“He must have assumed that I was one of those local ‘Amish,’ eking out a bare subsistence, abjectly dependent upon the patronage of caring folks like himself for my evening meal. It was a blustery December day and I was seated at a table laden with sorghum jars, on a traffic island catty-corner from the regional shopping mall. I was reading Albert Camus’ ‘The Stranger.’ And I was wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat.

It was all so convincing, except for the existentialism.” (180)

‘Better Off’ by Eric Brende, was recommended by Gary over at Puke Green. I reserved the book at the library after seeing his excellent review.

After finishing this book, I quite literally wanted to get rid of my television, VCR and half-broken stereo, pack my bags and move to the country system (although I mentally drew the line at the computer, digital camera and iPod). Okay, I’m exaggerating a little bit, but I have to admit that I was overwhelmed with a hunger for simplicity and an escape from the technological excesses of our society.

In the 90s, Eric Brende was a graduate student at MIT and pondering the role of technology in modern life when he encountered an Amish man on a long bus trip. With this initial contact, a bit of determination and some good luck, he located a farmhouse for rent. Newly married, he and his wife Mary took an 18-month hiatus from modern city life and to live off-the-grid in a cloistered Amish community somewhere in the mid-west. For two growing seasons, they tended their own garden as well as growing sorghum and pumpkins for a cash crop. Their home had no electricity or telephone and they used a woodstove and kerosene lamps. Later on, they even sold their car to buy a horse and buggy.

This book is just as fascinating in its depiction of Amish life as it is in its examination of technology (or the lack thereof). The Brende’s new life on the ‘farm’ was by no means charmed, but I felt very drawn to its simplicity and their self-sufficiency. While keeping the identity of the community secret, they painted a vivid picture of the community itself, with a varied cast of characters, both born to the community and some transplants like themselves.

As the author readily admits, they could not have made the transition to this lifestyle without the abundant help of their Amish neighbours. Lending a helping hand is a cultural norm in the community – people help one another out, spontaneously, sincerely, and with few strings attached. In part, this is how they survive without the technology we take for granted. If a barn needs to be built, the whole community pitches in, eliminating the need for ‘time saving devices’ like power tools. Tools and labour are often swapped or bartered.

Many of the skills that they acquired were taught by their neighbours, so knowledge was obviously shared in the community as well as tools and labour. The skills and confidence they gained was very useful to them as they moved into the next phase of their ‘experiment’: integrating these principles of simplicity into their everyday lives.

This was my favourite part of the book. It was really interesting to see how the Brendes struggled with technology and simple living in a modern world. Although I was initially disappointed that they didn’t choose to continue living near the Amish community, I was ultimately more interesting to see the way they integrated Amish lessons into ordinary, American day-to-day living. I learned many things that felt applicable to my own life.

This is a fun, interesting book. Recommended!

‘Where are the people?’ The little prince finally resumed the conversation. ‘It’s a little lonely in the desert…’

‘It’s also lonely with people,’ said the snake.

The little prince looked at the snake for a long time. ‘Your’e a funny creature,’ he said at last, ‘no thicker than a finger.’

‘But I’m more powerful than a king’s finger,’ the snake said.

The little prince smiled.

‘You’re not very powerful…You don’t even have feet. You couldn’t travel very far.’

‘I can take you further than a ship,’ the snake said. “ (49-50)

The author of this sweet little book was a French Aviator who took off on a mission during World War II and never returned. He published many books, and finally this one, only a year before he left.

In the story, a pilot who crashes in the desert. While he labours to repair his plane, a little prince, who comes from a very small planet, visits him.

The little prince left his planet because he had a falling out with a flower. In his wanderings, he encounters many strange grown-ups on their own small planets – a king, a very vain man, a grumpy accountant, a lamp-lighter and a geographer. Each of these characters provides a lesson about life.

During his visit to Earth, the little prince meets the pilot and asks him to draw a picture of a sheep. In return, the little prince shares his stories of adventure and the many lessons he learned along the way.

On Earth, the little prince meets a fox, who teaches him a valuable lesson about love and friendship. He meets a snake, who leads him to his fate.

There is a bit of a controversy regarding the translation of this story from its original French. Many readers prefer the first translation by Katherine Woods, which is long out of print and difficult to find (but can be found online here). Some readers find this first translation truer to the spirit of the original French text.

Interestingly, you can determine if later translations derive from the original French or from Wood’s English version by locating a small translation error. In chapter four, Wood’s translation reads: “Once upon a time there was a little prince who lived on a planet that was scarcely any bigger than himself, and who had need of a sheep…” when in fact, it should read “Once upon a time there was a little prince who lived on a planet that was scarcely any bigger than himself, and who had need of a friend…”

I read both translations and each had its merits – I enjoyed both of them. They each include the real heart of the book, which are Antoine De Sainte-Exupéry’s wondrous illustrations and the message that ultimately, love is what really matters. The book is a quick read, but full of hidden meaning. This is one that I will read again and again (accordingly, I have purchased my own copy).

As she slumped against the wall of the bleak seclusion cell, tears ran into her lap, soaking the yellow dress, faded from repeated laundering. Tears for Claud dead, for Angelina adopted into a suburban white family whose beautiful exotic daughter she would grow into. Remembering what?

Why had Dolly betrayed her? Well, why had she betrayed her own daughter? She had thrown Angelina away from the pain of losing Claud. She should have loved her better; but to love, you must love yourself, and she knew that now, especially to love a daughter you see as yourself reborn”(Page 62)

This wonderful book has many different layers of meaning, almost as if there were several books within the book. The basic plot is interesting and well-formed: Connie, a Chicana woman, is poor and struggling to survive in New York City. Wracked with grief over the death of her lover Claud, she abuses her young daughter and loses her to the system. Diagnosed with a mental illness, Connie is sent to an institution.

Before being institutionalized, Connie has an unusual visitor. Luciente is a woman from the future. Luciente continues to make contact and eventually, Connie finds herself visiting the future and she becomes familiar with the people of Mattapoisett, a small Massachusetts town in the year 2136.

Luciente’s world is vivid and wonderful and it creates a stark contrast with the gray, grinding, daily existence of the mental hospital. Far from being technologically advanced in the conventional sense, the people of the future are egalitarian, living in harmony with nature and one another. Technology is used to enhance their lives, rather than control it. Amongst Luciente and her ‘mems,’ Connie finds love and acceptance as she explores a new way of being.

I loved the depiction of the future in this book. The author’s description of Mattapoisett is richly detailed and absorbing (I wanted to live there!). It’s very easy to get caught up in this story, so easy that you forget that it might not be real. Connie’s ‘hallucination’ is so persuasive and beautiful that you want to believe.

Initially, I found Connie difficult to relate to. In fact, in the first few chapters, I didn’t like her very much. It was through Connie’s interactions with Luciente that I started to unravel the layers of Connie’s difficult life and found empathy for her. The book offers a sobering inside perspective on mental illness and the realities of life in mental institution.

This is where the layers come in, because you can interpret the book on many different levels: As a science fiction novel, it’s the story of a woman who travels into the future; as a psychological thriller, it’s the story of a mentally ill woman and her powerful hallucinations; as a feminist/societal dialogue, it’s the story of a woman fighting a hopelessly corrupt system.

It was a fascinating and absorbing book and it has given me food for thought.

While in Sandomierz, Paulsen searched for other objects worthy of plunder. He stopped in at the ‘nice district museum’ and ascertained that the building and all of its contents were secure and under the control of German police forces. Then, according to a later report, ‘I took the valuable card index from the museum in Sandomierz, which I found being hidden by a Jew.’ Such indexs recorded all pertinent details about the artifacts and would allow the Ahnenerbe staff to pick out at their leisure objects worthy of looting. Paulsen made no further mention of the fate of the brave Jewish curator who attempted to hide the index. (page 199)

In my studies of Nazi Germany, I’ve read many books – everything from the Diary of Anne Frank to the memoirs of a former Nazi Youth. But this book explores the holocaust from a completely different perspective: that of the intellectuals and ivory-tower-dwellers. This is a book about Nazi archaeologists and their efforts to use artifacts and ethnography to rewrite history.

In 1935, on the eve of the Nazi empire, Heinrich Himmler founded the Ahnenerbe (the German word roughly translates as ‘something inherited from the forefathers.’ This research institute existed to manufacture a historical and archaeological record that would provide evidence of an Aryan ‘master race.’ Researchers conducted ethnographic and racial studies and even concocted a new religion from ancient religious practices.

Funded by money funnelled through secret SS bank accounts, Ahnenerbe researchers conducted expeditions to Tibet and the Middle East, studied cave paintings and folklore in Scandinavia and oversaw archaeological expeditions. During the war, they co-ordinated the structured looting of museums in conquered territories and provided ‘scientific’ justification for the extermination of Jews and other groups.

Heather Pringle uses old documents, interviews and news articles to reconstruct the activities and goals of the Ahnenerbe. She carefully links their research activities to the ultimate goals of the Nazis. She demonstrates, for example, how false research about bog people in Norway could lead to the internment and execution of homosexuals in Nazi death camps in Germany.

This book presents a detailed overview of the ‘science’ of race. The primary goal of the Ahnenerbe was to research means of identifying members of the ‘nordic race,’ documenting a history of this race and providing propaganda to bolster the Nazi party.

The research of the Ahnenerbe went far beyond history and anthropology – Himmler funded research into alternative medicine and paganism. He was fascinated by eastern philosophy and believed that the Indian Brahmins were, in fact, lost members of the nordic ‘race.’ (‘aryan’ comes from the Sankrit word ‘arya,’ the translation of which is ‘royal.’)

I was shocked to learn that Himmler was an avid reader of the Bhagavad Gita and the Upanishads and carried a copy of the Gita with him. He believed these books justified the activities of the Nazis. Ahnenerbe researchers became convinced that exterminating the Jewish body was not enough and the institute initiated research into identifying the ‘racial soul.’

Pringle’s research follows the Ahnenerbe researchers after the war, through war crimes tribunals (through which most of them emerged unscathed) and their subsequent careers. Many of these horrible men lived into their 90s and the author even interviewed one.

This is a powerful and sobering book, well researched and engagingly written. It’s a brilliant example of the dangers of linking academia with politics.

Shortly, we found ourselves on the main road to Delhi. Now after 1 a.m., the street was nearly empty. Smoke drifted in the headlights. I kept waiting to emerge from the cloud, but it only got thicker, to the point where I felt I was having difficulty getting oxygen.

‘It’s a lot worse at night.’ Stevenson said.

‘You mean, it’s like this every night?’ I asked.

‘It’s from all the dung fires,’ he explained, calmly staring into the darkness…” (151)

After media bombardments of New-Age-steeped, fantastical accounts of past lives and reincarnation, it was refreshing to read a book that explores the research of Dr. Ian Stevenson in an even-handed way. Dr. Stevenson travelled all over the world for 30 years, collecting no-frills accounts of reincarnation from young children. These accounts are well documented and, in my opinion, his research provides some of the most persuasive proof of reincarnation.

Tom Shroder was a newspaper editor and reincarnation sceptic when he travelled with Dr. Stevenson to Lebanon and India to interview previous and new subjects of his study on past lives. Although I found Shroder’s scepticism a bit over-the-top at times, I found that this critical tone balanced the book.

The book reads like a travelogue and the Shroder’s detailed descriptions of life in India and Lebanon are fascinating. He presents the story has a personal journey, detailing what he saw, the response of people Dr. Stevenson interviewed and his own reaction as a reincarnation sceptic.

If you’re looking for a ‘believe-it-or-not,’ fantastical account of amazing reincarnation stories, you won’t find them here. Shroder is blunt when describing the stories that didn’t live up to expectation. He plays the devil’s advocate and conjures up likely explanations for seemingly magical connections between dead individuals and the children who they’ve allegedly reincarnated as. On several occasions, though, he genuinely stumped and grudgingly admits that there is no likely explanation for these connections.

Along the way, he examines the counterarguments for reincarnation, its the cultural background, and even attends a conference of scientific professionals who have dedicated their careers to studying ‘paranormal phenomena.’

At times, the book sunk into intense naval-gazing, analysis and speculation and I found myself yawning. But overall, Shroder offers a readable overview of the topic.

“I couldn’t be myself, and after a while, this really got me down. I spent so much time worrying about being found out, even after I knew that nobody would question the drag, that I began to feel as stiff and scripted as a sandwich board. And it wasn’t being found outa s a woman that I was really worried about. It was being found out as less than a real man, and I suspect that this is something a lot of men endure their whole lives, this constant scrutiny and self-scrutiny.” (276)

What really makes a man? Norah Vincent bulked up with protein and weightlifting, got a flat-top hair-cut and masculine eye glasses that emphasized the angles of her face. She used theatrical make-up to create a five o’clock shadow and consulted a voice teacher to learn how to modulate her voice. She bought men’s clothing and even asked male friends to correct her mannerisms. But after 18 months of passing as a man in various social situations, Norah was surprised to find that she could dispense with the beard and the glasses and still be perceived as a man. With gender, perception is sometimes in the eye of the beholder.

This was one of many interesting observations Vincent makes in her book ‘Self-made Man.’ For a year and a half, Vincent lives as ‘Ned,’ her male alter-ego. As Ned, she joins a blue-collar bowling league, stays on retreat at a monastery, goes on dates, works in a high-pressure sales environment and explores strip clubs. The author enters these situations with preconceptions and stereotypes that change racially as she experiences life from a man’s perspective.

As a woman, her exploration of manhood is only surface – she could only know what it was like to be ‘as a man’ and not what it is ‘to be a man.’ However, I found the author’s analysis of her experiences fascinating. Each chapter, roughly chronological, explores a different aspect of living as Ned. Ned was a full participant in these experiences – doing everything from paying for a lap dance to baring his soul on a men’s retreat.

I was surprised to find that in many cases, the author eventually revealed herself as a woman to her subjects. She was extremely upfront about the dishonesty of her project and the potential hurt it could cause. Although she didn’t always ‘come clean’ to people who knew her as Ned, her experiences when doing so were some of the most interesting and moving parts of the book.

I have to confess that I was a bit uncomfortable with the subtle betrayals throughout the book and the access the author had to spaces that assume confidentiality. For example, her descriptions of what goes on in a men’s support group (right down to the crayon drawings the men made of their ‘heroes’) seemed to walk a very fine line between ethical journalism and a blatant breach of privacy. I’m not sure the insights Vincent gleamed from these encounters were worth the potential hurt of such an infiltration.

I found the last few chapters, about the psychological impact of life as Ned, disturbing but oddly compelling. Are gender constructions so basic to the sense of ‘self’ that violating them can cause a mental breakdown? It definitely made me think about gender in new ways.

The author is openly lesbian and those who are uncomfortable with homosexuality or frank discussions of sexuality and the concept of fluid sexual identity may potentially find this book disturbing. I did find that parts of the book were poorly written and awkward in comparison to other books in this genre. However, it was definitely a page-turner and even when I didn’t agree with the author’s observations, they still held my interest.

This is not a novel and not the typical non-fiction-y type book that I usually review. But it was so outstanding that I felt I had to pay tribute. Put simply: This is the book that finally taught me to play my guitar.

I more-or-less knew how to play chords and those I didn’t know, I was able to get off of the internet. More than anything, I needed something to practise with, I needed songs.

This book is full of them.

There are 1,200 songs, to be exact. Some of them I know, some I don’t, but all of them included lyrics and chords. You need to at least know the melody of a song to sing it, because the chords are a rough guide, but the book includes pointers for finding some of the songs, and you can even buy CDs if you’re so inclined.

I recommend this book to anyone who likes to sing or is learning to play guitar. It’s a gem!

“The birds’ migration routes crisscrossed the map like a craze of telephone wires, swooping gracefully from one coast to another. They seemed almost to secure the world, all these well-travelled paths in the sky, the way ribbon or twine secures a precious gift. And yet, it occurred to Saga, all the creatures pictured here, though they might venture the whole world over, returned in the end to their separate colonies. Could you be a roving homebody?” (257-258)

I enjoyed Julia Glass’s first book, Three Junes, so I was really looking forward to reading her new novel – it didn’t disappoint.

To start with, Glass brought back my favourite character from ‘Junes,’ Scottish-expatriate/New Yorker Fenno MacLeod and his wonderful bookstore (and his parrot, Felicity). Some of my favourite scenes of her first novel took place in New York City, so I was pleased that the city was the backdrop for this book.

As in the first book, the characters are vibrant and painstakingly depicted. Within a few chapters, they felt like old friends. It took at least three chapters for me to feel at home in this book, perhaps because I disliked the main character, Greenie Duquette, so much. And despite Greenie’s ungenerous depiction of him, I felt an immediate sympathy for her husband Alan.

Greenie owns a pastry shop in New York City, supplying her wares to various restaurants, including Walter’s Place, owned by Walter himself, a gregarious gay man with a charmingly named dog, ‘The Bruce.’ After sampling her coconut cake, a Republican governor from New Mexico, Ray McRae, convinces her to be his chef. Greenie moves to New Mexico with her son, George, leaving Alan and her New York life behind.

The story unfolds from there. Fenno isn’t a central character, but he’s present throughout the book. My favourite character of this novel by far was Saga, a young woman who is recovering from a harrowing head injury and rebuilding her life.

Part of the magic of Julia Glass’s plots are the way the characters are intricately tied together. These serendipitous connections between people add depth and dimension to the plot. As I read, I was pulled along by the thread that weaved through these various lives.

At times, this book felt as real to me as a vivid dream and the characters lingered in my mind for days after finishing the last page. Highly recommended.

All of my writing started to be about people I’d barely met, who had, for some reason, given me their best bits. Sometime in high school, I’d read a quote from a famous author, about whether or not he actually knew what he was writing. He’d said that if you were really a writer, you should be able to walk past a bar full of sailors, and stand outside for a minute, absorbing their talk, their catcalls, their songs. Then, you were qualified to go home and write an entire novel set at sea. I agreed with him, but I was doing it one better. I wasn’t just walking past. I was getting to go inside all these other people’s lives and look around. I was insanely lucky. The more I left my apartment and wandered into someone else’s story, the more I thought that maybe I was making myself worthy of being loved. (162)

Maria is in her early 20s, she’s a university student and an aspiring play writer, and she’s living in New York City in a small apartment with two roommates and a Big White Cat. This is her memoir. Generally, I roll my eyes at 20-somethings who write a memoir, but I may actually forgive her in this case, because she has a theme. This memoir is very specific: it’s about dating.

Weary of the dating the same men over and over again, except in slightly differing versions, Maria decides to try something radical: for one year, she will say ‘yes’ to everyone who asks her out. And she did. She dated everyone from the building maintenance handy man to a vampire in a pink dress who may or may not be Marilyn Manson, subway operators to lesbians, geeks and dog walkers.

This book is about being in your 20s, making footloose and fancy-free a way of life and sampling the grand buffet that is ‘life.’ It’s a mixed bag. Parts of the book are very well-written and parts of it are appallingly written. There are funny parts and parts that try to be funny but fall flat. This is not a great book, but it is interesting.

I was lukewarm about it all the way up to the chapter about the date with a lesbian and then I sat up and took notice. For me, this was the limitus test: if Maria Headley could handle this particular topic with sensitivity and respect – and still be funny about it – I might be forced to give her props. In fact, the chapter was hilarious – sort of like hearing a tourist describe a city that’s new to them, but with which you’re intimately familiar. I can’t vouch for accuracy other parts of the book (other reviewers have pointed out inconsistencies), but this one felt ‘real’ from my experience.

The chapter on the mime, which the author has obvious expertise was very, VERY funny.

After a rocky start, the rest of the book flowed smoothly for me. By this point in the story, Maria starts to unravel what she’s learned from her experiences so the book become less about the dates and more about larger life lessons to be gleaned from the dates.

The ending is really cheesy – be warned. It’s been said before, but I’ll say it again: don’t read the author’s bio, because it will spoil the ending. Overall, the book is funny and quirky and entertaining and it’s a good, quick read.

It was lovely. Not to be stared at, not seen, but being pulled into view by the interested, uncritical eyes of the other. Having her hair examined as part of her self, not as a material or style. Have ing her lips, nose, chin carressed as they might be if she were a moss rose a gardener paused to admire. Denver’s skin dissolved under that gaze and became soft and bright like the lisle dress that had its arm around her mother’s waist. She floated near but outside her own body, feeling vague and intense at the same time. Needing nothing. Being what there was. (118)

This book shook me to my core. The first 50 pages were harrowingly difficult. I put the book aside time and time again, only to find again and find myself drawn in. After page 51, something magical happened: suspension of disbelief kicked in and I was pulled into the story like it was a magical time machine. I was absolutely captivated. It genuinely felt like a journey into the past, into the lives of these characters, into their heads.

This is my first reading of this book and, in fact, my first reading of anything by Toni Morrison. I added the book to my reading list after the announcement that ‘Beloved’ was voted the best book of the last 25 years by publishers, authors, editors. The honour is well-deserved.

The story revolves around an exslave named Sethe, her daughter, Denver, and the ghost of Sethe’s baby, who is called ‘Beloved’ after her death. The experience of slavery carved deep grooves in Sethe’s soul. After she escapes slavery and finds refuge with her children in Ohio, her former owner comes back to claim her. Sethe responds by trying to kill her children, but succeeds only in murdering her baby daughter.

Haunted by the baby’s ghost, Sethe and Denver struggle to build their lives and identities after generations of slavery. There are so many layers to this book that I struggled to extract them all. But identity is the theme that stood out for me after my first reading – the truly difficult task that faced former slaves when they were suddenly free to decide not only what they would do, what they would eat, how they would live, but who they were.

Writing like this is magical and inspired. I’m a sceptic when it comes to ghost stories and tales of the supernatural, but the plot was so intricate and the characters so persuasive that I soon found myself questioning my own disbelief. It’s rare to find a book that allows you to experience another’s thoughts as your own like this one does. It was disconcerting and fascinating and disorienting.

Not only do I recommend it, but I plan to one day read it again – this is high praise!