Ahh, those languid days of long light. Is there anything better than summer reading?
Okay, yes, winter is made cozy with good books, too. But summer is my favorite season. And I’m happy to share these good books I’ve recently enjoyed:
FICTION
The Index of Self-Destructive Acts by Christopher Beha
Don’t judge a book by its cover — judge the title instead. Index is a wonderfully well-written, completely-absorbing sprawl of a novel. Published in 2020, I don’t know how I missed this gem. Though I was initially daunted by its heft — 500 pages! — this complex family tale enthralled me. I zipped through this book in 24 short hours, and still wanted more.
A fast and fevered story-within-a-story about writing and the publishing industry. Wrapped in questions of racism and theft, this novel reads like a thriller and for word-nerds (like me) it’s an irresistible combo. Published in May 2023, Yellowface is creating a sharp divide between lovers and loathers.
I like the insider-y vibe these kind of novels provide, and it turns out the writers-stealing-writing is a whole genre. Some of my favorites in this theme are: The Plot by Jean Hanff Korelitz and Who is Maud Dixon by Alexandra Andrews (Fun Fact: Andrews is married to Christopher Beha, whose book is featured above).
POETRY
This book has been on my to-read list for 10 years. Yes, that long! Long ago suggested by a friend, I never got around to reading it and when I was ready the book was out of print. Thanks to ThriftBooks, I recently snagged a used copy. These poems are funny, sharp, conversational — and totally worth the wait!
[Yes, these poems induce a desire for exclamation!]
Released in 2013, the collection was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award. The poems wander across a terrain of crushed hearts and failed love with generous amounts of wry humor and cutting delight.
The Lord and the General Din of the World by Jane Mead
From the first poem, I’m hooked. Every page of this powerful book offers an aching I don’t understand and yet completely comprehend. This 1995 collection is a complicated treasure, and the first of Mead’s five books.
“This collection is not a joyous book — very few contemporary poetry collections are — but it is not a cause for despair,” Philip Levine writes in the introduction. “It is because in these poems we suffer a world of madness, addiction, and death that the moments of redemption are so charged and significant.”
Concerning That Prayer I Cannot Make
Jesus, I am cruelly lonely
and I do not know what I have done
nor do I suspect that you will answer me.
And what is more, I have spent
these bare months bargaining
with my soul as if I could make her
promise to love me when now it seems
that what I mean when I said “soul”
was that the river reflects the railway bridge just as the sky
says it should — it speaks that language.
I do not know who you are.
I come here every day
to be beneath this bridge,
to sit beside this river,
so I must have seen the way
the clouds just slide
under the rusty arch—
without snagging on the bolts,
how they are borne along on the dark water—
I must have noticed their fluent speed
and also how that tattered blue T-shirt
remains snagged on the crown
of the mostly sunk dead tree
despite the current’s constant pulling.
Yes, somewhere in my mind there must
be the image of a sky blue T-shirt, caught,
and the white islands of ice flying by
and the light clouds flying slowly
under the bridge, though today the river’s
fully melted. I must have seen.
But I did not see.
I am not equal to my longing.
Somewhere there should be a place
the exact shape of my emptiness—
there should be a place
responsible for taking one back.
The river, of course, has no mercy—
it just lifts the dead fish
toward the sea.
Of course, of course.
What I meant when I said “soul”
was that there should be a place.
On the far bank the warehouse lights
blink red, then green, and all the yellow
machines with their rusted scoops and lifts
sits under a thin layer of sunny frost.
And look—
my own palm—
there, slowly rocking.
It is my pale palm—
palm where a black pebble is turning.
Listen—
all you bare trees
burrs
brambles
piles of twigs
red and green lights flashing
muddy bottle shards
shoe half buried—listen
listen, I am holy.
— Jane Mead
Your Turn: What are you reading?
I’m always looking for a good book.
Please share your gems!