Just this morning I finished Francisco Goldman's "Say Her Name," an autobiographical novel about the death of his young wife, the writer Aura Estrada. The book has won many accolades, and is included on this year's American Library Association Notable Books List.

The basic story is that Goldman was an established writer in his early 50s when he fell in love with and in 2005 married the emerging Mexican writer, Aura Estrada, who was in her mid 20s. Just short of their second anniversary, she died following a swimming accident on a beach in Mexico.

Goldman casts the story of their courtship and marriage, her death, and his life since then, in sections that move in time and in place. It has the sense of how one would expect such a story to be told, with one memory providing a nudge that reminds the author of something else that seems unrelated and yet highlights or foreshadows what will come. This backing and forthing continues until finally at the end of the book, Goldman describes what happened on the beach that day and just after.

I was interested in why Goldman chose to tell this story in a novel instead of as a memoir. What he said in an interview in the Paris review, "I have never liked the memoir form because I tend to think that memory fictionalizes anyway. Once you claim that you are writing a narrative purely from memory you are already in the realm of fiction."

What a perfect book for book groups--there is the marital relationship made more interesting with the difference in their ages, the intense relationship between Aura and her mother, the striving of Aura as a writer with a dream of success, her balancing of Mexico and America, and of course the exploration of grief and loss. I doubt I'm the only reader who takes a little too much interest in what writers are like, and so book groups can add the added incentive of looking into these closets and cupboards.

I'm reflecting on my own internal score for this book--Goldman writes so well, well enough that this tribute to Aura is worthy of her, and I sensed that he was honest about himself, even when being honest meant revealing things that I didn't much like. Thinking a little more about it, I see that this book grew on me in a way that I admire. I wasn't instantly pulled in, but Goldman managed to make me want to know more, to continue to read about Aura, and to fathom and face his loss.

"Destiny of the Republic" by Candice Millard is subtitled, "A Tale of Madness, Medicine and the Murder of A President." In this American Library Association Notable book, Millard tells the story of President James Garfield, who was elected in 1880 and died in 1881.

Some readers may recall Millard as the author of "The River of Doubt" which was a One Book One Lincoln finalist a few years ago. That focused on an episode in the life of Theodore Roosevelt. She excels at writing history as story.

Millard opens this story with a prologue that introduces us right away to Charlies Guiteau. Guiteau survived a collision between two steamships in 1880. His own survival when others died led him to believe that he was saved for an important purpose, and when that belief combined with his mental illness, it twisted itself into his intention to kill President Garfield.

Chapter One picks up at the United States' Centennial Exhibition in 1876, where James Garfield, a congressman, strolls the grounds with his family. Millard uses this event to introduce two key angles that will be highlighted when Garfield is shot--the work of Inventor, Alexander Graham Bell, and pioneering work regarding antiseptic procedures in surgery.

Millard spends enough time with Garfield's remarkable rise from poverty to presidency to set the context of the time, and to tell the parallel story of Guiteau's descent. The events following the shooting take up a good deal of the book, yet she doesn't lose the narrative's momentum.

I appreciated how much I learned in the course of this book. This takes several forms. The sense of the United States shortly after the Civil War, the personalities engaged in politics, the dirtiness of the politics, and the lack of cleanliness as it impacted Garfield, are staying with me.

This may not be the book for serious students of American history, but for readers who have a general interest in the time and who are unfamiliar with James Garfield, Millard unrolls a fine story. I'll recommend it both to those with that interest in American history, and also to fiction readers who are willing to try nonfiction "when it reads like a story."

You can read an additional review of this book in the library staff review section of our website, with thanks to Alyse at Bennett Martin Public Library.

Here's my short assessment of "The Art of Fielding" by Chad Harbach. It's a fine book with a fabulous first half. As a reader and evaluator, I'm so overwhelmed by the unfulfilled promise of that first half that I may be underestimating the second.

But to back up--this is a baseball novel combined with a coming-of-age story. Its focus is Henry Skrimshander, a remarkable shortstop. Henry's fielding ability is witnessed by a catcher who is able to wangle Henry a place at Westish College. Henry's magical talent transforms the team...until he loses it. And then his friends, his teammates, and all who have been introduced in this novel adjust their orbits around his misery.

Other aspects of the story include the life of a small liberal arts college, the first motions toward a gay relationship by the college president, the return of the president's prodigal daughter, and the coaching brilliance of that catcher.

Harbach is a wonderful writer, combining a sense of Henry's transcendent talent with the everyday details of college, of roommates, of part-time jobs. He takes an often wry approach, even as he describes scenes artfully, maybe wistfully. I thought to myself that he strikes the tone that I sense Jonathan Franzen going for, of telling a story with a clever voice, from a perch that allows the teller to know an awful lot, when the teller honestly likes the characters, warts and all.

I absolutely loved the first half of this book, with Harbach introducing characters in lovely order and a perfect pace. This part of the story seemed so clean, so lusciously straightforward and true. What happens after that just didn't live up to the promise. The drama of sexual betrayal, the ongoing suspense of Henry's inability to play, the awkward introduction of a counselor who untangles Henry's issues, they seemed like too many condiments on a perfect hot dog.

I can't bring myself to dislike "The Art of Fielding," and I do think it's fair to describe it overall as a good book, a fine baseball story. I'll recommend this to fiction readers, to people who enjoy contemporary settings, to baseball fans, and certainly to book groups. It's easy to see how it earned its place on this year's Notable Books list.

I just finished "Turn Right at Machu Picchu: Rediscovering the Lost City One Step at a Time" by Mark Adams, one of the nonfiction titles on this year's American Library Association Notable Books List.

Adams alternates chapters of his own recent trek to Machu Picchu with chapters describing the travels of Hiram Bingham, the Yale professor who "discovered" Machu Picchu in 1911.

Adams travels to Machu Picchu via the ancient Inca Road, using routes that allow him to see what Bingham saw. He includes himself very squarely in this story, offering many personal opinions, observations, and conversations with his guide and the Peruvians who manage the donkeys, food and gear. This works. As a travel writer, Adams achieves that delicate balance where his own personality enlivens the story with overpowering it.

There's something about Machu Picchu that remains eternally interesting. Recent developments regarding the ownership of many Inca items that Hiram Bingham transported back to Yale have added an additional measure of interest to Bingham's portion of the story.

Adams explores several theories about the function of Machu Picchu, describes well the mountainous area where it is, and draws connections among stories, geography, and personalities. He deepens his own experiences with deft study of others, including those who have always lived in the area, the early white explorers who sought the Lost City of the Incas, and the thousands who visit the site each year.

Although this is not a deep academic study, I'll recommend it to people with an interest in this area. In particular, I will mention it to those who have visited or intend to visit Machu Picchu, to readers who enjoy travel books generally, and to fiction readers who will enjoy a nonfiction book of it's "a good story."

The 2012 American Library Association Notable Books List was announced last Sunday--and that made January 22 a Recognized Holiday at my house. I've got several notables checked out, a few more on hold, and I have finished my first--"We the Animals" by Justin Torres.

After last year's rants about LONG books dominating the list, I can ease up this year. In fact, "We the Animals" is only 128 pages.

It's a series of short stories told by the youngest of three brothers in a contemporary family. Their father is Puerto Rican, and their mom is anglo, both from Brooklyn originally, although the family lives now in upstate New  York.

The stories reminded me of Andre Dubus III's "Townie" in their mix of profound family chaos, fierce love, and edginess.

In one story, the boy is alone left too long at a Niagara Falls museum. To keep himself occupied, he ends up dancing in front of a film that nobody else is viewing, enjoying the movement and the lights on his body. He realizes that his dad has finally returned, and has been watching him, perhaps for some time. His dad realizes how "pretty" his son is. That begins the movement toward the book's end, as the young man realizes he's gay, and engineers his first sexual encounter.

When I finished this, I noted that I felt like I was either in the presence of genius, or needed a shower. The scenes in this book so often put the narrator and his brothers in situations that were dirty or grimy or slightly dangerous or mean. And yet there remained that sense of love and solidarity. How did Torres manage that?

Torres writes in a deceptively simple way that seems just to describe, but that also sets a tone.

I will recommend this to people who appreciate spare writing, who seek varieties of experiences, and who can tolerate edginess. I'll also bring it to the attention of book groups.

Over the weekend, I read "The Invention of Air: A Story of Science, Faith, Revolution, and the Birth of America" by Steven Johnson.

Basically, it's a book about  Joseph Priestley, the 18th century scientist/pastor/political writer who is credited with discovering oxygen. Priestley was born and lived most of his life in England, moving to the United States in 1794 after a mob angry about his writings burned down his home.

I liked it partly because it reads quickly--I've been working on a suitable descriptor for a book that moves along at a fast pace--and is relatively short, at 215 pages. As a reader, I prefer a fast pace. I know plenty of readers who love a slow-moving long book. They might have felt cheated by this one. I mention that pace because one might expect that a book about a historical figure who was a scientist/pastor/political writer might move along slowly.

That said, Johnson diverges fairly often from Priestley's story to take a broader look at his times, and often also the filter of certain themes from which to consider the 21st century. For instance, Priestley was part of a group of London men who often had coffee together, a group called "The Club of Honest Whigs." They talked into the evening on all sorts of subjects, and with them, Priestley was able to articulate and develop his own points of view. This ability to share ideas, to stay in close communication, to build on each others' work, was new to the times. The broadmindedness of the group certainly played into its role in developing ideas, but that ability to communicate was key. Johnson compares that to what the Internet offers to scientists and thinkers to day--unparalleled access to each others' thoughts.

There's something about this era of "amateur" scientists such as Priestley that so clearly is a thing of the past. Johnson reflects on the impact that leisure time had. Priestley was well-educated, curious, and had time. Others, for example, Thomas Jefferson in the United States, showed similar lifelong avocations of science combined with political pursuits. Johnson laments the way that politicians now leave science to others...and perhaps are proud of their lack of scientific understanding.

Johnson places much more emphasis on Priestley's scientific work than on his religious thinking (he's prominent in the history of the Unitarian church) and political writing, but Johnson certainly sees the breadth of his interests as key to Priestley's success.

From time to time, I wondered if Johnson might be standing on some fairly thin ice when pulling the big ideas from this one life and applying them to our time. And yet there is a compelling sense in which it would be easy to imagine Johnson himself around the coffee table with the Club of Honest Whigs, building one idea on top of another, sometimes getting a little beyond himself.

For that reason, I may not recommend this to serious and well-read students of the science of history. But I will recommend it to my reading friends who enjoy history, who want to ponder the big ideas that connect one time with another, and who may not know enough about this intriguing man.

I'm continuing my reading of "best of the year" titles, this time from Library Journal.

"Silver Sparrow" by Tayari Jones begins with a fabulous first sentence, "My father, James Witherspoon, is a bigamist."

The novel is told by Witherspoon's two daughters, both growing up in Atlanta in the 1980s.

The first section is told by Dana Lynn Yarboro. She is the "outside daughter." Her mother knew from the start that Witherspoon was married to someone else. As she approached Dana's birth, she and Witherspoon went across the state line and married. Dana grows up feeling herself second best, watching her mother work hard to ensure that Witherspoon provide well for Dana, sometimes "surveiling" the other wife and daughter. Dana begins to engineer ways to interact with her half-sister.

The second section is told by Chaurisse Witherspoon, that half-sister who is just four months younger than Dana. Chaurisse grows up not knowing about the other family. In contrast to Dana and her mother, Chaurisse and her mother consider themselves plain. Chaurisse's story begins to include Dana, who Chaurisse describes as a "silver girl," someone who is pretty and presents herself stylishly, someone different from Chaurisse. Inevitably, trouble happens with the two, and the secret family comes into the light.

The third and final short section returns to Dana, as an adult with a baby girl of her own. Chaurisse has "surveiled" her, and they have a brief conversation that reveals that the two are no longer connected. And yet it is clear, they will always be connected.

I enjoyed this as an old-fashioned story, told in a straightforward way. I liked how Jones included much about the working lives of the adults in the story, and her picture of African American middle class culture of the 1980's. She develops these characters well, makes them distinct from each other, even as they all revolve around the one man, James Witherspoon. She explores themes of friendship, family, secrets, and love.

I've noted previously that often I'm impatient in "braided story" novels because I end up finding one person much more compelling than another. In this case, I found both girls equally interesting.

I'll recommend this to people who enjoy novels about regular people reacting to crazy events. It's a perfect book group choice, with so many secrets to explore and people to analyze.

I came across "The Call" by Yannick Murphy in a "best of the year" sort of list. It's a novel about a New England veterinarian whose son is shot while hunting.

It's format was a tad off-putting to me at first. It's told as if in notes regarding the calls that the veterinarians receives. For instance, from page one:

Call: A cow with her dead calf halfborn.
Action: Put on boots and pulled dead calf out while standing in a field full of mud.
Result: Hind legs tore off from dead calf while I pulled. Head, forelegs, and torso are still inside the mother.
Thoughts on Drive Home While Passing Red and Gold Leaves on Maple Trees: Is there a nicer place to live?

Once I got used to the rhythm of the format, I enjoyed the story, and even began to like the distance that this structure provided. The entries are a mix of mundane, emotional, wry, and intense. When the veterinarian's son is shot, the format keeps the action from being overwhelming, somehow. The obsession he develops for learning who shot his son is entirely believable, even as it mixes in to his wry observations about the households and animals he visits. Events turn once again when a young man shows up who is his son, via a sperm donation he made in his college days.

The one quibble I have is that when the son must be in the hospital following the shooting, I felt an inadequate connection to everything medical--all of the decisions, the instruments, the machinery, the weirdness of time in the hospital. His thoughts didn't leave his son often, but I didn't sense the way that a hospital often becomes a family's hearth when a child is in a coma.

Looking back on this story, it strikes me as "old fashioned" in these ways--the veterinarian is someone who wants to be a good man. He loves his family. He works hard. He's a regular guy. The things that happen could happen to anyone. They shake him up. He does a few silly things, but all in all, he behaves in ways that make perfect sense, and that underscore a basic decency about him. His ability always to see something a little differently and often without judgment, to find humor and happy irony, create a distinctive tone. And make a clear contrast with his focus on the shooter.

I'll recommend this to people as a quirky but satisfying read. It probably requires a slightly quirky reader, too, but I predict that once people get accustomed to the rhythm of the language, they will take to the people and the place.

One of my favorite customer service people at the Mail Plus store on South Street called my attention to "Death Comes to Pemberley" by P.D. James a couple of months before it came out in December.

The book is a P.D. James mystery in a Jane Austen setting, a kind of sequel to "Pride and Prejudice." While skeptical that anyone, even the fabulous P.D. James, could do justice to Jane Austen, I was intrigued. Over the holidays I began "Death Comes to Pemberley."

James creates the setting just a few years after Elizabeth Bennett marries Mr. Darcy. As the story opens, Elizabeth's sister Lydia arrives at Pemberley on a dark and stormy night, to announce hysterically that her husband, the notorious Wickham, has been killed in the Pemberley woods.

From there, a classic mystery evolves. P.D. James writes well, and she crafts a mystery just as well. I enjoyed reading this story. I liked the references to "Pride and Prejudice" and even to other Austen novels. But I missed two critical pieces--Austen's light touch, and her focus on the women.

Alas, I'm married to someone who doesn't appreciate Jane Austen's sense of humor. I'll often read aloud from what I consider a hilarious excerpt, and he just doesn't laugh. But really, that humor is all over Austen. It's in her clever conversation and observed gestures. The central act of this book, a death, squelches any chance of the light touch. The sense of appropriate solemnity at Pemberley hangs heavy throughout the story.

Much of the action revolves around Mr. Darcy, a stand-in for Adam Dalgliesh perhaps. I found myself wishing that P.D. James had instead woven the story around Elizabeth.

I don't like what I've written because I wanted to love this book, and hoped to have only good things to say about something written by P.D. James.

I'll still recommend this book to mystery readers, and even to fans of Jane Austen as an interesting accessory. I just won't go overboard in my enthusiasm, and I'll be clear that this is definitely a P.D. James book. And as I should have known from the start, if I want Jane Austen...then I need to read Jane Austen.

I came across this title on a "best of the year" list recently. I loved "House of Sand and Fog" written by Dubus years ago, and I'm always on the lookout for a memoir. "Townie" sounded interesting because of the relationship that Dubus III had with his father, Andre Dubus, the late short story writer.

Dubus III, his two brothers and sisters grew up primarily with their mother, living in blue collar neighborhoods in worn out Massachusetts cities of the 70s and 80s. Early on,  he sensed that he was basically a chicken who allowed others to push him (and his family) around. He hated that about himself. Their neighborhoods saw plenty of violence and crime. His mother worked hard and was away from the house a lot. He and his dad, by then a faculty member at a small college nearby, saw each other on weekends, and sometimes for dinners together during the week.

Eventually, Dubus III became someone who threw punches at others. Much of this book chronicles the various fights in which he engaged. Because of the extensive focus on fighting, I found this to be a book about another world. I've never thrown a punch, and never been punched. I've never been friends with people who did so. The fighting began to seem tiresome. I kept waiting for him to find another way to live. Eventually, he did.

At a certain point, things stabilize. Dubus III decides to be an educated person. He gets to know his father, spends time with him. His mother and her long-term boyfriend remain in his life. Dubus III has an epiphany, an experience where he writes, and it is rewarding in ways he hadn't predicted.

But a certain anger remains about how alone and afraid he was as a child, and how much he missed. A couple of images that I'll keep from this book include one where Dubus III, maybe 12 or so, plays catch with his dad, and his dad is baffled that he doesn't know how to throw a baseball. He never taught his son, and apparently it hadn't occurred to him that he might not know how. Nor did he recognize that his son lived in a place where children weren't engaged in sports. Similarly, when the elder Dubus referred to the Red Sox, his son honestly didn't know what he was talking about.

As an adult, once he established a strong bond with his father, Dubus III tries to find a time and a way to tell his father how awful it was for him, his brothers and sister. A couple of opportunities slip through his fingers, and maybe it isn't as critical as he thought.

What stays is that sense of loss and fear, expressed most often as explosive physical anger.

Dubus III writes well--he conveys what was bad about his upbringing, but he's also a fine observer of the time and place where he grew up. There was room for fun, room for friendship. That he was such a sensitive observer probably explains both the fighting and his talent for writing.

Many readers of literary fiction enjoy the story behind the stories of their favorite authors, and certainly I'll recommend this to people who loved "House of Sand and Fog." I'm having a hard time putting my finger on the other audiences for this book and its themes of anger, transformation, physical violence, courage, and art--somehow that list reminds me of Hemingway. There is a whole sense of adventure here underpinned by intelligence--and that suggests that a wide audience indeed.

"The Tiger's Wife" by Tea Obreht has received plenty of acclaim and applause already.

I finished it between the holidays, and while I enjoyed reading it, I didn't ever feel "book lust" for it. I've been reflecting on that.

The novel has three basic strands. One is of a contemporary doctor, Natalia, living in an unnamed Balkan country. She and a friend travel to another country to treat orphans of the recent war. Natalia's grandfather recently died, and during her trip she explores the somewhat mysterious circumstances of his death. The other two strands are based on stories her grandfather told her, of a deathless man, and of woman who befriended a tiger that escaped the zoo during World War Two.

I know that I tend to become frustrated with stories told in strands. I usually find one strand compelling, while the others seem like distractions. This is how I felt with "The Tiger's Wife." I wanted to stay with Natalia. The other strands began to seem too big, too distracting. I didn't sense the kind of completion that I craved. I kept waiting for the three strands to come together in a compelling way.

I didn't dislike the book, in fact, I liked it. I just didn't find it as wonderful as others have.

What I enjoyed particularly were Obreht's way with words, and many of the images she creates. For instance, when she was a child, Natalia often walked with her grandfather to the zoo, where they spent time watching the tigers. The story opens with a scene where they witness the tiger turning on a zookeeper who has been careless. The contrast between the warm grandfather with Natalia, and the attacking tiger with the zookeeper, stayed with me through the novel. Who IS the tiger?

I'll recommend this to my friends who enjoy literary novels, who enjoy elements of magical realism, or who have an interest in the Balkan countries. I'll also recommend this as a title with immense book club potential.

Over the holiday break, I read "The Good Earth" by Pearl S. Buck. How had I lived so long without reading it?

I enjoyed it immensely, this story of a Chinese farmer in pre-revolutionary China.

The novel opens with the wedding day of Wang Lung. His bride is a slave in a rich household. She is all that a man of his small means can afford. O-Lan turns out to be a faithful and hardworking wife. Her dreams parallel those of Wang Lung, to have sons, to farm successfully, to acquire land and wealth.

The story is told from Wang Lung's view. Although his fortunes rise and fall, he ends up on top, owning vast amounts of land. He has three sons. He takes on a beautiful second wife, a former prostitute.

When his life goes wrong or awry, he realizes that to return to an even keel, he must return to the land.

The novel closes with Wang Lung telling his sons that the land must remain with them...and their conspiratorial glance indicates their other intentions.

Hillary Spurling, in her biography of Pearl Buck, "Pearl Buck in China," points to Buck's profound respect for Chinese people, especially the rural peasants, as the foundation of this book's success. Buck's familiarity with Chinese speech is clear in the rhythm of the words. At the time of the writing, Buck's willingness to talk about sexuality was startling--I barely noticed it.

I was struck by Wang Lung's seeming disregard for O-Lan. Buck does so well with presenting his point of view about her, and about women and girls generally. I wanted to hate him for his point of view, but Buck places him in the context of his time and place. She led me to take a less judgmental view. I see that I got a clearer view through her telling than I would have from my own 21st century viewfinder.

Why does this book remain popular? I have talked to so many people who love this book, who have re-read it many times. I see its appeal in the simplicity of the telling, mixed with the rhythm of the language.

"So many books, so little time." How DO we decide when to go back and pick up a book that we "should" have read long ago? I confess--there are remarkable holes in my reading history. I'd hate to even start a list of what I should have read, but haven't. In this case, I feel a rewarding sense of having filled a gap. I enjoyed the story and I have a better sense of everyday Chinese people before the Revolution. And I appreciate my new familiarity with a book that in so many ways made literary history.

I came across "Pearl Buck in China" by Hilary Spurling listed in the New York Times "100 Notable" of the year for 2010. I confess--I haven't read "The Good Earth." Yet. After reading this biography, I intend to.

Spurling describes the evolution of Buck as a writer, spending ample time during Buck's childhood as the daughter of missionaries in China at the turn of the 20th century, detailing the development of her thinking through her time in college and early return to China, describing the impact of Buck's remarkable success with "The Good Earth" and landing at her final home just before she died in 1973. She tells the story in a readable way, keeping it moving, weaving in important information.

A theme that Spurlling develops here is that because Buck grew up in China, speaking the Chinese of common people and being surrounded by Chinese people, she was able (almost) to think like a Chinese person. That is, even though she was clearly an outsider, she had a sense for how Chinese people thought and reacted. Where other American writers couldn't quite get past their shock over certain behaviors, Buck wasn't shocked herself, and could portray the behaviors in ways that made sense to her audience. She fundamentally respected the people about whom she wrote.

Buck came to disagree vehemently with the approach of the missionary community in China.

Spurling addresses some issues that were very similar to some that arose in the library's recent One Book One Lincoln panel discussion of medical missionary work in Africa and elsewhere. How DO outsiders learn to help? How do they learn to listen? How do they learn to respond in ways that make sense for the culture and situation?

When I reflect on what I will remember about this book, it is really WHO I will remember--Buck's father, Absalom Sydenstricker, an American Presbyterian missionary to China. Spurling's portrait of this man, his isolating persistence and righteous conviction, his seeming disregard for his family, and his ultimate separation from his work, show how Buck's vision was shaped.

I will also remember that Buck chose her own way. She divorced her first husband to marry the second. She found a good place for her disable daughter when often disabled children were simply hidden. She lived fairly lavishly toward the end of her life.

I nearly returned this to the library without finishing it, because it was due. I'm glad that I took the time to finish it out--the final fourth of the book is especially interesting.

I'll recommend this to people who read a lot, who have probably read "The Good Earth." I'll also recommend it to people who are generally interested in China, and in the issues that arise when people of very different cultures come together.

I was looking for a book that was entertaining and fast--"Bossypants" by Tina Fey was perfect on both counts. And really, I just like saying (and writing) "Bossypants."

I haven't watched "Saturday Night LIve" for years, and I don't watch "30 Rock" so I wasn't familiar with many of the people and events that Fey describes here. I know her because of her spot-on portrayals of Sarah Palin. Even so, I found this book interesting and amusing.

Fey tells her story fairly chronologically, including mostly the bits that are funny on their own or funny when she gets her hands on them. She plays fair, in that she laughs at herself plenty. This isn't the place to go for who-what-when-where-why information. This is more a series of stories that might be shared over coffee or wine with a group of friends, stories that create connections whether they happened in Nebraska or New Jersey.

When she does turn a more serious eye on her life story, it's often in situations where sexism arises, or where power is exploited, or when pressure about attractiveness becomes overpowering (or just silly). These observations keep her book from being more than just a romp.

Her rise in Chicago's The Second City improvisation theater led her to submit material to "Saturday Night Live." There she became a writer and appeared on the "Weekend Update" news parody. Her observations about those work environments are interesting partly for their celebrity tidbits. What comes before actually is also plenty of fun--her descriptions of working at the YMCA checkin window when she was just out of college.

Fey doesn't take much of the celebrity life for granted, and so her observations of photo shoots, of being recognized, and of receiving both hate mail, stay fresh. It seems like she just can't keep herself from being funny.

I'll recommend this to plenty of people. In fact, it's taking me a moment to think of which people wouldn't like it. It's clear going in that this is a funny book by a woman who's made it big acting and writing in TV comedy. She hits her stride, and even while inspiring plenty of laughing out loud, reveals enough to show that success didn't come all at once and that she recognizes that it could have gone much differently. But what's funny (and not funny ha-ha) about humor is that some people can't see the humor when someone else is doubling over in laughter. It's not a sure thing. So this could be an adventure in reading for some, and in the interests of tasting from many pots, I'm recommending "Bossypants."

Due to unforeseen events, I ended up on my own for lunch on Tuesday, so I did what many downtown workers do. I found a book on the Bennett Martin Public Library new books display. I chose "American Boy" by Larry Watson because I'd so enjoyed his "Montana 1948" several years ago.

I started it over an Oso Burrito lunch, and was amazed when I'd reached page 40 with burrito remaining. I ditched many evening tasks to keep reading at home. I got up at 4:30 Wednesday morning and finished it off, all the way to the final paragraph on page 246. Thank you, Larry Watson, for writing a fairly short novel.

Matthew Garth narrates this story, which happens in Willow Falls, Minnesota, in 1963. Anyone who grew up in a small town will recognize Watson's sense for the rhythms of small town life.

Matthew's an only child, his father died when he was eight, and his mother waitresses in town. She takes a pretty hands-off approach to parenting. Matthew realizes that as long as he stays out of big trouble, she's okay with it.

He has attached himself to his best friend's family, and been taken in by the Dunbars. Dr. Dunbar has cachet--he's a doctor, he's from out of town, and he's handsome. Matthew looks up to him, and pictures his own future in medicine because of him.

The equilibrium of the Dunbar home gets upset when Louisa Lindahl, a young woman who comes into Dr. Dunbar's care when her boyfriend shoots her on Thanksgiving, moves into the Dunbar home. Matthew becomes obsessed with Louisa, and when he realizes that she doesn't have her eyes on him, his own eyes are opened.

There are several aspects of "American Boy" that remind me of "Montana 1948." They include a narrator looking back on his experience as a rough-edged young man, an experience that includes a degree of isolation, remarkable observational skills of how men behave, and how others, especially women, respond to them. In particular, there's a sense of how men in power use or abuse their situation. There's engagement with physical violence.

Watson tells the story in a chronological straightforward manner. I attribute some of the speed in my reading to his excellent writing--he gets out of the way. And yet he develops characters. He lets the story roll out at a pace that makes sense. He reveals depth in what could have been simply a tawdry story.

I'll recommend this to readers who love fiction, who appreciate stories about America's heartland, and to people who especially enjoy a coming-of-age story. This is a great book group choice--there's plenty to discuss. I look forward to talking this over with others, and so am eager to get the word out about it.