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| Name : | Donna K. |
My Reviews
Although we find ourselves shuttered in the solitary world of Aaylia and her books, the sounds and smells of Beruit become manifest through the windows and breezes, the rain and the streets. While reading I felt as one of the 'witches' did, small and inadequate because I am unfamiliar with so many of the authors and composers referenced. I am admittedly surprised such a tender, fragile inner life of a character was imagined by a man, it's even more surprising to find Alameddine was an engineer-two stereotypes for one shattered. I've highlighted so many vivid phrases and names of authors and composers mentioned in this book...I expect to be busy for a while.
There's not much more that I can say about A Tree Grows in Brooklyn other than to add my voice to the millions who've read and loved this true American classic, and what it means to me.
This is a pre-WWI coming-of-age story when life in Williamsburgh Brooklyn was simple but living was hard, when Williamsburgh was a last stop for the poor. It's a century before artists and hipsters claimed its warehouses and streets and Brooklyn was declared the most unaffordable place to live in the country. It's the Brooklyn that my parents were born in and never wanted to leave, which is now where, two generations after having left, my daughter lives.
I glimpsed my grandparents and great-grandparents on every page that is filled with familiar street names and lines from songs that were sung to me as a child. How funny to me to read neighborhood expressions that I first heard more than 50 years later-still in use in those Brooklyn neighborhoods. It made me nostalgic and homesick.
"There's no other place like it," Francie said. "Brooklyn. It's a magic city and it isn't real…it's mysterious here in Brooklyn…It's like-yes-like a dream."
Figured I\\\'d read this in college, especially as an English major. Definitely saw the Julie Christie/Terrence Stamp/Alan Bates movie (three heavy-hitters for me). Our book club decided to (re)read FFMC, view the old film, and catch the new one for a Hardy mash up.
As a romantic and Anglophile I was certain I\'d be swooning over Hardy\\\'s descriptions of rural England and tribulations of the hearts. Instead I discovered I\'ve become an impatient reader (less time left, still too many books to read) and while there are definite charms to his depictions of small town and 19th century farm life, the story-line was no more sophisticated than 21st century soaps. A strong-willed, capable young woman; an honest, masculine hero; a sexy, bad boy rascal; and a sad, lonely man of means...throw them all together and bob\'s your uncle.
As with Devil in the White City, it took a while for me to become engrossed in Larson\\\'s latest foray into history. But once I did I was completely immersed. Yes, there is a lot of dry detail about types of ships and subs, but you are holding your breath as Schwieger catches sight of the Lusitania in the periscope. Souls lost come to life again and you grieve with them and for them-one hundred years gone. Woodrow Wilson, just a comical black and white figure on old newsreels, is president again and his distraction with Edith and failure to act until two years into the war makes you want to scream. Do skim the notes for additional shorts, including a poem by William Watson, \\\"To America Concerning England\\\" in which he asks,
...The tiger from his den
Springs at thy mother\\\'s throat, and canst thou now
Watch with a stranger\\\'s gaze?
I vacillated between three and four stars for this little book. Right out of the gate it had a lot going for it for me, an Anglophile. It takes place in London. It's about a small community of barge dwellers (a long-standing fantasy of mine-to live on a houseboat, and on the Thames would be the epitome). It's set in the early 60s, critical to me and my nascent adolescence.
A number of reviews criticized its lack of plot, but the plot is secondary as it's a glimpse into the lives of a handful of souls who have been marginalized-physically, emotionally, some financially. Ordinarily this odd mix of people would not move in the same social circles, but due to exigent circumstances they're thrown in to literally sink or swim together.
As I'd known nothing about the book before picking it up to read for a book group, I found myself unsure as to its intent and it wasn't until the end that I realized there is much intentional black comedy. Good thing as I may have been chuckling at serious misfortune and would have thought myself a terrible person.
I expected to love this book-Cézanne, Chagall, Picasso, Pissarro, Paris, Provence, romance-what's not to love? Well for starters, the French cliches (everyone says oh là là), the pounding on about color (we get it, we get it), the fact that it drags out for 11 (?) years and all that time Lisette doesn't think to make cushions for the hard chairs in her little house. There are some vivid descriptions of the countryside, but, seriously does Vreeland need to prove her familiarity with Paris (which is questionable) by naming all the boulevards? The character of Bernard was so ridiculously over-the-top it felt like she was desperate for an antagonist (were the Nazis not enough?). In the end though I did look up Rousillon and found myself day dreaming about Arles and Avignon.
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