What would you say if you could go back in time and talk to your past self? Would you tell yourself Still Life With Tornado uses this idea of traveling back to your past selves explore how our past, present, and future are bound up together through the memories and dreams each of us holds.
to avoid the things you regret? Would you want to relive previous stages of your life? How would that change the person you became? A.S. King's novel

Sarah, once a gifted artist, can't even summon the skill to draw something as simple as her own hand. After a falling out with the art club kids she thought were her friends, Sarah stops going to school, instead wandering around the town where she lives, searching for anything that is truly original. One day on her ramblings she meets her 23-year-old self riding a bus. This 23-year-old version of Sarah is angry, though she won't tell 16 year-old Sarah why. Soon after, she runs into her 10-year-old-self, sunburned from a family trip to Mexico that present-Sarah barely remembers, but which was apparently a turning point in the life of her family. Finally, 40-year-old Sarah shows up, firm but kind, demanding present-Sarah remember what happened in Mexico, so she can face the trauma and start to heal. The more time Sarah spends with her past and future selves, the more she is drawn into both her memories of the Mexico vacation, and the truth about her parents' toxic relationship.

There are a lot of moving pieces with this narrative. There are chapters from Sarah's perspective, flashbacks to the Mexico vacation, and short sections narrated by Sarah's mother, revealing the details of her relationship with Sarah's father and how their family got to the low point they are currently in. Despite the jumping around, the story hold together nicely, with well-paced revelations about Sarah's life and family. The past and future Sarahs are not hallucinations; present-Sarah doesn't have dissociative identity disorder, nor do we discover at the end it was all a dream. Sarah's mother and brother eventually see all of the other Sarahs too. While King offers no explanation for where they came from or how they got there, it's clear that the existential crisis present-Sarah is having has caused them to appear. King perfectly captures Sarah in all of her stages; 10-year-old Sarah's personality has clear connections to present-Sarah, and present-Sarah is reflected in the personalities of the older Sarahs. I was impressed by King's ability to create the same character at four very different stages of life that really did feel like they could be the same person, all while having them interact with each other.

Ultimately, this novel explores the impact of domestic violence on families, specifically on children. Sarah's father's rage and violence create a brittle home environment, one in which both parents are present, but clearly not in true relationship with each other. Like many children growing up in violent households, Sarah perceives the long, hostile silences and frequent arguments as normal. Her home life can't be that bad, right? Eventually, through the gentle (and not so gentle) coaxing and cajoling of the other Sarahs, present-Sarah is able to confront the sad and scary truths behind her parents' apparent hatred of each other, and her brother's seemingly inexplicable absence from their lives.

As in her other books, King creates a detailed and well-developed internal life for Sarah. Eventually, the reader learns what the incident was that caused Sarah to stop going to school. That incident became the catalyst for the personal crisis that led Sarah to confront the realities of her home situation. The incident also explains why Sarah suddenly found herself unable to make art, which up to this point had been her outlet for the stress of living with parents who were constantly in conflict. As usual, King has given us a well-crafted, beautifully told story that shows her deep understanding of how teenagers think and feel. I think Reality Boy might still be my favorite of hers, but this one is a close second.

God Help the Child, Toni Morrison

Toni Morrison writes with a voice like no other. Her novels dig deep into the human soul, and no one writes about trauma and scars and how they make us who we are better than her. I have always been deeply affected by her books, but since the advent of #blacklivesmatter and my own burgeoning understanding of how perniciously deep the roots of white supremacy go, I am beginning to see her work through a new lens. Race and its effect on her characters have always played a big role in her books, and God Help the Child is possibly one of the best examples of her ability to uncover difficult truths around race and the impact of white supremacy.

God Help the Child, like many of Morrison's books, is not a straight-forward linear narrative, though unlike some of her other books the timeline in the novel is essentially in chronological order. The main character is a woman named Bride, though throughout the book there are chapters told from the perspective of other female characters, as well. Bride's mother, her best friend, a paroled convict, a little girl...Every female character in the novel, with one exception, tells her own truth in her own words. Bride is a black woman; blue-black, in fact. This trait affects her entire life, from her birth, to her career decisions, to her relationships. Over the course of the novel, bits and pieces of Bride's life, and the other characters' opinions about or contributions to it, are doled out a morsel at a time-occasionally sweet, often bitter, sometimes both. Bride has a secret in her past, one that culminates in the complete dissolution of everything that she'd worked to become.

There is so much to dive into here. I'm certain if I read it again I would pick up on even more depth and meaning. But here are a few things that stood out to me. First, Morrison once again plays with narrative structure in a way that suits her purpose if not the conventions of writing fiction. The first part of the novel is all told as alternating voices from most of the female characters in the book. Those chapters are like puzzle pieces-the whole picture doesn't emerge without the inclusion of each person's individual thoughts, experiences, and emotions. The second half of the novel switches to third person, and I think it's telling that the first thing she writes about in this less personal voice is the one male character in the book, named Booker. We learn a lot about Booker, as she details his life from childhood through the present, and we can begin to see how his own experiences led to his later actions.

Another thing that stood out to me was the way that Morrison highlighted how our experiences as children can come to define us, and affect us in ways that we don't always recognize until much later in life. Our childhood selves can become a weight that we drag around with us, holding us back from meaningful relationships or self-awareness. Bride's mother, Booker, Bride's best friend, and Bride herself are all trying, in one way or another, to cover their emotional scars-with work, avoidance, reinvention, rationalization-but ultimately each must confront their own responsibility,  not for the things that happened to them, but to the way in which they either hold on to or let go of the burden.

There is also a lot in the book about power-who has it, where it comes from, why people want it, etc...Not always power in the traditional sense, though that is certainly there, but the power that comes from self-efficacy and self-determination. This is most obviously seen with Bride, though there are glimpses of it with other characters as well. As Bride starts to lose her sense of herself, her body goes through a literal transformation, bringing in the magical realism that Morrison is known for from novels like Beloved. As she loses and gains her power, we see her start to revert back to the too-black little girl named Lula Ann that she thought she had left behind when she reinvented herself as Bride, and then regain her physical maturity as she confronts the burdens of her own past.

I listened to the audiobook on this one, partly because I am avoiding the news on my daily commute right now because I can't stand to hear one more horrible, cruel, buffoonish thing the current resident of the White House says, but mostly because Toni Morrison herself narrated it. What a treat, to hear her voice reading her words. I could listen to her read from her works all day long. Overall, I think this is one of her most accessible books, and one that compares with some of the best from her early career.

Faithful, Alice Hoffman

I remember reading one of Alice Hoffman's historical fiction novels (sadly, I don't remember which one), and really liking it. I also remember reading two of Hoffman's other books (sadly, I do remember them) and thinking they were overly sentimental Hallmark-channel worthy stories with no there there. But I couldn't get that first book out of my mind. I had to believe it wasn't just a fluke (though, I love the first Nicholas Sparks novel I read, The Notebook, and I definitely should have stopped there <gag>). I decided to give Hoffman one more try when I read the blurb for Faithful.

Anyone raised Catholic can tell you what a powerful force guilt can be (I hear Jewish mothers also have this concept down to an art form). Faithful explores the consequences of guilt, the ways that it can derail a person's life and completely change who they are. The story revolves around Shelby, whose life was thrown off track by a tragic accident she and her best friend were in as high scholers. Shelby holds herself accountable for the accident, and falls down a rabbit hole of shame and blame and sadness that makes her withdraw from everyone that she knows. When we first encounter her, she has just come out of a mental hospital after a suicide attempt, and is living in her parents' basement, smoking a lot of weed and watching a lot of reality TV. Eventually, her soft-hearted marijuana dealer, Ben, who for some inexplicable reason is actually falling in love with Shelby despite her morose behavior, convinces her to move to NYC with him to start a new life. It is in New York that Shelby begins to heal, and to fnd redemption for the bad things she thinks she's done.

It doesn't happen very often, but Hoffman managed to create a character that I was rooting for even though I didn't much like her. I started to like her more as the novel goes on, and I suppose that might have been the point-as Shelby began to like herself again, she became more likeable to the reader. It may also have something to do with the fact that she actually becomes a fully realized character once she gets to New York, rather than the deep black human-shaped pit of despair she was at the beginning of the novel; rescuing animals, finding human connection, and ultimately finding a way to love herself and accept someone else's love again.

Hoffman is known for magical realism, and there are some elements of it here. Her comatose former-friend is supposed to have healing powers, mysterious postcards appear just when she needs them, and even among the millions of people who live in New York she manages to cross paths with the one person she needs to the most. That last one sort of took it over the edge for me-it felt like one coincidental thing too many. But overall, I found this to be an enjoyable if not earth-shatteringly good read.

Saving Fish from Drowning, Amy Tan

I don't usually read other people's review of a book until after I have finished it and written my own review. When I was on Goodreads adding this book to my virtual shelves, however, I noticed that the very first review only had one star.  Given what I know about Amy Tan and her work, that seemed nonsensical.  I have found every book of hers to be well-written, at times both evocative and provocative, and generally moving and emotionally engaging.  As I scrolled down the list of reviews, I found that the first one-star reviewer was not the only one.  I suppose that everyone is entitled to an off day (or book), but given my track record with Tan I decided to go ahead.

Saving Fish from Drowning is in many ways a typical Tan novel, and in some ways something completely different.  Her usual setting and themes are there-China and southeast Asia; the relationship between parents and children, or husbands and wives; culture clashes, and/or trying to navigate two worlds by staying true to tradition while living in modern society.  But the narrator and the structure of the novel set it apart from her other works.  The narrator is wealthy art patron Bibi Chen, who spent her early years in China, and emigrated to the US during the Cultural Revolution.  As a member of the board of directors for an Asian art museum, she has taken on the role of tour guide for other wealthy Americans who wish to travel to Asia and explore the rich cultural heritage in places like China and Burma.  What makes her a unique narrator is that she is dead.  At the beginning of the novel we learn that she was found, throat cut, on the floor of her antique store in San Francisco.  The tour group she was supposed to take to Burma (which has recently begun to open its borders to more foreign visitors), decides to go ahead with the trip.  Things quickly go wrong when the group decides not to follow the carefully thought out and arranged plan Bibi created.  We know this because Bibi herself goes along on the trip, though of course, no one can see her, being dead and all.  After some initial problems, the group makes it to Burma, only to be kidnapped by members of a tribal group hiding out in the mountains, after two of the tribe's members become convinced that one of the Americans is in fact the long, lost savior they've been waiting for.

For me, the strongest aspects of the novel had to do with the cultural misunderstandings that occur between the Americans and the people they come across in both China and Burma.  There is the stereotype of the "ugly" American, someone who visits foreign places, looking for exotic experiences while at the same time expecting the people they encounter to change their own behavior to make the Americans more comfortable.  There is certainly some of that in the book, though the characters themselves believe that they are looking for "authentic" experiences.  But even these supposedly worldly travelers are shocked, dismayed, and judgmental about the conditions in the hotels and cultural sites they visit, exhibiting a basic lack of knowledge of their own privilege.  There is a minor celebrity, who seems rather put out when he is not recognized.  There are a few academics, who are interested in learning about the cultures they are visiting, but in a passive, waiting to be filled sort of way.  There is even a young American who works with an organization trying to aid the people of Burma and dismantle the oppressive regime, who considers herself to be on a sort of spy mission, showing a naivete that is more frustrating than charming or admirable.  And while Tan describes the various native characters as being essentially naive and superstitious in many ways, they definitely come off better than the Americans do in the end.

At the heart of the novel is an exploration of what it means to live life as a person who feels deeply.  Bibi herself admits that she long ago learned to turn off her own feelings, to live on the surface of an emotional life, mostly in response to a demeaning and cold step-mother.  This part of the book felt very much like Tan's other books.  But the concept of emotional connection is explored in various ways through the relationships the American travelers make with each other, both romantic and platonic.  There is a mother and daughter, a father and son, and various couples in various stages of commitment.  And, of course, there are some vacation hook-ups. To be honest, none of the characters was completely likable, except for maybe the two teenagers.  Each person has some flaw in their character that makes it difficult to be completely sympathetic when thing go wrong, which happen quite a lot.  When we discover what really happened to Bibi at the end of the novel, Tan's message seems to be that holding ourselves back from deep, authentic feelings towards others-through selfishness or fear or greed-will inevitably lead to disasters both small and large.

Do I think this book deserves a one-star review?  Absolutely not.  Most people seemed to find either the first-person omniscient narrator problematic, or they were put off by the characters in some way.  Some people didn't like that all of the Americans were so unsympathetic, some felt that there were too many, lots of people complained about the amount of detail Tan provides which they thought was irrelevant.  None of that really bothered me, but I don't think that this novel rises to the level of the Joy Luck Club or The Bonesetter's Daughter, either.  Overall, if you are a fan of Tan's work, it is worth it to read this novel so that you can be knowledgeable about her entire body of work.  If you have never read Amy Tan, don't start with this one.

Sisterland, In Which Psychic Twins Still Manage to Have Screwed Up Lives

People have always been fascinated by identical twins.  Twin studies have shown that often they have a
deeper connection than normal siblings, developing their own language to communicate and sensing when something is wrong with the other.  It is this idea that Curtis Sittenfeld explores in Sisterland, his 2013 novel about two identical twins who end up taking very different paths.

Kate (born Daisy) and her sister Violet grew up in a small town near St. Louis, Missouri.  They knew from an early age that they had abilities that they could not explain, what they called senses.  Their "senses" gave them feelings about things that were going to happen in the future, things that it would be impossible to know. Raised by a mostly absent father and a mother with untreated clinical depression, there was no one that the girls could turn to when it came to understanding the power they possessed.   After a sleep over with some friends during which Kate felt a malevolent presence in the room, she actively tried to ignore and quash her senses.  This became especially true after she married and became a mother. She wanted nothing more than to be normal.  Her sister Vi, on the other hand, turned her senses into a career, which began after Kate and Vi helped find a kidnapped boy while in college.  Vi is a handful-loud, brash, crass, and pushy, she requires almost as much attention from Kate as her own children, or her aging father.  When Vi predicts a major earthquake would hit the St. Louis area, the story is picked up by the major networks, and her life becomes a series of interviews and psychic readings, embarrassing her sister Kate and driving the whole family into virtual hiding from reporters.

Sittenfeld does a wonderful job with the backstory of the sisters, which he tells by alternating between present day and past.  Kate is a fully developed character, though to be honest I didn't find her a particularly likable one.  I found her suburban attitudes about her gifts, her sister's choices, and her family history to be sort of obnoxious, in fact.  Sittenfeld did not do quite as well with some of the other characters-Kate's husband, for instance, is a little too good to be true-but I thought he captured the Midwestern sensibilities of a small city pretty well.  Overall I found the story engaging, and was drawn in enough to ignore my chores for the day and keep reading (though, in truth, this is not exactly hard to do).  In the end, though, I felt like this novel, as engaging as it was, failed to deliver anything truly unique.  For an earthquake does come, thought not in the literal ground shaking sense.  Kate's life ends up being rocked by her own very questionable choices, and while there is a certain symmetry to her getting her comeuppance after all of the years she judged her sister and others, this particular earthquake was entirely preventable.

Peace Like a River

If you are like most readers, one of the joys of reading is being swept away to another world for a few hours at a time.  Reading can be an escape from the mundane activities of our daily lives, and it can be a doorway through which we enter the heart and soul of people and places we might never experience in real life.  Some authors transport us through plot-driven stories of action and reaction.  Some authors invite us to dive into rivers of language that speak not just to our intellect, but to our own deepest souls.  And sometimes, an author achieves both in a single work-a book with an engaging plot that motivates us to keep reading, written in language so beautiful that it sometimes approaches poetry.

Such is the case with Peace Like a River by Leif Enger.  As one reviewer put it, this is a novel that almost begs to be read aloud (and in fact, I listened to much of it in audiobook form while on a road trip).  Peace Like a River tells the story of what happens to the Land family when the oldest son, Davy, murders two other teens in retribution for terrorizing his seven year old sister, Swede.  The narrator is 11 year old Ruben, the middle child, who tells the story as an adult, but with the same sensibility that you'd expect of a young boy growing up in the American heartland during the middle part of the 20th century.  After the two young hooligans who meet such a violent end are interrupted in the act of raping Davy's girlfriend by the Land family patriarch, Jeremiah, they begin to terrorize the family, kidnapping Swede and taking her on a joy ride, before dropping her off again as a warning.  When the two boys break into the family home, Davy takes matters into his own hands.  He is charged with murder, and during his trial manages to escape from the jail where he's being held.  Jeremiah decides to take the family cross-country during the bitter Dakotan winter to find his boy, and Ruben and Swede are along for the ride.

In a way, the road trip the family embarks on feels like a backwards Odyssey.  Instead of journeying home after a long war, Jeremiah and his children leave their home behind, searching for Davy and encountering magic and miracles along the way.  Jeremiah is a deeply religious man, and miracles seem to follow him wherever he goes.  Ruben recounts the many miraculous events associated with his father throughout the course of the novel, from his being saved from a tornado as a young man, to literally praying breath into Ruben's cold tiny body at the moment of his birth, to healing a man of his disfiguring facial boils.  Enger uses this plot device to create a sense of possibility throughout the novel.  There is no reason that Jeremiah should think he can find his fugitive son, but he drives across the frozen plains of the west as though a beacon is beckoning him forward.  Ruben and Swede both believe that their father is right in all things, as many young children do, and Swede especially clings to her father's belief that Davy can be found and brought to safety as a touchstone during what would be a scary and unsettling time for anyone, much less a seven year old girl. 

Enger's use of language is rich and full of poetic moments.  Swede, a precocious writer and lover of westerns, spends much of her time in the book writing about Sunny Sundown, the cowboy hero she creates, and her stories mirror much of what happens in the book.  Ruben freely admits that he is not the wordsmith that Swede is, but he certainly speaks with a certain down-home lyricism that is impossible not to be drawn into.  Through his careful descriptions and self-deprecating observations about himself and the events he is drawn into, we learn to love the characters in this novel as though they were in fact members of our own family.  Which makes the tragedy of the story have an even greater emotional impact than it might otherwise have held.  

Ordinarily I would not recommend the audiobook version of a novel over the ink-and-paper version, but Chad Lowe, who narrates the audiobook, does such an excellent job of embodying Ruben, and Enger's language deserves to be heard aloud.