Tag: books

Books read in November 2020

How to Stop Time by Matt Haig – 6 h 7 mins. Lovely, light read about a man who ages so slowly that he has been alive for centuries. The book explores the ideas of family and history and time and perspective. I enjoyed the speculative history parts, particularly meeting Shakespeare.

Burial at Thebes by Seamus Heaney. Hard copy. Heaney’s adaptation of Euripides’ Antigone. I had wanted to read some of Heaney’s poetry, being unfamiliar with it. This play was the first thing available at the library. It read surprisingly modern, almost jarringly so. Perhaps that is because in my head the story of Antigone is an ancient one. I have vague memories of reading Anouilh’s version in high school French class. Heaney’s version focuses not so much on Antigone’s story, but rather that of Creon and his megalomania.

The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo by Taylor Jenkins Reid – 6h 36m. Engrossing story of an aging Hollywood film star and the journalist who is helping her write her memoirs. I’m not sure if I really connected with any of the characters, but this book was really well constructed and deftly plotted. I was mesmerized and stayed up until 3am to finish it.

Poser by Claire Dederer – audiobook read by Christine Williams. I had heard an interview with Dederer on the podcast Everything Is Fine, and I thought she had a lot of very sensible thoughts about being a woman over 40. This book is a memoir told through yoga poses. She took up yoga to help with back pain that developed while breastfeeding and writes about how her yoga journey mirrored her own life’s journey. There were a lot of really thoughtful ideas about identity and how we search for identity even as it changes. I do think, though, I am getting a little fatigued with the genre of new mother personal essays. Whereas personal essays about new motherhood used to make me really feel seen and not so alone, they now feel a little cliched, and the domain of a certain demographic. Maybe I need to read about more diverse motherhood experiences?

Loveboat, Taipei by Abigail Hing Wen – 6h 48m. When I was a high school student in Southern California, people in the Taiwanese community talked about Loveboat all the time. It was a cultural exchange program in Taiwan for teenagers – not officially called Love Boat, but referred to as such for all the matchmaking that resulted in its pressure cooker of newfound independence. I never went – it sounded really intense to me. Wen’s book is a YA novel about Ever Wong, whose parents ship her off to Loveboat. There she does the requisite self discovery and flirting with romance and bonding with girlfriends. I must say this book really did make me a little nervous to have a teenager. s

Also in November, two audiobooks we listened to on our trips to the Shenandoahs, both given high approval ratings from the eight year old:
Nim’s Island by Wendy Orr, narrated by Kate Reading – I loved this adventure story featuring the resourceful Nim.
The Wild Robot by Peter Brown, narrated by Kate Atwater – Such a great story about a robot finding her way and herself with the help of a colourful cast of animal friends.

Where the Wild Things Are

Our dog eared copy of the beloved classic.

That very night in Max’s room a forest grew and grew – and grew until his ceiling hung with vines and the walls became the world all around and an ocean tumbled by with a private boat for Max and sailed off through night and day and in and out of weeks and almost over a year to where the wild things are. – from Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak

I feel as if suddenly it’s spring. Not just spring, but late spring, verging on summer. Somehow we missed spring, while sitting at home during a pandemic. The cherry blossoms (which are always an indicator here) peaked at the beginning of the stay at home orders. Usually the cherry blossoms are time marker for me, but this year, it was a blip, barely registering.

My cousin Karen has been writing daily on Facebook, each post labelled with the day number. I think if it were not for her posts and for the daily posts of other blogs I read, I would have absolutely no sense of what day it is or how deep into stay-at-home orders we are. When I’m working, the rhythm of time is pretty much defined by when in the process we are (ie. prep, rehearsal, tech, or performance) and when the next free day is. Without those markers, time seems to be particularly slippery.

Several years ago, when the eight year old was a baby, there was a knock on our door and it was our across the street neighbor with two shopping bags full of book they had our grown. In that pile was a well worn copy of Maurice Sendaks Where the Wild Things Are. These days, the three year old has been really into reading Sendaks classic are at bedtime, there is something beautifully apt about Max’s story – how our walls are now our “world all around” as we sail “in and out of weeks.” I feel as if we are living with a pack of feral creatures who root in the pantry and fridge for food when the whim strikes, leaving mess and havoc in their wake.

To be sure, part of this is my own fault – perhaps I should not have left the three year old alone with a spray bottle, two cups of water, and some water colour paints. My hopes that he would docilely create art while I showered were laughably naive. I emerged from the shower to shouts from the 8 year old trying to contain the mess, and a rainbow of water spread on the floor, while the three year old stood on his chair, the spray bottle topless and empty. There are definitely terrible eyes being rolled and terrible roars and terrible teeth being gnashed. Sometime they are mine.

Unlike Max, I have no tricks to tame the beasts. Though come to think of it, his trick seems mainly to embrace the wild rumpus, even to instigate it. Maybe I should try more of that. Perhaps that is what we can learn from the little boy in the wolf suit. That at the end of the day, once we have exhausted ourselves rumpus-ing, we just want to be where someone loves us best of all. And where dinner is hot.