.

That, however, can be explained by a recent memorable encounter. We were walking down the street close to home a few days before July 4th, when I heard bleating from across the street. Upon closer inspection, we discovered a little black goat tied up to a post in someone’s yard. I have long wanted a milking goat, so I knocked on the front door to see what the owner could tell me about city ordinances on goats. No answer. After watching and discussing the goat a little longer, B and I resumed our walk, only to be passed by the goat, tether in tow, just seconds later. I nabbed the rope and led the goat back to to his hitching post without much difficulty. While I was tying him up again, someone looked out of an upstairs window and said, “Oh, did he run away? Thanks!”

It turned out to be a stray goat. It had shown up in the yard that morning, accompanied by a German shepherd. I left our number, in case the owners failed to materialize, and went our way. B, however, talked about the “goak” for the rest of the morning. Anytime it was mentioned, she would run to the door to go out. In the afternoon we returned to see if the goat was still there, but it was not (nor was the homeowner). That was far from the end of the matter for B, though. Intermittently throughout the rest of the afternoon–and ceaselessly through dinner–she emitted urgent cries of ”Goak!” punctuated with an occasional wistful “gone.”

For more than two weeks now we have been hearing about the goat … gone. I told B the goat was sad because it was lost; now it has gone home and it’s happy. So from time to time we get B’s version of the story: “Goak! … gone.” [fake crying]. “Baa-aa-aa!” (Goats, it seems, sound very much like sheep in B’s world.) “Home.” A few nights ago I heard her in her sleep, pacifier propped between her lips: “gone … gone…”

What family stories do you have about children and animal sounds? Write your story in a comment, and the reader with the best story by the end of August 2008 will get a free copy of Do Like a Duck Does, by Judy Hindley (topping my current list of favorite children’s books: Click here for our review). So leave your stories, invite your friends to contribute theirs, and then check back in for a good chuckle or two.

So I’m not quite sure what the fascination with the animals is. But I must admit that I find Judy Hindley‘s Do Like A Duck Does irresistible, with the militant mama duck determined to outwit a fox masquerading as a fowl. Much of the book’s genius stems from the rhythm and rhyme of Hindley‘s upbeat text, together with the irony of a bird brain going head-to-head with the legendary wit of a fox–and winning.

Here’s an excerpt, following the fox’s attempt to make a meal of a duckling:

But Mama turns and catches him
and says, “Look here!
You don’t like bugs.
You don’t like muck.
You can’t say quack….
Are you sure
you’re a duck?”

The spunky mama both embodies the notorious stupidity of ducks (who would mistake a fox for a duck?) and flaunts it, with her clever schemes to expose the “hairy-scary stranger.” There’s probably some archetypal appeal to mama’s five little ducklings, or at least allusions to the songs about little ducks–always five. But literary qualities aside, I just like the book.

The anthropomorphic touches to Ivan Bates‘s illustrations complement Hindley’s text, with an indignant furrow in mama duck’s brow and a choleric glow on her puffed-out cheeks. Bates‘s varied design and page layouts further enhance the book’s appeal.

To be honest, though, I think I am more enamored with Do Like a Duck Does than my 18-month-old is. The number of words on a page approaches her limit, but the lyrical text seems to compensate for this. Do Like a Duck Does also employs more complex sentence structures than some of Hindley‘s other books; I recently read it to a three- and six-year-old and realized that the syntax and vocabulary probably place this book above the comprehension of most preschoolers. The six-year-old, however, was with me all the way through.

So thank you to Judy Hindley for an original work about fluffy yellow ducklings….But if anyone can recommend a book about a goat, I’d appreciate it. My daughter has been talking for a week and a half about a stray goat we saw tethered in a neighbor’s yard, and I can’t think of a single story or song about goats … except the Three Billy Goats Gruff.

And he did–return, that is–but his first heroic mission almost ended in disaster. I won’t supply the details, because it’s a bit of a cliff hanger as Mortenson relates the story in the book. But since Mortenson has gone on to build hundreds more schools (that’s the reason Three Cups of Tea was written), it’s safe to tell you that the school did get built, eventually, and that’s how it all got started.

Mortenson is director of the Central Asia Institute, which exists principally for the purpose of building schools and promoting education in Central Asian villages. Mortenson is particularly interested in starting girls’ schools, not only because education for girls is often in short supply in these areas, but because he believes women have a profound influence on the shape of society through the impact they have on their children. Interestingly, it turns out that education is also a peaceful and proactive means of discouraging terrorism. In many places where Muslim children have not had access to basic education, fundamentalists have filled the void with institutions that promote intolerance and violence. By increasing the availability of sound, secular education, the Central Asia Intsitute reduces the opportunity for this kind of influence on impressionable young minds.

Mortenson and his co-writer, David Oliver Relin, relate many well-crafted stories of Mortenson’s adventures–humorous, suspenseful, poignant. Readers are even treated to a love story, as the romance between Mortenson and his wife-to-be unfolds. An entertaining anecdote from the early days of Mortenson’s philanthropic career concerns the building of that first school in the village of Korphe. Anxious to complete the long-delayed progress, Mortenson reports:

“I tried to be a tough but fair taskmaster. … I spent all day at the construction site, from sunrise to sunset, using my level to make sure the walls were even and my pumb line to check that they were standing straight. I always had my notebook in my hand, and kept my eyes on everyone, anxious to account for every rupee. … I drove people hard” (149).

After a couple of months, the village elder took Mortenson for a walk to a point above the village overlooking the surrounding fields and distant mountains.

Haji Ali reached up and laid his hand on Mortenson’s shoulder. “These mountains have been here a long time,” he said. “And so have we. … By the mercy of Almighty Allah, you have done much for my people, and we appreciate it. But now you must do one more thing for me.”
“Anything,” Mortenson said.
“Sit down. And shut your mouth,” Haji Ali said. “You’re making everyone crazy” (150).

Mortenson appears to have learned his lesson well. One of the things that struck us about Mortenson was the respect and integrity that characterized his dealings with his Pakistani collaborators and beneficiaries.

Since we had recently read Mountains Beyond Mountains, the biography of philanthropist doctor Paul Farmer (click here to see our review), comparisons of the two men and their chroniclers were inevitable. Paul Farmer is a crusader. He is driven not only by personal passion but by principle, and one gets the distinct idea that he believes (and he may be right) that the rest of us should be in on the crusade. Mortenson, too, is singleminded in his devotion to his goals. After returning from that first trip to Pakistan, he typed (on a typewriter) hundreds of fundraising letters, until the compassionate Pakistani owner of a copy shop taught him some computer skills. He lived in his car to save money. He raised more by selling off his possessions. But my impression of Mortenson is of someone who happened to find himself in a position to help someone and did so, simply because it was in his nature to do it.

Mortenson, like Farmer, was influenced by religion early in life (Mortenson’s parents were Lutheran missionaries), but both men, at least at one time, seem to have adopted an ambivalent attitude toward religion and spirituality. I sensed that there might be more to this story than appeared in the pages of both these books; perhaps this is still an unresolved issue for the subjects of these biographies.

Tracy Kidder wrote himself into his biography of Farmer in a discreet and non-intrusive manner. Relin kept an even lower profile, and perhaps his role was different. Although Three Cups of Tea is written in the third person, Mortenson and Relin are identified as co-authors. It would have been interesting to observe the composition process, as Mortenson recalled (and perhaps Relin helped him dredge up) the scenes that appear in such colorful detail in these pages. Stylistically, I found Three Cups a bit more artistic, in contrast to Kidder’s more pragmatic journalistic prose. The opening sentence of Three Cups is representative: “In Pakistan’s Karakoram, bristling across an area barely one hundred miles wide, more than sixty of the world’s tallest mountains lord their severe alpine beauty over a witnessless high-altitude wilderness” (7).

Three Cups of Tea is worth reading not only for the entertaining and exciting adventure stories but also for the inspiring and challenging example of one person who really has made a difference … by partnering with and serving others. Mortenson had no special resources, skills or knowledge about the work he set out to do. He just combined remarkable determination and compassion with respect for the people he wanted to help.

Click here to visit the Web site for the Central Asia Institute: CAI Web site

Truss is a self-proclaimed stickler of the sort who parade outside of movie theaters with signs supplying the missing apostrophe in “Two Weeks Notice.” (Note the subtitle: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation.) She makes her case with humor, wit, and passion. Aside from the first and last, each chapter is devoted to a specific punctuation mark–the comma, the apostrophe, the hyphen–or a group of them, i.e. colon and semicolon. Truss relates some of the history behind each mark–where it originated, how it has been used–and then goes on to describe its appropriate use today, as well as some of the ongoing controversies. In many cases she acknowledges that there are no hard-and-fast rules–and if there are, they exist only the minds of sticklers who argue hotly for their own set of rules against other firmly convinced sticklers who adhere to another barely differentiated set of guidelines. Truss relates that New Yorker editor Harold Ross once admitted in a letter: “We have carried editing to a high degree of fussiness here … I don’t know how to get it under control.” Ross, apparently, was in favor of commas, and humorist James Thurber was not (if that is not a too-great simplication of the debate). Truss writes:

If Ross were to write “red, white, and blue” with the maximum number of commas, Thurber would defiantly state a preference for “red white and blue” with none at all, on the provocative grounds that “all those commas make the flag seem rained on. They give it a furled look” (69).

Truss is probably preaching to the choir, as I suspect that most of her readers belong to the “fussy” camp. Indeed, the preface acknowledges this; Truss’s rallying cry for the book-in-progress, as she envisioned it, was “Sticklers unite!” (xviii). She confesses that “my own mother suggested we print on the front of the book ’For the select few’” (xviii). My edition comes complete with a “punctuation repair kit”–stickers in the form of punctuation marks with which the informed can correct the ignorant. Only a stickler would have need of that.

Not that the punctuation-challenged can’t benefit from Truss’s lucid discussions of the ins and outs of punctuation. My aunt, a high-school English teacher, said that a seminar she attended for AP Lit instructors recommended the book for classroom use. But Truss’s co-religionists might most appreciate her inspired wit, which is, in my opinion, what really makes the book worth reading.

I tend to think myself fairly adept when it comes to punctuation placement (having said that, I am doomed to have committed some heinous punctuation error in this very post). But I am less of a prescriptivist than some, and I thought perhaps Truss carried her argument a bit too far in the closing chapter. She herself writes that “while massive change from the printed word to the bloody electronic signal is inevitably upon us, we diehard punctuation-lovers are perhaps not as rigid as we think we are. And we must guard against over-reacting” (190). However, just a few pages later she makes this reactionary claim: “Proper punctuation is both the sign and the cause of clear thinking. If it goes, the degree of intellectual impoverishment we face is unimaginable” (202).

There may be something to the assertion that the process of punctuating requires some writers to formulate their thoughts more carefully than they might otherwise. But surely Truss cannot believe that the ancient Hebrews and Greeks operated at the dismal level of intellectual impoverishment she now fears for the Western world. In the chapter on the comma she explains that the Hebrew scriptures and texts from the classical period had neither punctuation nor spaces between words. According to Truss, this scriptio continua constitutes a “chaotic…swamp from which [our language] so bravely crawled less than two thousand years ago” (201). I would like to hear Truss expand on the ways in which contemporary texts are so far superior to the classics. I wonder how many of our modern works will still be venerated two thousand–or even fifteen hundred–years from now.

But who wants to read a treatise by a temperate campaigner? If Truss had been less zealous, she probably wouldn’t have written this book, and I would have been deprived of a few good late-night chuckles over, of all things, punctuation.

Yes, mooching. But not free-loading. Mooching is the technical term for the method employed by Jensen and his brother Sven during their summer fishing expeditions. I’ll leave it to Uncle Erv to supply the details via his book. Suffice to say that it doesn’t involve large hauls of fish in nets or traps. It’s one-on-one. According to Jensen, moochers are the “ultimate lightweights” among Alaska fishermen–”The most tuned-in of all. To us, every fish is a worthy and exciting individual.” Sven, familiarly known as Brother S to Jensen’s readership, put it this way: “We can’t catch enough fish to hurt the resource. But we can sometimes make a little money, and always be out here taking in the country” (20).

And that’s what Brothers S and E did every summer for several decades: catch fish, make a little money, and take in the country. Jensen further capitalized on his adventures by writing a column for his hometown newspaper, the Bremerton, Washington, Sun. As one of his readers said, “You’ve got it made….You get paid to catch fish and paid again to tell about it. I think most of America would like to have your job” (7).

Little Boats & Big Salmon is organized into ten chapters with titles such as “The Seven Secrets of Southeast [Alaska],” “The Unruly Atmosphere,” “A Gamut of Emotions,” “Lessons in Lore,” and “Thanks for Everything.” Some of the essays that comprise each chapter are just well-told fishing stories, but many also include sage observations that apply to life in general. Such as the following discussion of a malady Jensen calls “The Blahs”:

–It hits each of its subjects three times in a 120-day season and lasts one day each time. …
–It despises sympathy. If your cohort croons, “Everything will be all right,” you will surely get worse.
–It will, per the numbers above, get to two of you simultaneously only at odds of 2/120 or once in 40 years.
We have not yet faced this frightful happenstance, but you may–and how to cope? Given the transient unpredictability of the hormones and the pitiful sights they will make of you, we suggest laughing at each other. At zero on the scale you can go nowhere but up (181).

Reading Little Boats was slow going at first; I ran aground on terms like, “lunkers,” “kings,” and “pinks.” If you are already familiar with these, you’ll be one step ahead. But by the end of the book I had the satisfaction of knowing that “lunker,” as well as several other similarly colorful terms, refers to a really big fish, “kings” are Chinook Salmon, and “pinks” are Coho. In this way, and many others, I found myself drawn into the Southeast Alaska fishing life, so that I was sorry when I reached the end. Who could resist the pull of the “instant outback”? Jensen describes the day he was driving down I-5 toward the Seattle-Tacoma airport at 5 p.m., was met by Brother S in a boat alongside Ketchikan International Airport, and “mooched up two king salmon totaling 82 pounds (69 dressed) in a secluded cove surrounded by spruces that very night” (21).

If neither the pure sport nor the idea of the instant outback appeals to you, you may still be wondering, Why do it? If he never asked such a question himself, Jensen at least encountered it. One essay in “A Gamut of Emotions” is titled “Money.” Jensen writes:

“Of course, you would not discredit the view of any friend or acquaintance who deems fishing its own reward. He makes a good case–’I don’t need to catch anything. I just have to get out. Enjoy myself. Come back feeling good.’ But when pressed he will also admit… ‘Well, yes, that’s true. If I’ve caught something I feel even better’ (77).

Even though money isn’t the bottom line, the sport might not be worth it if it becomes a losing proposition; Jensen enumerates the numerous expenses an Alaska sport commercial fisherman will accrue: fuel, food, equipment, moorage, licensing. “Money goes out. Money must come in” (77).

I haven’t asked Uncle Erv if he ever experienced a net loss in a particular year. If he did, it didn’t stop him. The brothers began their adventures in the mid-1950s. I couldn’t find a precise statement of how long they continued their summer excursions, but I gather it was well over 30–maybe even approaching 40–years. Jensen’s conclusion?

Why go fishing? Don’t wonder. Just go… (208)

Little Boats is like a fishing trip, complete with awe-inspiring wildlife, meditative moments, and a wealth of good yarns. Don’t wonder, just read it…

(I might even have to pick up The Compleat Angler now.)

January 20, 2012 update: I just observed that Little Boats & Big Salmon is listed on Amazon.com for $85-$168 new and for $95-$203 used (plus shipping)! We have signed copies new at The Book Nest for just $11.95. Don’t live in the area? We’ll send it to you. Leave a comment to contact us.  (Click here for Amazon listings: Little Boats & Big Salmon on Amazon.com.)

The principal setting of The Day is a railroad junction in the middle of the desert. The central conflict involves the quest of railroad worker Yedigei to give his deceased comrade Kazangap a traditional religious burial in an ancestral cemetery some distance from the junction. Meanwhile, on the other side of the world, Russian and American negotiators are dealing with the discovery that cosmonauts on the Soviet-American space station have been contacted by extraterrestrials and have departed the station for an interplanetary visit.I found the juxtaposition of a narrative about a commonplace burial and a science fiction drama a bit incongruous at times. But the author employs this contrast effectively to highlight, among other issues, the tension between the value of progress and the importance of maintaining traditions and identity. In the science fiction story line the superpowers reject further communication with the extraterrestrials, believing that the earth, in its tenuous political and economic condition, is not prepared for such a development. They decide to suppress news of the initial contact and to erect a space shield to prevent further communication. The story suggests, though, that if an exchange of ideas were pursued, the citizens of Earth might enjoy profitable social and technological advancement. The inhabitants of this newly encountered planet live harmoniously, are able to control their climate, and have devised highly efficient means of obtaining energy from the sun.

Meanwhile, Yedigei perseveres in his efforts to arrange a traditional burial for Kazangap in the ancestral burial ground. (Plot revelation ahead.) Kazangap’s son and other members of the community ridicule the endeavor, pointing out that their contemporaries have long since ceased to believe in tradition (God, Islam, prayer). Yedigei persists, only to learn that the traditional burial ground is now inside the area fenced off for Soviet space activities and will soon be eradicated.

Throughout the course of the funeral arrangements and the trek through the desert with Kazangap’s body, Yedigei reflects on the past. One of the key events he muses on involves a young widow and her two sons. The husband had been a friend and coworker of Yedigei’s but died after being arrested and falsely accused of propagating unpatriotic material. After the death of his coworker, Yedigei finds himself hopelessly in love with the widow, Zaripa, despite the fact that he is already happily married with children. Zaripa, however, presumably recognizing the danger to the peace and happiness of all involved, leaves the junction unannounced with her boys one day while Yedigei is away chasing his runaway camel.

Throughout the book, Yedigei is closely associated with his camel, Karanar, both personally and in the literary scheme of the author. Kazangap, who gave the magnificent animal to Yedigei, tells him, “Karanar was destined to be yours, you had to be his owner” (88). Karanar is given to seasonal bouts of wild behavior, running off into the desert to mate with female camels and fight with other males. When Yedigei returns and learns of Zaripa’s departure, a disturbing scene ensues, in which the usually mild Yedigei beats Karanar mercilessly with a chain and drives him off into the desert. Later, the still devastated and angry Yedigei tells his friend Kazangap that he intends to leave the junction with his family. Kazangap sagely replies:

“Look, this is your business … but you won’t leave yourself behind. Wherever you go, you won’t get away from your troubles. They’ll be with you always. No, Yedigei, if you’re a dzhigit, you’ll try master yourself here. To run away–there’s no bravery in that. Any fool can run away. But not everyone can master himself” (281).

The suggestion seems to be that Yedigei needs to deal with his own passions in the same way he has dealt with his roving camel. The narrative seems to indicate that those who cannot master themselves and those who forget where they have come from (i.e. lose their identity) are alike no better than animals. We learn that the traditional burial place toward which Yedigei is making his way is named after a folk heroine. It was said her son had been taken captive by the Zhuan’zhuan, who had a practice of cruelly obliterating the memories of their captives. The resulting mankut were bereft of identity, fit only to carry out their masters’ wishes and employed as slave labor to tend livestock. When the woman found her son he had no memory of his parents, no idea from whence he came, and he ultimately killed his mother, being told by his captors that she wanted to harm him.

The connection between self-mastery, however, and the more prominent themes of tradition, identity, and progress seems somewhat tenuous. In the introduction, slavicist Katerina Clark comments that it is rather remarkable that The Day passed under the scrutiny of the Soviet censors and achieved publication. Certain of the free thinkers who were able to publish under the Soviets seem to have smuggled in subversive content alongside thematic material that would placate the Party. Perhaps the message of self-mastery (among other content) performed this placating function for riskier questions, such as, Must progress always take place at the expense of tradition and identity? If so, is advancement worth the cost?

Clark’s introduction offers an enlightening discussion of The Day in its political and literary context. She points out that the book’s two parallel story lines, which do not intersect until the final pages, give it both a narrow, provincial focus and a universal, cosmic perspective. Similarly, the main story line centers around a single day, but through flashbacks and folk stories, the action roves through the main character’s lifetime as well as the historical and legendary past of the steppe peoples. Clark describes how Aitmatov’s approach both reflects and diverges from trends in Soviet literature at the time he wrote.

I learned about The Day only recently from a discussion of Hamid Ismailov’s The Railway on the Neweurasia blog. Neweurasia bloggers observed that the vast genre differences between The Railway and The Day make comparisons difficult, but the common railway theme, not to mention the proximity of their place of composition, makes comparisons tempting. I found The Day more approachable for its realism (in spite of the science fiction thread) than the political satire and surrealism of The Railway. However, I sensed more artistic mastery in The Railway; when I finished I had the feeling that if I read it again, I would pick up many things I had missed the first time. (Click here to see our review of The Railway.)

My divergent reactions may be due, in part, to the respective translation style of each book. The Day, translated by John French, is more readable; the translation is clear and straightforward, while Robert Chandler’s translation of The Railway forced me to reread some sections in order to follow the author’s thought. I preferred the rendering of the latter, though; I sensed that it conveyed the stylistic essence of the original, and I rarely forgot I was reading a translation. I found the translation of The Day, while more transparent overall, uneven, with stylistic “hiccups” here and there that interrupted the linguistic flow.¹

I enjoyed The Day Lasts More than a Hundred Years and considered it worth reading for the story alone. Those interested in the literary history of the Soviet Union will also find The Day valuable for study and comparison with the works of Aitmatov’s Russian contemporaries.

1. It is also interesting to consider both The Day and The Railway alongside Andrey Platonov’s surrealistic novel about Central Asia, Soul, written several decades before The Day. Soul was also translated by Robert Chandler. (Click here for our discussion: Soul.)

So when I saw that Abu-Jaber’s new novel dealt with SIDS cases, eager as I was to pick up another work by the author of Crescent, I wondered whether I should read it. Would it just increase my anxieties? But I reassured myself that, based on the fact that this is a crime mystery, the infants probably didn’t really die of SIDS. But then, who would want to kill a baby?

Indeed, that is the crux of the novel. And in fact, Abu-Jaber touches on questions rather more disturbing than SIDS. Would a mother kill her own child? What constitutes mental stability, and who is really sane? What accounts for our memories, and how reliable are they?

But Abu-Jaber hints at these issues rather than dwelling on them, and the book never becomes dark. An interesting note about the setting in Syracuse, New York: My impression from the book is of a rather drab, cold, industrial suburb. But last week I happened to overhear an individual familiar with Syracuse say it is always bright, even in winter, because of the sunlight reflected off the abundant snow. (His co-conversant had just moved to the Pacific Northwest from Syracuse and was feeling a bit anxious about the notoriously long, dark, rainy winters here.)

The author juxtaposes the icy landscape and the sights and smells of industry and its byproducts with the jungle motif that frequently arises in the heroine’s memories and imagination. I’m actually a bit curious about Abu-Jaber’s reasons for these contrasting sets of imagery and would enjoy hearing from someone else with thoughts on the matter. Origin isn’t really an environmentalist novel, but references to pollution do surface, not to mention the role of chemicals in the deaths. I wondered if Lena’s attachment to her “other” mother and her visions of the jungle carried undertones of evolution–some sort of primordial memory of our collective origin. But perhaps the real essence of these images is a sort of fall from grace–the garden versus the lost innocence of the city. If so, it suits the murder mystery theme–who would kill a baby?

The question of origins–individual or collective–echoes the issue of identity that surfaces in some of Abu-Jaber’s other books. What determines who we are? Our genealogy? A geographical location? Parents–biological or otherwise? Childhood experiences? Our memories and cognition? What if these change?

The main character is a misfit, a bit adrift like Sirine’s Bedouin ancestors in Crescent. But then, perhaps the point is that everyone is something of a misfit. It wasn’t until we had finished the book that we realized that all the main characters–and many supporting actors–display some degree of mental abnormality. Mr. Memdouah is the only certifiably crazy person (well, almost), but then there are Lena and her jungle visions; her foster mother, who is clearly a bit unhinged; her foster father, who has suffered a debilitating stroke; and her estranged husband Charlie–but maybe he’s just a chauvenist. There’s Erin Cogan, who’s gone a bit over the edge since the death of her child; and Keller with his own peculiar hangup, and then there’s … but I’ll stop there. You’ll just have to read the book.

B says he would have preferred more clues as to the solution of the mystery earlier in the book–even well-concealed clues that he wouldn’t have been able to make sense of until the end. In his opinion, the culprit could have been any number of people, almost up until the final revelation. We also found some elements of the story not entirely credible, although, interestingly, we differed on which ones. I, for example, considered Pia too malicious to be credible, while Brian found her completely believable but thought Margo’s character a bit improbable.

One element conspicuously absent from Origin, when compared with Abu-Jaber’s other novels, is good food. Lena eats drab, colorless sandwiches for lunch–tuna, tomato, cheese. The special (every Tuesday) when she goes to dinner with Charlie is pedestrian: “prime rib, gravy, baked potato, peas, steamed carrots and cabbage” (98). In the entire book, one dish, a chocolate angel food cake served the one time Lena is invited to someone’s home for dinner, gets a favorable description, though the hostess has said (ungraciously, I thought) that it is too much trouble to make frequently. Lena reports, “I gaze at it with deep pleasure” (149), but Charlie spoils the moment and she doesn’t get to eat the cake. Even Lena and Keller subsist on Chinese takeout. Toward the end of the book, Lena finds solace in “cooking shows–the placid, measured combinations–adding one ingredient to another, the stirring and stirring–that don’t remind me of anyone and don’t make me feel anything” (364). The statement reminds me of Crescent and the peace Sirine finds in the rhythms of her kitchen. But the point is not developed, and it seems principally an allusion; familiarity with Abu-Jaber’s other works makes it more meaningful.

Abu-Jaber’s use of language continues to be a salient feature of her work, although the style of Origin is suitably different from the lyrical, magnetic prose of Crescent. With her unusual metaphors and brief but evocative descriptions she sets a somber tone appropriate to the subject matter.

I found Crescent more captivating, but Origin was still hard to relinquish at bedtime, and I was sorry when we reached the end. I predict that fans of Abu-Jaber will enjoy this most recent addition to her oeuvre. In addition to offering an engaging story, its thoughtful investigation of the search for balance, self understanding and connectedness fostered satisfying discussion.

The Midnight Poet is aptly named; much of the material is autobiographical, granting a glimpse of the man behind the verse. Many of the poems are based on Droz’s personal experiences, and notes following a number of the entries document the circumstances under which they were written. Sketches by the author illustrate many of the poems. A section in the middle of the book appears in the (presumably) original hand lettering.

Some of the compositions, appropriately, convey a decidedly rural ethos. A number are nostalgic, but before attributing that to late-life sentimentality, readers should note that one of my favorites in this vein (“Mount Harrison”) was written when Droz was twelve. Some selections are of historical interest, such as “The Rationeers,” written in 1942. Some are whimsical (including another favorite, “Mountain Bouncin’”) and still others nonsensical, in the tradition of Lewis Caroll.

Those who feel poetry should rhyme will be gratified by Droz’s compositions; the urge to produce rhyme seems to drive him so relentlessly that even the few essays included in the collection are interspersed with it. I read the volume to my six-month-old daughter at bedtime, and I intend it as no insult to say that she frequently fell asleep to it. Droz’s collection will be of particular interest to readers of local history and small-press literature.

Click here for more about Droz and his books: Scandia Patch Press