The Best of 2015

I read more - and more widely - in 2015 than any year in my life. Looking back through this year's blog entries, I've documented 100 books since January 1. Many have been wonderful, a greater number have been informative, and a few have been downright forgettable. I have read more highly-anticipated new releases this year, from Go Set a Watchman (which, I'm sorry, I hated) to In the Unlikely Event...(which made me want to find my Judy Blume collection from childhood and read it all over again) to Dead Wake and the Wright Brothers, titles by two of my favorite non-fiction writers that delivered exactly what I expected.

Given the extent of this year's reading list, I've decided to shake it up a bit from past years. Rather than providing a straight list of books with a date of review and synopsis, I've decided to categorize this year. So, without further ado, my favorite books of 2015:

Non-fiction:

Despite declaring two years ago that I should read less of war and disease, I seem to have read plenty of war books, if not disease. The war genre seems to encompass primarily the American Civil War, World War I, and World War II. The best Civil War book I read this year was easily They Fought Like Demons, which tells the story of female soldiers in the war, including one who gave birth while on picket duty. This is an aspect of the war about which I knew virtually nothing, and was deeply interesting to learn about.

Moving chronologically, the best World War I books were easily The Last of the Doughboys, which I read in January, but was in fact one of the very best books I read the entire year, and Over the Top, which one could argue belongs more to the memoir category. Arthur Guy Empey captures the language and atmosphere of the trenches so thoroughly, though, that I would be remiss not to call this a book of war, and give it its due here.

As for World War II, in the European theater, The Last Jews in Berlin is the amazing and moving story of a handful of Jews who managed to go underground right under Hitler's nose and survive the war by dint of wit, luck, and frequently the goodness of strangers. It is simultaneously heartbreaking and heartening. Moving to the other side of the world, Last Stand of the Tin Can Sailors provides a compelling glimpse of the last major naval engagement of the war - and, thus far, in history. It is one of the most riveting, explosive accounts of the war I've read. Like They Fought Like Demons, it also gave me new perspective on an aspect of the war about which I knew very little before reading this book.

Anyone who has followed this blog for the past few months knows that I've also read a heady dose of memoirs. I have said it before, but James Herriot and the Gilbreths are a balm for the soul. Herriot's anecdotes of life as a country vet in England from the 1930s to the 50s transport the reader to a time and place that no longer exists. They're also frequently hilarious. As for the Gilbreths, they, too, provide a window into a lost world, both in terms of time and place, but also in terms of a lifestyle. Does anyone have 12 children anymore??

Fiction:

Readers of this blog will know that, one, I read far less fiction than non-fiction and, two, that what fiction I do read is almost without exception of the historical variety. Having said that, I read a handful of truly excellent novels this year. They range from I Shall Be Near You, the tear-jerking tale of a new wife who goes off to fight alongside her husband in the Union Army (and, yes, this book inspired my reading of the previously mentioned Demons), to the much-acclaimed All the Light We Cannot See (which is as good as advertised). In the same vein, I enjoyed The Paris Architect as much as any novel I read this year. Lucien Bernard begins as a coward and ends as a hero, which is the most a reader can ask of a character whose success they're rooting for, even if, at times, against their better judgment.

Moving away from war-time fiction, Under a Dark Summer Sky set in the Jim Crow-era Florida Keys against the backdrop of the most powerful hurricane to ever strike the United States, combines the suspense of a natural disaster with the mystery of an attempted murder, spun around larger questions of morality. I also very much liked Ahab's Wife. Sena Jeter Naslund has envisioned a lively history for the wife of Captain Ahab (yes, he of Moby Dick fame). This story sees Ahab's wife, Una, through numerous adventures, a few of which veer just the other side of believable, but ultimately this is an excellent story filled with some of the finest prose I encountered all year.

Finally, I would be remiss not to include Meely LaBauve here, as the single most light-hearted and fun book I read all year. Light-hearted may be a bit of stretch given that Meely is a motherless boy with an alcoholic, absentee father, and his own share of troubles with the law. Still, Meely's spirit infuses this book, and I remember it fondly as perhaps the most entertaining book I read in 2015.

Happy New Year and Happy Reading!

Target Tokyo: The Story of the Sorge Spy Ring

Target Tokyo: The Story of the Sorge Spy Ring (not to be confused with Target Tokyo: Jimmy Doolittle...) is the history of the Richard Sorge Soviet spy ring that operated in Japan for nearly a decade, from 1933 to 1941. The Sorge ring is credited with providing Stalin some of the most crucial intelligence he received regarding Japan's intentions towards the USSR, leading him to go so far as to remove divisions of troops from Siberia and use them against German forces in the west, possibly turning the tide of the entire war.

That said...

I've been dawdling with Target Tokyo for the better part of six weeks now. The topic (espionage) interest me, as does the time period (immediate pre-war period) and location (Japan). There's no questioning the quality of research Gordon W. Prange has put into this work, and it is well written to boot.

That said...

I'm sorry, but it's just a bit dull. In fact, after six weeks of on-and-off reading, I've only just reached the half-way point, and haven't determined whether I will continue. Prange has included virtually every detail about every individual connected to the ring. As research, it's masterful, but as reading, frankly, it's a bit boring.

The ultimate verdict?

For World War II-era espionage, give me Operation Mincemeat any day of the week.

What the Lady Wants: A Novel of Marshall Field and the Gilded Age

After a heavy load of non-fiction, I needed some lighter reading this week. Renée Rosen's What the Lady Wants has been on my Nook for ages, and now seemed a good time to dig in. 

What the Lady Wants is the story of the 30-plus year affair of Marshall Field and his mistress, Delia Spencer Caton, aka Mrs. Arthur Caton. As Rosen explains in her author's note at the end of the book. Marsh and Dell, as they were known to their intimates, were very real people who engaged in a very real affair; Rosen relied on a few historical records and her own rich imagination to create the rest of the pieces - the most important of which, in my opinion, is Paxton Lowry.

Without giving the story away, I will say that I felt Rosen created highly plausible motives for both Marsh and Dell. What the Lady Wants was not the best fiction I read this year (more on what was in my year end post later this week), but it is a strong story and a pleasurable read. Rosen gets bonus points for giving the city of Chicago a starring role, right alongside the men and women who built it.

Target Tokyo: Jimmy Doolittle and the Raid That Avenged Pearl Harbor

Part Flyboys, and part Last Stand of the Tin Can Sailors, James M. Scott's Target Tokyo: Jimmy Doolittle and the Raid That Avenged Pearl Harbor, is the story of the 16 B-25 bomber crews who took off from the Hornet in April 1942 inflicting somewhat minor damage on Japan's infrastructure, but a heavy toll on its psyche.

Doolittle was already famous before he planned and led this daring raid. A stunt pilot and early aviator, he was already a flight instructor in World War I. By the second world war, his reputation was such that men leapt at the chance to serve with him. As such, the Air Corps had no difficulty finding volunteers for a top-secret and highly dangerous mission, the details of which the men themselves would not learn until after the Hornet had put out to sea.

The raid itself was remarkable primarily for being the first time the Japanese home islands had ever come under attack from a foreign enemy, setting the stage for the later attacks that would flatten so many of Japan's cities - to say nothing of the nuclear bombs that would end the war. It was also remarkable for the scope and scale of retaliation by Japan directed at China, where 15 of the 16 bomber crews landed after the raid. While the final tally will never be known, an estimated 250,000 Chinese civilians became victims of the Japanese as a direct result of the raid.

Target Tokyo: Jimmy Doolittle and the Raid That Avenged Pearl Harbor sheds light on one of the early actions against the Japanese, one that has been rather forgotten, consigned to the shadows of such places as Iwo Jima, the Midway, and the Coral Sea. For history enthusiasts, Scott's work offers an opportunity to learn more about this turning point in the war.

The Fifties

Truman. Ike. McCarthy. Elvis. Marilyn. MLK. Brown v. Board. McDonald's.

David Halberstam takes all the touchpoints of that most-famous decade and weaves them together in a narrative that explores how technology upended so much of American life, how the consumer culture was born, the first mega-stars created, and so many truths sugar coated.  

Indeed, The Fifties is a heroic work, for its breadth, if not its depth. Some chapters - such as those on the evolution of sports and the creation of the first mega corporations (the aforementioned McDonald's, along with Holiday Inn and the now-defunct E. J. Korvette) - left me wanting more. Others, particularly on literature and the Soviet menace, saw me skimming.

Taken together, though, this is a very well-done book that provides the reader with a true sense of the zeitgeist. Volumes have been written about any one of the individuals and events Halberstam includes. Halberstam does not give the impression that The Fifties is intended as the authoritative text on any one event, but rather that the book provides background and context for the decade and how, taken together, the events of the decade shaped all that came after. (Not least the entire generation that came of age during this time.)

Well-research, well-constructed, and well-written, The Fifties is still a bit of a slog. Let's face it: 700 pages on a very narrow period in American history can't help but verge into textbook territory. Ultimately, Halberstam's work is probably best left to history enthusiasts.

Every Living Thing

Every Living Thing is the fifth and final installment in James Herriot's wonderful collection of memoirs of life as a country vet in North Yorkshire from the 1930s to 1950s. The series began with Herriot as a newly qualified vet seeking work in All Creatures Great and Small, eventually progressed to newly-married, enlisted-airman Herriot in All Things Wise and Wonderful and now concludes with Herriot as an established presence in the dales, his children school-aged, his practice thriving. (For the curious: books two and four are All Things Bright and Beautiful and The Lord God Made Them All.)

Every Living Thing was every little thing I've come to expect from Herriot by now: well-written, humorous, sweet (without being "owerly" sappy), filled with the essence of a time and place that no longer exist. By the 1950s, Herriot and his partner, Siegfried, are (at the urging of their newly qualified assistant!) diving into small animal work, which is clearly the wave of the future. In that way, the anecdotes that fill this volume take place as often in the surgery as in the open fields.

The book - and memoirs - end in a good place: it's clear that by the late 1950s, the major shifts - toward antibiotics and more extensive operations and away from draught horses and hand-milking, for example - have already taken place. Thought Herriot continued to practice for many years, the real story has already been told. That said, I admit to a pang of sadness upon completing this series.

The Agony and the Ecstasy: A Biographical Novel of Michelangelo

I wanted to like this book. It was recommended to me by someone whose reading tastes I respect, and is well-regarded by, seemingly, almost all of the reviewers on Amazon. Alas, after 333 pages, I quit.

First the positives: Irving Stone does an excellent job capturing the essence of Renaissance Italy, and in particular, of the role of the Church. Florence and Rome both come alive, and it is easy to picture a young Michelangelo wandering the streets and alleys, on his way to the baths or to meet with a patron.

That said, The Agony and the Ecstasy delved too deeply, I felt into too much, from Michelangelo's dissections, to the mechanics of stone cutting, to the machinations of the various cardinals against one another. Essentially, it got bogged down by names and places and dates. There were but a handful of characters I could consistently recognize and I frequently found myself flipping back through a dozen or more pages in an attempt to place a character who reappeared.

Michelangelo was surely one of the great artists in history. That might be about as much as I need to know.

Last Train to Paradise: Henry Flagler and the Spectacular Rise and Fall of the Railroad that Crossed an Ocean

Les Standiford's Last Train to Paradise opens aboard the rescue train that was sent to save the World War I veterans who comprised the bulk of the WPA workers laboring in Keys at the height of the Great Depression - in the midst of the most powerful hurricane to ever strike the U.S.

After setting the scene with the rescue train, Standiford moves backward in time, from the last train to traverse the keys, to Henry Flagler's singular determination to lay tracks across the ocean (up to seven miles at a stretch) and ride the first train across the Keys. In many ways, Last Train is as much a biography of Flagler as it is a history of the railroad from Miami to Key West.

Flagler is a fascinating guy: a millionaire many times over from his Standard Oil partnership with Rockefelle, he essentially got bored of the Gilded Age life and essentially created Florida as a destination for the moneyed classes. I learned of him for the first time when I visited St. Augustine a few years ago, but even then wasn't aware of the extent of his role in Florida-as-playground. Gradually, he laid tracks and built resorts from the state's north to its southernmost point, and then across the ocean to Key West. The latter was quite an undertaking, as one would imagine, and is Standiford's focus, from the labor force (Spanish and Cayman Islanders were most preferred), to the engineering tactics that allowed the supports to be sunk into deep waters and shifting sands (German concrete was the secret), to the troubles that beset construction (mostly hurricanes). Indeed, many experts have described Flagler's railroad as an engineering feat on par with the Panama Canal.

Standiford then circles back to the Labor Day hurricane of 1935 with which he began, which would ultimately wipe out most of the middle keys, and Flagler's dream of a railroad along with it.

Although I had no idea Last Train included an account of the storm (in hindsight, this is obvious, I know), I was especially interested in Standiford's recounting of the hurricane, as just a few months ago I read Under a Dark Summer Sky, which is a fictional account of the same storm. For those interested in hurricane reading, the fictional account or Isaac's Storm (Galveston hurricane of 1900), make for a more satisfying read. For a comprehensive history of how a man shaped a state's destiny, it would be hard to beat Last Train.

Orphan Train

I have been on a long non-fiction bender this fall, and have been looking for a good fiction read, when one of my colleagues recommended Orphan Train. It's premise is that Niamh Power is nine years old when she is orphaned and sent west by a children's aid society to a new life in Minnesota. (These orphan trains were real and Christina Baker Kline is not the first to mine them for material in the shaping of a protagonist. The trauma of the orphan train was a critical component of Madame X in My Notorious Life, too.)  

Orphan Train is Niamh-cum-Dorothy-cum-Vivian's story, intertwined with that of foster child Molly Ayer, who meets Vivian in unlikely circumstances when the former is 17 and the latter is 91. Despite their differences in age and position, Vivian and Molly discover they have much in common and form a deep bond.

As I've noted before (such as in my review of Sandcastle Girls), parallel narratives are difficult to carry off and can sometimes detract from a story more than add to it.  Kline, however, pulls off her double narratives beautifully, with rich characters and histories for both Molly and Vivian. This is especially impressive because Kline does all of this in well under 300 pages - as compared to Villa Triste, whose Lucretia Grindle accomplishes the same feat, but in some 640 pages.

I truly enjoyed all aspects of this book at Kline's writing. She crafted a rich and interesting story without feeling the need to wrap everything up in a neat, tidy package in the final pages.

Four stars.

The Lord God Made Them All

The Lord God Made Them All is a continuation of James Herriot's memoirs detailing his years as a veterinarian in the Yorkshire Dales - the fourth of five books in the memoir series. It picks up where All Things Wise and Wonderful left off, immediately after World War II, as Herriot's practice is expanding, medicine is making tremendous advances, and Herriot's two young children are an integral part of his life and also his practice.

What stands out most in this book is, in fact, the the advancements in antibiotics. Reading this, it really made me consider different perspectives regarding the use of antibiotics in animals. I have serious reservations about introducing antibiotics into the food supply. Herriot is not writing about or thinking about that larger issue, as he reflects on veterinary medicine circa 1950, though. He is thinking instead of the relief he was able to provide suffering animals, such as the previously untreatable wooden tongue in cattle that he became able to cure.

Interspersed with Herriot's vetting adventures in and around Darrowby, he describes two foreign trips - one to the USSR and one to Turkey - during which he accompanied animals for export at the height of the cod war. His descriptions of Klaipeda and Istanbul - and his (mis)adventures - are as highly readable and entertaining as everything else Herriot has written.

Four stars. And one more book to go.

First to Fly: The Story of the Lafayette Escadrille, the American Heroes Who Flew For France in World War I

First to Fly: The Story of the Lafayette Escadrille, the American Heroes Who Flew For France in World War I deserves points for being one of the most succinct World War I books I've read. It is the story of Americans fighting in the war prior to the U.S.'s entry in 1917. Specifically, it's a brief history of the Lafayette Escadrille, or the French army's flight squadron that was comprised almost entirely of Americans. (In that sense, it is complementary to Over the Top, which is the memoir of an American fighting with British forces in the trenches.)

Author Charles Bracelen Flood does a great job of presenting not only, as I mentioned, an incredibly succinct rendering of the entire war, but especially of creating full-bodied portraits of each of the men who served in the Lafayette Escadrille. For what it's worth, Bert Hall and Raoul Lufbery particularly stand out.

Flood also brings home the reality of wartime flight, which was both cold and terrifying, seeing as it was conducted from open cockpits. As he notes, the war began a mere decade after the Wright Brothers took to the air. I was actually surprised at what a quick read this was, particularly in comparison to so many other war-related books. I enjoyed that it focused on a relatively obscure part of the war, given that this was a war of trenches, but the development of which was arguably the most important warfare advancement since the invention of the wheel. An excellent and engaging read - and I'll be adding Bert Hall's memoir, En L'Air, to my reading list.

White Mischief: The Murder of Lord Erroll

In the midst of World War II, Lord Erroll was murdered in Kenya. His circle of wealthy aristocratic friends closed ranks - and as a notorious womanizer (among other character flaws) - there was no shortage of suspects who might have wanted Erroll dead. Still, police closed in pretty quickly on Sir Jock Delves Broughton, whose young wife was Erroll's latest conquest. In fact, she planned to run off with him. He was arrested, tried, and ultimately found not guilty - yet the question lingered, did he do it and, if not, then who did?

In somewhat the same way as Donnie Eichar became interested and then obsessed in the mystery of who or what killed a party of Russian hikers in the 1950s, so James Fox became obsessed by who killed Lord Erroll in 1941. He worked on the case from 1969 to 1984, when he published White Mischief, and there is no reason to believe he has got it wrong.

More interesting than the death of Lord Erroll is the colonial life in Kenya. The overwhelming majority of the expats succumbed to the "Three A's": alcohol, altitude, and adultery. It is a life not unlike the one described by Lady Pamela Hicks in, My Life As a Mountbatten, in which she recounts her parents' lovers who lived with the family at various times, or the very unhappy Porchey and Catherine Carnarvon. (In fact, Porchey makes an appearance or two in White Mischief, and years later Fox visits Highclere Castle to learn what the Carnarvons make of it all. It's a bit surreal to read descriptions of the rooms I've come to know so well from the set of Downton Abbey!)

Ultimately, my verdict is that White Mischief is interesting for its examination of the colonial ruling class in Kenya, particularly in the midst of a world war. Fox does the field of journalism proud in his dogged pursuit of the aged and far-flung protagonists as he pieces this back together decades after the fact. Still, I wouldn't put this in the must-read category.

Dead Mountain: The Untold True Story of the Dyatlov Pass Incident

In February 1959, nine hikers disappeared from their camp deep in the Ural Mountains, their bodies days, weeks, and even months later across the desolate Siberian landscape, a mile or more from their tent, which remained intact, anchored to the mountainside. What made them flee the warmth and comfort of their tent into 40 mile-an-hour winds and temperatures of 40 below? With no shoes? Soviet officials ruled it was "an unknown compelling force." And so the mystery grew. UFOs. A band of crazed, heavily armed men. A radiation experiment or missile launch gone bad (hey, it was the Soviet Union we're talking about). All of these and other theories were put forward, but nothing could be convincingly proven.

Fifty-plus years passed and then American author and filmmaker Donnie Eichar decided to have a go at solving the mystery. Doggedly, he tracked down the one survivor of the hiking party (he'd turned back at the end of January owing to chronic pain), as well as the elderly prosecutor and younger sister of the group's leader, Igor Dyatlov. Eichar spoke no Russian and most of his contacts spoke no English. Painstakingly he translated documents, pieced together the group's movements and even - heavens above! - retraced their footsteps with a winter foray deep into Siberian wilderness where the group disappeared. (Technically it wasn't Siberia, Eichar explained, but I fully believe him when he says that Siberia is a state of mind or at a minimum, climate conditions, rather than an exact point on a map. In that case, it was definitely Siberia.)

Eichar also consults numerous scientists, from those who study radiation to those who study rock formations and wind. Gradually and then suddenly he arrives at the solution. While there may be some he will stick with earlier theories (extraterrestrial attack, for example), Eichar's evidence is solid and his conclusions make good, sound, scientific sense. I enjoyed following along as he discovered what became of the hiking party. Those who enjoy scientific reading and investigative journalism will appreciate what Eichar has done here.

The Oregon Trail: A New American Journey

Like all good children of the 80s, I grew up playing the Oregon Trail, trying to make it west with enough bullets to shoot dinner, before my oxen broke down, and without losing my load in any of the river crossings. Naturally, then, I was intrigued by the title of this book alone.

Rinker Buck's life if falling apart and so he decides that a summer on the Oregon Trail will cure him. That is, he wants to become the first person to cross the entire train in a covered wagon in over 100 years. Just like the pioneers, Buck uses the internet to find a team and wagon, and make the necessary preparations to spend four months roughing it in some of the most rural - and often remote - corners of America. Fortunately, his brother is both Mr. Fix-it and a Horse Whisperer, widely respected as one of the best team drivers in the country. (Those would be mule teams, not NASCAR teams.) So it is that the two of them set off from Missouri, bound for Oregon.

Interspersed with stories from his own journey - my favorite of these is about RVs, or more specifically their drivers, who Buck states rather unequivocally covet the opportunity to create traffic hazards and did so with alarming regularity when the wagon wasn't bumping through the wilderness - Buck constructs a solid history of the original Oregon Trail. He has clearly done his research and quotes generously from pioneer journals, guidebooks, and other original sources, as well as histories written by others. He also creates a history, of sorts, of those who  reside near or work to restore the trail today. This is all very well done.

Buck also paints a wonderful portrait of the American heartland. His trip across the Oregon Trails puts him as up close and personal as possible with Flyover Country, and Buck makes a compelling case for why the this part of America still matters - and not only for the Union Pacific freights that haul our goods from coast-to-coast. 

My only complaint, really, should not come as a surprise: at time Buck is a little too wrapped up in himself. It's hard to imagine that the pages he spends trying to deconstruct and reconstruct his relationship with his father are of interest to the same crowd that wants to read about the Oregon Trail. (Yes, I know, there are traditional histories available for those who want the just-the-facts-ma'am version.) He also seems just a teensy bit too smug, just a teensy bit too often. And, while his brother certainly has his own quirks and idiosyncrasies, like A.J. Jacobs's wife (The Year of Living Biblically - another crazy quest), Nick Buck just might deserve some kind of medal.

All Things Wise and Wonderful

All Things Wise and Wonderful is a continuation of the multi-book memoir of James Herriot's time as a veterinarian in the Yorkshire Dales in the 1930s. In this particular book, the reader learns of Herriot's adventures primarily through the flashbacks he experiences while training as a pilot in World War II. In that sense, All Things Wise and Wonderful captures two storylines - one of the rural life of the Yorkshire Dales and the other an intimate look at the rigors of training in the Armed Services.

My favorite anecdote from the book is when Herriot is sent to a farm along with several other airmen to assist with the fall harvest and ends up delivering a calf. The farmer was more than a little surprised, to say the least!

Wise and Wonderful is not filled with the laugh-out-load hijinx that appear regularly in Herriot's earlier books, but especially in All Creatures Great and Small. It is no less good, though, for being less funny. I have said before that I enjoy Herriot's work not only for exposing me to a time and place I otherwise wouldn't know, but also for the same innocence that makes the Gilbreths and Edmund Love so delightful. In that sense, Wise and Wonderful shines brightly.

Four stars for Dr. Herriot, again and again. I am already looking forward to my next fix, The Lord God Made Them All. Stay tuned (not that the outcome is much in doubt...).

The Johnstown Flood

I was vaguely aware of the Johnstown Flood, but wanting to know more about it, I turned to David McCullough, whose works on the Panama Canal, Wright Brothers, and American love affair with Paris are so well executed.

The flood, for others who may be as uninformed as I was previously, was the result of a dam break in the Pennsylvania mountains above Johnstown's valley. The dam, not incidentally, was shoddily built and poorly maintained - and served the singular purpose of creating a pleasure lake for members of the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club. Club members included such stalwarts of the gilded age as Andrew Carnegie and Andrew Mellon. When the dam broke, the entire lake gushed down the hillsides wiping out virtually everything in its path and causing well over 2,000 deaths.

As I have come to expect from McCullough, The Johnstown Flood is well research and well written. McCullough begins by providing a history of the valley, the industries at the heart of its growth, and the Club itself, along with abbreviated biographies of key individuals. This was probably necessary to lay the foundation for readers, many of whom I assume (like myself) are largely ignorant of the events. Still, it makes for a slow beginning to the book, and I never did fully sort out all of the various individuals McCullough follows. Not surprisingly, the best portions of the book are the description of the flood itself. It's all rather terrifying.

Ultimately, the Johnstown Flood reads like a prelude to the entire Gilded Age. It also makes me want to move Meet You in Hell: Andrew Carnegie, Henry Clay Frick, and the Bitter Partnership That Changed America up my reading list. That said, I believe McCullough's work has a relatively narrow audience - he is a serious historian who often chooses to write about topics that others might consider incidental. Those who appreciate McCullough and his work will like Johnstown Flood. Those who prefer lighter fair, even for non-fiction, should probably forgo this one.

The Paris Architect

Amidst World War II, work has dried up for architect Lucien Bernard when a wealthy factory owner approaches him with a commission - and a catch. In short order, Lucien finds himself designing factories for the Germans and secret hiding places for the Resistance. His wife, unaware of Lucien's work hiding Jews, labels him an architectural Mephistopheles, but ultimately Lucien must come to grips with the personal nature of the work he is doing - and the lives he is saving.

Charles Belfoure's The Paris Architect is beautifully written, with so many story threads all of which ultimately tie together perfectly. Moreover, this is a page turner. At times it feels more like a thriller - action, suspense, and so much hanging in the balance - than historical fiction. Belfoure's characters are multidimensional and inherently human. I truly cannot think of a single complaint or criticism, unless it's that I wasn't ready for the book to end.

Dark Star Safari: Overland from Cairo to Capetown

Paul Theroux might just be a little crazy. I suspected as much when he paddled around the Pacific, but his voyage from Egypt to South Africa by way of such stable and well-governed states as Sudan and Zimbabwe convinced me. In fairness, Theroux meandered through Africa circa 2000, when most of these countries were relatively safer than they are today. Still, he was shot at, robbed, and shaken down - this last so many times that I lost count.

The overriding emotion of Dark Star Safari is disappointment veering into disillusionment. Time-and-again Theroux - who spent years in Africa in the 60s - is shocked to discover the sorry state of affairs in each of the country he visits. Roads are non-existent, poverty is of the barefoot variety, and corruption is rampant. The root cause of Africa's problems, Theroux believes, is aid. The international aid community has allowed Africa to become helpless - why fill potholes when you can wait for someone else to do it for you? Perhaps more surprising is that many Africans agree with him. I know little about Africa and less about aid, but the arguments Theroux puts forward are certainly convincing.

Dark Star Safari is the third Theroux non-fiction I've read (after Paddling the Pacific and Riding the Iron Rooster) and I am hard pressed to rank them. He conceives of interesting voyages, certainly, but there is often something self-righteous about the tone, the author too present, his actions too consciously recorded, that I find off-putting. I've added his newest release (Deep South, which came out just last month) to my reading list, but not as a high priority on the list.

2.5 stars.

Close to Shore: A True Story of Terror in an Age of Innocence

In July 1916, New Jersey experienced "one of the most remarkable series of shark attacks in world history," this according to the Austrlian surgeon and shark attack expert Dr. Sir Victor Coppleson. (In fact, the 1916 attacks would serve as the inspiration for Jaws more than half-a-century later.)

It is these events, stretching from Beach Haven north to Spring Lake and Matawan, that Michael Capuzzo reconstructs in Close to Shore. Capuzzo painstakingly reconstructs the last summer before the U.S. entered World War I, focusing on the individuals, as well as the broader context of the era. He also, and most impressively, reconstructs the movements and even the psychology of the "rogue shark" that killed four and injured two others, one seriously.

Close to Shore was a quick and interesting read. I knew nothing about these 100-year-old shark attacks (and why should I?), but Capuzzo does an equally good job of educating readers about shark species, life cycles, and motives. The ichthyology research is even more impressive than the history research.

Capital Dames: The Civil War and the Women of Washington, 1848-1868

Essentially, with Capital Dames, Cokie Roberts sets out to prove the maxim that "behind every great man, there is a great woman." (Also to  prove that some great women - such as Clara Barton - didn't need a man to lead the way.) Which is all to say that Roberts devotes some 500 pages to examining the contributions, the influences, and often the day-to-day existence of women during the Civil War. Primarily prestigious women - wives of senators and cabinet ministers, generals and presidents (yes, both Mary Lincoln and Varina Davis feature prominently). Roberts does mention the notorious Rose Greenhow, and she devotes quite a bit of copy to Elizabeth (Lizzie) Keckley.

Because these were women of power and influence, or what passed for such in the days before women could vote, Roberts research was aided by the existence of private letters and diaries, the likes of which ordinary women could not or did not write, and future generations, to say nothing of government archivists, did not save. Of course, contemporary newspapers devoted quite a bit of ink to many of these women, and women such as Barton and Greenhow certainly appeared in government records.

Roberts includes a number of photos of the women, the caption of one which is, "Elizabeth Blair Lee knew every politician from Andrew Jackson on, and wrote clever letters chronicling wartime life in Washington..." When I read this caption, I was able to put my finger on my criticism of Capital Dames: Roberts tells her reader, rather than shows the reader, about the clever letters. Not once does a full letter appear in this book, and rarely more than a sentence or two at a time. In this way, it's difficult to get a real sense of the women as individuals, and they all begin to run together. Not until the last chapter - set during Reconstruction - did I feel like their true voices began to emerge.

Final verdict: I would have liked a little more Mary Chestnut's Diary and a little less Empire of Mud.

State by State

I am sad to say that State by State is one of the most disappointing books I have read in a long time. It's not that it was bad. It wasn't, per se. It's just that individually and collectively these essays failed to do justice to the America I know.

I love this country. I don't mean that in a chest-beating-flag-waving-patriotic-fervor sort of way. I mean the land - the incomparable experience of cresting a hill in northern New Mexico at sunset, or hiking the California Coastal trail on a cloudless fall day, or the sweet and sticky taste of homemade pecan pie in the Deep South. These are things I love about America, and by-and-large they were completely and utterly absent.

The Arkansas essay, for example, was about bumper stickers. From 1991. This tells me nothing about the state, which is doubly disappointing as it's one of the few states I haven't ever visited. Oregon and Vermont consisted of comic strips, the font too small to read on my Nook, even if I'd cared to. (I didn't - I was interested in essays, not art.) Many of the actual essays consisted of an author's trip down memory lane, typically back to the 1960s or 1970s. That would be fine, had I wanted to know what the state was like 40 years ago. State by State is not a memoir, though, or at least it shouldn't be. A few of the essays do capture the essence of the state - the North Carolina essay on the proper way to eat barbecue springs to mind. Illinois was excellent.

It is as though nearly all of the authors were thinking what William T. Vollman actually penned in his "California" opening: "...mass culture, with its big box warehouses of the landscape, language, and mind itself, has already destroyed so many differences between states that there is less to say..." In some ways, this is inarguably true. But in so many other ways, this attitude gives short shrift to the entire idea, which was to, essentially, update the 1930s WPA guides. Reading Sir Edward Robert Sullivan's Rambles and Scrambles in North and South America, particularly the North American rambles, is more pleasurable, more educational, and in many ways more accurate and telling, even 150+ years later.

All Creatures Great and Small

All Creatures Great and Small is the first of three books that comprise James Herriot's memoirs of his time as a country vet in Yorkshire, circa 1930. A few months ago I read the second book, All Things Bright and Beautiful, loved it, and decided I really needed to read Creatures (and the third book, All Things Wise and Wonderful, which is still on my list).

Creatures begins with Herriot newly qualified from veterinary school and seeking a position - no small feat in Depression-era England. He finds one, as an assistant to the somewhat temperamental and slightly scatterbrained Siegfried Farnon, in the far north of England. His adventures in these early years and memorable; many of them are also side-splitting in their retelling. I noted of Bright and Beautiful: Herriot creates a sense of time and place, so that the reader is quite certain that Herriot's adventures could only have happened when and where they did. Many are sweet, some are laugh-out-loud funny, and all are tinged with a heavy dose of nostalgia.

So it is with Creatures (although this first book is even funnier than the one that follows, I believe). This is another lovely book, which should appeal to readers of all stripes. I very much anticipate including it on my year-end, "best of" list.

Four great, bright stars.

The Boys in the Boat: Nine Americans and Their Epic Quest for Gold at the 1936 Berlin Olympics

I was somewhat dubious as to whether an 80-year-old story about rowing could capture and hold my attention. I shouldn't have been: one of the more memorable books I read in the past year was The Great Match Race, which is about horse racing, for heaven's sake. Moreover, throughout Boys in the Boat, Daniel James Brown, like Match Race author Eisenberg, does a commendable of providing the larger context. The hardship of life is never far from the athletes' - or reader's - mind: these were the years in the heart of the Depression, the years of Hoovervilles and Okies - the term "Dust Bowl" was coined in the middle of the boys' rowing career, in 1935.

What Brown does exceptionally well is select one of the boys, Joe Rantz, and make Boys in the Boat, as much a biography of Rantz - whose story is amazing and inspiring - as a retelling of the quest for Olympic gold. Rantz is the heart and soul of the book; the hardships he faced and the genial way in which he faced - and overcame - them is such that the reader is drawn in immediately. I couldn't help but be sympathetic to the lonely, and ultimately abandoned, boy determined to make something of his life despite extraordinarily long odds. I was rooting for Joe long before I was rooting for the rest of his boat mates.

If there's any criticism of Boys in the Boat, it would be that the sections on 1930s Nazi Germany in the build up to the Olympics sometimes feel forced. Unlike the Deparession-era hardships which are woven neatly throughout the entire story, events in Germany are recounted in separate sections. This is probably necessary, as the rise of anti-semitism and embrace of the Olympic movement as propaganda cannot be woven into the protagonists' lives, but it does break up the flow of the Joe Rantz-University of Washington crew story.

This is a minor criticism, though, and all-in-all, The Boys in the Boat is an outstanding read. Four stars.

Gilded Lives, Fatal Voyage: The Titanic's First-Class Passengers and Their World

Yes, another book about the sinking of the Titanic. However, Hugh Brewster's Gilded Lives, Fatal Voyage is much more than the story of the world's most famously doomed passenger line. What Brewster does so well here is recreate the world, circa 1912. In particular, Brewster illustrates for the reader time and again how small the world was one hundred years ago and how interconnected the lives, loves, and business dealings of the ship's richest passengers were.

Brewster painstakingly profiles such notable passengers as such business elite as John Jacob Astor, Isidor and Ida Straus, and Benjamin Guggenheim; President Taft's closest aide, Major Archibald Butt; future Olympic gold medalist Norris Williams; tennis champion Karl Behr (Williams's future Davis Cup partner); artist Frank Millet; actress Dorothy Gibson (the "prettiest girl"); the famed dress maker Lady Duff Gordon; and, of course, the Unsinkable Molly Brown. In Brewster's richly crafted history, readers see the events of the Titanic, as well as the larger world, through the eyes and correspondence of these individuals.

Although the individual portraits are excellent, Brewster is perhaps at his finest in describing the sinking of the great ship. He makes clear from the beginning how chaos reigned; how completely and utterly unprepared the entire ship's company was for such a disaster. The first lifeboats went off with a mere handful of passengers - men and women - and those had to be begged, and some quite literally dragged, aboard. Most believed they were going for a pleasure cruise and would return to the ship in the morning. It is certainly true that there were not enough lifeboats, but there were also not enough people willing to enter them, at least until the window for doing so was past.

Overall, Gilded Lives, Fatal Voyage is an excellent recounting of the Titanic, her passengers, and her era. Four stars.

Somewhere in France

Not long after The Great War begins, Lady Elizabeth Neville-Ashford defies her family, ditches her title, learns to drive, and joins the Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps - where she is posted somewhere in France as an ambulance driver. Not coincidentally, she is attached the the field hospital where her older brother's dearest friend is a surgeon. Predictably, romance ensues.

I could not shake the feeling that Jennifer Robson's Somewhere in France was vaguely familiar. But not until I read my entry on The Walnut Tree, did I realize how similar the stories are. (To recap, Lady Elspeth Douglas defies her family, lays her title aside, and enlists in Queen Alexandra's Imperial Military Nursing Service in The Walnut Tree.)

Still, I rather liked Somewhere in France. Yes, there's a war on and, yes, men are dying, but Robson's writing is light and quick, and the characters are generally likeable. For these reasons, it's a quick read. The plot was obvious from the opening paragraphs, but Robson does bring a new angle to women's work in World War I. That said, the verdict is still out on whether I'll read the next book in the series.

The Hare with Amber Eyes: A Hidden Inheritance

Upon the death of his great-uncle, Edmund de Waal inherits a collection of very old, very small Japanese netsuke (including a hare with amber eyes). de Waal knows that the collection was first purchased by a distant forebear living in Paris in the mid-nineteeth century, and made their way to his branch of the family tree as a wedding present to his great-grandparents, the staggeringly wealthy - and Jewish - Viennese couple Viktor and Emmy Ephrussi. Smuggled to safety by a former employee under the noses of the Nazis during World War II, the netsuke are practically all that remain of the Ephrussi empire, which, at its height, stretched from Odessa to Vienna and Paris.

de Waal, not incidentally, is a sculptor. As such, The Hare with the Amber Eyes is as much an art history as a family history. The art history particularly consumes the first part of the book (Paris), to the extent that I would suggest anyone interested in reading this book for the descriptions of Imperial Austria and inter-war Austria (which are, like de Waal's relatives, simply staggering), should skip the first portion. Where the book truly shines is, as I said, in the second portion (Vienna). Here, de Waal takes readers on an architectural and cultural tour of the the Austro-Hungarian empire (and later Austria) including, necessarily and tragically, the rising anti-Semitism that eventually leads to the downfall of the Ephrussi fortune.

Because of my personal interest in Japan, I found the third (Tokyo) section almost as intriguing as Vienna. Again, de Waal does a great job of combining the socio-cultural aspects of the larger society (in this case, post-war Japan) with his family's history and, of course, the netsuke.

I learned of de Waal's memoir from Glenn Kurtz's Three Minutes in Poland, who describes the Ephrussis once, in comparison to his own family who were, "unlike the Ephrussi family...not part of the cultural aristocracy of nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century Europe." They - and The Hare with the Amber Eyes - lived up to their billing, although I imagine that, similar to Kurtz's own work, this one also has a somewhat limited audience.

Go Set a Watchman

Go Set a Watchman, Harper Lee's sequel/prequel to To Catch a Mockingbird, is probably the most anticipated release of the year, if not longer. So much has already been written about it - Say it ain't so: Atticus Finch, a racist!? - that it's difficult to know how to begin.

But first, a summary: sometime circa 1954, 26-year-old Jean Louise "Scout" Finch returns home to Maycomb, Alabama, to visit her ill and aging father, Atticus. (Jem, we learn, has died suddenly of a heart condition two years earlier.) The visit, and Jean Louise's very identity, are thrown into turmoil by the revelation that her esteemed father is a member of the citizen's council, a less-than-august body with the goal of reversing the progress of the Civil Rights Movement. Jean Louise, now a wise New Yorker, is unable to accept the explanation she is given for her father's participation, chiefly that not to belong would jeopardize his standing and work within the community.

My thoughts: People are way to overwrought about this. I didn't come away with the impression that Atticus was a raging racist, unlike many of his time and place. I did come away with the impression that he was sick and old and somewhat resistant to change, but by no means radically so.

In many ways, I was glad of the controversy, as it kept me reading, searching for the "smoking gun" when I might otherwise have given up: Go Set a Watchman is mediocre at best. The character's feel half-developed, the plot seesaws between Jean Louise's present visit and various, somewhat random, memories of her childhood, and perhaps most irritating, the first person and third person, sometimes within the same paragraph and almost always without warning. Why was her uncle sometimes "Uncle Jack" and sometimes "Dr. Finch?" Did she really call her father "Atticus?" Did an editor/publisher really reject this half a century ago and, if so, how did they have so much more sense than the current one? (I know the answer to this last question: the publisher is laughing all the way to the bank.)

On a four-star scale, this gets a two, because it wasn't actually dreck. Just really boring and somewhat sloppily written. It won't be making any appearances on my best of list later this year, that's for sure.

Carry Me Home

The world is on the cusp of war, suspended between the deprivations of the Depression and rationing of World War II, but for Earl and his older brother Jimmy, life is a series of small-town adventures - hunting, fishing, and drinking beer chief among them. Everything changes when Jimmy enlists in the National Guard on his 21st birthday, and is shipped to the Philippines.

Thus opens Carry Me Home, a nostalgic novel about how things used to be. Its narrator is 16-year-old Earl, by his own accounting an "idiot" since suffering from a serious brain fever as a baby. And while Earl struggles to understand what thoughts are appropriate to speak aloud and how to make change for customers at his family's grocery store, he has no trouble understanding the trials and tribulations of those around him.

Sandra Kring's novel moves seamlessly from laugh-out-loud funny (her funeral scene rivals that of Twenties Girl for hilarity) to heartrendingly sad, all told through the inimitable voice of Earl "Earwig" Gunderman. For all its emotion, Carry Me Home is not overwrought, and hopefulness emerges as the dominant feeling. Well written and easy-to-read, this novel offers a unique perspective on World War II - and on life.

If a Pirate I Must Be...: The True Story of "Black Bart," King of the Caribbean Pirates

Richard Sander's history of Bartholomew Roberts, aka John Roberts, aka “Black Bart," gets off to a bit of a slow start before taking off, in much the same way as Roberts' own career.

Unlike Blackbeard, whose likeness and story is plastered over much of the Caribbean, and Captain Morgan, who warranted his own run, I didn't actually know anything about Roberts before I read this book. Pirate tales being a bit removed from my usual reading, I can't even say how I came across it. I started it much, much earlier this summer, and abandoned it for a time, feeling a bit bogged down by the details of Robert's upbringing and time as a mate on a slaver. Picking it back up on a recent flight, I discovered I'd quit at the wrong time - within a few pages, Roberts was a full-fledged pirate captain, and his story became much more interesting.

What Sanders does especially well is to tell the story of pirates - how they came into existence, their codes and rules, the necessities of punch (sugar ships were especially vulnerable to pirates, sugar being one of the key ingredients in the pirates' favorite drink), and how they operated as, essentially, a society unto themselves. In this way, Roberts is an actor in a much larger story, and one that is far more interesting than any single pirate's biography. Sanders also provides insight into the relations between the British, French, Spanish, and Portuguese empires, as well as the early operation of the slave trade, particularly the deplorable conditions on the ships - for crew, as well as slaves. His conclusion: it's no wonder so many sailors deserted the slavers for the life of a pirate.

Yo, ho, ho, and a bottle of rum.

Rambles and Scrambles in North and South America

Rambles and scrambles in North and South America chronicles the travels of Sir Edward Robert Sullivan throughout - you guessed it - North and South America in 1850-51. How and where I first heard of it, I cannot say, but it's been on my reading list for sometime. The review, alas, will be a bit mixed.

Working in the author's favor is Sullivan's prescience.  Of the Indians he writes, "the Indians say that they themselves and the buffalo will go under together, and they are certainly running a neck and neck race for it now." Clearly this came to pass, and pretty much in these terms. Sullivan sees America and Americans with a clear-eyed practicality, particularly as it related to politics. For example, "It is a well-known political axiom in the States, that they never elect a first-rate man to the presidency; they prefer a third or fourth-rate man..." I also liked his take on the heavily armed population he encountered: "If liberty is consists in a man being allowed to shoot and stab his neighbour on the smallest provocation, and to swagger drunk about the streets, then certainly the Crescent city is the place in which to seek it." Indeed,the more things change... And though the portions of Rambles and Scrambles set in South America were a notch below those in North America, Sullivan does hit on the nail on the head a couple of times, as when he notes the "ruinous effects of yearly presidents supplanted by annual revolutions" in parts of South America.

Sullivan's language is vivid, his characterizations colorful, his anecdotes amusing. I particularly liked the story of being searched in New Orleans when he declared he had no "implements" upon his person, and also of the pigeons and peacocks at the Havana theater. Unfortunately, Sullivan is equally thorough in his descriptions of flora and fauna, sea breezes, and navigational techniques. This is understandable given that his audience of Englishmen had not - and likely would not - see this New World for themselves. For today's reader, it makes for rather uneven pacing: trudging through feet of prairie snow with moccasins and Indian guides (usually "half-breeds" who speak French, rather than English) is amazing. Learning the name of every tree and bird encountered on the banks of the Mississippi, less so.

Sullivan's undertaking - both the travels and the writing - is impressive. Ultimately, Rambles and Scrambles makes for better skimming than close reading, and is best enjoyed by American history buffs and those who enjoy travelogues, even (or maybe especially) featuring places and people long since vanished.

Three stars.

Liar, Temptress, Soldier, Spy: Four Women Undercover in the Civil War

Liar, Temptress, Soldier, Spy is an in-depth look at four women - two Union and two Confederate - who determined to play a role in the Civil War. Karen Abbott deftly traces the paths each of the women took, comparing and contrasting their histories along the way.

Rose O'Neal Greenhow and Elizabeth Van Lew are two of the best-known spies from the time, Rose for the Confederacy and Van Lew for the Union. The women are portrayed as being 180 degrees apart in temperament and methods (with ROG fulfilling the role of "temptress," particularly of Congressmen and other political types, while EVL was clearly a "liar," and never more than when a Confederate general and chief of the POW system in Richmond moved into her home to better keep an eye on her). Their belief in the their respective causes was equally unwavering, and each paid a particularly steep price for her wartime activities. 

Emma Edmonds ran away from her New Brunswick home, living as a man in Flint, Michigan, before the war in order to escape society's expectations of a woman of her time and class. She enlisted under her assumed name, Frank Thompson, and served as a courier, spy, and infantryman in a number of the wars bloodiest battles before, going AWOL and reclaiming Emma's identity. (I was familiar with many aspects of Edmonds's/Thompson's story from They Fought Like Demons: Women Soldiers in the Civil War, which I read earlier this year.)

Belle Boyd was 17 when the war hit home, literally, with Union soldiers forcibly entering her family's home in Martinsburg, Virginia, (later West Virginia). Of the four women, Belle most completely embodies the four roles of Abbott's title, and is portrayed, at least, as having the most colorful personality.

Liar, Temptress, Soldier, Spy is an informative and interesting read that those with an interest in women's history or the American Civil War will especially enjoy.

Four stars.

The Mother Tongue - English And How It Got That Way

I am a great fan of Bill Bryson's work, so when The Mother Tongue popped up in Book Bub earlier this summer, I had to read it. As I did so, I could not escape the nagging question, "Have I read this before?" Unfortunately, I was high over the Pacific, with no wi-fi, on my way to a completely disconnected vacation. I would have to wait until I got home for the answer.

No, no, I did not read this before. What I did read was Melvyn Bragg's The Adventure of English, which covers much of the same ground, and which I much preferred. Both mine the history of the language seeking to answer such questions as where our words come from, how English has evolved, and where it is headed. Even a linguistics major needn't read both.

Bryson fans, stick with walking in the woods.

Let Them Eat Shrimp: The Tragic Disappearance of the Rainforests of the Sea

Probably you haven't given much thought to mangroves. I haven't. Only occasionally have I given any thought to their role in the climate, such as when they're mentioned briefly as a shelter during a hurricane in Under a Dark Summer Sky. Kennedy Warne, on the other hand, has devoted a tremendous amount of time, energy, and brain power, to the plight of the mangroves.

And that plight, unfortunately, is tied inextricably to the global economy. See, people like shrimp. Shrimp do remarkably well in the tropical climates that are so prevalent in the developing world. Ergo, from Brazil to Indonesia, shrimp farms have cleared away mangroves to create shrimp ponds, altering the environment, the way of life for the local population, and the market for this once-delicacy.

Warne is clearly passionate about the subject, but takes a fair and balanced approach to the topic. Let Them Eat Shrimp includes chapters on regions and countries that have recognized the problem and are working to rectify it (such as Eritrea, of all places), as well as those where the mangroves are legally, even constitutionally, protected, but where the on-the-ground practice is to turn a blind eye to wealthy and powerful shrimp farms and developers. (Here's to you, Ecuador.)

Warne, who not surprisingly writes for National Geographic, criss-crossed the globe from the Americas to Asia and Africa to understand the various forces at play and how the dynamics might be changed, the mangroves restored and saved. In that way, Let Them Eat Shrimp is as much travelogue as science, as much about raising consciousness as about guilt. He further reinforces the notion of understanding where our food comes from and choosing what to purchase based on more than the price.

Those who love science and nature writing, travel writing, and serious books that study complex issues and arrive at no easy solutions will especially appreciate Warne's work.

Four Years in the Mountains of Kurdistan: An Armenian Boy's Memoir of Survival

Aram Haigaz's memoir of the years (1915-1919) during and immediately after the Armenian genocide is a beautifully wrought account of his experiences and resilience of the human spirit. Aram was 15 when his village fell to the Turks and he watched all of the town's men - including all of the men in his family - be killed before being forced into a caravan with the surviving women and children, including his mother.

At his mother's urging, Aram renounces his faith, finds a protector of sorts, and escapes the caravan - and his fate - by spending the next four years as a servant-slave to one and then another of the clannish, ruling beys. The stories he tells of his time with the beys is remarkable. Quick-witted and intelligent, he is frequently in and out of jams, and it is clear that the bey comes to rely on him as much more than a lowly servant. Aram's penchant for morphing with his surroundings and doing what needed to be done to survive brought to mind the flight of a contemporary, Lev (Leo) Nussinbaum, from the Bolsheviks just a few years later. And, in fact, Haigaz's longed-for and beloved Armenia and Nussinbaum's native Azerbaijan were both absorbed by the Soviets in 1920.

Haigaz's memoir serves not only as a reminder of the Armenian genocide, but as a window into the last days of the Ottoman Empire, and how World War I looked and felt from the forgotten corners of this vast territory. In the descriptions of fugitives and warlords, of double dealing and bribes and shifting sands of alliance, one finds the seeds of trouble in the modern Middle East. (This landscape makes the feats of Gertrude Bell and Lawrence of Arabia all the more remarkable.)

Beyond the personal story and geo-political history, Four Years in the Mountains of Kurdistan lends a depth and poignancy to the Armenian genocide that Sandcastle Girls, by dint of being a fictional account, could not quite achieve. This is a fascinating memoir, the tale of a penniless and stateless refugee, one that has been experienced far too many times in the past 100 years, but rarely put to paper so well.

Meely LaBauve

I loved this book! Emile - Meely - LaBauve is a 15-year-old Cajun living by his wits in the bayous of South Louisiana. His mother is dead, his father, an alcoholic "gator hunter," and his friendship with Joey Hebert highly discouraged by the prominent and wealthy Mr. Hebert. Yet, Meely is spunky, plucky, and, frankly, rather lovable.

I was dubious of a description of Meely LaBauve as a mid-twentieth century Huck Finn, but I think the description is apt. Meely sees people for who the are, the good as well as the bad, and is a master of getting into and out of rather unimaginable scrapes.

This is a short, quick read that I wasn't ready to finish. Ken Wells has captured the rhythm of speech - and life - in Cajun country perfectly (or at least from the perspective of this Yankee girl), and created a mulch-dimensional character who left me wanting more.

Four stars.

The Wave: In Pursuit of the Rogues, Freaks, and Giants of the Ocean

What better reading for a wave-filled vacation than Susan Casey's The Wave: In Pursuit of the Rogues, Freaks, and Giants of the Ocean?

I admit that I was completely sold by the title, but a bit apprehensive as to the readability. After all, the last water book I started didn't end so well. Happily, Casey's Wave is well researched, well written, and incredibly interesting. In chasing big waves, Casey has captured the intersection of scientists and surfers, each of whom search out the largest waves on the planet for their own purposes. With the surfers, it's rather obvious. The scientists' interest lies in understanding the forces that generate these waves, their relative frequency, and their root causes. Casey also examines the connection to the global economy by exploring the workings of maritime insurance and the salvage companies that rescue ships that have been disabled - and sometimes dashed in half - by these monster waves. In sum, it's a comprehensive look at waves and everything with a vested interest in them.

I read this book much more quickly than I expected. Casey takes subject matter that could be, frankly, dense and dull, and creates a fascinating narrative. This is science writing as it should be, and an excellent beach read in the most literal sense. And, it hurts not one bit that Hawaii and Tahiti feature prominently throughout.

Under a Dark Summer Sky

In the summer of 1935, residents in Heron Key, Florida, are just trying to get by. Years now into the Great Depression, and entrenched within the rules and rituals of the Jim Crow South, black and white residents alike find themselves on edge as the sweltering heat and oppressive humidity bear down on them, a hurricane blowing hard at sea - and straight toward them. Yet, as unprepared as the "Conchs" are, there is another group, just to the outskirts of town, many of whom literally do not know the meaning of a hurricane. This group is comprised of World War I veterans, down on their luck but hard at work, many for the first time in years, building a bridge that will soon connect one key to the next. Tensions between the locals - black and white - and between the locals and the veterans come to a head when a local, white woman is found beaten almost beyond recognition and the sheriff is pressured to finger a killer or allow the town to enact its own justice.

I sped through Vanessa Lafaye's book one rainy afternoon recently. She captures the essence of the 1930s and, especially, of the Jim Crow South, perfectly. The characters' dialogue, as well as their relationships with one another, are such that this book can only be set in one time and place. As with The Help, with few exceptions the black characters tend to be the most sympathetic, and Lafaye seems to take especial pleasure in seeing that the most offensive of the characters receive their just dues. (Given that the historical note at the beginning explains that the 1935 Keys hurricane was the most powerful to ever strike North America - and that it struck a bitty backwater in the midst of the Depression - just dues is something that more than a few - deserving and undeserving alike - received.)

This is the second book I've read about a hurricane recently: The Promise is set during the 1900 hurricane in Galveston. There, the main characters find themselves alone on an isolated farm when the storm comes; here, the characters are sheltered in large groups. It's hard to decide which was more terrifying. It's equally hard to decide which is the "better" book, and in the end, I don't think I will. Under a Dark Summer Sky is wonderfully written and deeply complex. Anyone who loves good writing and good story telling will enjoy this glimpse into the past.

The Promise

In mid-1900, Catherine Wainwright finds herself in the middle of a scandal of her making. Out of money, out of friends, and out of options, she packs her bags and moves from Dayton, Ohio, to Galveston, Texas, to marry the one man who has not shunned her. He is Oscar Williams, a childhood friend, recently widowed and with a young son who desperately needs a mother. Galveston is a shock enough to Catherine, but when she sees her new home, a modest dairy farm not yet fitted with electricity or indoor plumbing, Catherine's doubts mount. It doesn't help that Oscar's housekeeper, Nan, is none-too-pleased to see this newcomer who has irrevocably dashed any hope of Oscar (and his son) ever becoming hers. And then, just days after Catherine's arrival, a massive hurricane bears down on the island changing everything with its relentless wind and powerful waves.

Ann Weisgarber's The Promise is fiction writing at its best. She has created multi-dimensional characters who evoke every emotion from the reader, sometimes simultaneously. And she places these complicated people in the midst of one of the country's worst natural disasters, which she captures with the same precision and effect as the characters who are "living" it. (For those interested in learning more about the hurricane itself, Erik Larson's Isaac's Storm is a must read.)

This is a wonderful, pager-turner of a novel. Avid historical fiction readers should especially love it.

Burning Bright

Burning Bright is a collection of short stories by Ron Rash. The stories range from Civil War-era, to Great Depression-era, to the present day, but all are set in the deep coves and hollows of the Western Carolina mountains. By grounding the stories this way, Rash creates an unmistakable sense of place, and of the hardscrabble existence scratched out by so many in that place.

For the most part, these are proud people, living by their wits, occasionally (in the present day stories), their wits dulled by the omnipotent scourge of meth that has taken hold in that part of the country. Many of the stories have an undercurrent of violence, which feels appropriate, rather than gratuitous. A few of the stories situate Rash's pocket of Appalachia within the larger American South (I thought repeatedly of After Appomattox as I read Dead Confederates), but more often Rash's story serve to remind the reader just how isolated - culturally, emotionally, and geographically - these hills are.

In sum, Burning Bright is an excellent collection of short stories told with a unique perspective and voice. They are a reminder, too, of the many and varied landscapes that crisscross this country.

The Murder of the Century The Gilded Age Crime That Scandalized a City & Sparked the Tabloid Wars

Paul Collins's Murder of the Century offers readers a glimpse into big city crime when fingerprints were considered unreliable, DNA testing did not exist, cops and coroners were in somebody's pocket, and journalists were as likely to solve a murder as law enforcement.

So what is the so-called murder of the century? Amid a broiling mid-summer heat wave in 1897, body parts begin turning up across New York City - a torso in the East River, limbs in Harlem, that kind of thing. But whose are they? And where is the head? And, most importantly, who is responsible? While one cop works doggedly to answer these questions, William Randolph Hearst and Joseph Pulitzer use the crime as an opportunity to turn up the heat in their tabloid war with one another.

The Murder of the Century is as much a tale of yellow journalism as it is of murder. In many ways, I was reminded of the murder which captivated London just a few years later, that committed by Hawley Harvey Crippen and detailed by Erik Larson in Thunderstruck. Collins does a good job with both the journalism and the murder, but I couldn't help feeling that there just wasn't quite enough material here for a full book. As a result, the book alternates between being highly readable and completely bogged down in details that feel extraneous to the story he's telling.

Two-point-five stars.

A Memory of Violets: A Novel of London's Flower Sellers

Tilly Harper leaves her home in Northern England to become an assistant housemother at a home for blind and crippled girls in London. The "girls" are not just any girls, though: they are Mr. Shaw's flower girls. Some of them are twice as old as 20-year-old Tilly, some a few years younger. All of them work at the adjacent factory crafting silk flowers, which are famous enough for even Queen Alexandra to notice.

Settling into her room, Tilly discovers a small box of trinkets that belonged to the previous occupant, the now-deceased Flora Flynn. Inside the box is also a journal, in which Flora describes her heartbreak at losing her her younger sister when they were penniless flower girls on the streets of London. Still reeling from her own losses, Tilly determines to find out what happened to the younger sister (and this 100 years before The Google).

Hazel Gaynor's A Memory of Violets  has potential. Gaynor writes well and her characters have plenty of depth and personality. She simply tries to do too much. There are too many narratives happening here: Flora's story, Tilly's current story, Tilly's past history, and then later, Rosie's stories. Either Flora or Tilly could have stood on her own, and combining them felt forced and unnecessary. (I had a similar to reaction to The Girl Who Came Home, so I will say that Gaynor is nothing if not consistent.)

My biggest complaint, though, is that Gaynor relies on way too many coincidences for the story to be believable. All of the book's characters simply could not have been connected. I understand that without the connections, the lives of Flora and Tilly simply run parallel to one another, and never the twain shall meet. No, it's simply too tall of an order to believe it all could have happened as Gaynor wrote here.

The final verdict: this isn't a bad book. It's just not a great one, and there are too many of those for me to recommend this one wholeheartedly.

The Art Forger

Claire Roth has been blacklisted by the entire art world. Rather than producing original art which no gallery, museum, or dealer will ever touch, she spends most of her time recreating other people's art for Reproductions.com.Want Vincent Van Gogh's starry night? It - or a virtually undetectable copy - can be yours thanks to Claire's ability to mimic other artists' style and technique. (In fact, this skill is what got her blacklisted from the art world.) Her real test comes when a dealer approaches her about copying one of the stolen Degas paintings from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. In accepting this assignment, though, Claire finds herself delving into both the underworld and a spiraling mystery. This master forger's ability to save herself depends on her ability to prove that the lost masterpiece is, itself, just a finely crafted forgery.

I wasn't familiar with the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, or the theft of art from this museum, until I read B. A. Shapiro's The Art Forger. Not only did I learn a great deal about this museum and its artwork (both stolen and not), but I also learned a tremendous amount about painting techniques and how, specifically, one goes about creating forgeries. (Anyone who has ever seen my stick figures knows this will not be my next career move.)

Shapiro writes well and has created an engaging and credible mystery around the facts in the case. Claire's back story is woven in carefully, as is Isabella Stewart Gardner's "correspondence," although the latter is a bit of a crutch to resolve the mystery in a realistic way. My only criticism is of Claire, whose "struggling artist" persona can be a bit grating at times. Even this, though, feels genuine and credible, as though Shapiro wants Claire to antagonize the reader just a bit. Well done.

The Nazi Officer's Wife: How One Jewish Woman Survived the Holocaust

Several weeks ago, I read The Last Jews in Berlin, about Jews who managed to hide for the duration of the Holocaust under Hitler's nose. Edith Hahn is not included in Leonard Gross's book (perhaps for reasons of geography, perhaps he did not know her story, or perhaps he was interested in telling the stories of those who were not included to publish their own memoirs), but she certainly could have been.

Edith Hahn had a fairly unremarkable childhood has a Vienna Jew, save for one important difference: she was highly educated, a rarity for women in her circumstances in those days. With a brilliant, inquiring mind, she studied all the way through to a doctorate of law - and then her timing failed her. She was to sit for her final examination just as Austria fell to Hitler and the Jewish laws precluded her from becoming a fully qualified, practicing lawyer.

Edith was remarkable in another way, as well. Unlike so many European Jews, she felt acutely the danger posed by Hitler and his National Socialists. More than once she pleaded with her boyfriend, Pepi, that they should escape while they could, but he could not bring himself to leave his mother, and she could not bring himself to leave him.

Ultimately, the Nazis decided the issue for her: she was ordered to report to forced labor camps in northern Germany, first on an asparagus farm and then at a paper factory, where for 14 months she performed hard labor on starvation rations. Allowed to return to Vienna only upon her mother's deportation to "the east," she pulled off a daring escape and began her transformation into Aryan womanhood, culminating in her marriage to a Nazi officer.

The Nazi Officer's Wife  is a fascinating memoir by a woman who, in the words of her daughter, "experienced the Holocaust both as a victim of the Nazi system in the forced labor camps, and as a dutiful German housewife existing withing the system." Her experiences in the immediate post-war years also provide a glimpse into Soviet East Germany, Stasi and all. (Remarkably - or not, given what she had already been through - Edith manages to escape the ever-tightening Soviet noose and emigrates to England.)

In the Unlikely Event

When I think of Judy Blume, I think of long, lazy childhood afternoons filled with Fudge and her Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing, and a bit later, Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret? I didn't include Judy Blume on my somewhat recent list of books that matter, but I probably should have. She, Roald Dahl, and Ann M. Martin (Babysitter's Club, anyone?) were probably the only authors I could really name when I was 10 years old. But I digress.

In the Unlikely Event is the adult version of Judy Blume at her finest. The novel is set in Elizabeth, New Jersey, in the winter of 1951-52 when three commercial airplanes crashed in town on their way in or out of Newark airport. The thought of this is so horrifying that I thought Blume created these circumstances to test her characters, but it turns out that this part is not fiction. (And Elizabeth, New Jersey, is Blume's home town and Blume was 13-going-on-14 that winter, so it's fair to wonder how much of an autobiographical element In the Unlikely Event contains.)

The story is about how individuals are affected by the crash, people whose lives might never have intersected, and some that would have intersected differently. It's about how humans cope with crisis, but more than that, it's about how messy life can be, and how so often, it takes only one quick pull of a thread for everything to unravel. In this way, it reminds me very much of When the World Was Young, Elizabeth Gaffney's fine novel of innocence lost set, perhaps not coincidentally, in the same heady, post-war years that Blume mines here.

These are Blume's people. In Miri Ammerman, I felt the presence of Margaret Simon, she of Are You There God fame. What Blume does so well is to create the story. Each chapter is told in the voice of a different character - I'd hazard to guess close to 20 in all - and for the first third of the book, it's a guessing game for the reader how these lives fit together. Blume creates dramatic plot twists in places the reader least expects, and she does all of it with an authentic voice, or in this case, voices.

Ultimately, this is a book to make the reader think. About family. About love. About choices and happiness and random luck, both good and bad. About the influence of strangers and strange events on our lives. If you read nothing else this summer, read this.

All Things Bright and Beautiful

All Things Bright and Beautiful is James Herriot's memoir of his years a country vet in 1930s Yorkshire. His style reminds me very much of both the Gilbreths and Edmund Love, so regular readers of this blog will know that I loved it.

Herriot leads his readers on a gentle stroll through the hills and dales, jovially recalling his more memorable patients and not a few of their two-legged owners. He creates a sense of time and place, so that the reader is quite certain that Herriot's adventures could only have happened when and where they did. Many are sweet, some are laugh-out-loud funny, and all are tinged with a heavy dose of nostalgia.

In addition to giving readers a glimpse of the country vets' daily life, Herriot also deftly educates the reader about veterinary medicine, and in particular how far the field had advanced, even at the time of his writing (early 1970s). His explanations of various ailments are thorough, without being overly technical. I learned more about brucellosis, for example, than I ever thought to knew, but didn't realize until I finished reading the book how much Herriot had actually taught me about animal husbandry. He is clearly awed by his work, not in the self-important sense, but in the sense that man has the ability, through science, to alleviate (or prevent) the suffering of so many animals.

All Things Bright and Beautiful is actually the second book in a trilogy. I've gone about it all wrong, reading the middle first, but I am very much looking forward to cracking the cover on All Creatures Great and Small and All Things Wise and Wonderful.

Four stars.

Oh Say Can You Fudge

I shouldn't read the Fudge mysteries. I know this. I've said this before. And yet, when I saw the fireworks-filled cover on the library shelf, I couldn't help myself. The Fourth of July. Mackinac Island. Fudge. I have no one to blame but myself.

Allie McMurphy, in her infinite wisdom, has joined the Star Spangled Fourth committee. She has insisted on hiring a new company to put on the island's three fireworks shows - and then she discovers him dead in the fireworks warehouse, just before the entire warehouse explodes.

There are so many things wrong with this book. Regarding the writing, I'll just say it can't possibly be a mistake that the day I read this book is also the day I learned an Ohio appeals court ruled in favor of proper punctuation. Even looking beyond the punctuation, the writing itself is pretty terrible. Every person Allie encounters is described in minute and simultaneously meaning details from the hair (most women wear it in a bun, it seems), to the clothes, to the height (Allie is a master of knowing exactly how tall everyone she meets is). Also I've decided I really don't like Allie.

Although I wasn't a huge fan of either of the other books in this series, the plot in each was a compelling whodunit. This one is different. The entire mystery left me with a rather meh feeling, which wasn't helped by the way in which one of the characters (Henry) disappears completely from the plot and pages, his role in any of the "mysteries" completely unresolved (or forgotten). It was as if Nancy Coco got bored of her own characters and creation and abandoned them all, come what may.

The final verdict: skip this book.

The Wright Brothers

As one might expect, The Wright Brothers, is a biography of Wilbur and Orville Wright, those crazy kids from Dayton, Ohio, who invented a flying machine.

As his his custom, David McCullough (The Path Between the Seas and The Greater Journey: Americans in Paris) writes crisply, telling the story without becoming bogged down in the details. He writes objectively, but not without admiration for what Wilbur and Orville accomplished or for the perseverance necessary to accomplish it. If anything, I was surprised at how quickly I read this book, particularly as compared to James Tobin's To Conquer the Air, which mines much of the same material but in a less lively fashion.

McCullough is careful to consider the contributions of others, and particularly of the Wrights' right-hand man, Charlie Taylor. Relegated to the dustbin of history, so to speak, it is Charlie who built much of the Wrights' machines, making their conceptualizations a reality. Or at least speeding them a long. (As a side note, I could not figure out where I had previously read about Charlie Taylor, Octave Chanute, Samuel Langley, and Louis Blériot. My first reason for starting a blog was a good one: with a few keystrokes, I realized I had read of their exploits - and those of the Wrights - in Tobin's work, as well as in Jim Rasenberger's delightful America, 1908.)

The final verdict: if what you remember about the Wilbur and Orville is limited to their invention of human flight, McCullough's book is an excellent refresher on their early beginnings, entrepreneurial spirit, and mechanical genius. The Wright Brothers is concise, but complete.

The Summer's End

The Summer's End is the last of Mary Alice Monroe's Lowcountry Summer trilogy. Last year I read The Summer Girls and, after the plot veered toward the utterly absurd, had no intention of reading the next book, The Summer Wind. Long story short, though, is that I did read it, liked it better than the first book, and decided to see the trilogy through.

To recap : Dora, Carson, and Harper are half-sisters (same mister, different mothers) in their late-20s to late-30s who have fallen out of touch with one another, and also mostly with their grandmother. Seeking to rectify the situation, the grandmother summons them to her lowcountry house, Sea Breeze, to celebrate her 80th birthday. On her birthday, she insists they remain the entire summer, or forfeit their soon-to-be (considerable) inheritance.

Although the stories are intertwined and all characters feature in all books, each book primarily focuses on a different sister and her drama. The Summer Girls stars Carson, who has broken up with her boyfriend, lost her job, and seems to have a bit of a drinking problem. She is also obsessed with a dolphin. Perhaps not surprisingly, she is my least favorite sister. The Summer Wind is Dora's story. The eldest sister, Dora, is in the midst of a divorce and uncertain, at best, how to handle her autistic son.

The last of the trilogy, The Summer's End, focuses on youngest sister Harper. Harper is a would-be writer who is instead spinning her wheels as her ice-queen-mother's personal assistant at a New York City publishing house.She is probably the least happy to find herself stuck at Sea Breeze, at least initially. Also, the fact that her mother comes from piles and piles of money is a bone of contention between the sisters, especially (big surprise) Carson.

Harper's story veers between being relateable and likeable, and being a little too unlikely to pass muster. Nevertheless, The Summer's End is a quick and enjoyable read of the completely-non-serious variety. That said, the books are written in a way that makes it, I think, difficult to pick up one in isolation, which means that anyone who wants to read this one should probably start at the beginning - perhaps more of a commitment than most readers might care to make for 2.5-to-3 star books.

The Last Jews in Berlin

Anyone with an interest in World War II, and particularly in the Holocaust, should read Leonard Gross's The Last Jews in Berlin, an absolutely fascinating recounting of how a handful of German Jews managed to go "underground" in Nazi Germany and survive the war right under Hitler's nose.

Their methods are as varied as their backgrounds: a wealthy young family (it seems there was money to be made for a good gemologist with the right black market connections); a scholar whose prominent, Aryan lover happens to be both a countess and a key member of the German resistance; a teenaged orphan; one of the finest dress makers in Berlin; and so on. What they all have in common, though, is resourcefulness, determination, and non-Jew "patrons" who help them hide and navigate life as an illegal.

Gross brings all of these individuals to life - as well as many of their friends and family members who did not survive - in this remarkable book. He also sheds life on wartime Germany: the lack of food, the near constant bombing raids, the fear of being reported for some real of perceived slight against the regime. The Last Jews in Berlin is a great companion to In the Garden of Beasts, in which Erik Larsen paints a portrait of Berlin on the verge of war. And, although the circumstances are vastly different, I was regularly reminded of the survivors from Three Minutes in Poland.

The most poignant and telling remark for me was actually recorded early in the book, when the dress maker is indignant with rage at the Gestapo headquarters. Having successfully convinced the Gestapo of her innocence, a successful (and arguably, admiring) guard tells her upon her release, "If everyone had been as courageous as you, a lot of things would not have worked for the Gestapo." This is something I have long contemplated: why so many went so willingly and so quietly, without the least bit of fight.

Four stars.