S.M.C.'s Reviews

I first found myself captivated by the pictures of Dee Williams’ tiny 84-square-foot house. It is sweet, cozy, innovative, and beautiful all at once. Then I started reading Dee’s memoir and found myself captivated by the intention, adventure, bravery, and insight that went into her decision to build and live in such a small space. Humbled by a friend’s illness and a trip to Guatemala, Dee was handed a dose of humility. She sold the three-bedroom bungalow that she was constantly remodeling, and downsized—but in a sustainable and humble way. This is a graceful, inspiring memoir about building a home from scratch—and discovering a true sense of self, in just 84 square feet.

Journalist Katy Butler was living on the other side of the country when she got the call that her 79-year-old father had suffered a crippling stroke due to his failing heart. She quickly flew across the country and joined her elderly mother to be at her father’s bedside. She watched as doctors fitted her father with a pacemaker that saved his heart but did nothing to prevent her father from falling into a “slow decline” toward death. Where is the line between saving a life and prolonging death? With her scientific background, her gift for storytelling, and her ability to look at a systemic problem in our medical system, Butler set out to explore this challenge. But her quest had barely begun when her mother was suddenly faced with a harsh diagnosis of her own. Having just watched her husband get trapped in a medical labyrinth, Butler’s mother refused treatment and decided to look at death straight on, without medical intervention other than palliative care. Butler’s experience of watching her parents go through aging and dying in these two very different ways led her to Slow Medicine, a movement toward reclaiming “good deaths.” Part memoir, part medical history, and part spiritual quest, Knocking on Heaven’s Door is riveting and beautifully written, and it also bravely poses questions that can help all of us relook at the scared path of death and dying. Don’t miss our event with Katy Butler on July 10th.

Kevin Brockmeier first caught my attention with Illumination, his beautiful novel that uses a dash of magical realism to trace the seam of empathy and visibility in a world where we so often fail to see one another. Illumination stands out in the way that it is expansive and far reaching. So, I was curious to see what Brockmeier would do with a memoir that is so focused and concise—a memoir whose entire focus is on one year: Brockmeier’s experience of seventh grade. Brockmeier tells the story of his twelve-year old self in third person, he is Kevin, a kid “who cries too easily and laughs too easily” but “he is trying hard not to be him anymore, that kid.” What comes next is a chronicle of awareness, of awkward first kisses, and friends that turn enemies, and creativity squashed and encouraged and squashed again. Kevin is the kind of kid that knows awkwardness and loneliness and small victories while they are happening. His 12-year-old self is astute and awake enough to grasp exactly how harrowing growing up can be. So in the end, Brockmeier offers us in non-fiction what he does in fiction: universality. We share the feeling of frailty and of hope—of a life experienced in all its brave triumphs of faltering, humor, falling, landing, and holding on.

Gretel Ehrlich, poet and award winning nature-writer, was stunned when she heard the news of Japan’s earthquake and Tsunami in 2011. Japan’s Tohoku’s coast, now ravished by the disaster, was where Ehrlich had lived years earlier while studying Japanese art and poetry. After hearing the news, Ehrlich was compelled to visit the devastated region and bear witness to the reality behind the headlines. In a poet’s deft and observing language, Ehrlich balances her own reaction with those of the survivors, blending poetry, scientific observation, and survivor’s testimony into one. Facing the Wave is a mosaic of observation and witnessing that speaks to the harrowing devastation of a region affected, but also to the intimate awe of a people holding hope and gaining ground after the wake of tragedy. This is a beautiful blend of refection and reporting that makes for a stunning read.

I have been in awe of Jennifer Vanderbes since the publication years ago of one of my favorite novels ever: Easter Island. So when I saw that she had another novel coming out, I greeted it with bated breath and The Secret of Raven Point did not disappoint. Telling the story of Juliet, a young woman growing up during World War II, Vanderbes hands us a novel that is part coming-of-age tale, part mystery, and part wartime narrative. When Juliet’s older brother goes missing in action as an American soldier battling the German army overseas, Juliet lies about her age, then trains and enlists as a nurse to get as close as she can to the point her brother was last seen. Stationed in a field hospital in Italy, Juliet is thrown into the chaos of wartime life. She quickly finds herself surrounded by a makeshift family of fellow nurses, patients, soldiers, and doctors whose lives and small actions create intimacy and meaning under such perilous conditions. Juliet is caught between allowing her new life to shape and form her, and her own loyalty toward that of her missing brother, whose whereabouts remain veiled. This is a novel about holding faith beyond reason, about transgression and transformation, and about how when seeking truth about another, it is impossible to not also find truth about yourself. A poignant, lasting story, for anyone who is a fan of Call the Midwife; Vanderbes’ new novel shows off her skills in their highest form.

The power and charm of this debut novel is hard to describe. The compact length makes it possible to devour it in one sitting. Oddly, the heroine of the novel is never named, and we know her simply as “the wife.” A new mother, a colicky baby, faltering feelings toward her husband that she knows is a good man, a case of New York bedbugs—what could be innocuous calamities turn true and deep in the honest consuming musing of this young mother. In a language that simmers with longing and wit, this is a love story at full speed—with bracing emotional insights and piercing meditations about despair, love, and the capacious experience of motherhood. Truly, the power of Dept. of Speculation is stunning, it’s the kind of book you pass along the second you finish it, just so you have someone to talk about it with.

Ann Patchett found an old musty copy of this out-of-print novel in a used bookstore and after reading it, worked her prowess to bring it back to print. Oh, what a gift she has given us. Jeannette Haien wrote this Irish novel in the 1980s as her debut. The story seems deceptively simple, but has a lasting power and resonance of myth. Opening with a scene of a Catholic Priest fishing in horrible weather conditions, we learn quickly that Father Declan’s sporty endeavor was spurred by a confession by one of his parishioners the day before. After the death of her husband, Edna confesses to Father Declan the “all of it” and reveals a secret that goes back 50 years. Edna’s story puts Father Declan in a crisis of empathy versus absolution, and the resolution of his conflict is what gives this book it’s lasting power.

This is not an easy read in terms of subject matter, but readers who appreciated Joan Didion’s Year of Magical Thinking will instantly recognize the strength and determination of Sonali Deraniyagala’s memoir. On the morning of December 26, 2004, on the southern coast of Sri Lanka, Deraniyagala lost her parents, her husband, and her two young sons in the tsunami she miraculously survived. The opening chapters of this book are searing in their descriptive power, and there is little distance between the reader and the tsunami’s swallowing force. As Deraniyagala shifts from the horrifying chaos of the tsunami to her own clenched admittance that she has survived a tragedy she wishes she hadn’t, there is a frank and ferocious edge to her voice. The reader is never unaware of the teetering edge of Deraniyagala’s narrative: that tentative balance she holds in remembering her family, and the almost unbearable loss that such remembering puts her in. This is a book that speaks to the genre of memoir—the paradox of keeping stories and people alive within us, and the depth and tugging force that such a telling can create.

The Bronte sisters may have found their literary sibling match in the writing of the Wolff brothers. I have long been a fan of Tobias Wolff (This Boys Life), but knew little about his older brother Geoffrey, but after reading this autobiographical essay collection, I am stunned by command that both these brothers have over language and story. In A Day at the Beach, Wolff shares lessons from a life observed. Whether he is detailing a disastrous story from a boyhood Christmas or his struggle as an adult to teach literature as a visiting teacher in Istanbul, Wolff shares the wisdom that comes through hardship and hazard. The brilliance of Geoffrey Wolf’s writing goes without saying, but there is something else there—an implicit holding of frailty and wonder to have lived a full life and come out on the other side.