In Deep by Maxine Kumin

4/5 stars

What's it about? Poet Maxine Kumin talks craft and country living in this volume of essays about managing a farm in New Hampshire while maintaining a writing life. A warm hearth of a book.

How’d I find it? I picked this up at Normals Books & Records in Baltimore, which has the kind of selection that makes me say, “Ooh!” and pluck a book off the shelf that I never even knew existed.

Who will enjoy this book? In Deep is for horse girls young and old, as well as for Mary Oliver and Henry David Thoreau acolytes.

What stood out? In Deep owes much to Kumin’s admiration of Thoreau, whose influence can be seen in essays dedicated to taxonomic descriptions of mushrooms and species of cattle as well as in “The Unhandselled Globe,” which centers on Thoreau himself. Kumin rejects the Freudian links to women who love horses and gendered assumptions about her mares; she and the animals she loves are the focus here, and glimpses of her human family are brief. She writes beautifully about the day-to-day labors of keeping a farm running, from building fences to keeping everyone fed.

Which line made me feel something? From the closing essay, “A Sense of Place,” an outstanding analysis of the stamp of home on Kumin’s poetry: “In a poem one can use the sense of place as an anchor for larger concerns, as a link between narrow details and global realities. Location is where we start from. Landscape provides our first geography, the turn of the seasons are archetypes for our own mortality.”

The Yellow House by Sarah M. Broom

4/5 stars

What's it about? Sarah M. Broom unpacks her family’s history, her upbringing as the youngest of twelve children, and the social, cultural, and political realities of her native New Orleans East before and after Hurricane Katrina. A thoughtful accounting of homecoming and place.

How’d I find it? My spouse’s family has links to New Orleans and collected multiple copies of The Yellow House over the years.

Who will enjoy this book? This is a must-read for memoir lovers, especially because Broom manages to craft an intimate look at her family while remaining at a remove herself, a technique that serves her complex narrative well. The book evokes home in a way that reminded me of The Boy Kings of Texas by Domingo Martinez.

What stood out? The first section of the book (“Movement I: The World Before Me”) draws the reader into its beautifully rendered portrait of heritage, gleaming with the author’s admiration for her family’s matriarchs. The Brooms and their wavelets of friends and ancestors comprise The Yellow House’s irreducible core, and you’ll yearn to return to them when the author focuses her attention elsewhere — another smart tool to reinforce periods of displacement. Despite some detours into platitudes (“namelessness is a form of naming”), Broom knows how to command the page.

Which line made me feel something? “When the presentation of the body stands in for all the qualities the world claims you cannot possess, some people call you elegant. Grandmother was that, yes, but sometimes elegance is just willpower and grace, a way to keep the flailing parts of the self together.”

The Vaster Wilds by Lauren Groff

4/5 stars

What's it about? A young woman flees colonial Jamestown to escape her life of servitude and starvation, only to battle the harsh realities of the American wilderness. A spartan novel of humanity, faith, and perseverance.

How’d I find it? I love me some Lauren Groff, so I bought this on publication day from Solid State Books.

Who will enjoy this book? This one will appeal to Annie Proulx readers or someone looking for a grown-up version of Gary Paulsen’s Hatchet.

What stood out? Every novel by Lauren Groff has its own world and tone, which speaks to her versatility and curious mind. The Vaster Wilds shares the contemplation of spirituality with Matrix but gives equal attention to the corporeal, the effects of the environment on a body in crisis. The 17th-century America that Groff evokes is indifferent to human suffering but peopled with glimpses of thriving indigenous Americans that contrast with the girl’s struggle to survive.

Which line made me feel something? Upon seeing a bear gaze with awe upon a waterfall: “Then she thought that perhaps in the language of bears there was a kind of gospel, also. And perhaps this gospel said to the bears the same thing about god giving bears dominion over the world. And perhaps bears believed that this gave them license to slaughter the living world, including the men within it. And this thought made her shake, for if the gospel was changeable between species, then god was not immoveable. Then god was changeable according to the body god spoke through. And that god could change according to the person in the moment the soul was encountering god.”

Walden by Henry David Thoreau

4/5 stars

What's it about? Thoreau’s treatise on individualism and respect for the natural world originated from his two years of self-sufficiency beside the shores of Walden Pond. A blend of philosophy, memoir, and field guide, Walden urges readers to shed frivolity and experience life at its simplest.

How’d I find it? Though a longtime resident of the TBR list, Thoreau became a pressing read. I borrowed my spouse’s copy for the occasion.

Who will enjoy this book? Rather than who, Walden requires guidance on how to read it: ever so slowly. A chapter a day was the perfect amount to chew at a time. If you liked Jon Krakauer’s Into the Wild, this book will speak to you.

What stood out? The questions of truth and resistance in Walden are relevant no matter when you read them, and Thoreau’s descriptions of the flora and fauna he encounters around Concord provide context for his experiment in the woods. A time capsule of 19th-century Americana.

Which line made me feel something? “The winds which passed over my dwelling were such as sweep over the ridges of mountains, bearing the broke strains, or celestial parts only, of terrestrial music. The morning wind forever blows, the poem of creation is uninterrupted, but few are the ears that hear it. Olympus is but the outside of the earth everywhere.”

The Grip of It by Jac Jemc

4/5 stars

What's it about? Julie and James leave the city to buy their first home, and the experience exposes their raw and ugly through a nightmarish possession. Is the house and its sinister history to blame, or have the tensions in their marriage finally stretched to breaking? A thoroughly haunting story that creeps under your skin and refuses to fade, much like Julie’s mysterious bruises.

How’d I find it? I comb horror lists every year, and The Grip of It makes repeat appearances. Spotting the unsettling cover at Greedy Reads inspired me to take it home.

Who will enjoy this book? The destabilizing effect of The Grip of It recalls Charlie Kaufman’s I’m Thinking of Ending Things or the more recent (but decidedly less satisfying) Barbarian. Horror fans, you must pick this up.

What stood out? Jemc knows how to spook a reader, and The Grip of It leaves one panting with dread. A scene involving a Mardi Gras mask had me tossing and turning all night. The book is content to leave many of its questions unanswered, including the motives of the voyeuristic neighbor next door. Successful elements aside, the language can become overworked in more emotional moments (“we buck and shatter against the tedium,” for example).

Which line made me feel something? “There is still a chance that everything might be true, that we both might be filled with scars and substances that cause our synapses to fire inefficiently, that cause us to make decisions that are unwise and fantastic, and to believe what shouldn’t be believed, but that is not to say that the world outside our minds is reasonable. That is just to say there is no sense in knowing where the line is drawn.”

Generations by Lucille Clifton

4/5 stars

What’s it about? Lucille Clifton sketches her family tree as she journeys with her family to her father’s home for his funeral. Each section is dedicated to one of Clifton’s ancestors, but others crowd in with their own tales and entanglements, mimicking the jockeying and overlappings within any family. Honest, powerful, and brimming with love and pride.

How’d I find it? I found this book by happenstance at Enoch Pratt Free Library and can never resist an NYRB title. This was gobbled up over beers while a football game held surrounding friends rapt.

Who will enjoy this book? At less than 90 pages, Generations is worth any reader’s attention. Folks who liked Memorial Drive by Natasha Trethewey, Homegoing by Yaa Gyasi, and Ordinary Light by Tracy K. Smith, who opens Generations with a beautifully written introduction, will particularly appreciate this title.

What stood out? The structure of the book reinvents the memoir genre. Clifton curates an impactful collage of photos, dialogue, secondhand stories, memories, lines from Walt Whitman, and snippets of her journey to Buffalo. This is the experience of a funeral in real time, recreating the barrage of interconnectedness that loss unleashes, the lore we fall into when surrounded by the people who made us possible.

Which line made me feel something? “Things don’t fall apart. Things hold. Lines connect in thin ways that last and last and lives become generations made out of pictures and words just kept. ‘We come out of it better than they did, Lue,’ my Daddy said, and I watch my six children and know we did.”

A History of Present Illness by Anna DeForest

4/5 stars

What’s it about? A medical student recounts her training as a doctor, meditating on her path to medicine, the failures of modern care, and the mystery of existence. DeForest plays with truth and perception in this odd, dark novel that lingers.

How’d I find it? I had read a review of this book in the New York Times last year and came across it at Enoch Pratt Free Library. I enjoyed this enough to want to buy my own copy to flip through again later.

Who will enjoy this book? The tone, length, and bending of reality in A History of Present Illness reminded me of Fever Dream by Samanta Schweblin, but its ennui shares much with Jenny Offill’s Weather.

What stood out? Every dreary, dreamy book on existence brings something a touch different to the table, and A History of Present Illness serves up the jaded view of a physician reckoning with death, all the more convincing since DeForest is a neurologist herself. I loved how our narrator tells the reader little lies throughout, manipulating and editing her story as she goes. She’s a challenging character through which to experience medical school and residency, and it makes for compelling reading.

Which line made me feel something? “Remember looking in the mirror as a child, saying your name? This face, you’d think, these hands. This house and yard and mother, going to bed without dinner on cabbage night, jumping from the roof of the shed. The bravery of it all, the obvious import. But this is how it ends: surrounded by strangers, your clothes cut off with shears, cold blue hands, and gone then, with your body humiliated and left alone to stiffen.”

A Lucky Man by Jamel Brinkley

4/5 stars

What’s it about? Jamel Brinkley’s smartly written debut offers nine snapshots of young people grappling with sexuality, masculinity, race, and family. Set mostly in New York City and its environs, A Lucky Man confronts pain while stoking hope.

How’d I find it? I chanced upon this copy at a book sale at the Chevy Chase Neighborhood Library.

Who will enjoy this book? If you liked Edward P. Jones’ Lost in the City, which centers on DC, and Heads of the Colored People by Nafissa Thompson-Spires, pick up A Lucky Man.

What stood out? I wanted Brinkley’s characters to talk to each other, to hold each other close, to say what they mean. The brothers in “J’ouvert, 1996.” Wolf and his father. But A Lucky Man isn’t about tidy endings. These stories gesture towards beginnings, the moments that define our lives later. Brinkley possesses a delicate ear for storytelling. With rare exceptions (certain moments in “Everything the Mouth Eats” come to mind), he knows exactly when to pull back and when to feed the reader more.

Which line made me feel something? From “Infinite Happiness:” “When you boiled it down, his language had just a handful of words, and few of them made any sense. They evaporated as soon as they left his mouth. He was so confident when he said them, even though his entire store of knowledge and wisdom was suspect. It didn’t matter in the end, because of the way he made you feel.”

The Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches by Matsuo Basho, translated by Nobuyuki Yuasa

4/5 stars

What's it about? This trim volume unites five travel sketches by Basho: The Records of a Weather-Exposed Skeleton, A Visit to the Kashima Shrine, The Records of a Travel-Worn Satchel, A Visit to Sarashina Village, and The Narrow Road to the Deep North. Through haiku and reflections on sights encountered, Basho revels in time on the road. Nobuyuki Yuasa’s introduction enriches the reading experience with context about the development of poetics in Japan. A vivid snapshot of the poet’s life.

How’d I find it? My spouse has been imploring me to read this book for years, especially since we spent our honeymoon in Japan. I finally acquiesced.

Who will enjoy this book? This strangely reminded me of the book by Patti Smith I just read. Thich Nhat Hanh is another readalike in tone.

What stood out? The mix of prose and poetry provides a textured account of 17th century Japan and invites you to read outside. I also appreciated the maps in the back of the book for details about Basho’s journeys throughout the country. Bursts of wit surprise throughout the sketches and make for light chuckles.

Which line made me feel something? From The Narrow Road to the Deep North: “Move, if you can hear, / Silent mound of my friend, / My wails and the answering / Roar of autumn wind.”

They Can't Kill Us Until They Kill Us by Hanif Abdurraqib

4/5 stars

What's it about? In this collection of essays, Hanif Abdurraqib examines how music and performance influence and are influenced by culture, race, and coming-of-age experiences, an opportunity for reflections on the author’s own upbringing in Columbus, Ohio. Probing, eloquent, and personally generous.

How’d I find it? Ever since I read this poem by Abdurraqib, I’ve been collecting everything he puts out. This copy was purchased at Solid State Books.

Who will enjoy this book? Fans of Jia Tolentino’s Trick Mirror, Hilton Als’ White Girls, and Roxane Gay’s writing should like They Can’t Kill Us Until They Kill Us.

What stood out? Abdurraqib hinges his social meditations on a variety of artists —Chance the Rapper, Carly Rae Jepsen, and Fall Out Boy, to name a few —that allows him to scan an impressive breadth of subject matter, and he meets the challenge handsomely in beautifully crafted and passionate pieces. Abdurraqib’s mastery as a poet can be both a blessing and a curse in a dense book of short essays like this; his stylistic flourishes get sometimes tired during a longer reading session.

Which line made me feel something? “If you believe that it rained in Ohio on the night Allen Iverson hit Michael Jordan with a mean crossover, you will also believe that I know this by the sound that lingered in the air after my small cheering, the way rain can sometimes sound like an echo of applause if it hits a roof hard enough. You will also believe that I know this by the way an unexpected puddle can slow down a basketball’s dribble on blacktop, especially if the basketball is losing some of its traction, some of the grip that it had in its younger days.”