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 Don't listen to anything I say about [a:John Updike|6878|John Updike|https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1419249254p2/6878.jpg]'s 1976 novel [b:Marry Me: A Romance|85376|Marry Me A Romance|John Updike|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1419181878l/85376.SX50.jpg|2270621]. My attention span, always lousy, didn't give it the amount of concentration it deserved.
 It was, according to the Wikipedia entry on it, well received by critics, who called it Updike's most sophisticated work yet and that his portrayals of women were excellent. I never married or even came close, so couples stuff that goes deep sometimes washes over me. The subtitle is "A Romance," but that's sort of tongue-in-cheek.
 The novel takes place in 1962. It's not the kind of thing anyone would get published now. Suburban white people in Connecticut, educated, financially secure, no perverts or incipient revolutions coming up. It would appeal to a narrow audience now, which is, in some ways, unfortunate.
 Updike nearly chose being an artist as a career, and you can see that in his writing, some of which, in this book, describes viewing art.
 Here's part of a description of a car accident:

 The Falcon, with a little skating skip like a sailboat with its centerboard pulled, slid to the left. Ruth steered to the right and was surprised to feel nothing under her touch; it was as if she looked into a mirror that then turned transparent. Then, in a later portion of the same distended moment, her attempt at control was gigantically distorted; the car slewed heavily around to the right and she saw, omitting to brake, that she was going to go over the wall.

 If anyone's ever said, "You should write a book!" ignore them. And if you ever hear anyone say, "I should write a book!" beg them not to.
 The greatest problem with A Letter for Hoot isn't its lack of logic, which you see even within sentences, or the amateurish style that has Spofford doing things like using words other than "said" when using dialogue and having people sigh, query, ask, and admonish. It's that the back cover recommends it for everyone from preteens to seniors. Really, it's strictly for unsophisticated readers under the age of fifteen. Maybe very old people who like stories that center around country clubs and have happy endings would like it.
 If you're wondering why I read it it's because I bought it from the author, who'd set up a table at a local farmers market, and as she lives in my area I thought it might be fun to read it. Then it turned out that the main character leaves my area just a few pages in for a summer resort town.
6:09

 [a:Shirley Jackson|13388|Shirley Jackson|https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1550251468p2/13388.jpg]'s 1959 [b:The Haunting of Hill House|89717|The Haunting of Hill House|Shirley Jackson|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1327871336l/89717.SY75.jpg|3627] is, I read someplace, the book that made [a:Steven King|1857672|Steven King|https://s.gr-assets.com/assets/nophoto/user/u_50x66-632230dc9882b4352d753eedf9396530.png] want to write in the horror genre.
 If you're like nearly everyone, you know of Jackson through her haunting story The Lottery, which is as compelling a read the second, third, and fourth time you read it as it was the first.
 Like The Lottery, The Haunting of Hill House might require a second reading by me. There was too much else going on beside its ghost story elements for me to grasp it. It's at a literary level at least as high as [a:Sylvia Plath|4379|Sylvia Plath|https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1613135175p2/4379.jpg]'s [b:The Bell Jar|6514|The Bell Jar|Sylvia Plath|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1554582218l/6514.SY75.jpg|1385044].

 They were standing by the rail of the veranda; from there they could see down the drive to the point where it turned among the trees again, and down over the soft curve of the hills to the distant small line which might have been the main highway, the road back to the cities from which they had come. Except for the wires which ran to the house from a spot among the trees, there was no evidence that Hill House belonged in any way to the rest of the world. Eleanor turned and followed the veranda; it went, apparently, all around the house. "Oh, look," she said, turning the corner.
 Behind the house the hills were piled in great pressing masses, flooded with summer green now, rich and still.

 In a novel I read years ago, a woman described a certain type of men as being the kind who like to sit in comfortable armchairs and read about sailors circling the earth, often alone. Being me, I've always been a little wary of reading such books, though I know I'm reversing cause and effect, and I doubt I'd have sought out [a:David Grann|1431785|David Grann|https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1678988439p2/1431785.jpg]'s [b:The Wager: A Tale of Shipwreck, Mutiny and Murder|61714633|The Wager A Tale of Shipwreck, Mutiny and Murder|David Grann|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1659407155l/61714633.SY75.jpg|97290386]. It was the choice of my library's book club.
 Grann is in the news at the moment because he also wrote [b:Killers of the Flower Moon: The Osage Murders and the Birth of the FBI|29496076|Killers of the Flower Moon The Osage Murders and the Birth of the FBI|David Grann|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1470699853l/29496076.SY75.jpg|49782213], which is out as a movie now.
 The Wager is fascinating and if you're at all like me, as much as you think you know about the days of iron men and wooden ships, you'll learn more by reading this. One example is that those ships were rotting almost from the moment they were launched. Long worms ate through hard wood; rats ruined food.
 Side note: I can't remember reading a book in which there were fewer mentions of women. Other side note: I read this unusually quickly, for me, which I attribute to Grann's writing style.
9:30

 [a:Gillian Flynn|2383|Gillian Flynn|https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1232123231p2/2383.jpg]'s 2014 [b:The Grownup|26025580|The Grownup|Gillian Flynn|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1441679582l/26025580.SY75.jpg|45948939] is a short ghost story that was, the cover says, "A special gift from the Book of the Month Club." It origionally appeared in George R.R. Martin's Rogues anthology with the title What Do You Do? I'd never read anything by Flynn, so I figured this was my chance.
 It's fine for its genre, but writing about it now, nearly a month after reading it, I realize I've forgotten most things about it. The main thing I remember is that it begins describing how its main character, a female sex worker, came to leave that line of work. I have no objection to that kind of thing, but in this current era of idiots wanting to ban books, I couldn't help seeing this as a poor marketing decision.
 I like the way Flynn writes, though.

 It lurked. It was the only remaining Victorian house in a long row of boxy new construction, and maybe that's why it seemed alive, calculating. The mansion's front was all elaborate, carved stonework, dizzying in its detail: flowers and filigrees, dainty rods and swooping ribbons. Two life-sized angels framed the doorway, their arms reaching upward, their faces fascinated by something I couldn't see.
 I watched the house. It watched be back through long, baleful windows so tall a child could stand in the sill. And one was.

 An epic is a long narrative poem that uses heightened, dignified language to tell the story of a heroic figure. The Iliad, Paradise Lost, things like that. It's a good definition, but after reading [a:Philip Roth|463|Philip Roth|https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1399886959p2/463.jpg]'s Pulitzer Prize winning 1997 [b:American Pastoral|11650|American Pastoral|Philip Roth|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1504801263l/11650.SY75.jpg|598119], I felt I had read an epic, though maybe it would be more accurate to call it a family saga. (Yes, I know I'm being dumb because the title states its literary genre and that pastorals portray life in the countryside, particularly that of shepherds, in a simple and idealized way, but the title is meant to be ironic.)
 I have way too many unread books lying around, and I could have chosen easily from a dozen that I'd enjoy reading as much as this one, but I chose this because it the horrible terror attacks had recently been carried out in Israel, and Roth wrote so brilliantly about American Jews. I'm not Jewish and other than having a few friends who are, I have no stake in Jewish affairs in America or elsewhere, but Roth's writing is so good that it doesn't matter.
 You will learn a lot by reading this book, which takes place during the turbulent times of the 60s and 70s. We seem to think that current times are the most divided, violent, and dangerous ever. American Pastoral reminded me that they are not.
 You'll also learn about American manufacturing and Jainism.
18:07

 I've heard for years that [a:John le Carré|1411964|John le Carré|https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1606816199p2/1411964.jpg] was the best example of a writer whose spy novels were the most literary, and after reading [b:The Spy Who Came In from the Cold|19494|The Spy Who Came In from the Cold (George Smiley, #3)|John le Carré|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1327719782l/19494.SY75.jpg|1177001], I agree.
 The problem with this kind of book for me is me; I'm can't follow intricate plots. It's a failing. The kind of friend I'd give or recommend this book to would be the kind who's good at chess and understands philosophy. I'm not saying you need to be good at those to appreciate it, but it would help.
Excerpt:

 A man who lives a part, not to others but alone, is exposed to obvious psychological dangers. In itself, the practice of deception is not particularly exacting; it is a matter of experience, of professional expertise, it is a facility most of us can acquire. But while a confidence trickster, a play-actor or a gambler can return from his performance to the ranks of his admirers, the secret agent enjoys no such relief. For him, deception is first a matter of self-defense. He must protect himself not only from without but from within, and against the most natural of impulses: though he earn a fortune, his role may forbid him the purchase of a razor; though he be erudite, it can befall him to mumble nothing but banalities; though he be an affectionate husband and father, he must under all circumstances withhold himself from those in whom he should naturally confide.

 If my judgments on books actually meant something, I'd have to recuse myself from saying how much I liked [a:Quiara Alegría Hudes|1083742|Quiara Alegría Hudes|https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1610049042p2/1083742.jpg]'s [b:My Broken Language|54997060|My Broken Language|Quiara Alegría Hudes|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1612197082l/54997060.SY75.jpg|85777211].
 A lot of it takes place in Philadelphia, where I lived during much of the time she covers, and places match. The Duchamp gallery at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, the Free Library. She even writes about the street I lived on for twenty years, and I think a neighbor I was friendly with may be one of her aunts. Another significant part of it takes place in Philadelphia's western suburbs, where I was born and raised and live now.
 It would be a great read for anyone no matter where they live, though, and it sold well. It does a lot of things I don't usually like, like jump around in time, and has tons of cultural references I'm not well read enough to get, but none of this detracted from it.

 Every book, a horizon. A world I had no prior access to. An eye-opening.
 Books from Dr. Phillips's class.
 Books from Giovanni's Room, Borders, and the Free Library of Philadelphia.
 Books from mom's favorite botánica.
 Books purchased by skipping meals for lunch money and walking home to save SEPTA fare.
Qui Que became two readers, split down the middle as if by an axe. There was real Quiara who read the book, same as ever. And there was What-If Quiara, who would never unearth the revelations in its pages. Each book became its presence and absence, its voice and its silence.
 Who would I be without Ralph Ellison? Without the battle royal's electric brutality? Without five words strung together: "I am an invisible man"?

 [a:Scott Sommer|521802|Scott Sommer|https://s.gr-assets.com/assets/nophoto/user/u_50x66-632230dc9882b4352d753eedf9396530.png], the author of the 1982 Last Resort, died of a heart attack in 1993 at 42, and this, the last novel published while he was alive, has enough going on in it that makes me wonder what he would have written as he matured. As it is, this is not the work of a mature author. It's about a 25-year-old would-be rock star, his dysfunctional family, and his passion for a woman he's had an on-off relationship with since his teens.
 There are annoying things about it. People refer to other characters by different names, at times more than one. This confuses the reader. There are the lyrics for several songs in it. You can't tell if they're meant to be bad or good. That's the thing about music. Bad lyrics are transformed into good ones when the music and performance are good. How successful a poem would "Nothing Compares 2 U" be?
 In the last third, there are inspired moments of real depth, which gets me back to wishing Sommer had lived longer, and the novel has some good reflections on its times, around 1980. For better 80s books, though, read [a:T. Gertler|175061|T. Gertler|https://s.gr-assets.com/assets/nophoto/user/u_50x66-632230dc9882b4352d753eedf9396530.png]'s [b:Elbowing the seducer: A novel|3307961|Elbowing the seducer A novel|T. Gertler|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1497991053l/3307961.SX50.jpg|3345158], or [a:Jay McInerney|14079|Jay McInerney|https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1178138066p2/14079.jpg]'s [b:Bright Lights, Big City|25069|Bright Lights, Big City|Jay McInerney|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1167576917l/25069.SX50.jpg|144128].
 The book's title comes from the name of the resort the narrator's family operates in a coastal New Jersey town. Incidentally, "last resort" is a very frequently used title, with or without "the."

 The old woman shook her head. "Grandpa and me didn't sleep together for three years. He was bashful and I was too. It ain't nice to do it too soon, Sonny."
I looked into the afternoon sky, where the moon floated in three-quarter luminescence. I had a point to make. "Listen, Grandma, my generation was raised on mild tainted with radioactive strontium 90 from aboveground nuclear testing. Also toxic wasted polluted our processed baby food. We all fear bone cancer, an abbreviated life. Chemotherapy is always on the horizon. Sex, on the other hand, is intelligible. It can be performed in the safety of one's own bed. See what I mean?"

 There's some trend in cooking called "slow food" which is the name of an organization promoting getting away from fast food by using traditional cooking methods and ingredients. I think of it when I read things by [a:Herman Melville|1624|Herman Melville|https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1495029910p2/1624.jpg] and others like him. Reading him slows you down. The prose is dense enough that it's almost like reading philosophy. This is good.
 Bartleby, often called Bartleby the Scrivener, and Benito Cereno were both published in 1856 in a short story collection after having first been in magazines.  Bartleby is the more famous of the two, and I can see why. It's more in sync with the existential angst of any era and in this one reads like a 19th-century version of Office Space, which made me smile at times. Benito Cereno doesn't get the attention I think it should. It has a plot twist that I figured out long before, I think, readers of the day would have. I don't mean to pat myself on the back, though. It's just that I—and you—have been exposed to 150 more years of plot twists than people in Melville's day were. Think of all the movies with them: The Usual Suspects, The Crying Game, The Sixth Sense, Fight Club, Get Out, and Psycho are just a few examples. Despite that, it's worth reading more now than as a many other times because it deals with slavery. Also, it could be rewritten for a Star Trek episode that would be so good I'm surprised it hasn't been done yet.

 "Why do you refuse?" (Narrator)
 "I would prefer not to." (Bartleby)
 With any other man I should have flown outright into a dreadful passion, scorned all further words, and thrust him ignominiously from my presence. But there was something about Bartleby that not only strangely disarmed me, but, in a wonderful manner, touched and disconcerted me. I began to reason with him.

 I read once that in most cases, the best translation you'll find of a classic work of something like The Odyssey is the most recent one, unless, of course, it's been done too creatively, like in teenage slang or something.
 The Odyssey is one of those classics I missed in high school and college and may not have read if I hadn't stumbled across a pristine copy of this version in a paper recycling bin.
 Advice on reading it:
 My copy had some Post-it papers in it. These were useful because you'll want to reference the introduction, maps, notes, and glossary. This version was printed rough cut style, which is charming but it makes it hard to find specific pages quickly.
 The introduction is 79 pages long and essentially acts as a teacher. Don't try to read it all at once first. It sort of corresponds with the action of the narrative, so read it as you go.
 The best advice is from the translator, Emily Wilson, and is from the introduction:

Presumably, Odysseus is inspired by a deep loyalty to his wife, son, father, and the place of his birth, and moved by a deep and constant love for those he left behind. But we must avoid projecting the anachronistic ideas of chivalric romantic love onto Odysseus, who is not a medieval knight performing valiant deeds for the sake of a beautiful lady.

 Many writers don't like what they write being labelled genre fiction because it implies a narrow range of interest. Others welcome it. I'm not sure if [a:S.A. Cosby|20464985|S.A. Cosby|https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1593596506p2/20464985.jpg] considers [b:Razorblade Tears|54860585|Razorblade Tears|S.A. Cosby|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1636739235l/54860585.SY75.jpg|85600094] as genre fiction, but it is, in the crime genre.
 Being called genre fiction can shield writers from criticism because the quality of the writing doesn't have to be as high, but Razorblade Tears is so badly written that I don't see how it could be.
 You know how you come across a buddy-cop movie on a streaming menu and the movie is so much like many others that you don't know if you've seen it or not? That's what this is like, and a redneck. Two dads whose sons were murdered execution style seek to find the killers and avenge their deaths. There's a motorcycle gang doing evil, heartless things, and they're funded for some of those things by a rich powerful man, a Doctor Evil type.
 I was surprised how indifferently edited and copyedited it was. Cliches abound, and not only in dialogue, where they are forgivable.
 Call me a bad person for saying this, but I think the only reason it got published is that much in it pushes currently popular social buttons: The author is Black, and so is one of the two men—both ex-cons with hearts of gold—and one of the sons. The other is white. The sons are gay and married and have a mixed-race child, a girl. A prominent character is trans.
 A lot of the dialogue sounds inauthentic and I suspect Cosby has watched The Wire several times.

 A friend of mine who moved to Seattle after college in Ohio in the early 1980s told me then that the newspaper there printed a surprising number of wire copy from Florida. This was before Florida became known as a reliable source of nuttiness. My friend deduced that the reason was that Florida was physically about as far as you can get from Seattle and still be in the United States, and people there dressed differently, did different things for fun, and ate different food.
 That reasoning was a part of why I liked [a:Luis Alberto Urrea|52458|Luis Alberto Urrea|https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1669673026p2/52458.jpg]'s [b:The House of Broken Angels|40603634|The House of Broken Angels|Luis Alberto Urrea|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1529592536l/40603634.SY75.jpg|57042177] as much as I did. I live in a Philadelphia suburb and I've never been to San Diego, where Angels takes place. The book is about Mexican immigrants. I don't know one person from Mexico.
 That's certainly not the only reason I liked it, though. The story is a lively and compelling one, heart rending at times, very funny at others, and brims with life and intelligence. There are a fair number of Spanish words in it, and they're the kind of words my high school Spanish teacher didn't teach us, but you'll know what's going on, and if you want to you can just put the words in a search engine for a quick translation.
 If I had to name a problem with it, it would be that there are a lot of secondary characters to keep track of and several of them go by different names to different people. But I admit that I'm bad at keeping track of fictional characters. Very bad at it, in fact.