Shogun

Incomparable.

Somewhere around page 600 or 700, “incomparable” popped into my mind and I spent the remaining 500 pages debating whether James Clavell’s Shogun was, in fact, incomparable.

Blackthorne is a English-born pilot, a first rate navigator and commander, hired by the Dutch to command a fleet that, one-by-one has dwindled to a single ship, until that, too, is wrecked on the shores of Japan. Disoriented, dispirited, and not a little disgusted, Blackthorne is quickly re-christened Anjin-san, or Mr. Pilot, and must learn how to be more Japanese and less Barbarian if he is to survive his ordeal and return home where riches must surely await him.

Slowly, slowly, Anjin-san not only adapts to the ways of the Japanese, but comes to believe that many of their ways are superior to those of the Europeans. With his vast knowledge, mental and physical strength, and ability to keep his wits even in the most desperate of situations, Anjin-san quickly becomes a valued counselor to the daimyo in whose territory he was wrecked, Toranaga. One of the five ruling Regents of Japan, Toranaga is one of the great daimyos, and also on the brink of war with his greatest rival, Ishido. Gradually he weaves his web, drawing the Anjin-san closer to the center, making the European a full samurai and hatamoto – and calling into question whether the foreigner will ever depart the shores of Japan again.

Clavell’s plot and characters are beautifully constructed, but what struck me the most is his portrayal of sixteenth century Japan and the events that led to the closing of the country and the years of the Shogunate. “The Japanese’re unbeatable…we know the whole point of life. … Duty, discipline, and death,” Clavell writes. Could anything speak to the culture of the kamikaze and karōshi more clearly? Indeed, throughout this entire opus, Clavell captured the essence of Japan, and most especially what it is to be Japanese, so perfectly that I wanted to cry.

Yes, in the end, incomparable is the right word. Shogun is quite possibly the best book I’ve ever read.

The Mushroom Hunters: On the Trail of an Underground America

Langdon Cook's The Mushroom Hunters is a quirky little book, no doubt about it. And yet, I loved it. Cook is, as the title implies, on the trail of those who hunt for, as well as buy, sell, and cook with, the wild mushrooms that proliferate across America, particularly in the Pacific Northwest. The book is populated with true characters...as one whose livelihood as an itinerant fungi hunter, often on federal lands, and often illegally, must be.

The aptly named Cook not only discusses the vagaries of the mushroom trade, but also cooks his way through the myriad mushrooms, leaving any mushroom-loving reader with a hankering to sample more broadly from the species. (Cauliflower and lobster mushrooms are at the top of my new list, though I'm not sure I'll ever have the occasion to try either one.) Neither does Cook omit the travelogue element, with forays into how the landscape is changing, and musings on rural America writ large. Hint: these are mostly depressing, as he traces the growth of meth and opioids, as well as the deterioration of conditions in tiny towns and the industries that used to employ their denizens. Less depressingly, Cook delves into mushrooms' popularity in different cuisines and cultures, from East Asia to Western Europe, as well as its growth in haute cuisine here.

In terms of style, I was regularly reminded of Fuchsia Dunlop's Shark's Fin and Sichuan Pepper, and in fact, the two books seemed frequently to be telling a similar story about the role of foods in both the author's life, as well as a region's cuisine and palate. (Of the two, I had a strong preference for The Mushroom Hunters.) Too, I could not help but recall the lessons of Salt, Sugar, Fat, and the benefits of turning to nature for a greater share of what we consume.

When people (my mom, my son's OT, colleagues) asked what I was reading and I told them a book about hunting for mushrooms, I got more knowing looks than with any other book I've read. I get that it sounds weird and, in many ways, can appeal only to a narrow audience. This is a shame, because The Mushroom Hunters is actually one of the most interesting and thought-provoking books I've read this year.

Four stars.

The Radium Girls: The Dark Story of America's Shining Women

I cannot say enough good things about Kate Moore's The Radium Girls: The Dark Story of America's Shining Women. Before I get ahead of myself, though, I should say that I had some vague knowledge, an inkling, if you will, about women who became very radioactive - and subsequently very sick - painting watches one hundred or so years ago. That is about all I could have told you before reading The Radium Girls.

In Radium Girls, Moore not only provides a thorough recounting of the history of the radium industry, but also of the personal stories and prolonged court battle the women fought in fits and starts before finally and ultimately prevailing. (OSHA is just one of the many workplace safety advances that owes its existence to the radium girls' fight.)

It is impossible to read this book without feeling angry at the abuse of power exercised by the company, as well as the utter lack of rights had by the women, not only as workers, but as women. I tore through this book, equal parts fascinated and enraged as the story unfolded. Moore splits her narration between the plant in Orange, New Jersey, and that in Ottawa, Illinois, where hundreds of mostly young, mostly poor girls, often from immigrant families, painstakingly painted the numbers onto watch faces with a paint whose active ingredient was none other than pure radium. Unsurprisingly, from the vantage point of the twenty-first century, the women soon began falling seriously ill with a variety of ailments from necrosis of the jaw to bone sarcomas to legs that suddenly shortened, leaving them with pronounced limps - and pain.

 As I said before, I cannot offer enough praise for this work, which - in the same vein as such works as Ashes Under Water and Dead Wake - chronicles an important yet largely forgotten episode in this country's history.

Virtue, Valor, and Vanity: The Founding Fathers and the Pursuit of Fame

Eric Burns's Virtue, Valor, and Vanity had been on my reading list for sometime before I finally got around to reading it over Labor Day weekend. It's a quick read, actually, and best thought of as a 40,000 foot view of Revolutionary America and the most famous of the Founding Fathers. Washington is there, of course, and Franklin, as is Adams (John, although also a few glimpses of Sam), as well as Jefferson, Hamilton, and Patrick Henry.

There's little here that history buffs will likely find new, although its presented succinctly and in a readable (rather than dry) style. The most interesting snapshots are of the Fathers I hadn't heard of: James Wilson and Button Gwinnett. And, yes, that was really his name. Wilson signed the Declaration of Independence and was also one of the original six justices appointed to the Supreme Court. It was during his tenure as justice that he also became a fugitive from the law; all these years later, he remains - unsurprisingly - the only person to have simultaneously been appointed to uphold justice in the highest court in the land while also fleeing those same scales of justice. You can't make this stuff up.

Gwinnett, too, signed the Declaration of Independence, before earning the distinction of becoming the first of the signers to die a violent death. Like Hamilton, he was killed in a duel. If his name rings a bell, however faintly, that may be because one of Georgia's largest counties is named for this knucklehead.

Did I like Virtue, Valor, and Vanity: The Founding Fathers and the Pursuit of Fame? Yes, absolutely. That said, by its very nature it offers a smaller window into Revolutionary America than Jeanne Abrams's Revolutionary Medicine, which is still probably my favorite book covering this time period.

Three and a half stars. (A little more Abigail Adams and a little less Alexander Hamilton and I probably would have given it four!)

All the Stars in the Heavens

Adriana Trigiani's All the Stars in the Heavens is the fictitious account of Loretta Young's career and - in particular - romance with Clark Gable, which led to the highly hushed up birth of a daughter, Judy. The first half of the book especially is engaging and page-turning; the late chapters feel slightly more forced, but the book in its entirety certainly evokes Old Hollywood in all of its glory.

If the above paragraph feels slightly ambivalent to you - it is. I actually finished this book well over one week ago, and I've been really struggling with my feelings about it in the interim. The book is very well written. Certainly much of it is well-researched - enough so that I wanted to learn a bit more about Loretta Young. But, and this is an awfully big but, as I was reading more about Young, I learned that in her later years she spoke openly about her relationship with Gable - and characterized their supposed "romance" as date rape. Surely Trigiani came across these same claims in her research, yet it appears she chose to wholly and entirely disregard them in favor of creating a narrative about a failed romance and inventing circumstances that kept Gable and Young perpetually apart, Young pining for Gable until her last days.

This feels wrong to me on so many levels, not least the fact that it diminishes Young's experience, that I'm unable to take an unbiased view toward the work itself. Thus, rather than recommend All the Stars in the Heavens for its sweeping portrayal of glittering Old Hollywood, I would prefer to recommend two other titles in which the golden days of the movie industry are equally well-imagined: The Chaperone and West of Sunset, if you're interested in further reading of the same genre.