Dropping this as something to keep you busy—and maybe even entertained—while I carve out the time to write my Year in Review piece. I won’t be catching up on the last half of the year—in fact, not sure I’m going to continue with the monthly pieces, might be time to try something new—but I’d already written most of this one and it seemed a shame to let it go to waste.

Shelley Parker-Chan, She Who Became the Sun (2021)

Fantasy novel set in 14^th Century China (with the smallest bit of magic) about a young girl who fulfills the destiny foretold for her brother, who dies, along with the rest of her family and everyone else in her village, from a harrowingly described famine. Zhu Chomngba drags herself, starving and mute with fear, to the nearest monastery, where she is taken in because she has disguised herself as a boy, a deception she never disabuses anyone of, going to great lengths to keep the secret. Her bunkmate, and best friend, learns the truth, leading to an unexpectedly progressive outcome. The meat of the book concerns Zhu’s long, slow rise to power, as she consolidates the Han and prepares to do battle against the Mongols. I liked the idea of this book more than the actual reading experience. By the end, I was keen to learn what happens next, but I was also relieved to have finished the book. (It’s long.) Jury’s out whether I’ll read the sequel.  

William Maxwell, So Long, See You Tomorrow (1980)

Seems like everybody knows this book, but if you don’t, do yourself a favor and read it. But make sure you’re in a good head space first. So Long, See You Tomorrow, a novella about things people can’t bear, isn’t easy. A woman can’t bear to tell her son her estranged husband has ordered her to forbid the boy from visiting the farmstead where he, the former husband, is quietly cracking up, and, even more heartbreakingly, the boy’s dog is tearing itself apart in grief. Years later, another man, the story’s narrator, sits in a New York City analyst’s office and means to say that he “couldn’t bear” his mother’s decades-ago untimely death, but says, instead, he “can’t bear it,” a realization that sends him out of the office and into the streets, for only in the streets of NYC can one cry freely.

As these examples might suggest, the book consists of two strands. Interestingly, they intersect only glancingly. In one the first-person narrator, who seems an awful lot like Maxwell—today, the book might be marketed as autofiction—describes his mother’s death in the little town of Lincoln, Illinois in the 1918 flu pandemic. (The story that took up the whole of They Came Like Swallows is here compressed into a handful of anguished pages.) When the boy’s father remarries the couple decide to build a new house. The work-site, the house framed but without walls, and as such a metaphor for the book’s fascination with unfinished, maybe unfinishable structures, becomes the boy’s refuge after school. He bring his friend Cletus, and as the boys play amid the unfinished space, the narrator believes he “had found a way to get around the way things were.” But nothing gets around the way things are: that’s why life is so unbearable.

Cletus, whose experiences comprise the book’s other strand, also has much to mourn. His family, tenant farmers scrapping a life together, has fallen apart. He now lives in town with his mother, who has left her husband to be with the husband of the couple’s best friends, who work the next farm over. Cletus soon has even more to deal with: his father shoots his wife’s lover, his former best friend. (Not a spoiler: the novella opens with the rifle shot.) The boys drift apart. The narrator next sees Cletus years later in a high school hallway. The narrator sees Cletus, sees that Cletus sees him seeing—and ignores him. This unkindness haunts him all his life, getting tangled with the earlier loss of his mother. The book’s premise is that the narrator, now an old man in New York, the kind of person who visits MOMA regularly, where he is much taken with a Giacometti sculpture that reminds me of his father’s half-built house, a man, as I said earlier, like William Maxwell, excavates, through a mixture of research and imaginative reconstruction, what happened on those farms between those people.

Death, adultery, murder, cruelty: these are the things that can’t be borne in So Long, See You Tomorrow. Which makes the book sound lurid when in fact it’s heartbreakingly restrained. Or, more accurately, a strange blend of the two. The writer Antonya Nelson gets it exactly right:

I don’t know how William Maxwell manages to balance those two stories, one plotted like a melodrama, replete with murder and mayhem, and the other a quiet meditation that hinges on the tiniest non-gesture of passing strangers many years in the past. It’s a combination that oughtn’t work. And yet it does.

Even a three-page swerve into the mind of the abandoned dog works. Which it absolutely should not. Anyway, like I said, read it. It’ll tear your heart out, but in a good way.

I read a lot of Maxwell in my mid-twenties (somehow never this one, though). Now that I am old enough I want to revisit them all. And that’s just the novels. I haven’t even cracked the stories yet.

Manjula Martin, The Last Fire Season: A Personal and Pyronatural History (2024)

Manjula Martin lives in Sonoma County. She is not a winemaker (although she drives past the fields full of seasonal workers, most of them Latino/Latina, working through the night to pick the grapes at the time when they are at their most succulent). Nor is she especially wealthy (though she and her partner have jobs that pay enough and make a difference (union organizing, writing), plus the proceeds from an apartment she sold in San Francisco).

They live in a redwood cottage in the WUI, the wildland-urban interface, as do so many in the paradise of northern California. A paradise threatened by fire. As it always was. But now more than ever. The relentless impingement of human habitation into the forest, plus a century’s worth of misguided fire prevention strategy, plus climate change means the wildfire season is ever longer and ever more dangerous.

Martin’s memoir begins in July 2020, when terrible lightning storms set off hundreds of fires that burned hundreds of thousands of acres. It ends in November, with the delayed end of the season, though with the tendency of fires to smolder underground through the increasingly dry winters, every season is now fire season. In between, she, like everyone in California, learns to prepare a go bag, to speak knowledgeably about AQI levels, and, like many, to evacuate for a time when the fire comes within a couple of miles of the house.

She breaks up her descriptions of those months of the fire by looking back to her childhood growing up on a commune with hippie parents who left that life to become a master gardener and a professor in nearby Santa Cruz and forward to the actions she has taken since to prepare to live with fire.

Martin is an expert at living with hard things; she suffers chronic pain from the operations required to free her from a broken IUD. As a woman who cannot and never wanted to bear children, Martin resists the tendency to think of nature in terms of fecundity and rebirth, even as she finds herself unwillingly returning to that language. Martin impressively blends the experience of living in a damaged body with that of living on a damaged planet.

Martin learns the key distinction between good fire and bad fire. Without the former we have no hope of combatting the latter, though we may have left things too late. She argues that there is no natural world outside its encounter with the human (just as there is no definition of the human that isn’t dependent on our reliance on nature, especially plants). Our fantasy of pristine or untouched nature is just the flip side of our rapacious consumption of natural resources. Thus she returns again and again to her garden, which not only distracts her from her pain but teaches her about the power of pruning, grafting, and weeding. “An intervention,” she writes, “was not inherently good or bad; it was part of a dialogue. The tending of a natural body required constant attention: the giving and receiving of nurture and discipline. Extraction and tourism were types of attention. So was gardening. It mattered how the relationship was structured, not just that there was one.”

At her best, Martin rejects easy thinking. The tendency to just get through to the end of the next fire season, for example, is strong, but Martin rejects this as blindness. We need, she argues, to think of ourselves as in a relationship with the world, to refuse to separate human from non-human life.

The Last Fire Season annoyed me sometimes: it’s too long, and its author is pretty self-righteous. I’m sympathetic to her politics and indeed her world view, but even I had to roll my eyes at her holier-than-thou attitudes. But even though I strongly suspect Martin and I would hate each other, I learned a lot from her book (not least the wonderful word “duff”), and I bet I’ll think about it for a long time to come.

Caleb Carr, The Alienist (1994)

In the Sherwood branch of the Central Arkansas Library System’s copy of Carr’s The Alienist, someone has written alongside a passage referring to the draft riots of 1863, “Oh Please! Too much B.S.” Telling that out of this entire 400+ page novel, only the passage describing the backstory of its sole African American character is singled out for such contempt. Who knows when some anonymous member of my community expressed this frustration. It looks like the book hasn’t been checked out for a while—but it also looks like it was checked out a lot, back in the day. And of course, The Alienst was a huge hit. I remember selling more than a few copies of it in my bookseller days. For whatever reason, I never thought of reading it then. But Carr’s recent death, and the story of his life as revealed in the Times obit, piqued my interest. And I knew the book has its fans. When I wondered on Bluesky about reading it, Anne Trubek said she’d spent years chasing the high of her first encounter with the book. How could I not see what the fuss was about?

In New York in 1898 someone is killing young boys. Not just killing them: maiming them horribly and leaving them on grisly display. These boys are orphans and runaways. They work in brothels, servicing a particular clientele: men who like boys dressed up as women. In the first chapter, the narrator, John Schuyler Moore, a crime reporter for the Times is summoned to the latest corpse by his former Harvard classmate, Laślo Kreisler. Kreisler is the alienist of the title, as psychologists were then known: they cared for or studied people “alienated” from society and their own, “true” natures. Under the guise of then police commissioner Theodore Roosevelt (another old pal), whose attempt to clean the force of corruption (same as it ever was…) threatens to founder if the killer isn’t caught, the pair methodically stalk the fiendish killer. They are joined by the first female police officer in NY, two Jewish cops ostracized for their identity and their passion for scientific methods of detection, and some devoted former cast-offs from Kreisler’s life’s work helping orphans. The band gets together, they make painstaking progress, but they’re always behind the killer. As the death toll rises, and nefarious elements seek to use the killings to foment reactionary unrest in the city, the case becomes a race against time…

The short verdict: it’s good! Not, in my opinion, great. But worth reading. I got a Name of the Rose vibe from it: a smart non-crime writer writing an investigation in a historical period they have researched to bits.

The long verdict: maybe what Carr was doing—spotlighting together historically marginalized figures and using historical figures like Jabob Riis and Teddy Roosevelt as more than just bit players—was more unusual at the time than now. Maybe the book is in that awkward in-between stage: a bit dated, not yet so old that it feels like a glimpse into another world.

What does feel of its time—the 1990s, not the 1890s—is the passionate defense of children, and the abhorrence of the violence (physical, psychological, sexual) done to them by adults. Based on what I read about him, this element seems to come pretty closely from Carr’s own life, with the desperate, authentic, slightly incoherent quality of not-fully-worked-through experience. In this, The Alienist reminded me of some otherwise completely different books, the crime novels of Andrew Vachss, all of which centered on the sexual abuse of children. Anyone remember those? Vintage published them in the 90s, they were kind of a thing, but I never see them anymore. Wonder what happened to him.

Ignore that anonymous Arkansas reader: no BS here. There’s plenty of fiction being written today that will look, if we are lucky, a little creaky in 30 years in its efforts to include marginalized experience. Worth a little awkwardness to kick open some doors.

Laurie Colwin, Shine On, Bright and Dangerous Object (1975)

Colwin’s first novel, which I think I maybe found a bit slight on my initial deep-dive thirty years ago and which I haven’t read since, but which impressed me greatly as a middle-aged reader. Crazy to think Colwin was only about 30 herself when she wrote it.

A Jewish woman marries into an old WASP family. He husband, a charismatic ne’er-do-well, dies in a sailing accident. In the grieving process, she must come to terms not only with her loss but her recognition of how little her husband had ever been able to know about himself. In the process, she becomes close to her husband’s brother, as serious as her husband was carefree. I won’t tell you what happens, but Colwin does something so interesting at the end: her book takes an unexpected swerve that makes everything so much more complex. Man, it sucks she died so young.

Francis Spufford, Cahokia Jazz (2023)

God, what a book! I’ll say more about it in my Year in Reading piece.

Elisa Gabbert, Any Person is the Only Self (2024)

Essays on mostly bookish topics written by the poet Elisa Gabbert. I was happy to start in on the first one, because I remembered it from its first appearance in the New York Times: a lovely piece on the “recently returned” shelf at the Denver Public Library, where no algorithm or even individual taste holds sway. Gabbert has revised the piece so that it has a wider focus, and I actually missed the minor-key aspect of the original. But I swallowed these pieces one after another, unable to give them the time they, like all good essays, deserve. I ought to revisit them from time to time. Here’s what stuck with me, though: the to-me breathtaking abruptness of their endings. Gabbert does this thing where she meanders in classic essayistic fashion, and then simply declares herself done. I experienced this as an attack on my sense that the ending of an essay should call back to its earlier moments, allowing readers to see in a new light something they’ve have already been told. But they really are more ways to do things than you’d think.

Jamel Brinkley, Witness (2023)

Strong collection of stories of unhappiness. I still think about “Blessed Deliverance,” about a group of friends coming up in a gentrifying neighbourhood (one sign of which is that some white folks set up a bunny rescue) who drift apart as they enter high school. And I was blown away by “Barstow Station,” the story of a UPS driver whose adult relationships founder because he’s too busy preserving himself from the memory of something bad that happened when he was a teenager. I immediately decided to teach it this fall—along with this lovely close reading by my secret boyfriend Garth Greenwell. (Secret to him, not all of you.) In the months since first writing this, I did indeed teach the story, and even though most days in that class were hard slogging, the story was a hit. Or at least what counted for one in one of the least curious groups of students I’ve ever taught.

Colin Walsh, Kala (2023)

Debut Irish crime novel that seems to have made basically no impact in the US market. Friends who were teenagers when one of their gang disappeared are brought back together when the body is found. As the crime is investigated, these now-adults learn how much they’ve lost over the years. I’m grateful to the friend who sent me a copy: I read Kala with pleasure over a summer weekend. Walsh reminds me a lot of Tana French: they’re both Irish, obviously, and dab hands at dialogue. Above all, Walsh concentrates as much on character as his more famous (and, let’s be real, talented) confederate.

Linda Kinstler, Come to this Court and Cry: How the Holocaust Ends (2022)

In her brilliant first book, Linda Kinstler asks this vexing question: what counts as proof that the Holocaust happened? She begins in Argentina in 1965 and the Mossad’s assassination of Herbert Cukurs, the Latvian Lindbergh (in politics and aviation alike), known during the Holocaust as the “butcher of Riga.” Next to the body, the killers left this text from a closing speech at the Nuremberg Trials: “Mankind itself… comes to this Court and cries: ‘These are our laws—let them prevail!” A strange choice, at least for anyone uncomfortable with the idea of taking the law into one’s own hands.

From this historical event—prompted by unwillingness on Israel’s part to have a sequel to the Eichmann trial and fear that the statute of limitations for perpetrators was about the expire in Germany—Kinstler’s text becomes at once more theoretical and personal. Theoretical because her main interest is in parsing the difference between law, history, and story, and how the evidentiary claims for the latter two are different than those affecting the first. And personal because in the background of Cukurs’s story—a member of the Arājs Kommando, Latvian auxiliaries who competed with the Germans for cruelty and zeal in murdering their Jewish former neighbors—was one Boris Kinstler, the author’s grandfather, who disappeared or died in mysterious circumstances in the late 1940s and may have been a KGB spy and thus acting as a mole within the fascist-aligned organization.

Central to Kinstler’s argument is a historical situation that was new to me. In 1958 a German jurist named Erwin Schüle, the lead prosecutor on a trial of perpetrators who had been stationed in Lithuania, made a consequential decision. Initially faced with only a single defendant—a man named Fischer-Schweder who had white-washed his SS record and, perversely, even ran a displaced persons camp after the war—Schüle ran up against the problem that German law required him to prove that defendants had initiated murder (in this case, mass shootings), rather than doing them on the orders of others. Witness testimony was inconclusive. So Schüle ordered his detectives to expand their investigation to uncover what he called “the crime complex” of the area on the German-Lithuanian border where Fischer-Schweder had served. As Kinstler explains, by crime complex Schüle meant “the entire constellation of actors and actions that allowed mass executions to take place.” In so doing, the prosecution charged nine more men. All ten were convicted.

The idea of the “crime complex” considered Holocaust crimes as structural rather than individual:

it treated entire swathes of the Nazi administration as criminal organizations and presumed the complicity of everyone involved, including secretaries and radio operators and cooks. It required investigators to begin with a place, or a name, or a date, and comb through vast amounts of information to fill in the blanks: who had been killed, and how, and by whom?  How many ‘Aktions’ were there, and on whose orders? How many Nazi personnel had been involved? Were they still alive and in Germany? If they were able to answer all these questions with certainty, then they could initiate criminal proceedings.

Perhaps because of its status as both victim and perpetrator, Latvia never pursued the “crime complex” idea. Which, Kinstler argues, made it hard for the country to come to terms with its responsibility in the miserable fate of its Jewish population. And then, more recently, to refuse to take up a case against (the memory of) Cukurs, despite the pleas of the remnants of its Jewish community. For in these same years, Cukurs has again become a folk hero in Latvia, a devoted patriot, a fighter of the Soviets, a victim of Israeli aggression, who not only didn’t kill Jews but helped several members of that community, even rescuing one young woman and taking her to safety in South America after the war. (Kinstler meets the woman’s daughter to learn more, though mostly what she learns is that the woman’s mother never talked about her wartime experiences, leaving her and Kinstler companions in confusion.) Kinstler tells us about a musical that, like something out of Mel Brooks, white-washed Cukurs’s reputation; she even reads a spy novel (recommended to her by the local prosecutor) in which her own grandfather figures as a Soviet spy and thus a traitor to the Latvian people.

Historically, it’s clear that Cukurs both saved a handful of people and was present at many deportations, requisitions, beatings, and mass shootings, notoriously in the Rumbula massacre, in which 25,000 Jews were murdered on two days in late November and early December 1941 in a forest near Riga. Eyewitnesses report him taking part in such events. But no one alive can testify to it.

In this sense, Come to this Court and Cry is a fascinating expansion of what Dan Stone argues in his new history, regarding the reactionary backlash that has shaped the latest iteration of Holocaust memory wars. At the annual Holocaust remembrance events, local politicians downplay the Arājs Kommando’s responsibility, saying that no simple conclusion can be made regarding its activities. Too hard to acknowledge complicity.

As Kinstler concludes, in the 21^st century, to expand the reach of justice in reopening cases from the era of WWII is a double-edged sword: “a crime that can still be tried can also still be pardoned.” Her book explores how “remembering went from being an injunction to a knotted, nearly impossible question.”

And what about Boris Kinstler, the author’s grandfather? Was he a spy? At the end of her book, which I recommend unreservedly, Kinstler tells us about the report she requested from the Russian government. Did they have a file on her grandfather? A one-page letter returns: no information or materials pertaining to Boris Kinstler exists in the archive. No answers there either. Kinstler’s subtitle, she tells us, is a warning, not a prediction. The fight against the Holocaust’s misuses never ends; as the forces who propagate those varied distortions grow in number and power, it seems a fight less likely than ever that we will win.

Helen Garner, This House of Grief (2014)

September 4, 2005 was Father’s Day in Australia. A man named Robert Farquharson was driving his three children home to their mother, who had initiated divorce proceedings against him earlier that year. Father and sons had spent the day watching the football, visiting family, making a KFC run for dinner, even doing a little shopping. Night had fallen; Farquharson was on the highway, five minutes from home. He headed up a railway overpass, then down the other side. Suddenly, his car veered off the road and plunged into a reservoir. Farquharson survived; the boys drowned.

Garner’s work of narrative nonfiction tells the story of the aftermath of this terrible event. Although he was charged by the Crown with three counts of murder, his soon-to-be ex-wife supported him, saying he could not have set out to kill his beloved children. But Farquharson’s behaviour after the crash was odd, to say the least. Splashing out of the water into the spring evening, soaking wet, he flagged down a car and ordered its drivers to take him to his ex-wife’s house. Only there did he mention the children were still in the water. And only then were the authorities informed. When Farquharson and the boys’ mother were taken back to the site, by her new lover, Farquharson stood silently, asking only for a cigarette. It was the new man in Cindy’s life who went into the water to try to rescue the boys. That first night, when police questioned him, he insisted he hadn’t done anything wrong, asking only, over and over again, what would happen to him.

Who acts that way? Well, anyone maybe.

What is the right way to respond to a terrible situation? Is some grief more acceptable than others? Could Farquharson’s confused story—that he had blacked out during a violent coughing fit—have been true? Is cough syncope a thing? Some experts said no. Others said yes. What about the physical evidence, tire tracks and the like? According to the police, the signs pointed to voluntary movements on the slope, inconsistent with an out of control car. Farquharson, they allege, steered the car into the water. But they messed up some of the evidence, and failed to account for the road’s camber. What about the explosive testimony of one of Farquharson’s mates, who said he’d had a conversation with the man a few months before the event, outside the local fish and chippie on a Friday night: Farquharson was not just low and helpless, as others had testified he had been, but angry and vengeful. He said he was going to kill the boys, and he would do it on a day everyone would remember, Father’s Day. Did Farquharson really say such a thing? Why didn’t the mate come forward at the time?

Was this an accident or an act of vengeance? Garner followed the trial for months, attending court every day, and her book records the efforts of the Australian legal system to come to terms with this baffling case. She gets friendly with the other regulars—reporters, gawkers, court officials—and one day runs into the defense counsel, to whom she says, “Only one man knows what happened, and he’s not saying.” This seemingly benign statement of perplexity incenses the lawyer (he threatens to ban from the courtroom): the whole point, he thunders, is that Farquharson doesn’t know what happened. What is knowing? What is an act? Can we entangle our conscious decisions from our unconscious drives? These are the big questions Garner probes in this riveting book.

Garner doesn’t like Farquharson—her take seems to be that the only thing more impossible than his having killed the boys is the possibility that he didn’t—and her descriptions of the man are pitiless, though, I wouldn’t say, unfair. In one especially merciless moment, she calls him a “small stump of a man, with his low brow and puffy eyes, his slumped spine and man-boobs, his silent-movie grimaces and spasms of tears, his big clean ironed handkerchief.” It doesn’t help, from her perspective, nor, I suspect, from that of either the law or public opinion, that Farquharson is profoundly inarticulate. He responds with baffled indignation to his plight; he turns to sentimental clichés and watered-down therapy-speak. Behind the story of the crime is an argument about a certain kind of Australian masculinity and its helpless, toxic loneliness. As a North American reader, I no doubt don’t understand the full context but Farquharson is legible beyond his corner of Victoria.

I’ll let you look up the outcome for yourself: if you like Janet Malcolm (name-checked here in one of the epigraphs) you’ll enjoy This House of Grief. I read with avidity, but I also never quite get on with true crime. Throughout, Garner projects herself on to the jury, imagining her own responses (boredom, confusion, indignation, you name it) reflected in their posture and expression. By the end, I felt like Garner was trying to reason out her own compulsion. It can’t be good for you, attending to a sensational trial this closely when you don’t have to. I found her final pages, where she mediates on her grief for children she never knew—ending in a sanctimonious aria: “They are ours to mourn. They belong to all of us now”—mawkish and unconvincing.

Read this, sure, but read her fiction first.

Dorothy West, The Wedding (1995)

Set in 1953 in a black enclave on Martha’s Vineyard called The Oval, West’s novel—only her second, written over decades in collaboration with her editor, Jacqui Kennedy Onassis, and published when the author was 88—is set on the day leading up the wedding of the youngest daughter of the community’s richest and most prestigious family. This economy of space and time is contrasted with flashbacks that go back four generations on both sides of the family. Over and over, these family stories show whites and blacks mixing, often intimately. The characters, obsessed with color, police racial distinctions that can’t hold. Seemingly impermeable ways of living and thinking prove to be all too permeable. Most interesting to me as a (remembered) record of the last moments of legally segregated America—a world Henry Louis Gates, Jr. wrote about in his underappreciated memoir Colored People. Had I read it on my own, I would probably have forgotten it soon after reading. But I read it for One Bright Book, and Frances and Rebecca helped me think about it more carefully. They didn’t quite convince me the novel is as smart about class as it is about race, but they made me see it as more carefully composed then I’d thought. Give the episode a listen and see if you are enticed.

Tell me—have you read any of these? If I could only recommend one, it would be the Spufford. And then the Colwin. And don’t sleep on Brinkley. But a good month all round. Doesn’t last summer seem a lifetime ago?