Company K

William March's Company K is one of the original World War I accounts; published in 1933, it tells the story of the war from the viewpoint of all 113 men in Company K. And while Company K is fictional, the author March (a pen name for William Edward Campbell), served heroically in the war, earning such such distinctions as the Croix de Guerre, the Distinguished Service Cross, and the Navy Cross. From the writing, there can be no doubt that March has been on intimate terms with the war, as well as how it feels to return from the fighting.

Unlike such classics as All Quiet on the Western Front or Over the Top where a single perspective dominates, the story here is entirely balanced; some men recount their piece in a few pages, others in only two or three paragraphs, all woven together in a single narrative. The result is that the reader doesn't have an opportunity to know any man individually, to feel any great attachment to him, to think of him as anything other than one more cog in the great wheel of war. The war, then, dominates, becoming the main actor - the mud, the blood, the misery. The effect is altogether powerful - and powerfully disconcerting.

Because of the style and organization of Company K, I found it interesting. Somehow, even though the subject matter is dark and heavy, the style was so refreshing that it felt like a "break" from so many of the incredibly long (and also war focused) books I've completed recently, from Shogun to North and South.

World War I buffs would have the greatest interest in this book, along with those who are looking for something different, or something from another era.

American Lightning: Terror, Mystery, and the Birth of Hollywood

In 1910, 21 people died when The Los Angeles Times was bombed. Other bombs planted around the city failed to explode. Eager, desperate even, to solve the "crime of the century," the city of Los Angeles hired private detective Billy Burns - himself the Sherlock Holmes of his day - to investigate. Billy finds his man, or men as the case may be, and then finds himself entangled in the shenanigans of Clarence Darrow, who has been hired to defend the bombers. All the while, both Burns and Darrow find their tactics being increasingly influenced by the nascent movie industry, particularly the work of D.W. Griffith who is in the process of creating Hollywood as we know it today.

All of this Howard Blum ties together brilliantly, in a face-paced, action-packed 300 pages that I could not read fast enough. Very quickly, Blum brings to life the people and events of 100 years ago, from Mary Pickford's pique at Griffith to LA Mayor George Alexander's underhanded deal to bring water to the city - and a profit to himself. In a day and age when the new cycle seldom lasts an afternoon, it's difficult to appreciate the way in which the bombing and subsequent trial dominated headlines. (In this way, I was reminded of the SS Eastland and other similar headline-dominating horrors, now long forgotten.)

Ultimately, Blum's work is the simultaneous telling of the creation of Hollywood and the early twentieth century battle between capitalism and labor. The way in which he connects these is fascinating; there's something here for everyone, from mystery and suspense to social commentary to film buffs, and I have no qualms about recommending it widely.

Four stars.

North and South

North and South is the first in John Jakes's Civil War trilogy by the same name. The book chronicles the forging of the bond between the Yankee Hazards and the Southern Mains, two family of long lineage and impressive wealth who are brought together by the sons' enrollment at West Point in the late (18)30's. Orry Main and George Hazard become best friends at West Point and then comrades-in-arms in Mexico before returning to civilian life, George to run his family's ironworks, and Orry to manage the family's low country rice plantation. As the country heads toward civil war, the men work to maintain an ever-deepening and evermore complicated friendship.

Over some 800 pages, Jakes tells the story not only of the Main and Hazard families, but of a country slowly heading to war with itself. From the Republic of Texas to the California Goldrush, the political fights in Washington, and the John Brown's failure at Harper's Ferry, North and South is full of the zeitgeist of the antebellum period. The characters he creates are rich, and varied. There are plenty of villains, but also quiet heroes, and all of them fit seamlessly into place with the real people who lived and breathed at the time.

My only complaint is a general one: trilogies, and certainly the good ones, (whether the Shaara father and son Civil War trilogy Gods and Generals, The Killer Angels, and The Last Full Measure, or Gwen Bristow's Plantation trilogy) require such a commitment. I've already begun the middle book, Love and War, which weighs in at a whopping 1100 pages. When will I ever read anything else again??

The Widow's War

The Widow's War has been on my reading list since a librarian recommended it to me last fall. Given the title, it shouldn't spoil the story to say the main character, Lyddie, is a widow, made that way by whaling. Knowing that, I expected something along the lines of Ahab's Wife or even Hetty Green. But while whaling is certainly central to the story, The Widow's War is more more focused on women's rights in Colonial America than on the principal way by which the male population of Cape Cod makes its living. In that sense, its heroine has much in common with those of They Fought Like Demons (real heroines) and One Thousand White Women (imagined), for Lyddie yearns only to know freedom in all of its forms.

Edward Berry was a whaler, his wife long accustomed to managing in his absence. It comes as a shock, then, that his will renders her a ward of her son-in-law. Edward's death sets the stage for Lyddie's war. It is a war that will pit her against family, friends, and church, for her desire to direct her own life is so counter to the times as to estrange her from everything and everyone she once held dear.

Sally Cabot Gunning has endowed Lyddie with an endearing, determined nature, couple with a stubborn streak a mile wide. I couldn't help but alternately cheer for Lyddie and be utterly exasperated by her choices. Like a real flesh and blood human, Lyddie is complex, equal parts sympathetic and obnoxious. This, too, rings true.

In the end, if I did not love The Widow's War, I liked it very much and have no qualms about recommending it to avid readers of historical fiction. Those with a penchant for colonial-era literature should particularly enjoy it.

Luncheon of the Boating Party

I blame Shogun. 

Luncheon of the Boating Party isn't bad, it just pales in comparison to Shogun, which leaves Susan Vreeland's work seeming a bit washed out. I'm getting ahead of myself, though. Luncheon of the Boating Party is the story of Renoir's painting by the same name, created in 1881, just as France was recovering its composure from the Franco-Prussian war, which would of course set the stage for World War I, but that's another story. Vreeland has taken pains to recreate the circumstances under which Renoir's masterpiece was painted, carefully considering the zeitgeist, as well as the individual models. The models ranged from upper-crust Charles Ephussi to Angele, a sometimes-streetwalker in Montmartre, to say nothing of Aline, who will many years hence become Madame Renoir, and Alphonsine, for whom Renoir's affection is apparent, until she is upstaged by Aline. As the French might say: ouf!

Vreeland has chosen to narrate her work in the voices of Renoir and seven of the models. Although this style can work well, in this case the story felt choppy, leaving gaps here and there. The effect was heightened by the fact that, while the perspective changed, the narrative voice seldom did, such that all of the characters seemed to act and feel alike. Both the characters and the era seemed to me to receive short shrift, although here I am especially cognizant of the fact that, consciously or otherwise, I am comparing them to Shogun, which is more than a little unjust. A more legitimate complaint, I'm certain, is the occasional usage of French, which frequently feels clumsy, interspersed as it is with English in a single phrase, for example the word "two" appearing in English, but the rest in French. I found this both confusing and distracting.

In the sense that Vreeland has imagined the thoughts and feelings of the models as well as Renoir, Luncheon of the Boating Party reminds me of A Piece of the World. In writing the latter, Christina Baker Kline has the advantage or imaging only one model, not the dozen-plus Vreeland faced; perhaps for this reason, Kline was able to create a depth of character that is lacking in Luncheon of the Boating Party.

So what's the final verdict? Those who love Renoir, or perhaps even Impressionism more generally, will enjoy learning more about the backstory of one his iconic works. It is certainly many measure above The Painted Girls, which belongs to the same genre of creating the backstory for a painting (in this case, Little Dancer Aged Fourteen). I preferred Luncheon of the Boating Party so much that I couldn't help but be that much more cognizant of my own present shortcomings here, in comparing Luncheon with the completed dissimilar Shogun. Alas.

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.