What I Read, July 2021

July was for roadtripping, not reading. We made an epic 4000-mile trip to Montana, Wyoming, and South Dakota and back again, a trip filled with glorious landscapes, terrible meals (I do like fry bread, though, even if a little goes a long way), and irrefutable evidence of our changed climate: heat, drought, fire. Sobering isn’t the word. Our exhilaration at being together as a family outside in wonderful places was undermined by our anxiety about masks (that is, their almost total absence) and the low-level irritation at finding ways to eat outside to keep our unvaccinated daughter safe. Anyway, those Western States are amazing—go if you ever have the chance! Sitting in a car and hiking through national parks didn’t leave much time for books—though the book shopping (in Missoula, MT and Omaha, NE) was great. Here’s what I found time for.

Edward Burtynsky, Railcuts #1, Canadian National track, Skihist Provincial Park, British Columbia (1980s?)

Menachem Kaiser, Plunder: A Memoir of Family Property and Nazi Treasure (2021)

Regular readers know I’m critical of third-generation Holocaust memoirs. (Memoirs written by grandchildren of survivors.) When I heard about Plunder, in which Menachem Kaiser sets out to reclaim a family apartment building in Poland, I reacted the way I always do—with skepticism mingled with resignation (I knew I’d read it) and curiosity (I only know of one other book that’s similar, Rutu Modan’s The Property). It didn’t take long, though, before I recognized the special qualities of Kaiser’s book. It’s so smart and interesting! So self-reflective—which all 3G memoirs ought to be—and, even better, without being annoying about it. It’s even funny. As Kaiser plunges into his quixotic enterprise—his extended family doesn’t know what to make of it, after all his father’s father died eight years before Kaiser was born, who is he to take up this quest, what does he expect to get from it?—things gets complicated. Does the building even exist anymore? What would you do with the people who live in it now? How do you prove to Polish authorities that someone has died?

Throughout, Kaiser’s grandfather remains an enigma, but one of the man’s cousins turns out to have written a memoir of his time in the Gros-Rosen concentration camp complex, a book that has become legendary in a surprising and surprisingly large community of treasure seekers who live to ferret out the secrets of Silesian caves. (There’s supposed to be a train full of Nazi hidden somewhere.) Next thing you know, Kaiser’s squeezing into underground tunnels hacked out by slave labour in the waning days of the war, getting drunk with weekend treasure hunters, and learning first-hand how family histories are usually litanies of error.

Basically, Plunder is brilliant from the title on. Whether as noun or verb, plunder is the perfect term to encapsulate the connotations of avarice, need, and longing that accompany any attempt to grasp the past. It’s a fantastic book, which I’ll be assigning next spring for sure.

Wendy Lower, The Ravine: A Family, a Photograph, a Holocaust Massacre Revealed (2021)

Lower’s short book—well under 200 pages before notes—manages to be both highly specific and usefully wide ranging. The specific part concerns a photograph of an execution in the Ukraine in October 1941. There are not many visual representations of what’s come to be called “the Shoah by Bullets,” and almost none that show, like this one, a Jewish family being murdered together. Lower set out to learn everything she could about the photo. Who were the victims and who the perpetrators? Who took the picture? Could she find the location of the murder? Her aim, she writes, was:

to break the frame around the crime scene, which kept the victims frozen in that awful moment. The photograph captures an event locked in time, but I knew it was part of a fluid situation. What precede that moment of death, what followed, and what happened to each person visible there?

Lower diligently answers these questions—the photo is even more poignant and terrible than initial inspection suggests—but she also has a larger agenda. Not only does she explain how the genocide was implemented, especially by the Einsatzgruppen in their push east during the invasion of the Soviet Union, but she also usefully and expansively defines collaboration. Plus, she shows us how the past is excavated, by survivors, archaeologists, and historians. All of this in lucid, accessible prose. The Ravine isn’t a comprehensive Holocaust history by any means, but there are many worse places to start learning about it. I’ll be moderating a panel with Lower at this year’s Six Bridges Literary Festival; can’t wait to see her in action.

Fonda Lee, Jade City (2017)

Enjoyable fantasy novel about a world in which only people known as Green Bones are able to harness the power of magical jade, which heightens their warrior powers. An uneasy truce among rival clans, which has held since the end of a war of independence, collapses when one group begins to traffic in a synthetic jade substitute. Jade City, the first in a trilogy that will conclude this fall, is a Godfather / martial arts mashup with juicy characters, but more than anything it’s about cartels and gangs and bureaucrats. Even if, like me, you don’t read much fantasy, you might really like this.

Joanna Pocock, Surrender: The Call of the American West (2019)

I’m working—a little too desultorily, I’m afraid—on something about this book and my trip to the American West, so maybe I’ll have more to say later, but I do want you all to know how good this perfectly titled essay/memoir is. Pocock moved from the UK to Missoula, Montana, a place that entranced her—even having spent only three days there I totally understand why—and prompted her to explore various ways of living with others and the land. The West—where land feels present in a way I’ve never experienced elsewhere—will do that to you. Pocock meets ecosexuals, foragers on “the Hoop” (a circular route around the Western US, once followed by indigenous tribes from season to season), minutemen, mining company shills, and hunters keen to hunt wolves. Mostly—cliché, I know, but she finesses it—she meets herself. Approaching midlife, to what or whom does she want to surrender? I strongly recommend.

Gil Adamson, Ridgerunner (2020)

Took this book—kindly sent me by its American publicist—on vacation because I thought it was set in Montana. In fact, it takes place mostly in Alberta, specifically in what in 1917 was still called Rocky Mountains National Park (it was renamed Banff, after its main railway station, in 1930). As someone who grew up hiking its trails, I was amazed at how much I learned: Lake Louise was once called Laggan; interned POWs, known to the locals as Germans but mostly from Austro-Hungary, specifically Galicia, built much of the road that is now the Trans-Canada highway; the Stoney Nakoda and other indigenous people were forcibly removed from the park. Adamson handles this history deftly, using it to serve her story about Jack Boulton, a twelve-year-old whose mother dies, at the beginning of the book, of an illness that almost fells him too, leading his father to make a deal with the woman who nursed the boy back to health: he will leave him with her while he handles his grief by taking off. The man, William Moreland, is a former thief (his nickname gives the novel its title); he returns to his life of genteel crime, crisscrossing the Canadian/US border, stealing from abandoned ranger cabins and planting harmless explosions in mining towns (when everyone rushes to check out the noise, he slips into hotels and mine offices to purloin jewels and cash). Moreland has a plan—to gather enough money for the boy’s future before reclaiming him. The erstwhile nurse has another—to make Jack her own. Before long Jack legs it back to the family homestead, where he gets by with help from his nearest neighbour. (I picture their cabins somewhere between Carrot Creek and Dead Man’s Flats, if you know the area: that is, the very eastern edge of the park, some of the most beautiful country in the world.)

At first I was skeptical about Ridgerunner—I thought it might be overwritten and dutiful like so much Canadian literary fiction—but I was quickly won over. Yes, the plot skirts melodrama, especially at the end. It seems Adamson decided the book needed drama, which she sandwiched into the last fifty pages; I understand the reasoning without being convinced. After all, the best bits are about how Jack survives on the land (mostly) on his own; these descriptions are compelling without being self-consciously lyrical and I didn’t need anything more. The other weakness of the book’s construction is that the Jack and Moreland sections sit uneasily together. But Adamson has an elegant, loose style (like a less earnest Ondaatje), she can be funny, and she’s damn good on horses. Ridgerunner is a sequel to Adamson’s previous novel, The Outlander, which, I gather, tells how Mary Boulton and William Moreland met. (The Frank Slide features prominently.) It holds up just fine on its own, though. Feel like this has gone totally under the radar Stateside, and that’s a shame; it deserves a better fate.

Elly Griffiths, The Crossing Places (2009)

Home from holiday and at a loose reading end, I happened upon this in the neighbourhood Little Free Library (usually a wasteland of self-help and James Patterson). It was just what I needed, a no-fuss, competently written crime novel with an engaging Norfolk setting and the feel of a romance novel in its setting up of what I am guessing will be a slow-burning “will they or won’t they” relationship between its two leads, a professor of archaeology and a cop.

Norman Maclean, A River Runs Through It and Other Stories (1976)

It’ll make some folks sad, but I did not care for this book, which I bought in Missoula, because how could I not? (As children Maclean and his brother discover that—you can read this quote all over town—“the world… was full of bastards, the number increasing rapidly the farther one gets from Missoula, Montana.”) Reading the book during and after our trip, I enjoyed recognizing its landscapes, and I appreciated the author’s love of western Montana (all the while thinking how sad he’d be at its changed climate). But mostly I found it a slog. Its attitudes to women are old-fashioned and tiresome, its humour misfires, and its detailed descriptions made me less not more interested in fly-fishing: I couldn’t square his complicated instructions with the elegant arabesques I’d seen in men and women performing in swift-running rivers across Montana. Of the book’s three stories, I enjoyed “USFS 1919” the most, because it’s about being in the woods and hiking, which I can relate to, especially since I’d walked some of the very same trails just days earlier. Yet its plot, too, fell victim to the boyish/loutish hijinks I didn’t care for in the other two. It’s all very hearty and stoic and, friends, you know that’s just not me.

Dolores Hitchens, Sleep with Strangers (1955)

Library of America has done us all a favour by reissuing this seriously good California PI novel from a prolific midcentury writer. It’s got the elements we know from Hammett and Chandler but deploys them at an angle. Jim Sader is a good guy with demons (he is a mostly sober alcoholic, he gets involved with his clients in inappropriate ways); as such he’s is a familiar character, but less macho, less hard-bitten. The plot of Sleep with Strangers is appropriately complicated, but less preposterous than, say, The Big Sleep’s. Hitchens takes her female characters, especially their motivations, much more seriously than the canonical writers of American noir. Sader’s relationship to his younger partner is unexpectedly moving (an alternate universe version of the one between Spade and Archer in The Maltese Falcon). On the basis of this novel I’d say Hitchens is a more straightforward writer than Dorothy Hughes, but she’s definitely in the same league. And the second (and sadly final) Sader novel, which I finished just too late to include in this July list, is even better: a truly excellent example of the genre.

Elly Griffiths, The Janus Stone (2010)

How quickly things change. I ran out to buy the second in the Ruth Galloway series before I’d even finished the first. Alas, my initial enthusiasm might have been misguided. The archaeology bits didn’t interest me much (big liability in these books), and the ending was silly. Will Ruth have to be rescued in every book? Unsure if I’ll persist. Sophomore slump maybe?

Arnold Bennett, The Old Wives’ Tale (1908)

Rohan and I—along with valiant readers from around the world—read this novel over several weeks. You can read my posts here, and hers here. The tl;dnr: a naturalist novel about sisters whose life paths at first seem different but ultimately aren’t. Thoughtful about the meaning of change, poignant about the frailty that afflicts us all as we age, interesting about technological and social change. It’s no Middlemarch, but Bennett didn’t deserve Woolf’s opprobrium. I’ll read more by him, even if it probably won’t be any time soon. Which ones do you recommend?

Dorothea Lange, TheRoad West, 1938

How about you? Did you read anything good last month? Hope you’re surviving whatever weather and political shenanigans are plaguing wherever you are. (I fervently wish they are better than this August in Arkansas.) As my sabbatical comes to its end, my reading time is about to plummet. In the meantime I’m trying to squeeze a few last titles in—more on that in a couple of weeks!

21 thoughts on “What I Read, July 2021

      • Sure! I wouldn’t say it’s an exception: I’d say the series, given it’s thirteen books long and #14 coming next year (pandemic-set), is uneven. Some books are suck-you-in, like the first one you read (the one set in Walsingham, for example, is another good one) and others (the one set in Italy) are MEH. BUT, if you don’t love Ruth and the gang (Cathbad!), then they might remain eye-rolling for you. Griffiths isn’t interested in character development; the pleasure lies in Nelson’s gruffness, Ruth’s sarcasm, and their opposites-attract semi-romance. I like them because they’re so consistently the same!

        I think Griffiths’s greatest strength is her setting. (I always look up places and dream little holiday dreams. I’m just a teensy bit obsessed with Julian of Norwich, so I love the one set there.)

      • I do like Cathbad! Definitely my favourite. I think I’ll wait a while and then try to third and see how I get on. Thank you for this–v helpful.

    • Ha, that jumped out at me too. I will say that it has been helpful for my similar snootiness about CanLit to be steered towards some of the smaller presses (though the more regional they get, the less likely it is I’ll get along with them, I find – a problem sometimes with NS writing).

      I was glad to read this exchange about Elly Griffiths. I read the first one with enthusiasm too but have read only maybe one other and I can’t even remember which one. I keep thinking I should settle in and binge them.

      I hate road trips (the being the car part – I have a lot of anxieties around highways) but the trip you took is the kind I dream about when I do imagine such a thing. Those landscapes! How stunning.

      • I don’t know is Anansi counts as small anymore (they did Ridgerunner, at least in the US), but they seem pretty reliable to me. What other Canadian presses do you recommend?

        I’ll probably read at least one more of the Griffiths books, but I’m in no hurry now.

        The landscapes were AMAZING, Rohan. It was so interesting to see the changes from lust Arkansas through the plains into the western desert/high plains–all the things you miss when you fly. But it was *a lot* of driving–and those western States have 80 mph speed limits, which means everyone drives 90. It’s a lot!

  1. As always, I found several to add to my to-read list here. I agree with you about A River Runs Through It. Some people are rhapsodic about this book, but it didn’t do much for me. (We too enjoyed watching fly fishermen on our road trip to Wyoming last summer. I say “-men” because the ones we happened to see were male, including two or three with a partner/wife nearby, reading in a camp chair on the gravel bar. Now there’s the life for me…except I would be distracted by birds.)

    • We mostly saw men fishing, but not exclusively. I agree with you about reading in the camp chair… Maybe the only good thing about the drought is that mosquitoes were almost nonexistent.
      Thought about you a lot on our trip, Hope — so many birds and flowers you could have identified for us!
      Read anything good this summer?

  2. I think Elly Griffiths doesn’t know how to end a book without a big drawn out rescue scene (not always Ruth) and if you don’t like the archaeology bits quit now. But do try The Postscript Murders. If you like the living off the land parts of Ridgerunner and think your daughter might enjoy that, try Jean George’s My Side of the Mountain with her maybe.

    I loved reading about your adventures in and out of books.

    • So kind of you, Liz, thanks!

      My Side of the Mountain is a great idea. I LOVED that book as a kid.

      I’ll try The Postscript Murders; maybe I can get the audiobook from the library for my commute.

      Good to know about the Galloway books.

  3. Thanks for The Ravine. I can always count on you for the most depressing books, Dorian. But it’s not often you get to see someone practice the kind of photographic forensics that Lower uses to track down the details of the photograph in question. Pretty amazing.

    • Happy to be the bearer of depressing tidings! It’s a good book, right? I’m moderating a virtual panel with Lower in October, if you’re interested. Can send you more info if you like.

  4. Just read this now. Came here because Menachem Kaiser quote tweeted your tweet of this blog post. The Ravine is on my list. It sounds so good. And chilling. And I seem to only read depressing things so of course I was going to read that.

    I was just wondering if you could say more about your beef and criticisms with 3G Holocaust books? Have you written about this on the blog or elsewhere where I could read? I’d love to hear more of your thoughts. His memoir is on my to-read list too. Plunder sounds amazing and I enjoyed that interview he did with Jewish Currents.

    • Thanks for reading, Madison!

      I’ve actually been in talks with Jewish Currents to write more about this topic, but not sure if it will happen. Plunder is super good, I highly recommend. Ravine is definitely good, if maybe not amazing.

      I talk about my beef with the 3G genre a little in relation to Hadley Freeman here https://eigermonchjungfrau.blog/tag/hadley-freeman/ and I know there are other places too. It’s basically that writers are seldom as good at narrating the telling of the tale as they are the tale itself–does that make sense?

  5. Pingback: What I Read, August 2021 | Eiger, Mönch & Jungfrau

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