A Woman Looking at Men Looking at Women, by Siri Hustvedt: A magisterial collection of essays on perception, gender relations, and painting, amongst other things. Hustvedt has had a lively interest in the mind for many years; she introduces the book as a series of attempts to resolve (and thereby reject) CP Snow’s “two cultures” dichotomy. The first section–mostly cultural criticism, including essays on Pina Bausch and Knausgaard–doesn’t require much specialist knowledge. The second and third, which focus more heavily on neuroscience, particularly on what’s known as “the mind-body problem”, require concentration. By no means an easy book, but one that has made me think and will reward rereading.
The Five, by Hallie Rubenhold: This group biography of the “canonical five” women presumed to have been killed by the same person–known to history as Jack the Ripper–in 1888 is long overdue. Rubenhold gives each woman her own section, exploding sensationalist myths and prejudices with every word. Only one of the five, for instance, was employed as a sex worker; only one (the same one) was under twenty-five. More significant are the facts that the majority were alcoholics, and separated from a husband. Compassionate and unsentimental, Rubenhold’s description of the trajectories of their lives makes the similarities between these women and the homeless population of modern London painfully clear. I’ve written a longer piece on this here.
The Library Book, by Susan Orlean: Orlean’s been a staff writer on The New Yorker for over twenty-five years, which explains why this book reads so much like an extended New Yorker article (and even makes reference to one that I’ve found haunting since first reading it, about maybe-falsely-convicted-of-arson Cameron Todd Willingham). That’s not necessarily bad, but The Library Book tries to do a lot simultaneously: provide a history of the LA Public Library, be a series of profiles on the people who work there now, and investigate the fire that destroyed half the collection in 1986. It’s engaging, but its sense of purpose often falters.
Dark Eden, by Chris Beckett: Managed to completely forget that I read this over the weekend, which isn’t to say it’s unmemorable. The prose is intentionally limited (mostly); to emphasize or intensify, a word is repeated (so we get a lot of “cold cold” and “big big”). It’s Beckett’s reflection of a society that has developed on an exoplanet and descended from only two people, a criminal who crashlanded a stolen ship there and the policewoman who followed him and chose to remain on the planet instead of facing probable death in an attempt to return to Earth. Theologically and sociologically, Beckett’s created something fascinating, but the emphasis on innate masculine innovativeness and drive leaves a slightly unpleasant aftertaste.
Lanny, by Max Porter: I’m not disputing that Porter writes well. His first novel, Grief Is the Thing With Feathers, was a linguistic knockout, and an emotional one as a direct result of that expressiveness. Lanny convinces me a little bit less–it’s a story about a strange, ethereal boy whose parents have moved the family to a commuter village in the Home Counties, and who catches the attention of the village’s resident guardian spirit/Green Man archetype, known in legend as Dead Papa Toothwort. The central section, driven by a frantic search for missing Lanny, is gripping and terrifying reading, but I’m not sure what the ultimate purpose or thesis of the book is. The countryside is brutal and weird? Strange children usually turn out fine?
Currently reading: I’m about to start Nick Coleman’s Voices, a compilation of essays about famous musicians (Billie Holiday, Janis Joplin, Mick Jagger and my beloved Joni Mitchell among them).