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My mind is a jumble: more than one war, migration, building and preservation, what to make for dinner… Reading is a balm. The Postcard, by Anne Berest This autobiographical novel is the story of a family in France undone by the Holocaust.  Our narrator Anne receives a postcard oddly inscribed with four names: Ephraïm, Emma,

I admit to putting down Lauren Groff’s Matrix months ago; I liked the writing but didn’t cotton to the 12th century story of an ungainly French girl sent from the royal court of Eleanor to prop up a failing nunnery in England. It seemed dreary. Later, my friend Deborah mentioned the book as a study

I ran out of books earlier this summer at our lake house and vowed to bring enough for my latest two-week visit. Other folks go to Lac Pythonga to fish, hunt, hike, sail. I go there to unplug, read, swim, sun, spa and hike. Mostly, I read. I brought four books; I’ll tell you about the

I gave up on e-books years ago. I hated the clicking noise to “turn” the page; I couldn’t “see” how far I’d gone; I forgot the title of the book I was reading. Sure, it makes sense for traveling, but not for me. I’d rather weight my bag with a book, or three. There’s another

As you know, I love a train wreck. I’m sucked into a story, enjoying its setting and characters and then — wham! — it’s buckle up time. We’re going for a ride that probably won’t end well.  That’s what happened, leisurely, when I began Emma Cline’s The Guest, the story of 22-year-old Alex, who works

The best movies about women — Tar and Women Talking — didn’t get much love at the box office, or at last week’s Academy Awards.  So, let’s spread the word about new fiction I’ve loved that’s by and about women.  Lessons in Chemistry by Bonnie Garmus is laugh-out-loud funny. That’s not to say it’s not

Apologies for neglecting this site.  I’m always reading, and I’ve watched some wonderful serial television. Let’s start with books.  Have I mentioned that I love a train wreck? Case in point, the life of superstar television wanderer Anthony Bourdain, who killed himself — over a girl — in 2018. Newly published is the biography of

At our summer place in Quebec, I can read for hours without interruption. Recently there, I inhaled A Laodicean by Thomas Hardy, an author I read repeatedly. This one is not like his others because its heroine is not undone by men (i.e., Tess of the d’Urbervilles.) Paula Power, the only daughter of a railroad magnate,

I stopped posting book reviews sometime last year. Not sure why. I’ve been reading the whole time, as always. Maybe no read made me want to sit down and write about it.  I’ve got one now. I’m suffering “book grief” over “The Copenhagen Trilogy,” by Tove Ditlevsen, a Danish writer (1917 – 1976) celebrated during

I’ve been reading, reading, reading. So many wonderful books. Here’s a few I enjoyed recently. When I Lived in Modern Times, by Linda Grant Palestine before it was Israel? Yes, please. It’s 1946 and London native Evelyn Sert, 20, is newly orphaned. Her late mother’s beau gives her money to emigrate. “Did he really see

I’ve had a hard time reading and writing lately. Not sure why. Lockdown going into a second year? Probably. I’m bored with myself because there’s not enough going on. No dinner parties, no restaurant lunches, no movie dates. No travel. I’m grateful for my husband’s presence, especially in the late afternoon and evening. We watch

It’s the end of 2020! Goodbye, good riddance.  Two — no, three — nice things happened before lockdown in March. First, I turned 60 in January and had a fun dance party with friends and family. That would be the last carefree time of the year. At the end of January, we got a puppy.

Book grief is my term for a read that gripped me and won’t let go. Once finished, its rich characters linger in my mind. Think Hanya Yanagihara’s A Little Life, Dorie Smith’s I Capture the Castle, I. B. Singer’s Enemies, A Love Story.  Douglas Stuart’s Shuggie Bain gave me book grief. It’s the story of

  This has been a summer like no other. There’s been no trips to our summer place in Quebec, no Bastille Day party with dear friends in Michigan. No outings to movie theaters. Instead, I’ve been walking our beautiful lakefront, parks, and historic neighborhoods. I’ve been swimming laps at our recently re-opened health club. (Bliss,

Black lives matter. These are among my favorite reads — novels, plays, poetry, nonfiction — about Black lives in America and overseas. Each is illuminating, infuriating, heartbreaking.  Native Son, by Richard Wrignt (1940) Invisible Man, by Ralph Ellison (1952) The Street, by Ann Petry (1946)   Random Family, by Adrian Nicole LeBlanc (2003)  A Raisin

Lockdown continues. Me and mine are safe and well, so no complaining allowed. Here’s what — and where — I’ve been reading and watching. Lost Children Archive, by Valeria Luiselli. When this novel was first published I didn’t want to read it because it sounded too “of the moment” — a family travels to the

Greetings from my stay-in-place perch. I’ve always worked from a home office, so that part of lockdown hasn’t been a change. I dress in the morning, eat breakfast, read the newspapers, walk, practice piano and French, and get to my desk by nine. I write until noon, have lunch, run errands — well, no more

A holiday weekend made for a get-out-of-the city escape to a winter wonderland in Quebec. In mid January, we spent four days at Chateau Montebello, a Fairmont resort that’s a 90 minute drive from Montreal’s international airport. Truth is, we “had to” go there: it was the annual meeting of Club Lac Pythonga, where we

I have no books to recommend. I’ve been reading, of course. I admired but didn’t love Kevin Wilson’s Nothing to See Here, which I thought would be about women’s friendships (if so, we’re doomed as a gender), but was really about neglect. Before that, I read What Maisie Knew, by Henry James, the mother of

Apologies for neglecting this site. I read all the time but recommend only what I like. I pile each “winner” on my desk until I get to three. I’ll start with two non-fiction, which read like thrillers… She Said, by Jodi Kantor and Megan Twohey I read three national papers daily. I’d read every thing