The Scent of Lemons

I recently read The Lemon Tree by Sandy Tolan; I truly enjoyed it for a number of reasons having to do with hope, enlightenment, and a better world view. One aspect I especially appreciate is the balanced tone. This is no easy feat when you consider the overall theme of the book: the prospect for Mid-East peace.

The author alerts you to his intention in his introduction. He sets as his goal the use of actual source documents as opposed to speculation. He wishes to suppress his own voice, since his voice has no weight in this story: what follows is admirable. When he focuses on Bashir, he uses Bashir's words and his paradigm. When he discusses Dahlia, he uses her point of view, her writing. When he tackles the delicate issues between them, he uses their words to each other, spoken as uneasy friends. He supplements with third-party writings and a review of events. Tolan's "handling" of the issue is to not have handled it at all, but to have laid the facts of the matter before his readers. In addition, he has done so while retaining the emotion, the angst, the pathos of both points of view. I came away with compassion for both sides, with love and respect for both families. I felt, in a small degree, the weight of the problem; I stood in the middle and was emotionally pulled in two directions. What better way to experience the nature of this thorny problem? I have learned more from this book than from all my previous reading combined. I cannot say when I have been better served.

Tolin looks at the lives of two families whose opposite but similar histories weave around the same house. A lemon tree, planted in the house's courtyard by the Arab family, becomes a delicate and poignant symbol of their shared and troubled dilemma. By chance, the two families lives intersect, when events bring Bashir, the Arab and Dahlia, the Jew, together in a tenuous friendship. Tolan makes a fine effort to retain a balance without which this story cannot be credible.

Book Love

I have recently had a reading "dry spell." It isn't that I haven't read anything. In fact, like most humans who read, I read almost constantly. I look at labels in the grocery store, I note street signs and public advertising, I scan my incoming bills and bank statements, and I glance through the newspaper. To paraphrase Descartes: "I read, therefore I read." What I mean to say is that I haven't read anything good.

"Ah, 'good,'" you say. "How subjective." And, of course, you're right. I could tell you what I have attempted to read but that isn't totally fair. For the record, my analysis is that one was well written, just not on a topic that caught my interest. I thought the other rather badly written for such a fine scholar. It wandered almost as much as did my attention. But it isn't that either book was good or bad, but simply that they left me so unsatisfied.

I work in a library and consider myself a professional, so it is with some chagrin that I managed to come up with two losers in a row.

There seems to be a number of methods for choosing a book to read. If you are a sheep, you can read the NYT (or in all fairness, almost any other) book review. I find these uber snarky. Sort of in the "You are obviously too cretinous to possibly know a good book when you see it, so let me choose for you" category. "Wait!" say you. "How about you, Ms. self-important blogger?" And I would concede, except for one fine point: I have the sneaking suspicion that these reviewers have a vested interest in how a book review slants. Do I sell books? Do I receive galley copies? I think not. By the way, as previously mentioned, "bestselling" does not necessarily mean worthwhile.

If you really trust your friends' opinions, you can take their advice. That strikes me as dangerous: will I look at my friends differently when I read their books and find that they (the books, of course) reek? How will we look each other in the eye? What will we say to one another? Bashing a person's book choices can be as personal as criticizing their date.

You could read synopses from reputable publications. These (theoretically) don't have the taint of the reviewer's ego. It would be a respectable method as long as you factor in the particular biases of the publisher. There is also a matter of the skill and accuracy of those writing such briefs. Think TV programming guides. I rest my case.

I tend toward a tried and true method: the "strolling down the isles of the bookstore or library" method. I will admit that attractive cover art can sway me. When you think about it, this is the same method as falling in love. You scan the candidates; one makes your heart beat a little faster! You take some time, learn more, hold and touch, evaluate and weigh the relative merits. Then you commit. Sure, once in a while, it doesn't work out, and you are disappointed. But I am a believer that a great book, like enduring love, is just around the corner.

So back to the stacks we go, looking for the One.

Why So "Touchy"?

Before I proceed, let me make one thing clear. I am no technology hater. I have an iPod; I have a laptop. I use an internet phone service. I use bluetooth; I save things to a jump drive. I know how to use Excel and Photoshop. I blog, for crying out loud. I have five e-mail addresses, and use them all extensively. I have an online picture account and am LinkedIn. I can do a powerpoint, a screen capture, a screencast. I have even uploaded to YouTube. I love all of it.

Even so, nothing beats an old-fashioned, wood pulp, paper-based, physical, touchable book. Oh, sure, I have a Sony Reader. And it's a gem for taking on vacation. Those whole suitcases full of books are not only hard on the arms, but they're charging excess baggage charges for them now. I listen to books on audio in my car because, let's face it, society frowns on people who read while driving. But sometimes I a need an actual book.

Not to be a stickler, but a book, by definition, is paper. To be precise, most of the accepted definitions and common usages of the word "book" involve bound paper. Even going back to the Olde English root, a book was a written charter. Written on paper. Yes, I know nowadays it can mean to place a bet (on paper?) and to run fast (OED doesn't have that one, but I'll concede).

I want to curl up with a book - one you can hold in your hand, feel the texture of paper as you turn a page, and smell the faint, musty foxing or the sharp inky newness. I want to use the bookmark my children made out of construction paper. If you fall asleep while reading a book, you don't run down the battery or waste electricity (or electrocute yourself). I want to be able to lend a book with my name in the cover. I want to know that the lendee will care for it and return it with the cover unsullied, the spine unbroken and the pages un-dog-eared. I want to read someone else's book and feel their presence on it. This exchange is a metaphysical exercise in trust and sharing. I want to feel ownership of a volume in a way that cyberspace will never satisfy.

A backpack full of books is a badge of honor and perseverance. It's noble somehow.

Read a book - recycle a tree.

Why We Read

I am a librarian. I see a wide range of kids in a day and unlike times past, children don't necessarily come to the library to read, to be read to, or to take home a book. Growing numbers of children come to play on the computers or play with the toys or borrow a movie or video game. I have spent some time trying to decide how I feel about that.

I've always felt that it took a special child, a special person in general, to want to spend time in a library. For me, the feeling compares to standing in a cathedral: I am awed by what is represented there. It's like thinking of a library as infinite possibility. Information perched and waiting to alight on a willing intelligence.

This is why I am inclined to grieve for children who do not read. While reading a text message or the instructions for an internet game does technically qualify as reading, I am not sure it's enough. The experience of reading falls into roughly two categories in this case: the mechanical ability to process words, and the internalizing of a written message. Text messages are too abstract; online games are too repetitive and unresolved; movies do not allow the exercise one's own rich visualization.

The library offers prizes to children who read a certain number of books over the summer. One 12 year-old grabs 10 toddler books well below her reading level and reads them in an hour in order to quickly obtain a prize. Another child labors all summer at books well above his ability and claims the prize after much effort. One child took away a trinket, cheated. The other came away with something more precious than a thousand t-shirts.

Some would argue that any reading at all is a victory. But these children are not growing up in a sod hut on a barren plain. They are not limited to the five books available in their pioneer community. They have a universe at their command: millions of books, in every format, with almost endless vistas of knowledge and experience. How we shortchange them when we allow that universe to consist of the back of the cereal box! Today's child is the heir of a fantastic birthright of available knowledge.

Cereal isn't all there is. Ask Esau.

Weaving a Tale

There are so many books to be read, it doesn't seem productive to read one more than once. There are the select few, however, that become dear enough that you re-read them for comfort more than for the search for new information or the desire for a new thrill.

My copy of Silas Marner is a little more worn than the others.

Silas is, by the time we meet him, somewhat past his shining prime. I think it's Eliot's masterful painting of Silas which appeals to me the most. Guileless, bent and nearsighted from his close work, superbly wretched - what a great heroic figure! Ah! say you. Only a librarian could love this non-hero!

Silas is, of course, a metaphor. (Look up metaphor, kids, because the fine points of this definition are as important as the very delicate development of Silas himself). He carries the weight (by representation) of all the injustice of the world. And he represents the triumph of the true man over all that injustice.

If you have ever trusted my opinion, you must trust it now. Read (or re-read) this book and watch for the real story. If you were required to read it the first time, you almost surely missed the point. Yes, it's a little old-fashioned (published in 1861). Yes, the moral lesson is painted neon yellow and a mile wide. (It's the Victorian era, don't forget.) For Austen lovers, it has sentiment, if not romantic vapors. For the unsentimental, it has a commanding grasp of small-town character-types. The message of redemption never fails to move me.

Come on. It's like gold under the floor boards.

Tea Time

I am reading Stones into Schools, by Greg Mortenson. I am doing this, in large part, because I read Three Cups of Tea by the same author. Those of you who have read Three Cups of Tea will, I think, identify. Reading more about Mortenson's project is practically mandatory.

Let me start by saying that I do not suffer overblown, preachy, self-serving, pompous diatribes against humanity with the best of will. I become twitchy when I think that writers are offering all problems and no solutions, puffing themselves up as the ONE good man/woman with the ONE good idea. I hate books that lecture - nay scold - me. We readers, I think, are decently aware of some of the big issues and certainly concerned.

Anyway.

Mortenson, bless him, commits none of these offenses. He asks little (and I hope receives much) of us. He does an enormously important small thing and has the great good grace to see miracles in doing the well-placed, well-defined, and limited "something." He builds schools from stones. Schools to educate all children (boys AND girls), children in far remote places. Places, by the way, that we assume hate Americans. Places that don't hate Greg Mortenson and his multinational staff. His basic goodness and the goodness of his mission have prevailed, as love must.

Here's the fun part - these books are truly exciting stories. There are fascinating and admirable characters, harrowing escapes, mortal danger, intrigue, humor, negotiation, politics, in short, all the elements of a good cliff-hanger. You can feel the piety of reading a book about giving and still get the thrill of an action-packed adventure! (Sort of the literary equivalent of chocolate multivitamins.)

So read! Enjoy! It's good for you. (And it's good!)

CDB

Wow.

As a children's librarian, I am continually impressed by the quality and inventive spirit of many writers for kids. This week's case in point: CDB! by William Steig (1907-2003) Yep, the guy who gave us Shrek!

Published in the 80s, I had not had the pleasure of this book's acquaintance until a colleague recently brought it to me. I laughed out loud when I read it, then I insisted another colleague read it too and it was funnier the second time. We were so amused, in fact, that we ran over to the shelves to find the companion book CDC? I cannot adequately tell you about the gimmick in this book. It has to do with sounding out letters to create an entire phrase or statement, The messages revealed have a wry and witty humor which may be lost on your children. Like Shrek, CDB! seems to speak to a little older (and edgier) crowd.

The artwork is a little New Yorker Magazine cartoon. This is not much of a coincidence since Steig drew for New Yorker early in his career. You must rely very heavily on his illustrations to decipher the messages. This will require some effort, starting with the front cover when the key to this delightful book is revealed. Sit down with this book, with another grownup you like (and who has a quirky sense of humor). Read it out loud together. When you do, I promise you will be charmed.

Read a Child's Book Now and Then

For those out there who think they are too sophisticated to read kid-lit, you may just find a surprise or two in the short stacks.

Some of my favorite must-reads:
Anything by Sandra Boynton, but especially the music and book sets. Once, when I worked in a fairly pretentious bookstore, we sneaked Grunt: Pigorian Chant onto the sound system. Of course,to get the humor, you have to be following along in the book. We were FOFL, as they say nowadays. And the music is very well done.

Shel Silverstein's Where the Sidewalk Ends. I confess: I have only read the kids books. But the sweet, sassy and slightly seditious poetry dares you to at least raspberry the established order. Come on. You know you want to.

Lately, I read The City of Ember. The movie was nice, but if you want to imagine the edgy fear of lights going out in a city rimmed by the dark unknown, you really have to have the scenario inside your reader-brain. You readers know what I'm talking about.

There are lots more. Sometimes, adult reading becomes predictable in its relentless pounding adult-ness. Give yourself permission to go back to reading books that are meant to instill values, strengthen social commitment, teach cooperation, tolerance and love. We nurture our children on the values we care about. Why, then, do we allow ourselves to believe that we are not "grown-ups" unless we fill our heads with grinding bleakness?

Was I ranting? I think I'll go find a kids book now and lighten up.

So many books, so little time...

I find that as I grow older, the books I read become more important to me. What follows may offend the sensitive reader, so beware.

There was a time when I would finish a book, page by page consecutively, no matter what. I felt duty-bound to read a book through no matter how I hated it. Then, almost suddenly, I changed. I can almost pinpoint the moment. I was reading a book hailed by that most exalted judge the New York Times Bestseller list. A wiser (read older) me realizes that a book that sells the most isn't necessarily the best book. It is very seldom the best book for me. The book that changed me was a biography about a person who, very early in the book, seemed to me the most selfish, self absorbed and flamboyantly vulgar person I had ever been introduced to. Somewhere before the first chapter closed, I clapped the book shut and threw it away! Heresy! I won't mention the book or the subject of the biography. It matters little anyway, and is quite beside the point. At that moment, I was liberated from a life of unsatisfactory reading.

Of course, once that cat was out of the bag, I gave way to some pretty radical behaviors: if at some juncture I itched to know how a story ended, I would read the end (scanning backwards sometimes, to satisfy myself about the outcome). If the book ended well, in my estimation, I continued. (I hate being cheated at the end.) I skipped or skimmed chapters if I felt they didn't add to the story. And I very often stopped reading entirely. I developed the philosophy that if a writer couldn't bother to engage me within a reasonable amount of time, I would not plug through vast swamplands waiting for them to deliver. There are so many books to be read. So many interesting, informative, contributory, inspiring, worthy books. I won't be able to read even those in my lifetime. Why waste time on the drivel? And confess - we've all read drivel.

So writers, take heed. I am your new discerning public. Impress me (and be sure to do it in the first few pages!)

What Must be Read

This has been a week of reading what must be read. Not that there isn't some pleasure to be had in technical reading. But the very fact that it carries a sense of obligation does take away some of the shine. To balance things out, I watched old Bugs Bunny cartoons this afternoon(still funny after all these years, at least for those of us of a certain age).

The reading in question is a quest to choose a new thesis topic. I may go down in history as one of the very few who have had to write two theses. Judge me, dear reader, but I trust it is because I am a good writer but a bad salesman. The area of study is Art History, preferably something regarding the Northern Renaissance. Art fans out there - I am open to suggestions!

We are experiencing heaps of snow here in the Ohio Valley. If you are from Washington, D.C. and other places, I'm sure you probably will not spare any grief over our 12 inches or so. Indeed, I am seeing this as a blessing - it's just inconvenient enough to go out that I am making myself productive inside instead. I had to laugh about the sign I saw on the local news that someone had posted in their front yard, "Thank God for global warming. This could be worse!" And for many of you it is. I hope that you can all, wherever you are reading this, be warm inside with a good book.