# 5. Cutting for Stone

I haven’t written here in a while. Forgive me. There have been books, mostly short story collections, but these are difficult to write about—which stories should I highlight?—have I the patience to fairly assess twelve or more short stories read over a protracted period of time? It is far easier to write reviews of novels—I return today with this in mind.

Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese is an excellent read. Set first in Addis Ababa, moving briefly to New York City, and then back again to Addis Ababa, it tells the story of two identical twin brothers born to a beautiful Indian nun, and a socially awkward British surgeon.

Perhaps after reading that last statement you are preparing to dismiss the book. Too melodramatic, you are starting to say. I do not blame you, the thought did occur to me in the beginning; but there are several reasons to persist. In the first place, it is impossible to miss the authority in the narrator’s voice. He is a doctor (as is Verghese) and he speaks of medical conditions and medical procedures (describes whole surgeries!) with a loving fascination that translates easily to the reader. You may have no idea what he is talking about when he introduces one medical term or the other, but so patient, so vivid and graceful are his descriptions that you find yourself listening (enthralled!) and learning something new.

Even better, Verghese sets the stage for his story appropriately; everywhere, worked into the overarching themes of love, spirituality, betrayal, and intrigue, are juicy tidbits about Ethiopia–her history, her beliefs, her politics, her people, their music, their food. If you are anything like me, you will be delighted by every fresh bit of information that Verghese slips casually into the narrative.

Verghese’s voice is powerful, distinctive. I was irritated at first, by its unfamiliarity and the way that it wheedled its way–easily–into my mind. But I had forgotten this within a few pages, and was reading the book actively, loath to put it down.

For wonderful, wonderful readability, an excellent job at blending fact and fiction, and the presence of real, memorable characters, I award this book four stars. I will be looking out for more of Verghese’s work.

#4. the comfort of strangers

 

I just finished reading this novel a few minutes ago. Here, bear witness to my immediate [eloquent] reaction to the book: My God, My God, My God. Yesterday, when I was about mid-way through the book, I had quite a bit more to say. I scribbled this in my trusty old notebook:

Ian McEwan

He has constructed a story so complete that author and work seem “other” from each other.

It is not as if he created this world, it is as if these characters already existed, and somehow he has convinced them to make themselves available to us on paper.

Economical, precise; not a single description accidental or out of place.

The sense of evil creeps up on you—like the score before a particularly horrifying murder scene—and you wait, heart already dropping, for the final affirmation.

Mary and Colin are a couple on holiday in a famous city, possibly Venice, although the name of the city is never actually mentioned. In the beginning, they appear to be having problems—they are not talking, and they have slept together only once since they first arrived. All this changes one evening, when wandering [lost] through the city, they meet Robert, a very insistent man who takes them both forcibly under his wing.

This is a horror story laced quite liberally with erotic references–which will make it well worth the read for some. But I would like to emphasize that what makes this book truly winning is the precise grace of McEwan’s delivery. He does not hover over his characters at all; he simply allows the reader to enter completely into Mary and Colin’s world. It is a very effective style.

For sheer writing ability, and deadly shock value, I award this book four and a half stars. I am officially an Ian McEwan fan. I’ll definitely be reviewing a lot more of his books here.

#3. Bright Lights, Big City

This book was a quick read: a few hours, tops. Remarkable in parts, laugh out loud funny in others, and then… strangely haunting. Even now I am trying to shake the fog of the main character’s thoughts from my head. You see, the book is written almost entirely in second-person, so you find yourself identifying with the young man almost against your own will.

He first enters New York the way most of us did/ do: with dreams as big, as tall, and as majestic as the city’s skyscrapers. He has a beautiful model (catwalk) wife on his arm, and a job at a famous magazine that many would kill for. He is happy.

And then his wife leaves him via collect-call from Paris.

We watch his descent from the lights into a spiraling darkness. There is temporary relief in cocaine, in alcohol, and an endless string of parties. But there are consequences. Eventually he must come to terms with his loss.

This is a story told with the cynical humor of one who is simply telling the truth. It is affecting. I think it is safe to say that anyone reading this book would finds parts in the young man’s experience to identify with.

A good read. I’d rate it two and a half stars.

#2. If on a winter’s night a traveler

Without preamble, I will announce that I simply adored this book. It was an “experience.” I paused while I was reading it to scribble this in my notebook:

“This is a book that engages, enrages, frustrates. Many times I have found myself flinging the book from me when really I should like to continue reading it–I have simply reached the limit of my mental engagement at the time. There is a need for me to stop, to breathe, to shake the effects of the book from my head before beginning to read it again, several hours later. Or the next day…”

Have I gushed enough? Perhaps it is necessary to treat you to a sample of his writing. This is an extract from Calvino’s first page:

You are about to begin reading Italo Calvino’s new novel, If on a winter’s night a traveler. Relax. Concentrate. Dispel every other thought. Let the world around you fade. Best to close the door; the TV is always on in the next room. Tell the others right away, “No, I don’t want to watch TV!” Raise your voice–they won’t hear you otherwise–”I’m reading! I don’t want to be disturbed!” Maybe they haven’t heard you, with all that racket; speak louder, yell: “I’m beginning to read Italo Calvino’s new novel!” Or if you prefer, don’t say anything; just hope they’ll leave you alone.

This unorthodox book subjects the reader’s mind to various possible mutations of the ‘standard’ novel. In the first place, the reader (you) is the novel’s protagonist. You go to a store to purchase If on a winter’s night a traveler, and begin to read it as soon as you are able. As you read, you find yourself being pulled deeper and deeper into the story, until finally, just at the point when things are starting to get interesting, you meet your first obstacle. Your copy of the book is flawed. After page 32, it reverts to page 17, and repeats itself stupidly until the end. You are annoyed. You return to the bookstore to have the book exchanged. The store-owner apologises profusely for the mistake–it is the book company’s fault; moreover, in putting out spoiled copies of the book, they have swapped the stories of two different authors! The book you were reading is really Outside the town of Malbork by Tazio Bazakbal. The store-owner gives you the new book, which he claims is in mint condition, and in the process you meet the Other Reader, a beautiful woman facing the same predicament. You exchange phone numbers ostensibly to contact each other in case this second book is faulty as well, and go your own ways. You find later that the second book is indeed flawed, stopping at the point at which your enthusiasm for the story has peaked. You contact the Other Reader, and begin to chase after the story. The chase for this new story leads you to a third book, and then to a fourth, a fifth, and so on. The Other Reader chases along with you. Eventually the two of you fall in love with each other–another story in itself.

In total, there are ten novels contained in this book, written in ten different styles, each very rich, and each story growing ever more enticing, so that your frustration when one story is not completed is very real [I did close the book on occasion, and walk away from it to take a break], but your enjoyment of each story is still ‘real-er.’ Calvino is brilliant. Interspersed between all these stories are philosophies on life, and reading, and writing. If you’re an aspiring writer, this book will very definitely widen your mind, perhaps, even inspire you. As I said in the beginning, If on a winter’s night a traveler is not simply a book, it is very much an experience.

Five stars, of course.

The Lottery

It has just occurred to me that I can put this blog to another use: short stories! Yay!

I am partial to the short story for two particular reasons: one, I am too impatient to write anything longer myself; two, when the world is pressing in on you from all sides, and work or school or life is getting to be quite a bother, a short story while you sneak lunch (in the corner of the office or at the back of the school cafeteria) is an excellent quick fix for the book-addict. To that end, I will be posting short stories here from time to time. You know, just those ones that have managed to leave some sort of lasting impression. It seems foolish to try and review a short story, anyhow.

This first short story is called The Lottery by Shirley Jackson. [Respectfully cut from here. You could also go here, if you prefer to listen.] The story caused quite the stir when it was first published way back in 1948. Some 62 years later, it’s easy to see why…

The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full-summer day; the flowers were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green. The people of the village began to gather in the square, between the post office and the bank, around ten o’clock; in some towns there were so many people that the lottery took two days and had to be started on June 26th. But in this village, where there were only about three hundred people, the whole lottery took less than two hours, so it could begin at ten o’clock in the morning and still be through in time to allow the villagers to get home for noon dinner.

The children assembled first, of course. School was recently over for the summer, and the feeling of liberty sat uneasily on most of them; they tended to gather together quietly for a while before they broke into boisterous play. and their talk was still of the classroom and the teacher, of books and reprimands. Bobby Martin had already stuffed his pockets full of stones, and the other boys soon followed his example, selecting the smoothest and roundest stones; Bobby and Harry Jones and Dickie Delacroix– the villagers pronounced this name “Dellacroy”–eventually made a great pile of stones in one corner of the square and guarded it against the raids of the other boys. The girls stood aside, talking among themselves, looking over their shoulders at the boys, and the very small children rolled in the dust or clung to the hands of their older brothers or sisters.

Soon the men began to gather. Surveying their own children, speaking of planting and rain, tractors and taxes. They stood together, away from the pile of stones in the corner, and their jokes were quiet and they smiled rather than laughed. The women, wearing faded house dresses and sweaters, came shortly after their menfolk. They greeted one another and exchanged bits of gossip as they went to join their husbands. Soon the women, standing by their husbands, began to call to their children, and the children came reluctantly, having to be called four or five times. Bobby Martin ducked under his mother’s grasping hand and ran, laughing, back to the pile of stones. His father spoke up sharply, and Bobby came quickly and took his place between his father and his oldest brother.

The lottery was conducted–as were the square dances, the teenage club, the Halloween program–by Mr. Summers,who had time and energy to devote to civic activities. He was a round-faced, jovial man and he ran the coal business, and people were sorry for him, because he had no children and his wife was a scold. When he arrived in the square, carrying the black wooden box, there was a murmur of conversation among the villagers, and he waved and called. “Little late today, folks.” The postmaster, Mr. Graves, followed him, carrying a three- legged stool, and the stool was put in the center of the square and Mr. Summers set the black box down on it. The villagers kept their distance, leaving a space between themselves and the stool, and when Mr. Summers said, “Some of you fellows want to give me a hand?” There was a hesitation before two men, Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter. came forward to hold the box steady on the stool while Mr. Summers stirred up the papers inside it.

The original paraphernalia for the lottery had been lost long ago, and the black box now resting on the stool had been put into use even before Old Man Warner, the oldest man in town, was born. Mr. Summers spoke frequently to the villagers about making a new box, but no one liked to upset even as much tradition as was represented by the black box. There was a story that the present box had been made with some pieces of the box that had preceded it, the one that had been constructed when the first people settled down to make a village here. Every year, after the lottery, Mr. Summers began talking again about a new box, but every year the subject was allowed to fade off without anything’s being done. The black box grew shabbier each year: by now it was no longer completely black but splintered badly along one side to show the original wood color, and in some places faded or stained.

Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, held the black box securely on the stool until Mr. Summers had stirred the papers thoroughly with his hand. Because so much of the ritual had been forgotten or discarded, Mr. Summers had been successful in having slips of paper substituted for the chips of wood that had been used for generations. Chips of wood, Mr. Summers had argued, had been all very well when the village was tiny, but now that the population was more than three hundred and likely to keep on growing, it was necessary to use something that would fit more easily into he black box. The night before the lottery, Mr. Summers and Mr. Graves made up the slips of paper and put them in the box, and it was then taken to the safe of Mr. Summers’ coal company and locked up until Mr. Summers was ready to take it to the square next morning. The rest of the year, the box was put way, sometimes one place, sometimes another; it had spent one year in Mr. Graves’s barn and another year underfoot in the post office. And sometimes it was set on a shelf in the Martin grocery and left there.

There was a great deal of fussing to be done before Mr. Summers declared the lottery open. There were the lists to make up–of heads of families, heads of households in each family, members of each household in each family. There was the proper swearing-in of Mr. Summers by the postmaster, as the official of the lottery; at one time, some people remembered, there had been a recital of some sort, performed by the official of the lottery, a perfunctory. tuneless chant that had been rattled off duly each year; some people believed that the official of the lottery used to stand just so when he said or sang it, others believed that he was supposed to walk among the people, but years and years ago this part of the ritual had been allowed to lapse. There had been, also, a ritual salute, which the official of the lottery had had to use in addressing each person who came up to draw from the box, but this also had changed with time, until now it was felt necessary only for the official to speak to each person approaching. Mr. Summers was very good at all this; in his clean white shirt and blue jeans, with one hand resting carelessly on the black box. He seemed very proper and important as he talked interminably to Mr. Graves and the Martins.

Just as Mr. Summers finally left off talking and turned to the assembled villagers, Mrs. Hutchinson came hurriedly along the path to the square, her sweater thrown over her shoulders, and slid into place in the back of the crowd. “Clean forgot what day it was,” she said to Mrs. Delacroix, who stood next to her, and they both laughed softly. “Thought my old man was out back stacking wood,” Mrs. Hutchinson went on. “And then I looked out the window and the kids was gone, and then I remembered it was the twenty-seventh and came a-running.” She dried her hands on her apron, and Mrs. Delacroix said, “You’re in time, though. They’re still talking away up there.”
Mrs. Hutchinson craned her neck to see through the crowd and found her husband and children standing near the front. She tapped Mrs. Delacroix on the arm as a farewell and began to make her way through the crowd. The people separated good-humoredly to let her through: two or three people said, in voices just loud enough to be heard across the crowd, “Here comes your, Missus, Hutchinson,” and “Bill, she made it after all.” Mrs. Hutchinson reached her husband, and Mr. Summers, who had been waiting, said cheerfully, “Thought we were going to have to get on without you, Tessie.” Mrs. Hutchinson said, grinning, “Wouldn’t have me leave m’dishes in the sink, now, would you, Joe?” and soft laughter ran through the crowd as the people stirred back into position after Mrs. Hutchinson’s arrival.

“Well, now.” Mr. Summers said soberly, “guess we better get started, get this over with, so’s we can go back to work. Anybody ain’t here?”

“Dunbar,” several people said. “Dunbar. Dunbar.”

Mr. Summers consulted his list. “Clyde Dunbar,” he said. “That’s right. He’s broke his leg, hasn’t he? Who’s drawing for him?”

“Me. I guess,” a woman said. and Mr. Summers turned to look at her. “Wife draws for her husband.” Mr. Summers said. “Don’t you have a grown boy to do it for you, Janey?” Although Mr. Summers and everyone else in the village knew the answer perfectly well, it was the business of the official of the lottery to ask such questions formally. Mr. Summers waited with an expression of polite interest while Mrs. Dunbar answered.

“Horace’s not but sixteen yet.” Mrs. Dunbar said regretfully. “Guess I gotta fill in for the old man this year.”

“Right.” Mr. Summers said. He made a note on the list he was holding. Then he asked, “Watson boy drawing this year?”

A tall boy in the crowd raised his hand. “Here,” he said. “I m drawing for my mother and me.” He blinked his eyes nervously and ducked his head as several voices in the crowd said things like “Good fellow, Jack.” And “Glad to see your mother’s got a man to do it.”

“Well,” Mr. Summers said, “guess that’s everyone. Old Man Warner make it?”

“Here,” a voice said. and Mr. Summers nodded.

A sudden hush fell on the crowd as Mr. Summers cleared his throat and looked at the list. “All ready?” he called. “Now, I’ll read the names–heads of families first–and the men come up and take a paper out of the box. Keep the paper folded in your hand without looking at it until everyone has had a turn. Everything clear?”

The people had done it so many times that they only half listened to the directions: most of them were quiet. Wetting their lips. Not looking around. Then Mr. Summers raised one hand high and said, “Adams.” A man disengaged himself from the crowd and came forward. “Hi, Steve,” Mr. Summers said. and Mr. Adams said. “Hi, Joe.” They grinned at one another humorlessly and nervously. Then Mr. Adams reached into the black box and took out a folded paper. He held it firmly by one corner as he turned and went hastily back to his place in the crowd, where he stood a little apart from his family,  not looking down at his hand.
“Allen.” Mr. Summers said. “Anderson…. Bentham.”

“Seems like there’s no time at all between lotteries any more.” Mrs. Delacroix said to Mrs. Graves in the back row.

“Seems like we got through with the last one only last week.”

“Time sure goes fast.”– Mrs. Graves said.

“Clark…. Delacroix”

“There goes my old man.” Mrs. Delacroix said. She held her breath while her husband went forward.

“Dunbar,” Mr. Summers said, and Mrs. Dunbar went steadily to the box while one of the women said. “Go on, Janey,” and another said, “There she goes.”

“We’re next.” Mrs. Graves said. She watched while Mr. Graves came around from the side of the box, greeted Mr. Summers gravely and selected a slip of paper from the box. By now, all through the crowd there were men holding the small folded papers in their large hands, turning them over and over nervously. Mrs. Dunbar and her two sons stood together, Mrs. Dunbar holding the slip of paper.

“Harburt…. Hutchinson.”

“Get up there, Bill,” Mrs. Hutchinson said. And the people near her laughed.

“Jones.”

“They do say,” Mr. Adams said to Old Man Warner, who stood next to him, “that over in the north village they’re talking of giving up the lottery.”

Old Man Warner snorted. “Pack of crazy fools,” he said. “Listening to the young folks, nothing’s good enough for them. Next thing you know, they’ll be wanting to go back to living in caves, nobody work any more, live that way for a while. Used to be a saying about ‘Lottery in June, corn be heavy soon.’ First thing you know, we’d all be eating stewed chickweed and acorns. There’s always been a lottery,” he added petulantly. “Bad enough to see young Joe Summers up there joking with everybody.”

“Some places have already quit lotteries.” Mrs. Adams said.

“Nothing but trouble in that,” Old Man Warner said stoutly. “Pack of young fools.”

“Martin.” And Bobby Martin watched his father go forward. “Overdyke…. Percy.”

“I wish they’d hurry,” Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son. “I wish they’d hurry.”

“They’re almost through,” her son said.

“You get ready to run tell Dad,” Mrs. Dunbar said.

Mr. Summers called his own name and then stepped forward precisely and selected a slip from the box. Then he called, “Warner.”

“Seventy-seventh year I been in the lottery,” Old Man Warner said as he went through the crowd. “Seventy-seventh time.”

“Watson.” The tall boy came awkwardly through the crowd. Someone said, “Don’t be nervous, Jack,” and Mr. Summers said, “Take your time, son.”

“Zanini.”

After that, there was a long pause, a breathless pause, until Mr. Summers, holding his slip of paper in the air, said, “All right, fellows.” For a minute, no one moved, and then all the slips of paper were opened. Suddenly, all the women began to speak at once, saying. “Who is it?,” “Who’s got it?,” “Is it the Dunbars?,” “Is it the Watsons?” Then the voices began to say, “It’s Hutchinson. It’s Bill,” “Bill Hutchinson’s got it.”

“Go tell your father,” Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son.

People began to look around to see the Hutchinsons. Bill Hutchinson was standing quiet, staring down at the paper in his hand. Suddenly. Tessie Hutchinson shouted to Mr. Summers. “You didn’t give him time enough to take any paper he wanted. I saw you. It wasn’t fair!”

“Be a good sport, Tessie.” Mrs. Delacroix called, and Mrs. Graves said, “All of us took the same chance.”

“Shut up, Tessie,” Bill Hutchinson said.

“Well, everyone,” Mr. Summers said, “that was done pretty fast, and now we’ve got to be hurrying a little more to get done in time.” He consulted his next list. “Bill,” he said, “you draw for the Hutchinson family. You got any other households in the Hutchinsons?”

“There’s Don and Eva,” Mrs. Hutchinson yelled. “Make them take their chance!”

“Daughters draw with their husbands’ families, Tessie,” Mr. Summers said gently. “You know that as well as anyone else.”

“It wasn’t fair,” Tessie said.

“I guess not, Joe.” Bill Hutchinson said regretfully. “My daughter draws with her husband’s family; that’s only fair. And I’ve got no other family except the kids.”

“Then, as far as drawing for families is concerned, it’s you,” Mr. Summers said in explanation, “and as far as drawing for households is concerned, that’s you, too. Right?”

“Right,” Bill Hutchinson said.

“How many kids, Bill?” Mr. Summers asked formally.

“Three,” Bill Hutchinson said.

“There’s Bill, Jr., and Nancy, and little Dave. And Tessie and me.”

“All right, then,” Mr. Summers said. “Harry, you got their tickets back?”

Mr. Graves nodded and held up the slips of paper. “Put them in the box, then,” Mr. Summers directed. “Take Bill’s and put it in.”

“I think we ought to start over,” Mrs. Hutchinson said, as quietly as she could. “I tell you it wasn’t fair. You didn’t give him time enough to choose. Everybody saw that.”

Mr. Graves had selected the five slips and put them in the box, and he dropped all the papers but those onto the ground. where the breeze caught them and lifted them off.

“Listen, everybody,” Mrs. Hutchinson was saying to the people around her.

“Ready, Bill?” Mr. Summers asked. and Bill Hutchinson, with one quick glance around at his wife and children, nodded.

“Remember,” Mr. Summers said, “take the slips and keep them folded until each person has taken one. Harry, you help little Dave.” Mr. Graves took the hand of the little boy, who came willingly with him up to the box. “Take a paper out of the box, Davy.” Mr. Summers said. Davy put his hand into the box and laughed. “Take just one paper,” Mr. Summers said. “Harry, you hold it for him.” Mr. Graves took the child’s hand and removed the folded paper from the tight fist and held it while little Dave stood next to him and looked up at him wonderingly.

“Nancy next,” Mr. Summers said. Nancy was twelve, and her school friends breathed heavily as she went forward switching her skirt, and took a slip daintily from the box. “Bill, Jr.,” Mr. Summers said, and Billy, his face red and his feet overlarge, near knocked the box over as he got a paper out. “Tessie,” Mr. Summers said. She hesitated for a minute, looking around defiantly. And then set her lips and went up to the box. She snatched a paper out and held it behind her.

“Bill,” Mr. Summers said, and Bill Hutchinson reached into the box and felt around, bringing his hand out at last with the slip of paper in it.

The crowd was quiet. A girl whispered, “I hope it’s not Nancy,” and the sound of the whisper reached the edges of the crowd.

“It’s not the way it used to be.” Old Man Warner said clearly. “People ain’t the way they used to be.”

“All right,” Mr. Summers said. “Open the papers. Harry, you open little Dave’s.”

Mr. Graves opened the slip of paper and there was a general sigh through the crowd as he held it up and everyone could see that it was blank. Nancy and Bill. Jr.. opened theirs at the same time. and both beamed and laughed, turning around to the crowd and holding their slips of paper above their heads.

“Tessie,” Mr. Summers said. There was a pause, and then Mr. Summers looked at Bill Hutchinson, and Bill unfolded his paper and showed it. It was blank.

“It’s Tessie,” Mr. Summers said, and his voice was hushed. “Show us her paper. Bill.”

Bill Hutchinson went over to his wife and forced the slip of paper out of her hand. It had a black spot on it, the black spot Mr. Summers had made the night before with the heavy pencil in the coal company office. Bill Hutchinson held it up, and there was a stir in the crowd.

“All right, folks.” Mr. Summers said. “Let’s finish quickly.”

Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual and lost the original black box, they still remembered to use stones. The pile of stones the boys had made earlier was ready; there were stones on the ground with the blowing scraps of paper that had come out of the box Delacroix selected a stone so large she had to pick it up with both hands and turned to Mrs. Dunbar. “Come on,” she said. “Hurry up.”

Mr. Dunbar had small stones in both hands, and she said, gasping for breath, “I can’t run at all. You’ll have to go ahead and I’ll catch up with you.”

The children had stones already. And someone gave little Davy Hutchinson few pebbles.

Tessie Hutchinson was in the center of a cleared space by now, and she held her hands out desperately as the villagers moved in on her. “It isn’t fair,” she said. A stone hit her on the side of the head. Old Man Warner was saying, “Come on, come on, everyone.” Steve Adams was in the front of the crowd of villagers, with Mrs. Graves beside him.

“It isn’t fair, it isn’t right,” Mrs. Hutchinson screamed, and then they were upon her.

Edit: It seems that I shall only be able to post those stories that are already in the public domain.

#1. Breath, Eyes, Memory

I dismissed this book at first, as being “too simple.” I had read only one chapter. Pretty arrogant of me, I’ll admit, and the only thing I can say in my defense is that I was reading Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita [to be reviewed later] at the same time. In the words of John Updike, Nabokov’s prose is written “ecstatically.” Very few books can hope to compete. And so to be fair, I put aside Lolita for three or four days–in order to clear my mind. I picked up Breath, Eyes, Memory yesterday and just finished reading it an hour or so ago.

It is true, the book is written in a simplistic style. The story follows closely the lives of four women–the Cacos: daughter, mother, aunt, and grandmother–and the trials they face both at home in Haiti and across the water, in New York. But Edwidge Danticat uses that simplicity to her advantage: her words trip almost lightly over horrible situations, thus magnifying their impact ten-fold. To describe a rape scene, for example, Danticat has the mother say to her 12-year old daughter:

“The details are too much,” [...]. “But it happened like this. A man grabbed me from the side of the road, pulled me into the cane field, and put you in my body. I was still a young girl then, just barely older than you.”

The gaps she leaves in the story scream louder than any words can. They also lend the whole narrative an easy grace, which makes it enjoyable to read.

Would I recommend this book?

I’d give it two stars, I think. It’s a pleasant enough way to pass the time. And it does wonders in opening up the world of Haiti to the curious reader–in intimate detail.

Prologue

Hello there!

I’m starting this blog primarily to do book reviews–whatever book happens to strike my fancy at a particular time. But. I am too impatient, I think, to do proper book reviews. For one thing, I cannot summarize a story. My friends have told me more often than I can count that when I have finished reading an exciting book and decide to tell them about it, I leave “no stone unturned.” Afterwards, they cannot pick up the book–because it is as if they have read it already page by page. I do not want to do that here, so my reviews will give only the barest outline of the story plot, so that you (whoever you are, reading my nonsense) can decide for yourself whether or not you want to pick up the book. My other, more selfish, reason for the style of my soon-to-follow book reviews is that I am interested more in how a book makes me feel or see things [changes my life!], and which style the author uses to pull off a particular story, than in other more global, or perhaps exact concerns.

This is a blog for book lovers.

Please feel free to suggest a book [I am always, always looking for a good read], and to write your own review of a book in the comments section if you have already read it. I will be rating my reads on a scale of one to five stars. Five being the absolute height of ‘reader-ly’ enjoyment.

Welcome to book lugambo!