I'll admit it -- I found this book through the movie (Steve Martin, Jack Black, Owen Wilson) that is based loosely on the competition it describes. inI'll admit it -- I found this book through the movie (Steve Martin, Jack Black, Owen Wilson) that is based loosely on the competition it describes. in 1998, three men set out to complete a Big Year -- a year where they saw the most birds possible in North America. All three broke previous records, and all three were as different as they could possibly be: a semi-retired, loud-mouthed contractor from New Jersey who held the previous Big Year record; an athletic corporate executive and former chemist newly retired to Aspen; and a freshly divorced, full-time computer coder at a Maryland nuclear plant. The book details the lengths and costs - in dollars, dignity, and other immeasurables -- that each man endured in his quest to see the most birds in a single year.
Where the movie works hard to make a tale of obscure obsession seem like a normal backdrop for male bonding, the book keeps things quirky and offers constant reminders that it's not just how serious these three guys are about birds that's odd, it's how serious so many people are. $6,000 tour to see single bird through binoculars? Two weeks in an Alaskan cabin so remote it's actually no longer accessible from the mainland United States? Canoe rides through alligator swamps and helicopter quests through Nevada canyons? It all seems like rather charming excess here (the book, which details the $60K one birder spent for his big year, might be a harder sell post-great recession).
Partly this is due to Obmascik's attention to detail -- and his solid decisions about when to deploy the numbers and when to back away and just offer the scenery. It's a fun, light and light-hearted book that doesn't have much comment on what it records beyond, one senses, the bird-watching author's deep envy. That's fun enough for me....more
Two-thirds of this book held my attention very well: these were the intertwined plot lines describing the intersections of master detective Billy BurnTwo-thirds of this book held my attention very well: these were the intertwined plot lines describing the intersections of master detective Billy Burns and master lawyer Clarence Darrow around the case of the 1910 bombing of the Los Angeles Times.
The book's major mystery is, in fact, surrounding this case: in October of 1910, an explosion at the L.A. Times downtown office killed 21 people, and further bombings around the country followed in an episode of domestic terrorism that's largely been forgotten by now. The bombing took place while the Times was railing against organized labor, and so suspicion fell immediately onto their labor opponents -- who charged, just as believably, that the Times and its manufacturing/open shop supporters had set up the violence to frame them.
Although by halfway through the book, the answer to the "whodunnit" is clear, it takes most of the book before the consequences are apparently. I liked reading about Burns's investigation -- both the strong, smart leaps he and his detective corps made and the ruthless pursuit of their criminals. The parts about Darrow were equally compelling, as he's pictured here mostly as a man who is barely able to hold up his head, struggling with inner and outer demons, drawn back into the arena of grand argument so reluctantly that he nearly loses everything (again).
Blume does well to set the scene in the nation, and particularly L.A., at this time, so the stakes of Labor v. Management are well established. The city seems on the verge of riot and despair throughout, which usually makes the case more interesting.
Yet the book didn't, in the end, completely live up to its promise. The subtitle is "Terror, Mystery, the Birth of Hollywood, and the Crime of the Century." Terror and Mystery are covered in the investigation of this Crime of the Century. The Birth of Hollywood is covered through the third strand of the plot: a biographical discussion of the film director D.W. Griffith. Only at the start of the book and at its end does Griffith cross path with the other two major characters, and then, the meetings are completely incidental. He has no active part in the investigation, nor does anyone he know have an active part. His story is meant to be a parallel to the others', to serve as a specific example of the way that the expansion of cinema at this time influenced popular opinions in a new and exciting way.
That same example, though, could have been built without Griffith as a "character" here. The long stretches spent describing his bizarre behaviors -- for instance, terrorizing young women on the sets of his films to provoke emotional reactions, then sleeping with them, despite their minor status -- distract from the rest of the story. When, at the end, there's no grander purpose to knowing that Griffith was a womanizing visionary, I was frustrated with all the time I'd had to spend in his oily company.
The final chapter of this book is a perfect summation of the book itself. In fact, so is the front cover, which says the book was supposed to be aboutThe final chapter of this book is a perfect summation of the book itself. In fact, so is the front cover, which says the book was supposed to be about the triumph of Chinese parenting over Western parenting but ended up being a very different story. As ambiguous as that statement is, it's an accurate picture of the book's own ambiguity.
The "story" here is well known: Amy Chua, a law professor at Yale and first-generation Chinese-American, decided to raise her two daughters, Sophia and Lulu, the way she had been raised, the "Chinese way" (with the support of her Jewish-American husband). The Chinese method that Chua describes includes a strict regimen of making certain the girls excel in everything they try -- and limiting the things they try outside of school to Mandarin Chinese lessons and, for Sophia, piano, and for Lulu, violin. Both girls are forbidden from attending playdates, hanging out at the mall, playing computers games, going to sleepovers, and nearly all time-consuming outside of school social activities.
Most of Chua's extreme behavior has already been discussed elsewhere: she criticized her daughters vehemently and forcefully, sometimes in public, to encourage their learning (calling one "garbage," the other "disgusting," and on and on); she also threatened them with humiliation. The girls were forced to practice their instruments for hours and hours each day, not each week, to the exclusion of many other fun activities and vacations, and the goals set for them were lofty: both were practicing with university-level instructors by the time they hit puberty and expected to keep pace with adult students. (An entire cottage industry of parenting bloggers was born just to critique Chua herself and these methods. I'm more interested in the book).
The results of Chua's efforts in some ways seem undeniable: both girls became exceptional artists with their chosen instruments who were invited to participate in once-in-a-lifetime concerts and work with gifted teachers; both maintained number one student placements in school; both reached their pre-teen and teen years with none of the major social/behavioral problems that parents would dread (drugs, sex, rock 'n' roll).
Yet Chua has decided that some of her efforts led to a failure, and so the book presents it this way: one of her daughters reaches an age, and a mindset, where she rejects her mother's efforts and wants to follow her own path.
To Chua's credit, she does write herself into a completely villainous role here, detailing the ways in which she has observed how this change has made her daughter happy and the ways in which she continues to scheme and undercut and try to take over this happiness. At the end of the book, she includes a rant that she's gone on when discussing how the book should end with her daughters. The rant is both funny and deeply unflattering, and that is, actually, an effective reflection of large swaths of the book. Amy Chua seems very reasonable -- right up until she doesn't, and part of the book's strangeness is that even when she doesn't seem reasonable, her humorous portrayal of herself often makes you think she knows she's unreasonable.
That's why the last chapter is so jarring. The book, though it claims to be the tale of a mother being humbled, seems instead to be a mother pretending she's been humbled in order to tell her side of a story. Chua tries to walk the delicate line between signaling that she knows her methods were extreme and signaling that, hey, these methods work, so they can't be all bad.
I think the book's biggest flaw is its inability to accept that sometimes pros and cons don't cancel each other out completely. There are bad methods that produce good results, and good methods that produce bad ones, and there are infinite mixtures in between. I don't see Chua's ability to consider this, and it's the book's initial promise of an answer -- and its final failure to provide one OR to provide the admission that there isn't an answer -- that is its greatest weakness....more
This book tells the story of the Yuma 14, 14 men (in a group of 26) who left Mexico on foot and died in the desert of Arizona in 2001. Journalist LuisThis book tells the story of the Yuma 14, 14 men (in a group of 26) who left Mexico on foot and died in the desert of Arizona in 2001. Journalist Luis Alberto Urrea interviewed Border Patrol agents from the area, the families of the victims and survivors, and dozens of others to seek out the full story to how these men came to find such a brutal death in the desert heat. His ultimate conclusion is generous in its scope, as the blame goes from the immediate (the tricks of fate that put the men behind a hapless trio of self-interested trail guides, the so-called Coyotes famous for taking immigrants over the border) to the larger: the faltering Mexican economy and the insatiable desire for cheaper workers in the United States.
The surprise heroes of the story turn out to be the Border Patrol guards from Arizona, the men of the Wellton station who initially found and rescued as many as they could. Urrea does a pretty good job of painting these men realistically, allowing their flaws and faults -- the expected, offensive nicknames they use for immigrants and tales of their illegal treatment -- to shine through as expected. Yet at the end, it's these men who work to organize a better, survivable path for those making the trek. They're very anti-illegal-immigration, but they want systemic change as much as anyone else, and they'd rather it didn't come at a fatal price.
This isn't a new story and it wasn't when it was first told, but it's a graphic reminder of the on-the-ground stakes of the immigration debate. Urrea's question in his final chapter seems to be whether there should be a punishment of death for men who seek a small improvement in their own circumstances by crossing an invisible line. His answer is an emphatic no, and he finds that he's not alone in believing that breaking this law shouldn't come with such a high penalty.
Though the prose is a little self-consciously grandiose at times -- favoring stylish sentence fragments again. And again. And again -- the book is mostly a captivating read. Urrea breaks the story up with history, jumping to and through ancient stories of migration and defeat on the Devil's Highway, the long, lonely stretch of Arizona desert where the walkers suffer. This is interesting material, but it sometimes gets in the way of the action, here; there's a little too much zooming in, then out, then in for the book to hold a reader's attention in the dramatic documentary style that seems to be its goal.
Nevertheless, it's a worthwhile read, a hearty work of journalism and non-fiction that's still relevant -- maybe moreso -- today....more
I picked this book up on the strength of a read excerpt or two, and, for the most part, I wasn't disappointed. Druckerman paints a lively and often amI picked this book up on the strength of a read excerpt or two, and, for the most part, I wasn't disappointed. Druckerman paints a lively and often amusing portrait of her own struggles raising (mostly) her daughter, Bean, while she (an American) and her husband (British) live in Paris, France. Noticing on a vacation that most French children are far better behaved than her own, and realizing that the good behaviors extend beyond eating habits into manners, sleep schedules, and overall independence, Druckerman begins investigating what the secret might be behind all these pleasant little bebes.
The book is at its strongest when Druckerman stays sharply on point. Most chapters follow a predictable pattern: Introduction of an observation through personal experience (Bean is a picky eater who is a mess in restaurants; French children sit quietly and eat all four courses patiently); investigation into whether this is a broad French experience (oui); interview(s) with experts in the field who reveal the French "secret" solution (French parents don't give children choices of kids' menus or bad behavior at the table); discussion of statistical/further observational proof of the solution at work; additional anecdotes about the usually marginal success of trying to re-teach Bean using this secret. The chapters cover not just picky eating but also manners, sleeping through the night (French babies start this at 3 months), day care, early education, elementary school, maternal care during pregnancy, labor, and post-partum, and the care and feeding of marriages after children. Druckerman ultimately approves of most of the French practices she sees, and the reader, faced with expert testimony and touching stories of quiet, happy children, is left little choice but to agree.
There's a caveat here, or, well, two. Though I ended this book ready to move to France and sign up for my labor-and-delivery-with-wine-service, after a day or so, reason reasserted itself a bit. Most of the secrets Druckerman passes along are actually common sense dressed up in a beret. The more interesting part of the book is, perhaps, its at times less-than-subtle criticism of the difficulties one may have in following common sense advice while trying to raise a kid in Modern America.
The book also loses some of its focus around the time it's obvious its author loses her focus. Spoiler alert, I guess, but about 2/3 of the way through the book, Druckerman gives birth to her twin sons -- and all of the patient, solid, charming French lessons she's had up to this point are thrown out the window as she struggles to cope with having two very small and demanding children all at once. This would probably make an interesting book in-and-of itself, but here, the book feels sidetracked, even hijacked, by a narrative that's not directly relevant to its premise. If anything, the sections about struggling with newborn twins give credibility to the idea that this author was (and perhaps remains) ill-equipped to put the good advice of friends and experts to use, which ultimately undercuts the book's efficacy.
Then again, this isn't really meant to be an advice book (and readers shouldn't approach it as such). It's more a of-the-moment memoir with interesting, and often well-researched, observations thrown in. Read as a light entertainment, it's not so bad -- and it's way more fun than What to Expect....more
This follow-up to Jeannette Walls's popular autobiography, The Glass Castle, moves backward in time and adopts a creative tack in telling the story ofThis follow-up to Jeannette Walls's popular autobiography, The Glass Castle, moves backward in time and adopts a creative tack in telling the story of Walls's grandmother, Lily Casey Smith. Walls begins with Lily's childhood, working on a dusty ranch in west Texas -- but that's not the creative part. What's interesting in the form of this book is that the entire story is told in the first person, from the view of Walls's long-dead grandmother (hence the book's dual classification by Walls as fiction and non-fiction).
The book follows the form of Walls's earlier book, too, in that the chapters are often very short and seem to impart large lessons with small (but often thrilling) examples. Through a number of quick chapters, readers see Lily age from a plucky 10 year old with the wherewithal to save her siblings from a flash flood to a practical pre-teen in charge of all hiring on the family ranch. Lily progresses rapidly through boarding school, her first teaching jobs, her first time away from home, her first romance, and before a reader knows it, half the book is gone and an indelible image of Lily Casey has formed in your mind: tough-talking and living, rambunctious but never without purpose, wild but not free-spirited, selfish but somehow, also, always looking out for her family.
This book needs an introduction: namely, it needs the reader to have torn through The Glass Castle with interest and abandon. No, you don't need to know everything that happens in that book to understand the story of this book -- the people are introduced independently, and the story starts long before Jeannette Walls's earlier autobiography -- but you will need to have read The Glass Castle in order to understand the suspense the author embeds in the second half of the book. Once Lily's children are introduced, the tension that exists between mother and daughter -- Rose Mary Smith Walls -- is much less interesting if the reader doesn't understand that all of Lily's fears about Rose Mary come true. In fact, if I hadn't read The Glass Castle first, Lily might have seemed even crueler -- and I'd be interested to hear if others had this reaction, or if it's a trick of the light, so to speak. Does Lily's abusive desperation to keep her daughter grounded seem even worse if you don't know how spectacularly wrong Rose Mary's life went? Is that the point?
Walls's portrait is at once tender and rough. She paints her grandmother as a nearly merciless business woman and an often cold-hearted mother, but she goes to great lengths to show (and to understand) the roots of her distance. The final chapter -- written by Walls in the voice of her grandmother about Walls as a baby -- goes a long way to explaining what may have been the driving force for this project. How could a woman who Jeannette Walls had loved, feared, and been told by multiple sources that she resembled have been both such a force for good and bad? What made Lily Casey Smith tick?
The answer, or at least a version of the answer, lies here. It's a quick, interesting read, as much an exercise in family history revelation as story-telling. ...more
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