Dinner with Edward by Isabel Vincent
Mini-Review
Okay, I thought, another Tuesday’s with Morrie-type book, but I opened it anyway the other night – needing a little break from my current WWII read. And yes, Dinner with Edward is very much in the same genre. The age-old story of a friendship between a young troubled character and an much wiser, older person.
Only this time, the older Edward is a gourmet cook and prepares delicious dinners for the younger, having-trouble-with-her-marriage Isabel. Edward has just lost his wife and Isabel’s friend (who lives out of state) asks her to check in on him by letting him prepare her dinner a few nights a week. Together, they plot, this will keep Edward happy and busy, while giving Isabel a much-needed break from her failing marriage.
Each chapter starts with a menu of the glorious meal he prepares for Isabel and the drinks enjoyed before dinner — old fashioneds, martinis – grown up drinks. It is over these drinks and delicious food that the conversations, reminisces, and problems unfold.
I had trouble finishing this book, and found it dull and predictable — same old problems — same old trite wisdom’s from an elderly man. Slow down, enjoy life as if every day is your last, and even this quote from the book:
He knew that paradise was not a place, but the people in your life. (groan)
I never felt that “paradise” connection between Isabel and Edward, as each chapter reads like a disconnected short story. Edwards memories and past experiences never really connect with Isabel’s current day problems. Stories are told, advice is given, and food is eaten.
And what food! Each chapter only comes alive with the descriptions of the wonderful meals prepared by Edward. You look over his shoulder as he gently stirs sauces and grills perfect steaks with herb butter. So I carried on, largely skimming the boring bits and reading for the food. But, in the end (get this!) no recipes – none – I felt bereft, cheated somehow
One reviewer said Dinner with Edward combined the best of Tuesdays with Morrie with Julie and Julia – since I didn’t like either of those books, I should have had fair warning.
One saving grace, Edward describes, in detail, a method for perfect scrambled eggs. It’s on page 9 if you wish to avoid reading the rest of the book.
A digital review copy was provided by Algonquin Books via NetGalley
The Stopped Heart by Julie Myerson
As a dedicated book maniac reviewer, I try and keep up with the cutting edge UK literary press. I’ve been intrigued by an emerging genre which I’ll call the ‘creepy yet quaint British village ghost story*’.
The Stopped Heart has been touted as such — a haunted house story set in the English countryside, with edge-of-your-seat suspense. Given its many stellar reviews and an enticing cover –I leapt in.
I know it’s been overdone, but The Stopped Heart is, at first, boringly set in two time periods, and (yawn) has two narratives – one in the present with Mary and Graham Coles – and the other, over 150 years ago with the farm family who once lived in the Cole’s cottage.
Delving further into what seems to be a predictable haunted tale, it’s not only the Coles’ cottage which is haunted — so are Mary and Graham. They have escaped to this countryside retreat to recover from a tragic loss. In the same cottage, 150 years in the past, Eliza narrates her large family’s hardscrabble farm story. Her sister, Lottie, strangely speaks of the present day family as if she knows them — and even names her kitten “Merricoles”, a version of the name “Mary Coles”. Ghosts, spirits, a haunted cottage — so far – so good, right? Get me another cup of tea and I’ll keep reading.
Except it all starts to go very, very wrong when the mysterious red-haired James Dix enters the circle of Eliza’s family. Thus begins the disturbing spiral involving both time periods and parallel stories of betrayal, underage lust and ultimately, grisly violence. And like an ill-advised roller coaster ride, you know, with dread, whats coming — but there is nothing you can do to get off. You’re strapped into the ride and you just gotta hang on and keep reading.
Ms. Myerson gives no indication when her narrative switches from one time period to another. I realized midway through the novel, that the author does this deliberately to enhance the fluidity of her past and present story-lines. The Coles’ modern-day cottage still harbors the violence of the past and Eliza and Lottie can sense the tragedy in the future. This can get confusing if you’re not paying attention. But, pay attention you will, because while creepy and often violent — The Stopped Heart is a compelling page turner. (Fair warning to any parents of young children out there, this book contains violence with young children as the victims.)
The modern day Coles struggle with their broken relationship, a surly teenage step-daughter and a sad flirtation with a neighbor. In the past, Eliza discovers her own budding sexuality, while simultaneously demanding her own (often funny and spunky) feminist beliefs. Meanwhile, the mysterious red-headed man disrupts everyone in both time periods. Some of the most intriguing writing involves Mary Coles “seeing” her kitchen and garden morph into the past. The smells, the dirt, the old furnishings all come alive through her eyes.
At the end of this gripping read, Ms. Myerson purposefully leaves many things unanswered – you won’t arrive a pat ending – creepily, you’ll continue to dwell on the events long after you’ve closed the book.
The Stopped Heart lead me to the edge of horror fiction, another blogger aptly labeled it “horror light”. I resolutely avoid horror fiction, I’m still recovering from my one (and only) Stephen King novel many years ago.
So why did I keep on reading well out of the limits of my comfort zone?
I kept turning the pages because of the writing. This is an intensely dark reading experience interspersed with beautifully captured characters coping with loss and unspeakable tragedies — the suffering of a stopped heart.
I recommend The Stopped Heart with caution and warnings (see above) and it had everything stacked against it for me (i.e., horror light). Yet, I had to keep reading and never once looked back. Which says a great deal about the appeal of this book – a scary roller coaster ride — you want to get off — but you can’t stop enjoying the thrill.
*Others in the same genre include Susan Hill, The Woman in Black and Sarah Waters, The Little Stranger…both on my TBR list — maybe, once I recover.
Everything is Copy
If you’ve been following Book Barmy, you know of my admiration for Nora Ephron. I professed my devotion to her in this POST.
Last night I watched a wonderful award winning documentary about her life called Everything is Copy – trailer HERE.
This quiet but powerful film, had me glued to the screen, an extended visit with this beloved author, journalist, and screenwriter. The film was written, directed and is narrated by her son Jacob Bernstein (her son from her marriage to the infamous Carl Bernstein).
Everything is Copy celebrates her writings, films, family, marriages and her many many friends. Nora is portrayed as smart, funny, urbane and sometimes insensitive and controlling (“she always had a razor in her back pocket”).
Her ex-husband (Carl Bernstein) speaks of her with guarded warmth and sisters Delia and Amy (also authors) speak of Nora with cautionary admiration.
It seems her friends and colleagues were her true family — her true admirers. Nora was everyone’s favorite party host and dinner guest (I knew it!)— she purposely surrounded herself with smart, influential literary and Hollywood notables.
There are cameo appearances by literary icons such as Gay Talese, Victor Navasky, Liz Smith and Marie Brenner (Marie is deliciously filmed in front of her personal library). Nora was schoolmates with Barry Diller and close friends with Mike Nichols and Bob Gottlieb.
Nora’s essays are read by a range of celebrities including Meryl Streep, Resse Witherspoon and a odd looking Meg Ryan (she’s had work done – badly, in my opinion.)
There are snippets of Nora’s interviews from an early talk with Dick Cavett to a more recent interview with Charlie Rose. Old color film of New York City brings to life her early, exciting days at The Post.
Her illness and death are given much import to this documentary. The fact that Nora had openly shared her life (and sometimes others’ lives) but kept her illness a secret for years, was a shock to her circle of close friends and colleagues. They express their bewilderment, and sometimes anger, that Nora kept this information from them. But in the end, the film draws the conclusion that her illness was her personal business and her choice to keep it a secret, was perhaps because it was the one thing she couldn’t control.
The film ends with a reading of her essay Things I Will Miss , written in her final years. Have some tissues handy.
If you have HBO or Netflicks and, like me, you are a fan of Nora Ephron, put Everything is Copy on your must watch list.
My Mrs. Brown by William Norwich
I’ve been reading these ~
One is a Pulitzer-winning tale of WWII and the other a intriguing suspense novel from a UK author. While I’m enjoying both books, (simultaneously –depending on my mood) this Advanced Readers Copy on my Kindle caught my eye the other night.
Like the most popular girl at the ball, I quickly dropped the other two books and started to dance with this one. (You may go ahead and accuse me of being a fickle reader. Okay, I’ll cop to it — it’s one of my many bibliophile flaws.)
My Mrs. Brown has been called a feel-good book for women of a certain age and I thought – well I’ll just dip in and see if it’s worth reading. Before I knew it, I was halfway through and only stopped reading when my eyes wouldn’t stay open any longer. I finished it the next evening in one bout.
The novel is a re-telling of the 1958 novel Mrs. ‘Arris Goes To Paris by Paul Gallico and tells the story of a “woman of a certain age” in a small town in Rhode Island. Widow, Emilia Brown dresses sensibly, sewing her own clothes in browns and greys. She lives in a simple duplex and works as the cleaning lady for the local beauty salon. She looks forward to chatting each evening with her renter in the adjoining duplex – a daughter of a friend, who in her black goth outfits – startles the genteel Mrs. Brown on many subject areas, but eagerly seeks the older woman’s wise counsel…
Everything is going to be okay in the end. And if it is not okay, it isn’t the end.
Mrs. Brown is a frugal, simple woman who admires the beautiful women around her but doesn’t actually care about beauty for herself. Until the day she is helping inventory the estate of a recently deceased wealthy dowager and Mrs. Brown comes upon the dress, hanging in an almost empty closet:
Black and elegant, it is cap-sleeved with a single-button jacket made of the finest quality wool crepe. …a simple yet exquisitely tailored Oscar de la Renta sheath and jacket, that she realizes, with startling clarity, will say everything she has ever wished to convey about herself.
Mrs. Brown is quite taken with its simple elegance, yet she can’t bring herself to touch it with her work-roughed hands. The dress is simple, yet exquisitely tailored, lined with pure silk and costs more money than Mrs. Brown could ever afford. The dress is sent on to the auction house with the rest of the grand dame’s valuables, but it awakens an “invincible spring” inside Mrs. Brown.
Sometimes a dress isn’t just a dress.
She takes on extra cleaning jobs, skimps on her meals and starts saving for the dress – $7,000 –an extravagance that begins to define Mrs. Brown in ways she couldn’t imagine.
The story of how Mrs. Brown gets the money and then journeys to New York City made me smile, and then grin — the scene where she exits Penn Station and sees the New York City for the first time will resonate with anyone who remembers their first experience of that astounding and magnificent city.
Once the story moves to New York City, I must confess, it becomes a bit contrived — but in a good way, like reading Dickens — a fairy tale for grown up women. Mrs. Brown encounters kindness and help on Seventh Avenue the fashion center of Ne York — at first because she is carrying her mother’s valuable hand-me-down vintage handbag and later, because everyone, including Oscar de la Renta himself, wants to help this quiet, drab lady achieve her dream. He tells her quietly
“We’ve an expression on Seventh Avenue. It’s music to most women’s ears. ‘I can get it for you wholesale,’ and, Mrs. Brown”, Oscar said, “if I can’t get it for you wholesale, then we’re in a lot of trouble around here.”
From then on, Mrs. Brown’s story concludes towards the happy ending we hope for. The dress is procured and professionally altered to fit her perfectly, a new friend in New York City finds love — even Mrs. Brown’s life is back in her small town is changed- no her life is now charmed — because she got the dress – her dress.
Mr. Norwich (a fashion writer) has portrayed Mrs. Brown not only as a woman who is not yet past her prime, but as a true lady — maintaining her strength, grace and dignity in a world where the Mrs. Browns are often disregarded.
Most women have wished for such a dress, one which spoke to them, one which when possessed and worn could have a Cinderella affect.*
An unapologetically sweet story, not striving to be great literature, but rather to restore the reader’s faith in kindness, goodness and grace. Definitely, a feel-good novel. Now I’ll go back to my other book dates – hmmm, what am I in the mood for? WWII resistance tale or a creepy country house in the English countryside?
*Mine was a black & white, beautifully draped polyester disco dress — don’t judge — it was the late 70’s, and it was fabulous.
A digital review copy was provided by Simon & Schuster via NetGalley.
The Imperfectionists by Tom Rachman
The Imperfectionists by Tom Rachman
I always wanted to be Christiane Amanpour, international correspondent, foreign reporter. A career to dream of with exotic locations and multilingual people breaking international news –the disasters, war and brutality notwithstanding. Don’t get me wrong, I had my own great career, filled with wildly creative people, its own exotic locales and many rewards. But I sometimes still wonder…
Which is why I was drawn to this novel about a struggling English language newspaper and its employees based in Rome. Just take a look at the cover and the spectacular acclaim.
So why did it take me over two months to finish?
Sometimes funny, often heartbreaking, the individual stories, each of which focuses in on an individual employee and their unique job at the paper, are interspersed with short passages letting us into the paper’s history and the publishers’ struggles to keep it running. The paper is hardly at the cutting edge of technology–it doesn’t even have a website.
There is Lloyd, the beaten-down Paris correspondent who is willing to trick his own son for a byline. Then copy editor Ruby who has a fondness for her routines that only somewhat mask her constant fear of being fired. There’s Abby — aka Accounts Payable — the financial officer who finds herself on a plane seated next to an employee she laid off . In one of most humorous stories, you’ll meet Winston, the naive Cairo stringer who is manipulated by a wily, egotistical competitor. You’ll also read about the corrections editor, who has painstaking compiled a 18,000-word plus style guide he calls “The Bible”; woe to the unwitting writer who violates it! You’ll meet Kathleen, the arrogant, workaholic editor-in-chief who learns things about herself from a past lover that she would rather not know. There’s even a loyal reader, who has read each line of every issue since the beginning and as a result is far behind, stuck in the past and won’t let today’s paper (or any current news) into her life.
Sounds like fun, such a great collection of people, but we know from the title The Imperfectionists, that these are going to be imperfect people. Mr. Rachman goes even further to give these imperfect characters fears, greed, regrets, secrets, resentments, jealousies, and nearly unbearable sorrows. These are beautiful character sketches, filled with adultery, job loss, co-dependency, manipulation and loss of prestige and pay. The author does give us consistently beautiful writing and has an ear for gripping conversation.
But it was the theme of The Imperfectionists that grew weary — the world is a mess and nothing can or will make things better. Does no one care about their job? Does anyone care about the paper? Doesn’t anyone take delight in the fact they are living and working in Rome? (Though it is based in Rome, we see nothing of the beautiful city, culture or people – as there was no sense of place. We could be reading about Kansas City.)
I would just start to get interested in a beautifully drawn character and then slam– something horrible happens and you’re on to the next poor soul. At first this was intriguing – never knowing what the talented Mr. Rachman will do next. But towards the latter half of the novel, I started to dread the next meanness – the next cruelty. With a novel based on international reporting, one expects a share of atrocities and horrors, but this is all about misguided people and their frailties – not about politics or world issues.
I can recommend this book for its excellent writing, pitch perfect dialogue and some brilliant characterizations. And, in my on-going effort to get away from my “Pollyanna-ish” reading comfort zone, I’m glad* to have read, and most importantly, finished this novel.
But I must admit that I’m a bit schizophrenic regarding The Imperfectionists. Early on, I was gobbling down the pages, chuckling at each character, but toward the end, I could barely stand it. So little redemption, so little hope – it became a forced march.
*Pollyanna — “glad” – get it? Sometimes, I just crack myself up.
Michael Dirda ~ Part Deux
Michael Dirda
I received an email from one of my legion of loyal few Book Barmy readers regarding this post on the book of essays entitled Browsings by Michael Dirda. This reader wondered why, as a declared Anglophile, I had failed to mention his essay called Anglophilia or perhaps I had skipped it?
Well, this sent me scurrying back to the book because I frankly didn’t remember said essay. After reading it I realized that I must have skipped this one — you see, I did not adhere to Mr. Dirda’s introductory rule of reading his essays in order.
I hung my head in shame, and as penance, last night I again browsed through Browsings (sorry for that phrase, but you knew it was coming, didn’t you?). I ended up re-reading several of my favorites and finding a passage or two I had fogotten.
The neglected essay Anglophilia was written during Queen Elizabeth’s 60-year jubilee and should be read in its entirety, as it is chocked full of British greatness. Mr. Dirda admits his secret fantasy of being picked for a knighthood or an OBE. He feels he may have earned such an honor given his lifetime of dreaming of Harrods Christmas hampers, box seats at the Grand National and pub lunches of shepherds pie.
In real life, his Anglophilia is limited to a Harris Tweed sport coat, a few Turnbull & Asser shirts (picked up at a local thrift shop) and watching Miss Marple mysteries on television.
(I watch them) less to guess the identity of the murderer than to look at the wonderful clothes and the idyllic Costwoldian village of St. Mary Mead. My wife tells me I should check out Downton Abbey, but I gather that series might be almost too intense for my temperate nature.
Of course, most of Mr. Dirda’s Anglophilia is bookish, and he imagines his very own country house library – (my imagined room is quite the same):
…lined on three walls with mahogany bookshelves, their serried splendor interrupted only by enough space to display, above the fireplace, a pair of crossed swords or sculling oars and perhaps a portrait of some great English worthy. The fourth wall would, of course, open on to my gardens, designed and kept up by Christopher Lloyd, with the help of Robin Lane Fox…There would definitely be a worn leather Chesterfield sofa, its back covered with a quilt (perhaps a tartan? decisions, decisions) and its corners cushioned with a half-dozen pillows embroidered with scenes from Greek mythology. Here, I would recline and read my books.
I found a few other passages I must read out loud to you…okay you can read them yourselves.
He ruefully muses about his book buying expenditures:
It’s true that even $5 book purchases do add up. Yet, what after all is money? It’s just this abstraction, a number, a piece of green paper. But a book — a printed volume, not some pixel on a screen — is real. You can hold it in your hand. Feel its heft. Admire the cover. Realize that you now own a work of art that is 50 or 75 or even 100 years old. My Beloved Spouse constantly berates me for failing to stew sufficiently about money. For 30 years I diligently set aside every extra penny to cover the college educations of my three sons. I paid off my home mortgage long ago. I even have some kind of mutual fund. Nonetheless, it’s hard for me to feign even minimal interest in investing or studying the stock market. What a weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable – okay, make that profitable — way of life it is to think constantly about the bottom line. Keogh plans, Roths, Schedule C, differed income, capital gains, and rows and rows of little numbers…The heart sinks.
And finally, I’ll leave you with more about his plan to travel around the US visiting second-hand bookstores.
(In addition to stopping at bookstores) …I’d naturally take the time to genuflect at the final resting places of writers I admire. Come lunchtime I would obviously eat in diners and always order pie for dessert, sometimes à la mode. During the evenings sipping a local beer in some one-night cheap motel, I would examine the purchases of the day and fall asleep reading shabby, half-forgotten novels.
Thinking I would not need or want to re-read this book, it almost went into the library donation bag. See what I almost missed? I stand vindicated in my board hoarding collecting. I’m giving Browsings its permanent and rightful place on my bookshelves.
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