This was a research-driven choice. I needed to learn more, as close to first-hand as possible, about the British Kindertransport on the eve of World WThis was a research-driven choice. I needed to learn more, as close to first-hand as possible, about the British Kindertransport on the eve of World War II, a truly heroic program that took in 10,000 Austrian and German kids, most of them Jewish, as Hitler was scooping up their families for shipment to the concentration camps. Most of the kids, needless to say, never saw their families again. I say 'heroic' because England opened its doors to refugees even as other western nations turned a blind eye to what was going on, and refused to admit them. The last Kindertransport train arrived in London the day after England declared war on Germany, as Londoners desperately shoved their own kids onto the trains in a mass evacuation to protect them from German bombs. One of the characters in this memoir, a little girl, arrived on that train, having left behind her home, her family, her country, her language, and all her worldly possessions except those she could cram into a single small suitcase. It's an iconic scene.
As for the book itself, it's at some remove from its origin, unfortunately,and reads as a scrubbed-clean hagiography of its main subject, Lisa Jura Golabek. a piano prodigy from a Viennese family, who was lucky enough to get out of Austria, thanks to Kindertransport. After Lisa's death many decades later, her daughter put the book together with the help of a journalist. I don't envy that journalist, paid to galvanize the daughter's enshrined second-hand memories. She didn't succeed. But the naked facts of the time and place are enough to make this book worth reading. You don't hear much about the Kindertransport, and it should be a name we know as deeply and indelibly as 'The Holocaust'. ...more
Up front: Nona Mock Wyman is a good friend. Both individually and as part of an informal writers' group, I was one of those who helped her shape this Up front: Nona Mock Wyman is a good friend. Both individually and as part of an informal writers' group, I was one of those who helped her shape this memoir, her second, about growing up in the 1930's at Ming Quong, an orphanage for Chinese children in the San Francisco Bay area. As a historical document about immigrant Chinese in California, the book is invaluable, and as a personal document of the times, it's fascinating.
There aren't many lives, I think, that are worthy of two memoirs. Nona's is. At age three, she was abandoned by her single mom at Ming Quong, and she never set eyes on her mother again. In her first (self-published) memoir, published a dozen years ago, she recounts her own experiences of her childhood. In this second book, picked up by the fine Bay Area publisher, China Books, she tells the stories of her 'sisters', the other little girls she came to know and love at the orphanage, some happy, some tragic. Bernice Bing became a famous contemporary artist in the 1960's; her work hangs in San Francisco's de Young Museum. Rhoda Quan reveals to Nona that when she was a baby, her parents had given her to a wealthy Chinese family in San Francisco as a slave, a 'mui jai', where the matriarch beat her with a baseball bat. Carol Lum was the illegitimate daughter of another slave, a woman who had been raped and impregnated by her Chinese boss. To hide the child while she did her chores for the family upstairs, Carol's mother bound her to the toilet, sometimes for hours a day, leaving her thighs permanently scarred with the marks of her literal bondage. Jenny Lee, daughter of an impoverished and neglectful father, was saved from starvation by a local restaurant owner, who brought her scraps and leftovers.
But all the women survived these horrors, managing to become, for the most part, active and successful adults. Nona herself, who remembers only faintly her parental home, is one of the warmest, most generous and inspiring people I've ever met. What she learned at Ming Quong was to regard all of us, everyone, as beloved family members. To Nona, we're all of the same blood. ...more
Why don't you know this woman's name? This remarkable British/American woman, who died in 1979, was one of the foremost physicists of the Twentieth ceWhy don't you know this woman's name? This remarkable British/American woman, who died in 1979, was one of the foremost physicists of the Twentieth century, the first to recognize the chemical make-up of the sun, a discovery that instantly put many of the then-accepted notions of the universe itself into question. The eminent physicists she worked with at the Harvard Observatory--all men, needless to say--pooh-poohed her conclusions, and when her discoveries did come to prominence, it was her boss who got most of the credit. It's only in the last couple of decades that her name has become linked, in academia at least, with the praise it deserves. The rest of us dolts don't know who the heck she was. But this slender book can begin to correct that with its helpful forward by her daughter, which gives more background about her mother's life. Payne was a Renaissance woman, an independent spirit, a keen wit--and a fine writer. Her memoir is full of deep pleasures. ...more
I've gone on a cosmology bender in recent months, trying to get beyond my OMG mentality about the subject, and this kind, generous, humane book was a I've gone on a cosmology bender in recent months, trying to get beyond my OMG mentality about the subject, and this kind, generous, humane book was a gift. It wasn't easy for me to keep all the personalities separate, but I came to see these famous physicists as a big, happy, quarreling family that I only wish I could be a part of. I'm up for adoption, guys! --And Einstein...well, that's next, a really good biography of The Man.
PS: When a cousin visited earlier this summer, I waxed eloquent on my romance with cosmology, going on and on about how inspiring I found it all. He listened with full and generous attention, nodding and smiling, and then told me later that he only realized hours afterward that I wasn't talking about cosmetology....more
This is one of the most moving and memorable books I've read in years. Having just finished it, I feel as if I've come out of a fever dream--and I wanThis is one of the most moving and memorable books I've read in years. Having just finished it, I feel as if I've come out of a fever dream--and I want back in, despite the desperate tragedy of the story. Elegantly and sensitively written, it transcends its genre and becomes a written monument to the past. I read it with my iPad at my side so I could look up parallel info about the bigger events that affect the family, and to see many more photos than are published in the book. I even found myself Google-mapping the Ephrussi homes in Paris and Vienna, wondering if I'd walked by them on my trips in this last year. Almost. If only I'd read it before.
I'd been meaning to read this for years and finally dove in. Knowing that O'Brien used metafictional techniques had put me off: I want to be under theI'd been meaning to read this for years and finally dove in. Knowing that O'Brien used metafictional techniques had put me off: I want to be under the surface when I'm reading, not constantly yanked into the bright light of reality and told I'm reading fiction. Let me be. But on this topic, the Vietnam war, any war, and in the hands of Tim O'Brien, it's masterful, as close to being there as is possible without time travel. In that way, it answers my deepest need in fiction, that it's moral. How can it be moral, when the war itself and the behavior of the men in the book is often so gruesome, so cruel, so malignant? Because that's what war makes of human beings, and this book--because it's a classic of The War Story form--will not let you forget it. That's its morality. ...more
This book is almost too painful to read--because the topic itself is horrifying and because Joan Didion couldn't bear to write about it. Her thoughts This book is almost too painful to read--because the topic itself is horrifying and because Joan Didion couldn't bear to write about it. Her thoughts skitter away whenever she takes aim at the core of the book, her daughter's death and the decades leading up to it when Quintana Roo was suicidal and self-destructive. Because she can't hold her aim, all Didion's usual literary techniques of incantatory questions and images turn hollow, and she writes by rote, by instinct, because if she doesn't write she'll die. This is not a woman who will pretend she's okay when she isn't, which is what we all learn to do, to be strong, to say No, I'm fine, I'm fine. She isn't and she never will be again. The final scene, when she recounts a recent fall in her home that left her sprawled and bleeding on the floor, alone in an apartment emptied of everyone she loves, is a solemn, perfect rush of agony and grief. ...more
After many years away from his homeland of Sri Lanka, Michael Ondaatji returned in 1978 and 1980 to capture the history of his exotic family. They bloAfter many years away from his homeland of Sri Lanka, Michael Ondaatji returned in 1978 and 1980 to capture the history of his exotic family. They bloom as luxuriantly in this book as the Ceylonese jungle. Ondaatji's method is poetic and oblique, fragmentary, tender, and laden with glamor and tragedy. ...more
As someone with a long-standing chronic illness myself I was curious to see how Ansay handled her own. Mostly she succeeds, though the continual complAs someone with a long-standing chronic illness myself I was curious to see how Ansay handled her own. Mostly she succeeds, though the continual complaints she makes her medical care make me wonder how cooperative she was herself. Cloaked in the saintly voice of a literary artist, her travail began to hit me like an auto-hagiography. ...more
I read this in parallel with the recent, excellent bio of Stark, Passionate Nomad, by Jane Fletcher Geniess. Stark's lyrical descriptions of people anI read this in parallel with the recent, excellent bio of Stark, Passionate Nomad, by Jane Fletcher Geniess. Stark's lyrical descriptions of people and settings in the Middle East are matched only by T. E. Lawrence. I became a nuisance with this book, trailing my husband around the house, reading out quotes. ...more
Sjoholm should have re-titled this book and re-written those first couple of chapters. Packaged as is, they make for a misleading hook, thus all theseSjoholm should have re-titled this book and re-written those first couple of chapters. Packaged as is, they make for a misleading hook, thus all these disappointed, even exasperated, readers. I find myself wondering if the flashy title was her publisher's idea, and she wrote those early Grace O'Malley chapters more with more hope than good judgment. They don't belong in this otherwise fine book--or at least they don't belong in this form, in which Sjoholm promises a much different book than she delivers. What she delivers is excellent, both educational and entertaining. She got me interested in a topic I felt I had very little interest in, no small feat. She's a travel writer, first and foremost, with the travel writer's propensity toward some autobiography. I like that. But the title is a problem--and it's lost her many potential fans, I feel sure....more
This is a five-star jealousy rating. Oh, to have had the intellectual riches of Oliver Sacks' childhood. It's not possible anymore, even if you have eThis is a five-star jealousy rating. Oh, to have had the intellectual riches of Oliver Sacks' childhood. It's not possible anymore, even if you have equally intelligent, indulgent, slightly disconnected parents, who let him do what he wished, when he wished, how he wished--allowing him, over years, to play in an under-the-stairs chemistry lab, where he nearly blew himself and the house sky-high many times. Safety glasses? Fire protection? Concerns about poisonous fumes? Never mind! And how pale all my relatives look in comparison to Sacks'. I have eccentrics in my bloodline, but the eccentrics in Sacks' family were brilliant polymaths. Ah, for a time machine and a genetic makeover. ...more
This book had been on my to-read list for years, but it was only when Karr's new memoir came out, LIT, that I finally devoured THE LIAR'S CLUB. It's oThis book had been on my to-read list for years, but it was only when Karr's new memoir came out, LIT, that I finally devoured THE LIAR'S CLUB. It's one of those books that's painfully good--drawing me down so deeply into its world that I felt the same degree of imprisonment that Karr did as a kid. Sometimes I just had to shut the thing and put it aside, especially when I was reading in bed. It'd keep me awake, those words of hers. LIT is now a must-read. ...more
A classic of neurology case reports for the non-clinical reader interested in brain and behavior. I first read this book--it has one of the most irresA classic of neurology case reports for the non-clinical reader interested in brain and behavior. I first read this book--it has one of the most irresistible titles is all of literature--back in the early nineties and have been a loyal fan of Oliver Sacks since. He previews his books in the New Yorker, and if I discover a new Sacks piece before my husband does, I hide the magazine so I can read it first. He does the same. While on a Thangksgiving trip to my mom's last week, I plucked this book off her shelves--I gave it to her, I think--and got hooked all over again, awed both by the clinical details of the patients and Sacks' great warmth of insight. I keep a sort of mental list of people whose brains I wish I could inhabit whole, and Sacks is one of them. ...more
I go back to this fine book when I feel lonely for Wyoming, where I lived for five years back when I was a journalist. I fell in love with the place. I go back to this fine book when I feel lonely for Wyoming, where I lived for five years back when I was a journalist. I fell in love with the place. My first novel is set there. Rawlins' book is an extended prose poem, exploring the land of the mind as much as the land that lies beneath the feet, but both are beautifully evoked. ...more
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