www.annemoore.net

 

 

 

 

 

Reading: comfort and wisdom

Here’s what I’ve been reading and liking lately.

shoppingEvicted is a thick work of nonfiction by sociologist Matthew Desmond, about tenants and landlords in a poor part of Milwaukee. The book is richly told, detailed, Dickensian. I liked the telling more than the tale, which is depressing, heartbreaking, hopeless. Women and children, the disabled, the underemployed, the drug addicted losing their homes. Housing as a human right? I’m sold.

imagesOn to a big read, The Nix, by Nathan Hill, which tells the story of a young man who must reunite with the mother who abandoned him as a child, who has resurfaced as a political terrorist. This read is a wild ride that spans continents and decades, mostly set in and around contemporary Chicago. It’s a coming of age story, a love story, a satire, a terrifying on-the-ground retelling of the 1968 Chicago riots. 620 pages, so much to like.

images-1In my post-election funk, I needed comedy. Francine Prose’s Mister Monkey was my salve. From a musical that never goes out of style — Mister Monkey — we enter the lives of actors, the director, the author, a man and his grandson in the audience. What a delightful web! Each of their stories entrances; I especially loved the grandfather in the mix with today’s fussy parents and the school teacher on a first date from hell. Sweet, funny, surprising. A rollicking read.

Also in the blog

It’s so satisfying to be in the hands of a seasoned storyteller. In a row, I read three newly published novels written by authors who have been winning prizes and selling boatloads of books for decades. What sets their work apart? The art of storytelling: what to show, what to hold back. Dialogue, description, pace.

(...)

The last warm, sun-filled Sunday in September and I was heading to the underground Harris Theater to see Baryshnikov dance. When I mentioned my indoor plans for the afternoon, my neighbor snickered. I worried, too: would the great male dancer embarrass himself? Pas de tout. I’d seen Baryshnikov dance many times, in the mid-to-late 1970s,

(...)

At the end of two weeks in off-the grid Quebec, I braved the bright lights of a (now defunct) bookstore in the Ottawa airport. I had nothing left to read and a two-and-a-half hour flight ahead of me. I picked up Michael Ondaatje’s The English Patient, because I love books set during World War Two.

(...)