Chris Blocker

Steinbeck for Steinbeck's sake. Nothing particularly brilliant or memorable here, but these essays are full of that signature Steinbeck voice. Though I've read the majority of Steinbeck's writing, it wasn't until reading Once There Was a War that I saw in Steinbeck's lighthearted writing a comparison to Twain's charm and anecdotal style.

Written originally as war correspondence to be published in newspapers, these vignettes of WWII were later collected in this volume. Certainly some of Steinbeck's stories here add fodder to the was-he, wasn't-he arguments (ie Communist, misogynist) that are still debated today. Ultimately, this book only fills in a small segment of the life and works of John Steinbeck. As for WWII, Once There Was a War merely adds a few tall tales, hope, and the occasional laugh to an otherwise dismal war.

If it is true that a writer writes about what they know and that their first work is often semi-biographical, then Amy Bloom's life is a soap opera. He's sleeping with her who is sleeping with him, but he doesn't know that she is also sleeping with her who is sleeping with him, her, and her...

Despite the constant theme of “Relationships Gone Wild”, Bloom's stories are lyrical and engaging. I breezed through this collection in a couple of days. Several of the stories are interconnected, with different viewpoints, and I enjoyed these most. Come to Me is a very worthy debut.

Some nice language. Good rhythm. Sometimes the imagery worked for me. Overall, I felt pretty ho-hum about Michael Ondaatje's Secular Love. A few poems were mildly captivating, but otherwise, I wasn't overly impressed.

Comparisons run wild in the world of art. Music labels try to convice eager listeners that they have discovered the next U2. Galleries are filled with the paintings of the next Picasso. And every publisher in the world has the next Harry Potter in the works. If a comparison can be made, it is exploited.

I'd like to say that I am beyond such corporate trickery. Unfortunately, everytime I come across “the next [insert favorite band, artist, author here]” I find myself disappointed. Sometimes they're okay, maybe even good, but great? Never. Nothing ever compares to the artist who opened my eyes to a new world.

I should have known better when the first sentence in the jacket of Mary McGarry Morris' most recent novel compared her to John Steinbeck. Of course she wouldn't be Steinbeck. None of my favorite authors are Steinbeck, so why would I expect Ms. Morris to be? Having this comparison in mind from the onset of my reading, however, made it difficult to dismiss.

I can see how the connection was made: the plot of The Lost Mother is similar in nature to some of Steinbeck's novels. It is the story of a stressed mother who leaves her husband and two children to distance herself from all she hates about rural living. The Depression happens and the family loses everything. Of course it only gets worse with corruption, imprisonment, and tons of disappoinment. And just like Steinbeck, there is that ray of hope that shines through despite everything. But the plot is the only element that can be compared.

Morris' writing style is quite dry. It is simple—no more than a narrative of an event with few extra words or insights. Despite its promise, The Lost Mother barely touched upon my emotions or my logic.

The Lost Mother is not for those who like a like-hearted read. It's also not for those who wish to be challenged. It is for that rare breed who enjoys a somber story, but doesn't wish to be provoked: a rare audience indeed.

Walking into a room with twenty people, it's likely you're going to gravitate toward certain individuals. Some you'll probably not even notice. And the mere voices of others will nerves feel like a block of Parmesan on a grater. So it is with a book with multiple first-person narrators; especially when it is done well. And Bausch really nails it with this one.

Bausch has really gotten into the voices of these characters and created a community that is very convincing. The story starts out a bit dry, but picks up. By the end, it is quite easy to find oneself looking for excuses to ignore life's little inconveniences (i.e. work, school) and keep reading.

I had few expectations for this book, and although I didn't fall in love with The Gypsy Man, I enjoyed it. A highly entertaining read.

Often in short stories, it seems that plot is sacrificed for the sake of coming across as more “literary.” Sometimes it is done well, and I can applaud the author; afterward, however, I remember nothing of the story (oh, that was the story where Sally woke up in the morning, put on her make-up and... uh...)

Bausch shatters this idea of the story-less story while remaining intelligent and relevant. Here are several stories that entertain the reader but do not compromise character development or theme.

Personal favorites in this collection include “Fatality,” “Valor,” “Two Altercations,” and “Par.”

For some reason, I have dragged my feet on writing this review. It's been a while, and the book wasn't incredibly memorable in the first place, so I doubt this review will have much relevance. Regardless, here it is...

I promised myself I wouldn't mention John Steinbeck in this review. The work of Thomas Steinbeck should stand on its own; even mentioning that he is his father's son seems unnecessary and insulting to the work of Thomas. Well, I lied.

It's hard not to think of John when Thomas' characters and situations continually remind us of his father. A marine biologist. Stanford. Just pull ten random words from a Steinbeck biography and you'll likely find one or two which apply to In the Shadow of the Cypress. And frankly, it's an unfair comparison. Nonetheless, it's what one should expect being the son of a Nobel and Pulitzer Prize winning author (or writer since Steinbeck didn't consider himself as an “author”).

In the Shadow of the Cypress does fairly well when it comes to story. Although it is a bit slow, it carries its own as an intriguing historical mystery. Steinbeck shows that he knows his subject matter well and presents it in an interesting and unique fashion. What Steinbeck doesn't know, however, is his characters. I couldn't understand them, nor did I really want to. They were dry. What personality they did have didn't make sense–am I just stereotyping when I say I didn't find Charles Lucas' concern over a surfboard believable? Charles Lucas, PhD student and holder of one of the world's most historically significant artifacts, just wants to find “the perfect wave.” Some of the best character moments happen after Lucas meets Robert Wu and the two develop a friendship which is believable and funny at times. Unfortunately, it doesn't last. Once Wu's father is brought into the picture, the relationship takes a back seat for no particular reason and the novel becomes bland once again.

Thomas Steinbeck might do okay as an author if he is marketed to the right audience. Fans of plot-driven historical mysteries may love his books–I don't know as I am not one of those “fans”. As long as he is marketed as being THE SON OF JOHN STEINBECK, however, Thomas Steinbeck will be in the shadow of his own cypress; rather, he'll live in the shadow of the Giant Sequoia that was his father.

(On a side note, writing this review has put me in the mood to reread “To a God Unknown”).

The Rest of Life is comprised of three novellas. They may as well be one. There is such a strong similarity in these stories of a woman, the lover she changed and the love that changed her. Which would be okay... if the stories were interesting. These were not.

What makes Mary Gordon's three novellas particularly ineffectual was the overall lack of story. Yeah, that's that one element, you know, the one which some writers feel is vital, while others think it can be completely discarded. Gordon is obviously in the latter camp. You get quite a bit of internal thought in these stories as the protagonists are pouring a cup of tea, or getting dressed, or sitting in an empty room. Page after page of thought. Then someone speaks, and again the protagonist gets lost in thought. Maybe if these women had some thought that really motivated me to read one... or thoughts that were unique from one to the next... but no–they all just think the same: Will he leave me? I'm sure he will. I hope not, but it's destined. The way he's sitting makes me think of his cock. I love his cock. And his balls. I hope I get to snuggle up against them later before he leaves me. No thanks.

There really is little forward movement in these stories. Thus, there is little to recall after finishing them. My complete summary of the book could be summarized by the official synopsis at the top of this page. I have nothing else to add; perhaps because nothing else actually happened.

There is much to love in Tony Ardizzone's Larabi's Ox. Right away, I was captivated by the vibrant imagery the author had painted. I trusted his vision of Morocco and walked away feeling as I had visited there in one way or another. Further, I enjoyed the structure of the book: we're introduced to three characters whose lives briefly intersect, and then are taken down different paths with each one. (A large part of my appreciation for this format is likely that it is similar to the one I have chosen for my own book which I am currently writing, but the fact I chose that structure only further shows the value I place in it.) Throughout these shifts from character to character, Ardizzone periodically changes point-of-view, but does so in a way which is relevant and works overall.

The characters themselves are interesting and likable (even when they're not). Aside from being Americans traveling abroad who are running from (or toward) something, they have little in common. Each has a unique voice which lends to the believability of the book as a whole. I wanted to follow these characters on their exploration of Morocco. Even with the most annoying of characters, Henry Goodson, I was able to sympathize and was therefore eager to follow him when he asked me to embark on a hopeless journey into the African desert.

The only color lacking in this “tapestry of interwoven stories” was in the stories themselves. Many of the story lines were only mildly interesting. I wanted to know more of Sarah's backstory. I wanted to battle more of Peter's inner-demons. What they did on the streets of Morocco–while it was beautiful–became tiresome. And yet, in what seemed like an effort to not be tiresome, many of these stories reached too far and became unbelievable. Some of the stories, particularly “In the Garden of the Djinn,” were quite surreal and didn't seem to fit with the rest of the collection. Others included a twist which seemed unlikely. Cut out the remainder of stories where you feel like you're just following a character around Morocco for no purpose other than to sight-see and there are only a couple stories left which really grab.

Overall, Larabi's Ox was still an excellent book. With its beautiful interpretation of Morocco, it is a must for any reader with plans to visit the country.

[Refuge]e is a photo album of words. Short stories and poems come together, creating snapshots of the Bosnian experience shortly after the Bosnian War. Those looking for a complete story will be disappointed. Even though the book largely follows one girl, Almasa, a Bosnian refugee, there isn't much of a story here; yet [Refuge]e speaks volumes.

Mahmutovic's language in this book is wonderful. The pieces are moving. It is well worth the short time (the book is only 90 pages) it takes to invest in this work. While I would've enjoyed it a bit more had the various pieces fit together into a tighter, more cohesive story, I am not disappointed. Almasa's story is one of disjointedness. And seeing her life in these snapshots only seems appropriate.

This is one book that is sorely missing from many best of 2009 lists. Personally, I enjoyed this one more than the other books I read this year that found themselves on those lists.

Great characters with wonderful development abound. McIntyre handles his young characters with an expertise often lacking in fiction concerning adolescents. This novel has an interesting plot which kept my attention throughout, even when the issues were juvenile.

A fabulous read. I definitely look forward to McIntyre's next novel.

Twenty-nine tales related to Día de los Muertos. Representing a wide variety of styles and genres, these stories are both chilling and moving, simple and profound.

Personal favorites include “Mexican Moon,” “The Courtyard,” “The Effect of Place on Love and Death,” “Gabriela,” “The Fat Lady Watches Monster Movies,” “Before the Altar on the Feast for All Souls,” and “The Catrinas Will Dance with Any Boy They Like.”

Jordan is one of my favorite poets. Her writing is equally gritty and beautiful. Often, while I'm reading her work, I find myself stepping back and saying “whoa.” There is nothing else I can say. Just “whoa.” And that's one sure sign of a fabulous writer.

This collection, her first, left me wanting more sometimes, but there were still many “whoa” moments. I've read parts of her follow-up, Sixty-Cent Coffee and a Quarter to Dance, and loved it. I look forward to reading it straight through.

I'm thirty-one years old, and I have just read what I believe is my first YA novel.

It's Kind of a Funny Story was an easy read. Like 444 pages in 4 days easy. It was entertaining and provided some insight into how one teen viewed being institutionalized. I liked it, but it's not the kind of book I'd like to find myself reading often.

There was so much potential lost here. Wonderful idea. Great characters. Vivid setting. And yet, nothing gelled in the way I have come to expect from great books. It was largely fluff–a straight-forward telling of “my five days in the looney bin and how I got there”

In the complete spectrum of books, four stars is too high for this one. Taking it for what it is, however, and considering its intended audience, I think my rating is appropriate.

There are writers who make mistakes. If their words were a house, some measurements might be askew, some paint could be found on the carpet, perhaps a door doesn't open just right. It's bound to happen, and readers should be forgiving of those writers who blunder occasionally.

There are also writers who make mistakes. Big ones. They pour the foundation for their house without noticing their own feet are right in the middle of it. They bury themselves in their stupidity, and one can't help but scream, “How could you not see that?”

Clearly, I'm setting up Monkeys as the later example. Overall, the stories are okay; they're not that intriguing, but they fit together nicely. The characters are numerous and there are a couple with potential, but they're not properly developed. The whole thing is mildly touching, yet leaves more to be desired. Truthfully, Monkeys didn't have to be a bad book–oh, but there's the author, burying herself in the very first story.

The opening story, “Hiding,” is told from the first person perspective of Sophie (“Caitlin is the oldest and she's eleven. I'm next, then Delilah, then the boys.”) Okay, so we have a book from the perspective of one of the children. Fine. The next story, “Thanksgiving Day” is outside of Sophie (“For Sophie, the best thing was...”). So now we're in third. Still fine. There's no reason an author cannot switch perspective, especially in a collection of stories. So after reading two stories, the precedent has been set–each story will have a unique, or at least rotating, point-of-view.

But the next story and the next and the next are all in third. Every story from that second one on is set in third. This sort of thing could be acceptable if it made sense, artistically speaking, but it doesn't here. What seems likely to have happened was that the author at some point changed her point-of-view, but failed to make the change in the first story. And how did no one catch this? Honestly, I don't know. It seems like it would have caught someone's eye. I mean, how exactly does one not notice the architect cemented to the basement floor of their house? Perhaps they noticed, but just didn't care to exert themselves for a design which wasn't that interesting in the first place.

I try to avoid stereotypes—positive or negative—especially cultural stereotypes. There are valid reasons sometimes why these stereotypes were assigned, but there are quite a few that were meant only to harm. That being said, I've tried to ignore that stigma of oddness placed on Icelanders. Sure an Internet search on famous Icelanders and Icelandic attractions may lead you to believe they're all a little strange, but surely they all cannot be, right?







Children in Reindeer Woods is odd. There may be some translation issues here, but largely I get the feeling that Ómarsdóttir is, how we say it... peculiar. That's cool, I'm down with odd. Bjork, Twin Peaks, Regina Spektor (she used to be weirder)–yeah, I like odd. I'm cultural except when I'm not. Like when I turn my head to the side, scrunch my face and say “I just don't get it.” As I type this, thinking about Children in Reindeer Woods, I have my head turned to the side, my face is scrunched and I'm thinking “I just didn't get it.” I understand some of what Ómarsdóttir may have been trying to accomplish, but much of it seemed like trying to be strange for the sake of being strange. Then again, maybe it was all issue with the translation.

I don't drink. I never have, not once, so my analogy may be ridiculous. But Reindeer Woods reminded me of stories I've heard about alcohol. It sounded really fun. I looked forward to it and the second I had a copy in my hands, I dove into it. It had its moments when it was good, but largely I was immediately overcome with a thought of “I have to finish this?” I wanted to be cool so I kept plugging away. Despite the headache I finished it. And you know what? I don't know what the hell happened. Sure, I remember a detail here, a detail there, but largely it's all a blur.

Reindeer Woods isn't bad, its just confusing (in its English form). It doesn't do anything miraculous or leave you feeling anything but boredom. It's like that movie... looking up name of movie... Northfork, that's it! Visually beautiful, well acted, but confusing. You have to respect the vision of the artists who come up with these pieces, and know it probably means a lot to them, but that doesn't make it enjoyable.

Sorry Iceland, but you're a strange little island.

I never have much to say about poetry. I liked it. I didn't. This poem resonated with me. This one didn't. Though I studied poetry for longer than I have studied prose, I feel it's harder to speak constructively of poetry. Either it works for me, or it doesn't. If it resonates, I'll probably have more to say. This review will not be an exception.

I don't like to judge poetry, but I do feel that in the case of Begin Again: 150 Kansas Poems, too many poems were lackluster. There are some great poems in here. Some that really stood out. But the majority fell under two categories: 1) written well, but lacking texture; 2) didn't I read this poem my first year in undergrad? If you ask me, this is not the best sample of Kansas poetry.

That being said, there are some wonderful poems in this collection. There were about twenty really great poems. Favorites included poems by Maril Crabtree, Ramona McCallum, Amy Fleury, Steven Hind, Hazel Smith Hutchinson, and Melissa Sewell.

There are so many things wrong with this book. Compile all the rants I've made about other books I didn't care for over the last couple years and you'll have a list of the things that are wrong with Nevil Shute's On the Beach. I looked forward to reading this book, but it's really not that good. Yet, I enjoyed it. I almost loved it. On the Beach is like that breed of old sci-fi that has few redeeming qualities, but is worth every minute of it.

So why is this book bad?

It's unrealistic. It's the end of the world. Not the kind of end of the world where you think the end is coming but it's averted at the last minute. Or the kind where a small tribe of people survive and must repopulate. We're talking about all life on earth obliterated. Most of the earth's population is already gone at the novel's start. South Africa as well as parts of South America and Australia are holding on, waiting for the radioactive winds to reach their lands. The novel focuses primarily on Melbourne, Australia. The date is set. And everyone is just a little too okay with their fate. Sure, I buy there is some denial. And I can understand that perhaps the author is trying to make a point about the way we live our lives. All in all, it's just not believable. Give me some rioting. Some insanity. Something besides tea and crumpets and brandy and walks in the park.

The language is repetitive and bland. “Honey,” the American said presently to the girl... I don't know that I've ever heard the word “Presently” in a novel. It's not a word that really does much. Shute must've disagreed as he used it every chance he could. I would estimate it pops up on nearly every page. Further, the main characters are rarely referred to by their names. Dwight is “The American”. Moira is “The Girl.” And since, to me, Mary is more of “a girl” than Moira, this is confusing. Don't expect much variety in the language. Or anything that will blow your mind. Lyrically, this novel is a snoozer.

The characters are as flat as the language No one does anything surprising or even interesting. They're all a bunch of cardboard cutouts playing their respective parts. Dwight Towers is the dedicated Navy submarine commander. Peter Holmes is the devoted officer and husband. Mary Holmes is the flabergasted docile wife. Moira Davidson is the wild girl looking for a second chance. John Osborne is the average civilian scientist with a hobby. That's about all you need to know or will learn about these characters. Their interactions with one another play out the way you expect, like a 1940s drama. And of course the women fall all over the men and don't know what to do without them. I guess that's expected for the time period, but it quickly grows annoying.

These are all big issues for me. The sort of problems that would normally drop a book to two stars with little hesitation. Still, I really enjoyed On the Beach.

For starters, the story is wonderful. The idea of it, at least. I love that the end is coming and people are powerless to stop it. Even the Americans are powerless for once.

Though the characters don't react how I think they necessarily should, there is still quite a bit of heartrenching moments and haunting imagery. Shute may have not gotten out much to see how people act, but he certainly knew human emotion.

Lastly, there is just a certain feel to On the Beach. I realize this is entirely ethereal reasoning and subject to personal tastes, but it has that presence that makes films like A Boy and His Dog, The Blob, or Them! classics forever. At times it's painful–like the neverending car race or the continual mentioning of pogo sticks–but there's just something about the book's atmosphere that makes these things bearable and the end product enjoyable.

From a literary point of view, the book has major flaws, but it's really quite good in the end. Sure that statement is filled with faulty logic. It's like planting a garden you'll never see. Or buying a pogo stick for a deceased child. Or learning a new job skill weeks before radiation from a thousand nuclear bombs invades your lungs and your blood and leaves you flopping around on the beach like a fish out of water. It's completely illogical, but at the same time it kind of makes sense.

I don't believe I've ever read poetry that was so breathtaking. Yeah I've read poems that inspired me or made me stop and think for a moment or offered a new way to see the old world, but never have I held onto the end of a poem with a breath I could not let go of. McKinstry-Brown's best poems do just that.

It's like when you go to the mountains or the ocean and take all kinds of pictures with your camera. And you're excited to get home and show everyone so you rush to get them developed and lo and behold you have a two-dimensional 4x6 photo which you had actually believed would somehow convey the majesty of the moment and drown out your voice with its vast waves. In the same way we take snapshots throughout life, and look back nostalgically at events and milestones in the lives of our loved ones, but we never really experience that same feeling. Throughout Cradling Monsoons however, there are poems that encapsulate these moments with such finesse and feeling that they glow. When I close my eyes and think of “In the Sixth Month” or “What He Brings Me”, I literally see a page torn from a book, crumpled, and offered to me, but when I open that ball in my imagination, I envision a warm glow emanating from it. I admit, it sounds overdramatic, but that was the first image that came to mind when I reflected on this collection and I cannot shake it from my cognizance.

This is one collection that I will certainly revisit, particularly on those days when I want to escape the silly notions of “life” and recall what living really means.

I know Joseph Michael Owens. He's a great guy and conversations with him, regardless of the topic, are always interesting. Whether he's talking about string theory, tree nuts, or David Foster Wallace, Owens has such a passion for life that it's difficult not to listen.

Owens' voice comes through strong in Shenanigans!. No matter the subject—and he covers a wide variety of subjects here from nunchucks and lasagna, to love and cancer—Owens yanks in the reader. With a tone that is both casual and exciting, Owens approaches life's big issues with humility and its more trivial matters with great expertise.

Charming. Funny. Aching. Insightful. Gentle. In a mere 100 pages, Owens' voice parades around in the dress of so many adjectives it's like a game of Apples to Apples. These stories are so many things because they vibrate with life. This collection is a genuine conversation with its author; even if I didn't know Joseph Michael Owens, after reading Shenanigans! I believe I would feel like I did.

I have a problem with non-narrative non-fiction books: they can be boring. Not only does the author often drone on and on, but they repeat the same point they made in the first chapter, expanding on it until it is worn so thin I can use the pages as tissue. Perhaps it's my own flaw, but I need a story; without it, my attention wanes. So I was a little hesitant to pick up An Absorbing Errand. I thought the topic was interesting, but I knew that didn't necessarily mean it would keep my interest. And, in full disclosure, I mostly picked up this book because it was written by the daughter of Bernard Malamud (I have this strange obsession with reading books by the offspring of my favorite authors). An Absorbing Errand, however, was an absorbing read. If you want to understand better your need to create, why you have been dragging your feet as an artist, then this is the book to read.

Smith has been around a wide range of artists. Not only did she grow up amongst artists, but she has remained in their midst throughout the years. Furthermore, she is a psychotherapist and is well read. Smith knows artists and she understands them. This leads to a very insightful read that is equally cautionary as it is reassuring.

What I most liked about this book is how united it made me feel with other artists around the globe. If Smith is right in her diagnosis, we're not all that different from one another. We may approach our respective arts from different angles, but we largely experience the same feelings of fear, isolation, and ruthlessness. In her understanding of artists in general, Smith shows that she knows me. She understands why I create. Suddenly, I don't feel so alone.

Walking away from this book, the one thing I realize I most need to succeed is the company of others. Since I graduated from with my MFA two years ago, I've been doing this on my own. I have walled myself in with my novel and have become so consumed with it that I am not allowing myself interaction with other humans. I need counsel. I need communication. I need to have a friend or two. Without these, my work will suffer.

I haven't read much in the horror genre, but what little I have read didn't provide me with feelings of terror as one might expect, but feelings of uncertainty and unease. Most readers wouldn't think of David S. Atkinson's Bones Buried in the Dirt as horror, and it's not, but it certainly left me with these same feelings. Given its subject of childhood, this in itself is unsettling.

I realize this review is about Atkinson's novel, but I'm going to make it about me for the moment. You see, I can't speak for everyone else and what their childhood was like, but I can speak for mine. At least what I remember of it. And here's what I remember: I remember an imagination carrying me through fields and trees, branches that served as swords and dandelion blooms that were medicine; I remember special trips to the store with my mom, family vacations to the theme park, and cheese and crackers waiting for me when I got home; I recall board games and slide shows, parks and family movies. Is this a fair portrayal of my childhood? Absolutely not. It ignores all the stuff I've blocked out. All the insecurities and embarrassments that blanketed much of my adolescence. I don't know if this is everyone's childhood experience, but I have heard the same sentiment from others. Some things are best left buried beneath the fluff of bedtime stories and good morning hugs.

But like the bones in Atkinson's title story, some things cannot remain buried forever. Atkinson hasn't picked out a few bones from childhood memory, he's excavated the whole bloody cemetery. He's laid them out, all those childhood idiosyncrasies that only an astute observer or person ready to face their past could see. Yes, those fluffy memories are there, floating around the atmosphere of Atkinson's world where imagination resides, but beneath them is the world many of Bones...'s readers would call “the truth”—that is, the way an adult would perceive it.

Bones Buried in the Dirt is told entirely in the voice of young Peter. This is a bold move for Atkinson, but it is the only right one for telling this story. That said, it's not an easy choice. Peter's voice is jarring, especially at first. And because we see the world only through Peter's eyes, it's not possible to see the bigger world that rests somewhere outside of the street he lives on. When the world is filtered through the eyes of a child, you can be guaranteed that all your questions will not be answered, but that doesn't matter. What matters is the experience. And Atkinson provides an experience that is eerily familiar, yet unlike anything you've read before.

If you're like me and you've buried much of your childhood, Bones Buried in the Dirt will force you to confront some of your greatest fears. You may shake your head, amazed that you were ever so impressionistic, but you'll probably also shake in fear when Peter gets called to the principal's office. This is David's story. And it's Peter's story. But it's also mine. Bones... brings to mind that oft-quoted biblical passage, “When I was a child, I spoke and thought and reasoned as a child. But when I grew up, I put away childish things.” What this passage neglects to mention is that while those childish things have been “put away” they are still a part of us. “Put away”—it sounds so easy, doesn't it? Like childhood is just tucked gingerly into a box and buried. No matter how deep we bury those insecurities though, there is always the threat they will resurface and haunt us. Thumbs up David Atkinson for trumping the Bible, forcing me to face my past, and fess up to my mistakes. “Joy,” I'm sorry.

Short story collections are always a little tricky. I've read some good collections with many great stories that took my breath away, but not without having to muddle through other stories that barely kept my attention. I thought turning to one of the masters of the short form might help (and perhaps it still will), but O'Connor's A Good Man Is Hard to Find was not the exception I was looking for.

O'Connor was assuredly a wonderful writer, particularly skilled at short stories. Her exploration of humanity has the capacity to punch the reader in the stomach. It's wonderful and done so well, but the reader does come to expect it—how trepid it make the reader to know the rug may be pulled from underneath them at any moment. These stories have great economy and breath, perhaps the perfect mix of the two. They're simple, yet multi-layered. In terms of craft, they are really wonderful stories. But the best of these stories—the ones I felt really made me sit up and pay attention—were the ones most often anthologized. The rest were good—very good—but felt more like imitations of “Good Country People” and “A Good Man Is Hard to Find” than stories that could stand on their own. It may only be the fault of comparison that makes these stories less amazing; nevertheless, they did not have the same effect on me. That and the fact that days later I can no longer remember what certain stories were about leave me a little disappointed.

I admit I was shocked by the rampant racism of the collection. I'm all for authors speaking in whatever voice they choose to use and do not judge the collection on this matter, but it left me uncomfortable. I felt dirty, angry knowing there were people out there like this? Was O'Connor herself such a bigot? Evidence seems to say she was, though most of this was probably just the cultural expectation of the time—not that that should ever be an excuse for an intelligent person. Still, I think it is only fair to warn those readers sensitive about such issues that this is probably an author they'll want to skip.

In 1936, John Steinbeck toured the migrant camps and government camps of California. He wrote seven articles about the plight of the migrant workers that were published in The San Francisco News. The Harvest Gypsies is the compilation of those articles.

Having read The Grapes of Wrath there's not much to say about The Harvest Gypsies. It's clear Steinbeck was greatly moved by his experience in 1936, and it was this series of encounters that was the catalyst for his 1938 Pulitzer-winning novel. Elements of many of the stories Steinbeck tells in The Grapes of Wrath are first seen here. Told in a concise, largely journalistic voice, The Harvest Gypsies doesn't leave too much room for the Steinbeck we love, but he does make brief appearances.

The Harvest Gypsies is a very thin book primarily for Steinbeck fans. It also serves as a great companion to The Grapes of Wrath. It's not one I'd recommend to readers who have not read and loved The Grapes of Wrath.

Richard Mabey knows his weeds. Seriously. You know those nutty birdwatchers with their field guides and binoculars—that's Mabey with weeds. Yes, you say, but those birdwatchers go out on field hunts searching for rare birds—so does Mabey with a group of botanical nerds, searching for alien weeds in the refuse of British dumps. When a potential alien weed is found, a whistle is blown, everyone gathers around, photographs are taken, and debate ensues. The weed is then carefully removed, bagged, and a member is chosen to cultivate the weed at home. Mabey knows his weeds.

Because Mabey clearly knows what he is talking about, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Assuming everything he said in this book is true, weeds are pretty amazing. Not only are they incredibly resilient, but they're smart. You thought Little Shop of Horrors was bad, wait until you see what our weeds are working on. Weeds is an excellent foray into the world of weeds. Here you see the weed through the lens of the historian, philosopher, scientist, socioeconomist, poet, and agriculturist.

Weeds are fascinating, but this book lags at times. When a person is truly passionate about a subject, they can easily overdo it. Mabey tells some wonderful stories about weeds, but he also tells ones that are difficult to make it through. Not to mention that introduction. It was over the top. I'm not sure who Mabey was writing for, but it didn't work. The language was incredibly forced. For Mabey's “entrée into the world of plants,” “on the tumuli of the old tips” where “a galaxy of more modest weeds tricked out the compacted layers of plastic and glass that passed for soil,” the “plants felt like comrades in arms, vegetable guerrillas that had overcome the dereliction of the industrial age.” Had the whole book read like those first five pages, I would've thrown it across the room and happily given it one star. Fortunately, Mabey figured out who his readers were and tossed this pomp verbosity into the compost bin.

Personally, I think Michael Pollan is a more engaging writer on the subject, and I recommend his [b:Second Nature|57536|Second Nature A Gardener's Education|Michael Pollan|https://d202m5krfqbpi5.cloudfront.net/books/1347247895s/57536.jpg|834609] to anyone with even the most remote interest in nature. Mabey isn't as engrossing as Pollan, but I think he knows his stuff. He may even know more than Pollan does. And so, I recommend his Weeds to anyone with a deeper appreciation for the subject. It may be what saves you when the triffids finally have their day.