Middlesex - no wonder it won the Pulitzer and the Audie

b Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides, read by Kristoffer Taboli: The problem with listening to a really good audio book is that for a while, every other audiobook you listen to will make you kind of sad because of its wasted potential.  Middlesex is the story of three generations of a family starting in a Greek-occupied area of Turkey and moving to Detroit in the 20s and then all the way up through maybe the 90s in Germany.  It follows three generations and covers some history of the Greeks in Turkey and a lot of the history of Detroit.  It made the recent problems with Detroit declaring bankruptcy hit home a lot more to me. 

I knew absolutely nothing about the city of Detroit, even though it was rather close to where I grew up.  Eugenides grew up there, and he brought the city's history to life brilliantly.  (All of that stuff about the beginnings of Islam in America were just fascinating.  This book covers a ton of unexpected ground in an interesting way.) 

The story is epic but deeply personal.  It dragged in the third quarter for me (I find stories of blooming sexuality uninteresting, even when they are complicated with hermaphroditism), but I really liked the smooth weaving of the timelines together by the omniscient narrator.  I also liked Cal's narrative voice in general.  The balance of humorous foreshadowing (always referring to Cal's brother as "Chapter 11") and down-played pathos was well done.  I found myself sympathetic to characters I didn't think I would. 

This is just a great ride, especially when performed by an amazing, 110%-engaged narrator who brings each character to life separately and pulls you in.  (Especially great if you only paid two dollars for it.)  I don't know if the physical book-reading experience would be comparable, so if you have long drives, give this audiobook a try.  Just don't listen to any other audiobooks for a couple of months.  Maybe then you'll be able to avoid the feeling of being let down by lesser audiobook narrators. : )

not taller just straighter

The answer to the question of whether my improved focus on health was successful this year may be the fact that during the holidays my relatives asked if I had grown since last year. The first time someone asked, I was puzzled.  The second time, I was sort of bemused.  I'm pretty sure 30-somethings don't hit growth spurts.  Eventually, I figured out that the changes in my posture (when not observed daily) must have been pretty significant, especially since I wasn't really sitting with my best posture either of the first two times people brought it up. 

Later, someone suggested it must be my orthopedic sandals, which do appear to boost me an inch, but they are hollowed out on the inside and may give me half an inch if that, which doesn't explain why I now appear to be the same height as my cousin who was always taller than me. My aunt who always used to seem so tall doesn't seem so tall anymore when I'm standing next to her (though everyone still thought it was pretty funny seeing her talking to my average-height mother because the difference is so obvious).  

Or maybe everyone is just getting old and shrinking.

RIP Pauper's Paperbacks

My dad called the other day because he passed by an old used bookstore I loved when I was younger and poorer and ravenous for books.  Now they serve subs to a different kind of ravenous people on the corner of X and Main.  I would use no more than 10% of what I earned at my job at the library across the street to buy fascinating old mass market paperbacks from the owner, Mr. Leo, for fabulous discounts.  I think it was when I was in college that Mr. Leo sold his store to a man with long curly hair who changed the store name, cared little about books, and allegedly used the business as a place to hold anarchist meetings.  (I always wondered how anarchists would hold meetings.  Probably not using Roberts' Rules.)  This new owner never gave me the same kinds of insane faithful customer discounts Mr. Leo gave me, but that's probably why Mr. Leo folded in the first place.  Wherever he and his books may be, may they all rest in peace.

Thinking about grandmothers

Dear B, I thought about you yesterday.  Somehow or other, I must have ended up thinking about grandmothers, and I remembered the relationships you had with both of yours.  I remembered that practice prom dress your grandmother was making from ugly floral cloth and the way you wore it to school when she died before she could finish the real one.  I remember you kept getting demerits because the skirt was too short, and I remember defending you to the history teacher when he started to get on your case about it.  (Did that happen?)  You kept wearing it to school and getting in trouble, and I just wanted to cry every time.  It made me glad that I merely loved my grandparents with the same grim duty with which they loved me.  I was sure that when they died, I would be nowhere near as devastated, and I wouldn't have to suffer the way you did.  I was glad.

I was glad that when my grandma did die, you were no longer close.  I would have been more of a wreck if you had been around.  I would have probably felt guilty, remembering that day the ensemble went caroling in the hospital where your grandmother was dying.  We went into her room and sang.  (I don't remember what we sang.  Do you?)  You couldn't sing, and you just stood behind me crying on my coat, and I tried to sing loud enough for both of us, but it was hard for me to sing around that lump in my throat caused by your affection for your grandmother.

At my grandma's funeral, I had a lump in my throat so big I couldn't even talk, but that's not why I didn't say the Hail Mary's with the family as my mother had requested.  Why would I mouth empty religious phrases I didn't believe in?  Who would it possibly comfort?  Not my mom, who didn't believe in it either, even though she was raised in it.  Not my grandma, who was dead.  Not my grandpa who was mostly blind and partly deaf and couldn't see or hear anything I did or did not do.  No one was comforted.  I just cried. 

Probably people thought I was crying because I was overcome by sadness at losing my beloved grandmother.  Unless they knew her, they might have thought that.  For some reason, that thought made me angry, and my tears seemed hotter with added degrees of rage and guilt.  That poor bitter woman; may I never be like her.  Oh, please, dear God, never.

Hurry Down Sunshine

Finished reading Hurry Down Sunshine by Michael Greenberg.  This stark and powerful book covers the time just before Greenberg's then-teenaged daughter had a mental breakdown through the time she resurfaced.  He immerses you into that summer in New York, his family interactions, his awkwardness and helpless agony.

I decided to read this book because I'm trying to hash through some family-related stuff in my writing, and I wanted to see a writer dealing with the sudden mental illness of a family member.  I read some reviews, and they all seemed to indicate that if I was going to read one memoir about mental illness and family, this was a good choice.

Best technique moment:  Greenberg's sitting in this diner, and the TV is showing the current presidential campaign clips, and the way he describes what he's feeling and thinking about the presidential candidates says so impossibly much about him in his specific situation that I am in awe.  What an incredible way to show.

Another impressive technique: no table of contents (in the hardcover edition).  You don't know how many chapters there are or how long they are.  You just have to read until you hit the end of a section or run out of time.  When will this end, you wonder as blow after blow happens on page after page after page.  Genius.

Any L'Engle readers out there?

I'm thinking of picking a month to go on a Madeleine L'Engle binge.  She wrote a lot of books I had no interest in as a kid, even if they did share characters with books I did read and love.  I figure I should try to go back and check out the ones I skipped the first, second, and third times around.

I was looking at one of her books the other day, and I noticed that she was my my grandmother's contemporary.  This was a strange realization, that this vibrant, smart, thoughtful, creative woman so different from my grandmother lived through the same times she did.  There were certainly socioeconomic differences, but I don't think that's really the main thing that affected the outcome of their lives.

Anyway, it just made me think.

Are there any L'Engle books for adults that you recommend to top my list?