James, by Percival Everett

I'm not sure why it took me so long to get to reading James. I got my copy in March of 2024 when Percival Everett did a reading and signing at P&T Knitwear in New York. It looks like I went out of town a few days later and when I came back, I read other things. Or I didn't read at all, for a while there. It's sat on my shelf ever since. The fact that it's a hardcover edition didn't help – I always prefer to read paperbacks. And I think part of my hesitation was the subject matter itself. I wasn't sure I wanted to retread Huck Finn, even if I did trust Everett to do it well. It's been a very long time since I read Huckleberry Finn – I'm not even sure I've read it in its entirety. But I'm familiar with it in the way anyone who grew up here (at least when I did) must probably be.

I'm also not sure what led me to pull it out to read just over a week ago. I was about to finish Dooneen and was scanning my shelves and I looked at James and wondered, why haven't I read it yet? So I laid it out and a couple days later, I started it. I read nearly 100 pages in that first sitting. 

One of the things I've always marveled at in Everett's books is the way he can meld comedy and tragedy, with a humor that is often ironic and biting, but James has less of that type of comedy than, for instance, The Trees or Erasure. It's a very tender book. I wrote very little about Telephone when I read it, but it's probably closer in mood to James than the other Everett books I've read.

Once I was into it, there were a few times when my anxiety about reading it did make me pause. The middle section in particular, when Jim and Huck were traveling and running into various risky situations was the most stressful. I found I could often read only one chapter at a time. Oddly, the situation gets arguably worse in the latter third of the book, but I didn't find that as hard going. At the conclusion I felt – and I think this is how one must feel – that Percival Everett made Huckleberry Finn make sense. 

Maigret at the Gai-Moulin, by Georges Simenon; Dooneen, by Keith Ridgway

A few weeks ago I was with my dad at a thrift store in Bay Ridge and I found a stack of Georges Simenon Maigret books. I'd never read any Simenon, but I had watched and enjoyed the recent Maigret adaptation, so I bought the lot – eight books in total. I knew there were a lot of Maigret books, but when I went to figure out the order mine belonged in, I was shocked to see just how many – and across what timespan: 75 novels, plus an additional 28 short stories, published over a period of more than 40 years! I started with Maigret at the Gai-Moulin because it was the earliest among the books I bought. Published in 1931, it's the tenth Maigret novel. 

I expected the book to be set in Paris, but in fact this one takes place in Belgium. Maigret almost seems a minor character in the book. He doesn't turn up until well along in the story, when he turns out to have been trailing the murder victim, a wealthy Greek man whose body is found in a basket at the zoo. Of course he interferes with the case, bests the local police, and solves the crime for them. The more central figure in the book is a young man who is suspected of the murder – a good kid who's gotten caught up with a bad crows. When Maigret clears him of the murder, he cleans up his ways and is sent off to do the king's work in the Belgian Congo, so surely everything will have worked out for him in the long run!

Last week, just as I was finishing the Maigret book, the latest installment from my New Directions subscription showed up: Dooneen, by Keith Ridgway and I decided to go right into it. I hadn't heard of the author and the book may not even be officially out yet in the U.S. if Amazon's publication date is to be trusted. I read just the beginning of the blurb on the back and thought it sounded like interesting speculative fiction, and I have to admit I was very drawn to the design of the edition. 

Some minor spoilers follow.  

 

June Books

She Who Remains was the latest choice for my Women in Translation Book Club. It turned out to be a somewhat controversial book in our discussion. I guess we've had differing opinions on books before, but this seemed more contentious than usual. There were questions about whether it was exploitative, about who has the right to tell this story, about the choice to use the Sworn Virgin terminology, about whether some aspects of the storytelling were lazy. Some of these were questions I had while reading the book. And yet, I also have the question of whether it was worth all this discussion in the first place. 

That said, I liked She Who Remains quite a bit more than I expected to. It's disjointed and in fragments with variable formatting and punctuation. When I saw the text visually - without reading it at all, I thought it was going to be an impenetrable slog. I don't have much tolerance for freeform text. But it turned out not to be a slow read. I got through it quite quickly and found it easy to get into. But while it tackles some very serious subjects, I didn't find that it had a lot of substance. I had nothing much to say about it.

It feels a little funny to include it here, but on Saturday I read -- cover-to-cover -- a book my uncle gave me for Christmas in 1983: White Wash and Pink Feathers, the story of Petros the pelican, a celebrity on Mykonos since his arrival there in 1958 until his death in 1985 (which I only just learned of when I searched up Petros). My uncle went to Mykonos annually as far back as I can remember and often brought me back gifts from there, but this book was probably the first. My uncle went into home hospice care on Saturday and passed away in the early hours of Sunday morning. And so on Saturday morning, I went into my jewelry box and put on a necklace he got me from Mykonos a few years ago and a bracelet he got me from I don't know where some 20 years ago, and I found White Wash and Pink Feathers, which I kept among a small selection of books from my childhood and I sat down and read it. I think my parents probably read me parts of the book -- or maybe even the whole thing; it's not very long -- when I was a kid, but I certainly didn't remember much. It recounts Petros' life on Mykonos from when he was a young pelican (supposedly with his parents and an aunt and uncle? I don't know how much truth there is to this story) who survived a storm that killed most of his family. The book recounts Petros' friendship and fame among humans, but also with some other birds on the island (a stork from Russia, a rooster, a few other pelicans). It's also very much about Mykonos and the changes on the island from the 1950s to the 1980s, with the increase in tourism. I imagine the island of the 2020s looks quite different from the one of 1982, the year of the book's publication - let alone when Petros arrived there in 1958.

On Sunday I started Ann Leckie's latest, Radiant Star, and I finished it this morning before work. I was very excited when I heard she had a new book out. I ordered it from the library a few weeks back. Of course my hold came through while I was out of the country, so I sent it back into circulation (or thought I did) and ordered it again and my second hold showed up just before I returned home. When I went to pick it up at my local branch, both copies were there waiting for me in the hold section, which made me feel a little bad but there wasn't a waitlist anymore so not that bad. I had heard mixed to negative reports from several other folks reading it, so my hopes were tempered, but in the end I really liked it. Someone pointed out that it may be playing on a different genre from some of Leckie's earlier books, and I would certainly say it had a different voice. The story is not told as a first person narrative, but the unknown narrator -- maybe the storyteller more accurately, has a very distinctive tone and interjects quite a lot in a way that I don't recall as a feature of the other books. Radiant Star ends up being mostly about power struggles among several factions with unlikeable leadership, but it also felt like a prequel to stories to come. Perhaps I'll need to reread it if a successor arrives. 

Absence, by Andrew Dana Hudson; All Systems Red, by Martha Wells

The author of Absence is an acquaintance from the internet. I'm not sure I would have heard about it otherwise – I'm not very up on new books these days. There was a book event here in Brooklyn, so I went and I got my copy of the book there. This was the same book event where I picked up The Old Man by the Sea and I started Absence just after finishing that book. (I might have read it first, except that it's a somewhat bulky hardcover and with my travel plans I preferred a slim paperback.) I heard the first two chapters at the event, so it was as if I had already started it. 

Absence is about sort of a slow apocalypse. The sudden and unpredictable disappearance of people over a period of years, resulting in an ever-diminishing global population, and everything that might entail. It was fun to read what Hudson imagined might happen in this circumstance: some positive changes, some ambiguous, some predictably bad outcomes. I was also really impressed with the way the book handled the uncertainty of the conflicting potential truths in the story. I feel like the conclusion could have been very unsatisfying, but it wasn't.

Perhaps because I had heard the author in discussion talking about writing this book, I found myself paying a lot of attention to the structure – at least, more than I usually do. I'm more likely to focus on language when it comes to writing craft, but the structure of Absence really impressed me. It has more than 100 chapters, across several sections – most of which encompass one day. Part of the book includes a woven narrative of past and present, which I think is when I first noticed the structure. The narrative about the past was brought in to give the reader some background on the narrator, and when you got everything you needed to know, it ended – but it was so seamless, I couldn't tell you when it returned to being just the single, present narrative. 

Absence is a fast-paced book. I tore through the latter two-thirds of it in just a couple days. I would have finished it much sooner if not for the fact that, on whim inspired by the same Discord group where I'm connected to the author, I decided to experiment with the novelty of requesting holds from the library.

I'm an enthusiastic supporter of libraries in theory – and an annual donor to both the New York and Brooklyn Public Library, but I rarely actually use the library in practice. Several of my online friends were talking about putting a hold on the new Ann Leckie book, Radiant Star and I thought, I should do that! So I did. And while I was at it, I also put a hold on the first Murderbot book, All Systems Red, because I'd been curious about the books. I enjoyed the TV show and people said the books were fun, and fun was what I was in the mood for. My hold came in within just a couple days and – magic! – I could just walk over to my nearest branch and grab it off the shelf and take it home with me. 

I was a little worried the fact that I had watched the TV show would spoil the book. Maybe it did a little (though also the TV show took a turn that wasn't in the book, or at least as I recall it), but I am a completist by nature and I didn't want to start the series anywhere but book one. I also wanted to see if I enjoyed the book as a reading experience. I did! I'm not going to put the next one on hold jut yet because I have some travel over the next few weeks, but I look forward to reading it when I'm back. Libraries: what a concept!

The Old Man by the Sea, by Domenico Starnone

The week before last I went to a book event at a bookstore in the neighborhood where I lived as a teenager – a neighborhood I was surprised to find had a bookstore now. I already knew I would be buying two books: the one for the event I was attending, and Molly Crabapple's Here Where We Live is Our Country, which I had been meaning to pick up. And besides, I wanted to support this bookstore in my old neighborhood. I browsed the fiction while I was waiting for the event to start and I saw The Old Man By the Sea. Domenico Starnone is a perennial favorite of mine, and so I decided to get a third book while I was there.

I will usually finish a Domenico Starnone book in a day or two. All the ones I've read  – this one included – are quite short. But last week was busy and it ended up taking me a full week. I read about half of it on the train to and from a visit upstate for the holiday weekend. ("Oh, Hemingway!" exclaimed my neighbor on the train ride up. "Actually, no," I said.)

Like (or perhaps even more than) the other Starnone books I've read, The Old Man by the Sea feels like autofiction. The narrator is an 82-year-old author who has rented a condo by the sea in the early autumn in the last warm days. He meets and becomes entangled with some of the locals, two shop owners who turn out to be husband and wife, a shop assistant at the wife's clothing store, and an assortment of other connected friends, lovers, and family members. The narrator is visibly writing the story, breaking the narrative from time to time to comment on his own writing. Meanwhile, he is trying to summon the ghost of his mother, who died young many years earlier. 

I have to admit I didn't like The Old Man by the Sea as well as the other Starnones, but mostly that's to do with the strength of the others. The Old Man by the Sea wasn't quite so captivating. As to the others, mainly what I remember is that they were strong, not why. I read Ties during a period when I was not writing about the books I read, but I've gone back to read what I wrote after reading Trick and Trust because I don't recall much about them. I do remember that I loved Trust especially.  

On the Calculation of Volume IV, by Solvej Balle; Zorba the Greek, by Nikos Kazantzakis

I actually finished On the Calculation of Volume IV a few weeks ago, but I never got around to writing it up. I'm not sure I actually have a lot to say about it, though I continue to love these books. While reading this one, I found myself sort of wishing I had waited to read the whole series until they were all available, perhaps in a single volume. I seem to only have patience for short books these days, but I've read each one of these books faster than the last. I finished IV in 2 days. 

I know I wrote something along these lines when I finished III, but I find it very interesting how each of these books has its own trajectory or theme, inside the larger context of the ever-repeated day. When I read about these books, and after I'd read the first one, I did wonder how Balle could sustain interest in and endless string of November 18ths. it's not a question I have anymore. 

I think when V comes out, or maybe just when the last book arrives, I want to go back and read them all together, and maybe then I'll feel like writing more too.

I started Zorba the Greek more than three years ago, in February 2023. I'd had it in mind to read as my book for Greece in my world books project and then in a happy accident, I found a copy on the sidewalk one day. I'm not sure what led me to start it in 2023, but I read it for a few days that February and then for a few days in April of that year, and after reading about 90 pages, I stopped. I was, around that time, starting and abandoning lots of books; having trouble sticking to anything. (A challenge I still have, though I think I'm just starting fewer books now.) I remember enjoying the writing and ideas in Zorba, but it was a slog. 

I'm going to Greece next month, for the first time, and that's what impelled me to return to Zorba. I thought I remembered enough that I could just pick up where I left off, and so I did. It came back to me quickly. I still found the reading a bit of a slog, but I kept going – mostly reading one chapter at a time – and finished the book in two weeks and change. 

When I first had the idea for my world books reading project, I had already identified some problems with it, one of which I called the problem of White Men. When you set out to read the Great Novel of any place, you're bound to end of reading mostly books my white men of a certain age. In all the books I've read for my project, I think Zorba may be the one where I have felt this the most. While race isn't so much a factor here, Kazantzakis' narrator is a young, wealthy, educated Cretan man, who returns to his homeland after travels around Europe and becomes enamored with the simple, real life he finds among the peasants on the island, and especially with Zorba – whom he meets on his travels and brings along. 

The narrator, who has lived more a life of the mind (and whom Zorba calls a pen-pusher) feels he has become disconnected from the real world and admires Zorba for his simplicity, his wisdom gained without books, his true example of manliness. As a reader, I coudn't understand the narrator's fascination with Zorba. I related with the narrator in certain ways – I really understood his sense of rational detachment, and maybe even his desire to escape that feeling – but not in his feeling that his intellectual life was less real than the physical life Zobra represents. 

I was looking for a passage I wanted to note, but I seem to have forgotten what page it was on. At one point, Zorba and the narrator are climbing up mountain to visit a monastery because they need permission to build on the monks' land. The visit to the religious site reminds the narrator of experiences from his his youth. He describes his enjoyment in the spectacle of religious festivals as a child, while now that he is grown, he only relates to religion aesthetically. I felt this very strongly – I had a real fascination with religion as a teenager, without being a religious person. Teenage emotions are so strong, I think I was hoping for something external to give it all some meaning. Around this time I was studying art and art history. I'm not sure why it spoke to me so deeply, but I developed a real affection for medieval and northern renaissance paintings. I still love art from this period, but if my attraction to it solely aesthetic, so what? Where Zorba's narrator seemed to see it as a weakness, I see it as maturity. I don't feel it as a loss.

In the end, I'm left feeling ambivalent about Zorba the Greek. There were ideas I loved, there were some stunning passages. There was also casual violence, extreme misogyny, and some deeply problematic ideas about humanity. But I'm glad I finished it.

The First Wife: A Tale of Polygamy, by Paulina Chiziane

I don't remember where I first heard about The First Wife, but I did note it down as a book to read from Mozambique. I believe I found this copy at a bookstore in Seattle when I was there in 2021. I seem to remember picking it up along with Our Lady of the Nile. It was reading The Word Tree that finally got me to read this. I wanted to stay in Mozambique. 

I don't quite know where to begin talking about this book. It was not at all what I was expecting. I had assumed it was about traditional polygamy (in some ways it was), but the starting point for The First Wife is a married woman who knows her husband has another lover and after some investigation, learns he actually has four of them. The women become allies, gain strength from each other, and eventually attain a sort of liberation. But in getting there, the story took so many unexpected turns. 

The writing in this book often has the feeling of folklore, full of magical imagery. Though the story itself is mostly grounded in earthly reality, it draws on what I assume are local folk tales. The presence and tensions among traditional religions and the Catholic church and the way they blend in modern life are also a theme. Every extended family has its priest and its witch doctor. The book is often hilarious, even as some of the events within are brutal. 

I found myself rebelling a bit against the gender essentialism at the heart of the book, even as I recognize it is a reflection of (and itself a rebellion against) the traditional gender roles in the culture. In fact, it highlights differences in the gender roles among different ethnic groups in Mozambique. And I kept wondering why these women -- and the first wife, in particular -- stayed loyal to this man, but the wives were asking the same question themselves. This book was written in 2002, and it was also interesting to read in the 2026 context of what I guess you could call mainstream polyamory. A passage in the book about the wives managing their calendars to set up the marital rota reminded me of polycules and their reliance on google calendar. 

The First Wife surprised me and I really liked it.

The Word Tree, by Teolinda Gersão

I have a certain affinity for Mozambique, having spent several months living in neighboring Zimbabwe 30 years ago now. While there, I traveled far to the east of the country, within a couple miles of the Mozambique border, though I never crossed it. I also ate regularly at a Mozambiquan restaurant -- a treat to myself on Fridays. Indeed, reading The Word Tree, Mozambique felt like a familiar place in some ways. Though, as I look at the map now, Maputo (or Lourenço Marques, as it was during the colonial era, and in the book) where the book takes place is far at the other end of the country -- practically in South Africa. 

The Word Tree is about a girl born in Mozambique to Portuguese parents. We don't quite learn the circumstances of her father's emigration, but her mother arrives at age 19 as a personal ad bride and is never happy in Mozambique. The book is divided into three sections, the first and third focused on the daughter, with the middle section showing the mother's perspective. There is a distance between mother and daughter that is is hard to get a grasp on in the book. The daughter is handed off to a Black wet nurse as a baby, whom she grows very attached to, while her mother seems uninterested -- or even repelled by her. The mother is presented very unsympathetically at first, and while I began to understand her and develop a certain feeling for her in the middle section, I never quite understood her distaste for her daughter. It's a complicated relationship. And yet, unexpectedly, it was the middle section with the mother's narrative that I found the most compelling. I found myself wondering if she found what she wanted, in the end. 

What I enjoyed most about this book were the descriptions of Mozambique. I could really picture the city and the baixa and the shanty town. The hotels and the department store. The beaches on the cost of the Indian Ocean. It was wonderfully evocative.

The Disappearing Act, by Maria Stepanova

I'm late in writing this post. I finished The Disappearing Act a week ago, on a miserable Sunday morning when I was both getting sick and off my allergy meds ahead of allergy testing. I almost can't believe I got through it under those conditions. Almost immediately upon finishing, I decided I needed to minimize my suffering and took an allergy pill. It helped, but the rest of the day was still pretty much a wash and then the entire work week happened. So here we are.

The Disappearing Act was another installment in the New Directions book subscription from my dad. I actually got it before Lithium, though I started it after. I was already somewhat familiar with Maria Stepanova because my women in translation book club read another book of hers, In Memory of Memory, but I didn't get to that one. I read the first couple pages and it was long and I just wasn't feeling up to it. But The Disappearing Act I loved from the moment I started it. Sometimes a book just speaks directly to me, and I can't quite say why, but that's what this book did. 

The Disappearing Act is a work of autofiction. (Is that a common thread in all 3 of the New Directions books I've read? At least 2 were.) The narrator is a novelist M from a country unnamed for most of the book, known rather as The Beast, who has left the country and is working through her complicated sense of semi-complicity with its actions. She's now living by a lake in another unnamed country, and in the book she's traveling to other unnamed places, but gets accidentally stuck along the way and decides, for a time, to disappear into this town and life that she fell into accidentally. M makes spontaneous decisions, far different from those she would make in her regular life. She (temporarily?) becomes a new person. 

I think that M in her travels reminds me of myself when I travel, where I sometimes do feel like an entirely different person. When I first started thinking this way, it led me to wonder if I could live permanently as the person I am when I travel. Would it even be possible. This seems to be an idea M is playing with as well. 

Lithium, by Malén Denis

Lithium was the latest installment in the New Directions book subscription my dad got me for Christmas. It arrived a couple days before I was heading out of the country for 9 days and was nice and slim, so I threw it in my backpack to take along on my trip. I'm terrible about reading when traveling, but I did start it on the train from Paris to Antwerp. I didn't get very far along before dozing off – more because of the calming motion on my early morning train than any shortcomings on the part of the book, though I will say it didn't grab me immediately. I put it away on my arrival in Antwerp and didn't get back to it until today, a week after my return home. 

I still wasn't sure how I felt about it when I went back to it, but it's such a short book I figured I should just finish it, and then as I was reading it began to grow on me. By the end, I liked it quite a bit more than I expected to.

Lithium is told largely as a second person running narrative by a narrator who is addressing her internal thoughts to her ex. He's been institutionalized under somewhat unclear circumstances, and the narrator is looking after his apartment and his family of cats (two adults, and some newborn kittens). The narrator seems to be spiraling a bit, but as we read on we learn her situation is quite a bit more complicated than it seemed at first – and also, over the course of the book, she starts to heal. I really liked the way Lithium exposed the events preceding the book.