Give This Bookworm a Hand, Won't You?

I need a good book. Now, come on readers, I've recommended a few for you. Return the favor, won't you? My oldest son is heading to high school in less than two weeks (I'm quite sure I'll blog on this very soon as I can't quite believe it). Over the summer he was charged with reading three novels for his forthcoming Honors English class. The books were (in no particular order)...

The Illustrated Man (Bradbury)

All Quiet on the Western Front (Remarque)

Frankenstein (Shelly)

With just 12 days to go, and having finished the first two, he is currently about 1/4 of the way through Frankenstein (and by the look on his face, it's no Ender's Game).

I thought it would be a good idea to read these three as well, so that, ya know, we could talk about them. And seeing as I have that whole B.A. in English going for me, I figured I could probably help him understand the stories. Give him an intelligent thought or two, right?

I did read All Quiet... (I know, I know, I can't believe I've never read it before either!), and enjoyed it. However, I don't agree wholeheartedly that it is the "greatest book on war ever written." Hang on, maybe it was the greatest book on war ever written at that time. That I can believe. It was a touching, honest story. Although my favorite is still The Things They Carried. Tim O'Brien is fantastic.

I did not read The Illustrated Man. The agony on Connor's face the whole way through that book was enough to scare me away from it.

I did start Frankenstein, but hell, I saw the movie more than once. That counts, right? I was slogging through when, thank God, Connor finished book #2 and was ready for it. Who am I to stand in the way of my son's continuing education?

So I've read some lazy, summer books. All fine and good. But I dare say that I'm ready for some substance! So, please, if you wouldn't mind recommending a few for me, that'd be swell. As a reminder, these are the ones I recommended to you back in February.

Thanks!

May I recommend to you...

In my home, there is a library. It is a wide, dark paneled room in the center of which is an impressive, stone fireplace. Two of the four walls are covered floor to high-beamed ceiling, in Brazilian wood bookshelves. These, of course, are covered in…books. Historical novels, short stories, books of poetry, anthologies, all resting amicably together. The third,west-facing wall is a bank of tall, slanted windows that frames the setting sun at the end of the day. Two leather chairs, equal parts strong and soft, face the aforementioned fireplace…

Oh, who am I kidding?

I have a living room that I call the “library.” There is no fireplace, stone or otherwise. No leather seating, no Brazilian wood. But, on one perfect wall rests floor to ceiling bookshelves. And yes, these are covered in all my favorite books, with room for pictures of my kids, and two antique typewriters (one of which I wrote about finding here: http://bethmwood.blogspot.com/2010/03/treasure-in-atlanta.html).

The books you’ll find in my library are there for a reason. They are books that touched me in one way or another. They are books I would recommend to you.

I would recommend, for instance, that you read To Kill a Mockingbird, and Water For Elephants, so that you come to know men such as Atticus Finch and Jacob Jankowski, and know, equally, the absolute goodness that can exist within people, fiction or not.

I would recommend that you read Monica Wood’s, Any Bitter Thing, to remind you that in this world, we have been conditioned by the media, by certain true events and by not so true people, and that sometimes our preconceptions are wrong.

I would recommend that you read Velva Jean Learns To Drive (and Velva Jean Learns to Fly...and Becoming Clementine) for the hope and determination on every page, and let it inspire you to find these things in yourself and to create your own happy ending.

And I truly hope that you will take the time to read Little Bee. It is, as of 9:44 this morning when I finished reading it, and wiping my eyes, my favorite story. Chris Cleave is now on my short list (not that he should care, who am I, after all?) with Graham Greene and Andre Dubus among a few others. The first page of Little Bee might not make you cry. But it did, me. Because he does so well what it is that I can only dream of doing. And that is putting truth into precise, beautiful, simple language.

I’m no expert, but I can tell you that I know a really great book within the first page. And sometimes, in the case of truly outstanding books, I know after the first line. Was this the case in reading Little Bee? I’ll tell you:

“Most days I wish I was a British pound coin instead of an African girl.“

Absolutely, yes.

It is a brilliant piece of writing and Chris Cleave makes it looks so terribly easy. I, in turn, am terribly jealous. But I will keep reading. Maybe some of it will rub off on this wide-eyed writer.

What book would you most recommend to me?

Footsteps in the Dark

I just love a good book.

I’ve seen this one in the bookstore on several occasions, but for whatever reason, passed it up for different titles. Finally, after weeks on the Best Seller table, I bought a copy of “The Girl With the Dragon Tatoo.”

This is a good book.

It’s been awhile since I’ve stayed up past midnight reading, but I simply could not put this one down. If any of you have read it, there are a few awful parts. The other night, I was reading one of these, and decided I’d better close the book and get some sleep before I gave myself nightmares. I turned off my bedroom light, slid under the covers, and waited for my eyes to adjust to the dark. There is an alarm key pad right next to my bedroom door. And I noticed, the minute I lie down, that the light went from green to red. Mind you, I am a single mom with three kids, but it was midnight. They were nestled all snug in their beds (sorry, couldn’t help giving a little nod to the season), right?

A split second later, there was a shadow looming over me, and as my eyes adjusted the shadow turned into the shape of a man. I screamed. I didn’t yell, I didn’t cry for help, or grab the bedside lamp and knock it over his head. I screamed. Just like a pitiful, helpless creature in a B-roll horror flick.

“Mom, it’s me!” Yes, it was my thirteen year-old son. Who stands 5’8” now, and in the dark, looks like a man (where did my baby go?!).

It took me a few minutes to recover from that one.

Last night, I skipped the reading and went straight to bed. I was in a deep sleep when I thought I heard footsteps. I opened my eyes to see my son, his head peering cautiously around the corner of my bedroom door. “Mom. It’s me,” he whispered as loud as possible, “don’t scream!”

I belted out a laugh instead.