Reading: Where Polyester Jumpsuits are Optional (so to speak)

Books constitute capital. A library book lasts as long as a house, for hundreds of years. It is not, then, an article of mere consumption but fairly of capital, and often in the case of professional men, setting out in life, it is their only capital.

- Thomas Jefferson

When I hear the phrase “electronic books,” I envision a future of lifeless, cold possessions and fashion: awful polyester jumpsuits and computers that cook your food to spec.

Apparently, I need to adjust my vision because, again, companies are trying to push a “paperless” society sans books. ("Envisioning the Next Chapter for Electronic Books," New York Times, September 6, 2007).

Haven’t they learned their lessons?

Our hearts are in the right places. BlackBerrys and cellular telephones have begun to rid the world of phone books and day planners. Sleek and sophisticated, they have all the information without a page in sight. However, do not ask the person whose machine has met its demise by crashing onto the sidewalk or into a pool. (Further, do not ask how many back up their information as often as recommended by the manufacturer. Or required by the errant hot tub.) (No, I am not writing from experience.)

A book machine sounds intriguing, I have to admit. I am an old-school book person, but how cool would it be to have my entire stack of books in a machine the size and weight of a single paperback?

I would think it cool until I had a few hours to kill. Then I’d rue the day I tossed aside my real paperback for the machine.

Anyone who has spent hours in front of a computer monitor is nodding in agreement. I spend time at home in front of the computer, too, and I am grateful when I turn off the machine and pick up a book.

I love the feel of a book, its heft in my hand: heavier for thicker books or hardbacks, lighter for some smaller and paperbacks. The distinct difference between hardback and paperback is not wholly determined by the difficulty factor in keeping the pages open while the reader is opening the candy bar wrapper. (I nearly wrote “peeling an orange,” but no one would believe that piety from me.)

Books allow for curling up in bed or stretching out on the floor, lying on a towel on the beach or on a blanket under a tree.

Books give something for the cat to aim for (required by Divine Cat Law: Thou shall recline on whatever the Human is reading, or if all else fails, recline on the Human).

During daylight hours, light reflection rarely if ever blinds readers to the words on the page. In contrast, try dialing the phone or seeing a digital photo in an LCD panel when the sun is in the wrong position for reading.

And how often does a reader want to lament the inability to read because the battery is dead? (Unless you’re eight years old and reading under the bedsheets, batteries usually are not necessary for reading.)

I could go on and on about why I prefer books to handheld devices, but it comes down to tactile satisfaction. I want to hold what I read. I want to hold the pages between my fingers as I reach the end of a page, flip the pages, use my hedgehog bookmark, pretend to not read ahead on the page when the tension rises in the storyline…. I want the satisfaction of holding a volume in my hand, seeing how much I have read by looking at where the bookmark juts out at the top of the book.

I am not a Luddite. I appreciate the machine for its uses. I just wouldn’t want to use it for one of my true joys in life: curling up with a book. On this topic, Thomas Jefferson and I agree: I cannot live without books.

If I am Missing or Dead - Review by Chris

Memoirs are under great scrutiny by readers, and they should be. Memoirs are not fiction. Now, recounting a conversation from 20 years ago may require a certain amount of backfill, and I do not begrudge an additional “What do you mean?” in re-created dialogue.

However, when writers make up criminal records, life experiences and characters, as did Jonathan Frey in A Million Little Pieces, they must admit to writing fiction.

If I Am Missing or Dead: A Sister's Story of Love, Murder, and Liberation is not fiction. Janine Latus has written a chilling memoir that is brutally honest about herself and her family. It hearkens to another unsentimental and unrelenting recent memoir, The Glass Castle.

The description on the dust jacket of If I am Missing or Dead is gripping: Amy, Latus’ youngest sister, fears for her life while in a romantic relationship. When Amy goes missing, and a few days later is found dead, her boyfriend is charged with murder.

Although the dust jacket begins there, the author instead begins his memoir with her birth as the twin who survives. What she survives as she grows up, however, are insidious horrors. At nearly every step of the way, she finds danger with even the safest of people. Alcoholic, abusive, abandoning, suspicious — and those are the keepers with whom she builds her life.

Please do not mistake this for The Bastard Out of Carolina or Jude the Obscure, novels so dark and foreboding I wept as I read them (and in the case of the former, refused to read beyond page 70). Latus treads softly and masterfully. As the horrifying facts of her tale unfold, her telling of them is amazingly honest and revealing.

Latus takes readers out of their personal safety zones with clear, precise, startlingly crisp language and honest self-revelations. These revelations are acts of bravery. Readers can envision exactly what she describes, whether the gift from her husband is jewelry, vicious cruelty or a sound beating.

She does not retreat from telling the truth about her life and choices. Never judgmental, Latus observes her sister’s plight at the same time she reveals her own. Latus does not need to draw parallels, instead allowing readers to judge for themselves.

Amy, Latus and others in this memoir remain human. Even the “bad guys,” though cruel and abusive, are never vilified. She lets the story speak for itself, a rare gift in today’s writings.

With this book, Latus answered a question I harbored for years: what prompts a woman with whom I can identify to stay in a situation I would like to think I would not tolerate? The author is educated, financially self-supporting and independent — all qualities I identify with self-sufficiency and autonomy, and qualities I like to think I share. Even Amy, in her final days, remained smart and level-headed, leaving behind enough evidence to help her searchers and defenders in case of her demise. So how can women similar to me wind up there?

It's a lot of things, Latus proves. It's not understanding that someone does not have the right to treat another in that way. It's cumulative: throw a creature into a pot of boiling water, the creature will fight for her life — but place her in a pot of slowly heating water and she will allow herself to boil to death. It's believing the lies because you believe in the liar. It's a pinch of shame and a dash of self-loathing. It's different for everyone but painful for all.

This was a very good book with a humbling story. I recommend it — and I hope it will start people thinking and talking.

Plain Truth - Review by Chris

The premise of Plain Truth by Jodi Picoult was intriguing: a zealous prosecutor and gleeful police detective accuse an unmarried Amish teenager of murdering her newborn. A defense attorney at her own crossroads takes on the case and comes to terms with her own life and career while doing her job.

Unfortunately, the novel does not live up to this potential. The story loses interest very early with trite characters and unimaginative plot developments. The author throws in a few red herrings, which were frustrating. Worse than that, the final plot twist, while not outside the realm of possibility, presented a wholly unexplored character development.

I have finished mediocre books because of their compelling storylines or satisfactory character development. In this case, the whodunit ensnared me. Unfortunately, its resolution was completely unwelcome and disappointing, and made me wish I had not read the last few pages.

The two Picoult books I have read (Plain Truth and My Sister’s Keeper, and not in that order) follow the same formula: a young woman needs legal assistance. She gets an attorney who, acting as an older sister, provides life lessons, protects her from herself as well as her own family and helps her maneuver through the minefield of the legal system. The attorney encounters a love from the past and surrenders to it. No matter what happens to the defendant, the lawyer lives happily ever after. And watch for the shocking plot twists.

In Plain Truth, the characters’ self-discoveries are unoriginal. The lawyer Ellie burned out winning cases for unsavory people and she assumes this Amish “innocent” is the same. Ellie moves to the Amish family’s farm while preparing for the trial, and the bucolic farm gives space to find herself, away from the big city and her unsatisfactory life. Her old friend — the only one who can help her case — is a college flame who is (conveniently) divorced.

Meanwhile, the defendant Katie is having pedestrian affairs and complications from leaving the farm. The supernatural occurrences central to Katie’s character development are nothing more than a careless and awkward connection to what appears to be an auxiliary character.

Other characters are two-dimensional and offer no surprises: a father whose identity with society supercedes the needs of his family, a mother who bends to her husband’s will but manages a single mutiny that brings about the family’s troubles, a steadfast love who can and must follow his heart at all cost to his dignity and pride, a brother whose banishment causes long-term ripples in the family, a callus and shallow “Englishman” whose intrusion in the family causes the expected lifelong disruption, and a community full of contrived and wholly unoriginal characters.

I do not intend to read another Picoult novel soon. Her formula doesn’t work for me.