Remember When the Music

Maggie O’Farrell’s The Hand That First Held Mine may not be the most challenging piece of fiction I’ve read in recent months, but it is definitely one of the most enrapturing. The novel tells the vibrant tale of two seemingly separate lives led in different time periods in London. First is Lexie, a 20-something girl leaving her family home for adventure and freedom in the city in the mid-1950s. Though she’s long dreamed of escaping her roots, it isn’t until a stranger named Innes stops by her house seeking assistance with his broken-down car that she finally decides to flee. The relationship between the two grows ever stronger once Lexie arrives in London and the charming Innes, editor of a small Soho-based art magazine, absolutely dotes on her, showing her the ins and outs of the publishing world and London at large.

In parallel we follow Elina, a new mother who suffered a great deal of blood loss during the recent delivery of her baby son. From the first her memory comes in fits and starts, so she finds herself unable to recall how she passes the time or gets from one room in her house to another. Her concerned husband Ted is a movie editor, tied to a demanding job but more preoccupied with the wellbeing of his wife and premature child. As they both learn to juggle parenthood with their marriage and Elina’s health issues, Ted begins to suffer torments all his own.

The Hand That First Held Mine is one of those novels that tells two stories in tandem, keeping readers guessing at what ultimately ties them together. Lexie and Elina are connected in ways that you’ll think you have figured out, only to realize you’ve been mistaken and misled. The novel becomes quite bewitching, especially by the halfway mark, earning it definite page-turner status.

Not quite a romance novel, nor pure a family saga, The Hand That First Held Mine tells the haunting story of two women whose lives run very much in parallel, despite the span of a few decades’ time. The thread connecting Lexie and Elina is, however, much more concrete than it first appears and O’Farrell weaves a wonderful story of it all. Though I wasn’t completely hooked until the mystery began to more fully unfold, O’Farrell tells an exceedingly vivid tale that had me up until 2:00 in the morning anxious to reach the last page.

I’ve had trouble getting into most young adult fiction that I’ve crossed paths with lately. Certainly you have to bring some laxity to the reading of any novel geared to a teenage audience, but despite my cautious, lowered expectations, it wasn’t until I landed upon Jandy Nelson’s brilliant second novel I’ll Give You the Sun that I finally found some young adult fiction I could truly sink my teeth into and devour.

Nelson’s novel centers around twins Jude and Noah, told from their alternating perspectives. Part of the appeal was in the three year time gap between points of view; Noah’s story is delivered from the vantage of their 13 year old selves, while Jude’s perspective is offered three years later when they reach age 16. Nelson devoted great attention to each story line before her transitions so readers get to intimately know Noah, then delve deeply into Jude’s world, rather than having the more constant, banter-like back-and-forth. Nelson’s plot twists and turns were very carefully revealed; one twin’s knowledge was withheld from readers (and the other twin) far longer than a more traditional novel would allow. Like Jude and Noah themselves, we readers were trying to piece together two sides of the larger story at a tantalizingly slow pace.

The basic gist is that Jude and Noah are wildly different but deeply connected twins at the tender age of 13. Living on the Northern California coast, Jude fits in with the middle and high school crowds, an adventurous surfer girl who isn’t afraid to keep up with the guys but is right at home surrounded by a gaggle of girls. Noah is more of an outsider, an extremely talented and artistic kid whose main focus is attending a prestigious arts high school and hiding the fact that he has discovered his own homosexuality. Once we hear Jude’s side of things from the vantage of 16, however, we find that the twins’ identities have been practically swapped and their connection all but severed by endless hurt, misunderstanding, and jealousy. Jude gets into art school and secludes herself from her old crowd and the rest of the world, while Noah attends the local public school and hides his true sexual orientation in an effort to secure his fragile social status. The two are practically estranged by this point but Nelson wisely only doles out the slightest clues as to why at her own pace, keeping us readers completely hooked.

The cause of the rift and resulting personality switch is a family tragedy, the details of which I’ll let Jandy reveal to you herself in her poetic, imaginative, engrossing work of literary art. There’s little more that I want to say plot-wise because the characters are so vividly, realistically, and complexly written into the story; it would be a disservice of me to spoil your pleasure of discovering them and their contributions to this fictional world on your own. I’ll Give You the Sun is just so damn beautiful that I don’t think any review could adequately encapsulate how powerfully Nelson’s gift for literature comes across in her work.

Themes of art, family, loss, identity, and misunderstanding are tenderly woven into the twins’ story as they struggle with their relationship, the power of creativity in their lives, and the common realities of coming of age. Certainly the book rings a bit formulaic, but I had no trouble forgiving Nelson this fault, given the target audience and the otherwise overwhelming profundity of this book. Similarly I could see some of the twists coming from a mile away, but that’s what watching too many R-rated movies and reading too many family dramas will do to a person; I’m more jaded than the average teen. I think I’ll Give You the Sun would be truly a delight for young adults, if not a gentle introduction to some more adult topics, in it’s mixture of innocence, tragedy, and misunderstanding.

Reading should take you to another world, one that is heartbreaking and compelling and imaginative and breathtaking. A gifted novelist can challenge you, engage with you, and move you for years with a single piece of fiction. It should never feel like a chore to read, but more like a gift, a pleasurable state of being that you want to revisit over and over. Every unopened book holds this potential to me, but I always find myself truly surprised and deeply grateful when I actually complete a book the delivers. I finished I’ll Give You the Sun with the much sought after but rarely experienced desire to flip back to page one and immediately read it all over again. Instead I chose the alternative – sharing it with the world and/or my mother because stories like this are far too special to be kept to oneself.

We all know Haruki Murakami is an extremely skilled literary superstar. With Norwegian Wood we get more of the stunning storytelling and idyllic imagery that this Japanese author is so skilled in and beloved for delivering.

Toru Watanabe is a student based in Tokyo whose complicated relationships with women constitute the stuff of this book. Toru idealizes Naoko as his true love, a girl who dated his best friend Kizuki until the latter committed suicide at the age of 17. Underpinning their bond are feelings of loss over Kizuki, a darkness that only grows as Naoko grows increasingly unsettled in the world. Though Toru shares similar feelings of discomfort and isolation in the world, he proves better at handling his loneliness and sadness than Naoko who eventually leaves school to seek psychological help. Meanwhile Toru meets dynamic Midori who he finds himself drawn to despite the strength of his commitment to faraway Naoko.

This love-triangle of sorts is set amidst the backdrop of 1970’s Tokyo. Complete with the music and revolutionary zeal of that time, Norwegian Wood chronicles one man’s solitary attempt to gain his footing in a time when society is trying to do the same. With all the pull, romanticism, and beauty of the song which is it’s namesake, this novel gracefully tells a trademark Murakami coming-of-age story, replete with remarkably graphic characters, both big and small, that you can’t help but feel for (in particular, Naoko’s brilliantly drawn friend Reiko).

I first knew Joshua McCarthy as a cast member of the little known film “The Life and Times of Andrew Quinn.” The movie was my then-boyfriend, now-husband Mike’s first effort as writer and director of a feature length film. At the time Mike was already hard at work on the script for his next film and Josh was a long-time friend. I knew Josh as a struggling actor based in New York City, a reliable and constant friend to my husband.

I’ve only known Josh for a few years, but it wasn’t until his novel was published for e-readers that I knew he even had aspirations to become a novelist. I was a bit disappointed to see that God, Sex, Drugs, & Suicide was only available for virtual consumption as I am unwaveringly partial to books in print. Luckily, I only had a short wait until the novel was published in traditional book form and available for purchase via Amazon.

I was equally excited and nervous to read Josh’s novel when it arrived at our house. Whenever a creative friend asks you to partake in one of their amateur efforts at their craft of choice, I think it’s only reasonable to have a shred of fear that it will be a valiant but god awful effort. I’ve been lucky to experience only a select few instances of lying through my teeth in encouragement of a friend’s art (and they’re mostly humorous memories now). But from the first few pages of Josh’s novel, I knew that nothing but pure praise would be in order. It was easily one of the most imaginative and engrossing novels I had ever read. And to think it was all born from the creative capacities of someone I knew personally was even more mind blowing to me.

God, Sex, Drugs, & Suicide is about just those things listed in the title. We meet a series of characters throughout who come to their untimely end and encounter God in the pre-afterlife. God is different in appearance to each member of this colorful cast of characters and far from the image any church-going, Bible-reading American would conjure of the Lord. He constantly has a “God’s Finest” cigarette, which light themselves, hanging out of his mouth and encourages his disciples to partake in a variety of activities (including sex and drugs) that by most definitions would be considered sinful. He believes that most humans are pan-sexual, that people should conduct themselves in life as in a feast, that human beings are wildly ridiculous in the vast majority of their decision making. He has a standing weekly squash game with Nikita Khrushchev and owns a dog named Santa who wrecked havoc on the Garden of Eden (a gross miswriting of history which lead humans to mistakenly conjure up the idea of an evil Satan).

But there are some familiar aspects of God’s characterization in this world. He is still an omnipotent God and has a son named Jesus. And while he grants humans free will, God encourages the lucky few who get to meet him to act in accordance with what is best for the themselves and the world despite their fears and unease. His advice is not morally motivated but rather is tuned to the particular needs of each of the six humans who encounter him and are offered another chance at living their lives right. He is an eccentric existential God and I’d like to think that McCarthy’s characterization of the Almighty is a bit closer to reality than what we’re taught by most religions.

The stories of this motley crew of characters, including a lesbian nun, a WWII veteran, a single father, and an unapologetic prostitute, are largely distinct from one another, but the content and purpose of their meetings with God are the threads that carry this novel along. We meet each individual just before their death (many of which occur in dark, dingy bars but my favorite being a death by drowning in a bar bathroom urinal) through their meeting with the Almighty and their return to earth for another chance at living.

God, Sex, Drugs, & Suicide provides a razor-sharp commentary on modern day life packaged in a bizarre, humorous, absolutely original story. It was easy to become enveloped in this off-beat, alternate world, experiencing the post-life pre-afterlife non-purgatory through the eyes of these six disparate individuals. Witty and entertaining, intelligent and engrossing, God, Sex, Drugs, & Suicide made me feel quite fortunate to know such an ingenious writer as Mr. McCarthy and I’m anxious to see what he comes up with next.

I was initially drawn to previews for the film Labor Day because of the story alone: a single mother living takes in an escaped convict and the two fall in love. The tragedy of the conflict and the romance that must exist for a woman to so blindly endanger herself and her son sound like the stuff of a great story. When I realized it was all based on Joyce Maynard’s novel of the same name, I did what I usually do in such situations: requested the book from the library as soon as possible and avoided clips, trailers, and reviews of the film as much as possible in an effort to preserve the wonder of reading a story with no preconceptions or spoilers.

Maynard crafts a compelling plot in Labor Day, a narrative that is uniquely told from the perspective of Henry, the thirteen year old son of Adele. A recluse after a series of harrowing miscarriages and a divorce from Henry’s father, Adele interacts with few people other than her son. Her efforts to avoid the outside world go so far that Adele and Henry only make trips to the grocery store once every two month, subsisting upon frozen dinners and canned soup between each stop in town. But over the Labor Day weekend before Henry is to enter the seventh-grade, he convinces his mother to make a trip to the local Pricemart for additional provisions. With a kind face, a gentle demeanor, and clothing that makes it appear he is an employee of the store, a stranger named Frank approaches Henry and asks for a ride. Already having identified Adele as Henry’s mother from across the store, he pleads with the boy to convince his mom to exercise some kindness towards this man. While readers may never fully understand what it is that causes Adele to so uncharacteristically agree, especially in light of the fact that minor but noticeable traces of blood pour onto Frank’s shoe and below the brim of his hat, she does and Frank makes his way home with mother and son.

The escaped convict is quite open with Adele and Henry about his situation. In need of an appendectomy, Frank was transferred to a hospital from the state penitentiary and following his surgery, jumped from the hospital’s second floor window. Maynard’s characterization of Frank is so endearing, engaging and kind-hearted that you know his crime, the nature of which the author withholds for some time, is most likely fraught with misunderstanding, maybe an accident for which this otherwise decent man has taken the blame. And so it isn’t at all hard to believe that Adele and Frank could fall as deeply in love as they do over the long weekend.

Initially enamored with Frank himself, Henry learns many things from the man that is more of a father figure to the young boy that his own dad Richard. They play baseball, make a perfect pie crust in stifling near-100 degree heat, dream of escaping to northern Canada, and have conversations with Henry that make him feel a part of the relationship developing between his mother and this man. But readers cannot forget that Henry is also at a tender age in the throes of a tough adolescence, a young boy as lonely as his mother, partially on account of her strange behavior.

During a trip to the library, Henry meets Eleanor, a tortured girl one year his senior who has a history of divorced parents and an eating disorder. Desperate to be liked by someone his own age and to explore his burgeoning sexual feelings with someone of the opposite sex, Henry soaks in Eleanor’s knack for victimization. He shares with his new love interest the fact that his single parent mother recently started dating a new man. The young girl quickly twists the situation in such a way as to make Henry feel the outsider, as though his mother would abandon her only son to be with Frank. Once this cruelly misguided idea is planted in his mind, Henry begins to question Frank’s motives, as well as his mother’s, and resent their lovemaking each night, their shared looks and plans of escaping to start a new life where the authorities are not on Frank’s path. Eleanor’s suggestions also make clear to Henry just how much power he holds over the new couple. With a simple call to the police, Henry could not only claim a $10,000 reward, he could send Frank back to the penitentiary and prevent the loss of his mother’s love and attention, things he has never had to share before.

Henry’s moral dilemma and the resultant string of events following his meeting with Eleanor are not as well executed as the earlier portions of the novel, but things occur in such a way as readers expect that they must. I was completely engrossed by the beginnings of the novel, largely until Eleanor enters the picture. By that point, I was so enamored with the pseudo-family forged between Henry, Adele, and Frank, that I was rooting against the odds for nothing to interfere with the life they erected over this Labor Day weekend. The way things unfurl in Maynard’s version is just one of a few predictable and realistic potential outcomes, but the execution proves a bit rocky in action. The conclusion felt rushed in comparison to the slow pace at which Maynard allowed the weekend to so pleasantly unfold elsewhere in the novel. But maybe this is just my aversion to Eleanor speaking or my dissatisfaction with the fact that everyone didn’t ride off happily into the Canadian sunset as neatly as readers hope they will.

The world of Adele and Frank is completely developed through Henry’s eyes, a narrative choice that I initially thought was pretty bold but, in time, proved wise and effortlessly smooth. Because Henry is not party to the throes of affection, readers can better retain a more realistic perspective on the Adele-Frank relationship. Our narrator’s naivete allows us to hold out hope that love and familial happiness will prove triumphant, while his jealousy tempers this nearly impossible wish and evokes a very visceral conflict in the character and readers alike. While we may recognize Henry’s concerns as mildly selfish and largely misguided, his ability to voice them in the narrative puts readers at enough of a remove from the love story that Maynard can create a larger family drama out of the plot, rather than simply romance. It was a surprisingly but ultimately rewarding choice on Maynard’s part to have her youngest, most adolescently-unstable, inside-observer character serve as the narrative voice.

After finishing up Labor Day, I dug into the special post-conclusion section published in my copy which included an interview with the author. It turns out that Maynard actually had a written correspondence with a convict that seems to have partially inspired this story. Someone to whom she refers as Lucky wrote her a letter after reading a series of newspaper columns she had published. This Lucky figure was someone Maynard responded to and, in time, began to feel rather close with. I hate to give away the ending of this story, so skip the remainder of this paragraph and the entirety of the next one if you want to read Maynard’s telling for yourself via her website. But I think the true life conclusion highlights some important truths about the novel’s conclusion and the ideas explored by the author therein. Maynard felt it would be a breach of trust to ask Lucky why he was imprisoned, so she refrained from doing so for the entirety of their correspondence. But when he told her that he was about to be released from jail and planned to visit Maynard and her three children, fear got the better of her. When Maynard contacted the prison to inquire, she was told that Lucky had horrifically murdered his parents and would essentially never be released from jail given the number of years for which he was sentenced. She immediately cut off all correspondence with Lucky.

Though it was disheartening to discover that Lucky was not who Maynard believed him to be, the very fact that she went on to compose a novel dealing with a character not so unlike her imprisoned pen pal signifies the depth of his impact on the author, even though their relationship was entirely based upon written word (although she is a writer, so that may have something to do with how powerfully connected they were through mere letters). Learning about Maynard’s relationship with Lucky elucidates the myriad ways we humans are inclined to make excuses, compose arguments, or erect blinders in an effort to confirm our perceptions with the anticipated or actual truth. In the case of Frank, readers are immediately smitten and recognize the goodness of his character despite whatever faults or flaws may have landed him in the state penitentiary. Readers do not essentialize Frank as a criminal, and for this reason they will seek any evidence available to point to his innate goodness. We are rewarded for our faith in Frank by discovering that his crime was largely accidental, the result of a gross misunderstanding, rather than a reflection of a truly cruel and perverse nature. Likewise, Maynard did not allow herself to question what type of behavior Lucky could have engaged in to end up where he did, because doing so could interfere with her conception of Lucky as a generous, kind, thoughtful, and loving person. The morality of how we exercise these judgments upon others based on their actions, in isolation from the other traits they embody, is a moral dilemma we each need to wrestle with on our own. But the very fact that we do this in a routine way is something Maynard cunningly uses to her advantage in Labor Day to indulge readers and fuel the plot. I can’t speak to the merits of the film, but at least give the novel version a shot first, for it is completely engrossing and serves as a sharp observation on human nature.

The more I learn about him, the more convinced I am that Steve Martin is the ultimate Renaissance man. I read his most recent novel, An Object of Beauty, a few months ago and was impressed by his authorial talents, as well as his knowledge of great art. Though Shopgirl is a piece of his from a bit further back, I was even more enamored of this short novel brought to the world by one of our most accomplished actors, comedians, and writers.

Straightforward and concise, I loved Martin’s writing style in Shopgirl. He draws perfectly mismatched, matter of fact characters with great clarity and brilliance. In contrast to the almost cold and distant third-person narrative style Martin employs, the story itself is quite tender and touching. Mirabelle works in Neiman’s at the glove counter, a job with which she finds herself quite content, despite a lack of customers or excitement in her day to day. When an elegant older man named Ray Porter finds himself drawn to the glove shopgirl, the two embark on a mutual navigation of intimacy and relationships. Mirabelle, the mid-20s woman with little experience in love and Ray, the divorcee who still has yet to discover how to treat a woman.

Martin’s Shopgirl is a sweet if not slightly melancholy story of love. Touched with the subtle wit and humor you would expect of a comedian, Shopgirl is a distinctly different piece of art from much of the work for which you probably know Steve Martin. It is nonetheless an enveloping story full of heart that is not to be missed.

The story of a teacher and his students at a Parisian school for diplomat’s students, You Deserve Nothing centers upon one of the international school’s most adored teachers, Will Silver, and two of the school’s most interesting students, Marie and Gilad. From the get go, I sensed that the beloved Mr. Silver allowed too many teacher-student boundaries to be crossed, from the manner in which his students were allowed to address him to his acceptance of an invitation to attend a student’s rowdy end of the school year party. It is often noted how his students all seem to fall in love with Will and even readers will find themselves unable to resist this character despite his pronounced flaws. Eventually that most dangerous of all lines is forsaken when Will and Marie become romantically involved with one another. This underlying premise rung a little tired to me, but I was not overly bothered by its commonality because of the brilliance with which Maksik tells the story.

Will develops a seminar for a select group of senior students which lays the real foundation for this novel. The course brings together a central core of important characters, including the somewhat reclusive Gilad, and allows them to explore literature and philosophy, debating the merit and weight of texts from thinkers such as Sartre and Camus in an adult fashion. These theoretical discussions parallel some of the central conflicts of Maksik’s story, of morality, courage, and existentialism. You Deserve Nothing could even be considered a modern adaptation of Camus’ The Stranger, one of the texts included in Silver’s course.

Though a lesser writer of this same story would have had many opportunities to go wrong, Maksik’s vividly drawn, compelling characters and thoughtful construction brilliantly carry this novel. The alluring beauty of Paris is subtly woven throughout, painting a most seductive portrait of France’s greatest city that is quite simply irresistible. The philosophical underpinnings that bind all these elements into an engrossing story are never forced or contrived, but rather finely complement the narratives provided from the perspectives of Will, Gilad, and Marie. Although it had much more depth and resonance than your typical beach read, Maksik’s You Deserve Nothing was by all means a great vacation novel, quickly engaging, fast-paced, and even slightly scandalous.

David Levinthan’s new novel The Lover’s Dictionary is a short and mostly sweet look at an anonymous relationship from A to Z, literally. Levinthan employs an interesting narrative style by taking words in order from a dictionary to depict the relationship of two nameless lovers. The author recounts a relevant aspect of the couple’s relationship to define each term.

Told from the perspective of the male in the relationship, The Lover’s Dictionary is tinged with a bit of darkness but also poignancy and nostalgia. We learn of how the couple met, their personal quirks and histories, the singular moments that make their relationship unique. At the same time, there is a universality to the story which speaks to the uncertainties of new love, the struggles inherent in committing to spend your life with another person, the incomparable pleasures of true and deep companionship. It is this story’s ability to seem at once both familiar and ubiquitous that is particularly intriguing and engrossing.

Despite the somewhat choppy style, the story flows with relative ease from word to word. Though some of the terms offer glimpses of specific moments from this relationship, they aren’t presented in chronological order. At other times general feelings or commentaries on love on offered after the defined word. Despite the anachronisms and varying points of focus, Levinthan never confuses or deserts his readers, though he may try to mislead them.

Though not a particularly arduous read, I did really appreciate The Lover’s Dictionary during the short time it took for me to complete the novel (though it clocks in at 211 pages, I finished reading it in under an hour’s time). Some scenes I could particularly relate to, while others evoked only sympathy or strong feeling. But all throughout I felt that Levithan offered a very fresh perspective on relationships by getting into both the gritty stuff of love and the more sentimental aspects of it. At countless points throughout, I felt compelled to dog-ear a page for revisiting later because of the great eloquence and wisdom with which the author remarked on love.

This book is not one for the cynics, nor is it your standard boy-meets-girl love story. Rather, Levithan’s The Lover’s Dictionary defines the myriad emotions contained within the vastness of love through the clever examination and close analysis of a single relationship.

Torsten Krol’s 2007 novel Callisto offers a brilliant, insightful, and hilarious look at modern day American politics, delivered in a highly unlikely package. Krol’s narrator, Odell Deefus, is a naive, eccentric, and just plain dumb Kansas native who finds himself launched into a series of tremendously unfortunate events after his car breaks down en route to an Army recruitment center to join the fight in Iraq. His car troubles stop him in Callisto, where he meets Dean Lowry, a quiet and not-so-friendly local who offers to tow Odell’s car the following morning.

After a few drinks, Dean opens up a bit more to the stranger he so generously offered shelter and a free tow. Odell shares his intention of signing up for the service, which causes Dean to share his own views on the state of US politics, involvement in Iraq, and even religion. Once excessive drink sends them both to bed, paranoia overcomes Odell who begins to suspect Dean of murderous intentions. These suspicions get Odell into the worst kind of trouble in the most accidental of ways – and things only grow progressively more troublesome from there.

Throughout the course of the novel, Odell gets wrapped up in drug trafficking, terrorist threats, televangelists, car bombs, murders, and even the FBI. Krol takes readers on a completely unpredictable and unexpected journey that is comical and satisfying. The author’s commentary on the Bush administration (which was a primary intention in the creation of this novel) is cutting though often intriguingly veiled. Krol’s unique blend of humorous political commentary offered within the confines of a novel narrated by a bumbling non-thinker makes for a most entertaining and one-of-a-kind novel that is more than worthy of all the praise it has come to receive.

Nicole Krauss’ The History of Love is quite possibly my very favorite modern novel. Though I’ve read this story more times than nearly any other (with the exception of Pride and Prejudice), every time I revisit The History of Love, I feel like I’m reading the story for the very first time. I guess that sounds a bit cliche and maybe it could more accurately be attributed to my poor memory than the style and grace of the novel. Nonetheless, it truly is a treat to read each and every time and, upon my last re-read, I thought it was about time I posted about it.

Though this intelligent novel is in some ways a love story, don’t let the title fool you – it’s not your typical cheesy romance novel. Instead, Krauss weaves a story centered around a fictitious novel entitled The History of Love. This hauntingly beautiful book plays a pivotal role in the life of fourteen-year-old Alma who was named after the beloved character around who the fictitious novel is centered and that of the elderly writer Leo Gursky who is living out his last days in the company of his memories of Poland and his greatest love. Seemingly disparate but deeply drawn characters are wound together in this extraordinary story. Though it can be hard at times to follow the various intersecting story lines, all told with separate times, settings, and narrators, The History of Love is the single, delicate thread that holds these lives together by the end, when it all starts to make a little more sense. This isn’t the kind of story that knowingly leaves you in the dark, though it does throw little surprises the reader’s way that make it all the more touching and delightful.

As I’ve said, Krauss tells her story through a variety of alternating narrators. Though I’m usually a fan of this style of delivery, there is undoubtedly always that character in every book whose story I find myself anxious to get through. At the very least, I usually favor one or two of the voices over the others and am most drawn to those particular storylines. Not so with The History of Love. Despite the stark contrast between the styles employed by the very different narrators of this novel, I revel in each and every voice that Krauss employs to tell her story. No one character’s piece is any more or less interesting, entertaining, or appealing to read; but rather, they are all highly interesting, entertaining, and appealing.

I really can’t say enough about this book’s brilliance and how much of an impact it has had on me. I feel like this is a relatively short book review post for me, but that’s partly attributable to the fact that this novel is such a joy to read. I hope that my short but sweet summary will encourage readers to seek this novel out, without spoiling any of the joy that is indulging in The History of Love. I also don’t think that my praises could really do justice to such a well-thought-out, intelligent, but heartbreaking piece of literature so here are a few of my favorite excerpts.

“Maybe this is how I’ll go, in a fit of laughter, what could be better, laughing and crying, laughing and singing, laughing so as to forget that I am alone, that it is the end of my life, that death is waiting outside the door for me.”

“Once upon a time there was a boy who love a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering.”

“Having begun to feel, people’s desire to feel grew. They wanted to feel more, feel deeper, despite how much it sometimes hurt. People became addicted to feeling. They struggled to uncover new emotions. It’s possible that this is how art was born. New kinds of joy were forged, along with new kinds of sadness: The eternal disappointment of life as it is; the relief of unexpected reprieve; the fear of dying.”

“Even now, all possible feelings do not yet exist. There are still those that lie beyond our capacity and our imagination. From time to time, when a piece of music no one has ever written, or a painting no one has ever painted, or something else impossible to predict, fathom, or yet describe takes place, a new feeling enters the world. And then, for the millionth time in the history of feeling, the heart surges, and absorbs the impact.”

She’s also married to Jonathan Safran Foer and it is truly remarkable how similar The History of Love is to Everything Is Illuminated in subject matter, narrative style, and genre-transcendence. I would highly recommend The History of Love to Foer fans in particular.

Mrs. Kingsolver has done it again! I don’t even know how to begin to describe this novel for it is so elaborately written and tells a vast story. I will admit, as often happens when reading Barbara Kingsolver’s novels, I found it a bit laborious to get through the first 50 or so pages of The Lacuna. But once I read my way further into the stuff of the book, I was completely hooked.

The story begins in 1930s Mexico. A young Harrison Shepherd and his mother take up residence with an oil magnate living in Mexico whom the latter hopes to marry. Given the variety of circumstances that Harrison’s mother finds repulsive and fearsome, she off-handedly tells her son to write down everything that happens to them in Mexico for posterity’s sake. From then on out, Kingsolver provides us with Harrison’s journals and correspondence to track his story.

Under the tutelage of Leandro, the resident cook in Shepherd’s potential father-in-law’s home, Harrison learns the basics of authentic Mexican cuisine. These skills he applies to plaster preparation when he encounters a formidable Diego Rivera, attempting to complete a two-story mural with sub-par assistance. Shepherd corrects the hired helps’ hopeless ways, making quite an impression upon the famous painter. From there, Kingsolver draws a historic and remarkable life story for Shepherd. The boy works in the home of Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo, foments a unique relationship with the celebrated female painter, and inadvertently becomes immersed in international political conflicts when exiled Marxist and Bolshevik revolutionary Leon Trotsky takes up residence amongst Diego and Frida.

Though he considers himself rather apolitical, Harrison can’t help but find himself in the midst of great political upheaval, especially once he settles in Asheville, North Carolina as an accomplished novelist, only to fall under suspicion of the House Committee on Un-American Activities. His true passions lie in Mexican history, as is evidenced by the content of his compelling and widely-read novels. But Harrison’s life story is such that his stenographer, Mrs. Brown, finds it impossible for the novelist to avoid writing a memoir – especially given his extensive collection of personal journals which would make such a task immensely less daunting.

The Lacuna is by no means an easy read and I imagine that, were I to revisit this book in a month or two, I would find thousands of new things to take away from it. Part of the reason I find this novel so compelling is the mere density and complexity of it – the way in which history is so seamlessly woven throughout, how Harrison’s past experiences in place and time craftily dovetail with the present moment, the grand beauty of the language that only further heighten Kingsolver’s storytelling.

And a great part of it’s charm is the mystery inherit in the story. As Shepherd repeatedly says “The most important part of a story is the piece of it you don’t know.” Kingsolver proves this to be true by offering only the subtlest of hints at certain important pieces of the grand puzzle of Shepherd’s life. She omits a select few of Harrison’s journals and purposefully conceals periods in his life that prove consequential in his future – all in a captivating effort to demonstrate Harrison’s point that the omissions are often the most crucial points of a story.

Complete with historical, social, and political commentary, The Lacuna is undoubtedly one of the most well-crafted and gripping books I’ve picked up in a while. If nothing else, readers can appreciate this novel for the sheer talent required to create something at turns so challenging, entertaining, engaging, and astonishing. This is definitely another one to add to Kingsolver’s ever-growing list of accomplishments!

And here are a few tidbits from the novel to give you a little taste of what you can expect from this one.

“Does a man become a revolutionary out of the belief he’s entitled to joy rather than submission?”

“This household is like a pocketful of coins that jingled together for a time, but now have been slapped on a counter to pay a price. The pocket empties out, the coins venture back into infinite circulations of currency, separate, invisible, and untraceable. That particular handful of coins had no special meaning together, it seems, except to pay a particular price. It might remain real, if someone had written everything in a notebook.”

“You are a writer, employed by the American imagination.”

“You’ve never seen anything as dramatic as these American trees, dying their thousand deaths. The giant beech next door intends to shiver off every hair of its pelt. The world strips and goes naked, the full year of arboreal effort piling on the sidewalks in flat, damp strata. The earth smells of smoke and rainstorms, calling everything to come back, like down, submit to a quiet, moldy return to the cradle of origins. This is how we celebrate the Day of the Dead in America: by turning up our collars against the scent of earthworms calling us home.”

As is often the case with Barbara Kingsolver’s novels, it took more time than I preferred to get hooked into Flight Behavior. But once engrossed, my persistence was proven worthwhile. Unlike her other novels, however, this one’s first chapter turned me off because it read like a steamy romance, something I was not expecting from a Kingsolver book. Luckily, the married protagonist’s early infatuation with a local boy is only a vehicle to push the story, rather than the substance of it.

In modern day Feathertown, Tennessee, Dellarobia Turnbow takes to the wooded hills behind her farm for a rendezvous with a local younger man, consumed with thoughts of leaving her husband and the gossip such a betrayal would generate in her small town. Though Dellarobia is mother to two beloved children, her potential for happiness is curbed by a lackluster marriage, the loss of her parents, and an endless string of almost-affairs. Despite the fervency of her selfish thoughts on this particular day, the outside world begins to force its way into Dellarobia’s consciousness as she notices strange clusters of dark matter hanging from tree limbs. Looking to the opposite hillside, the far off trees appear bathed in brilliant orange flame, causing her to abandon her plans for a lover’s tryst. This marks both the end of the first chapter and, fortunately, Kingsolver’s attempts at harlequin romance.

The inexplicable sight she witnessed soon becomes of crucial importance when Dellarobia’s father-in-law, Bear Turnbow, makes plans to log the hillside in a desperate attempt to pay off his ballooning debts. Dellarobia urges her husband Cub to take a look at the land before allowing his father to sell it off, alarmed by the mysterious sights she recently witnessed there but reluctant to voice the details for fear of giving her near betrayal away. When the whole family takes to the woods, encouraged by Cub’s conviction that Dellarobia’s advice was an act of God, they find the trees covered butterflies, millions of winged creatures colored in bold Halloween orange and black.

As news of the phenomenon of monarch butterflies settling in rural Feathertown spreads, scientists, activists, and members of the media alike head South in droves. Kingsolver verges on the romantic again when biologist Ovid Byron sets up shop in the Turnbow’s backyard – his deep knowledge of these butterflies and his generousity incite some significant swooning in Dellarobia. Byron teaches not only Dellarobia but also her budding-scientist son, Preston, about the butterflies and what their recently altered migratory patterns mean.

Under the veil of small town and family politics, Kingsolver fleshes out vast issues of global warming, social class, religion, and politics. The arrival of monarchs in Feathertown harks of a swiftly changing climate, however many of Feathertown’s locals routinely close their ears at the words “global warming.” Others, Dellarobia included, see such beauty in the monarchs, rendering it impossible for them to comprehend how such a spectacle of nature is actually a sign of sickness. While the significance of the changing migratory patterns of the monarchs is lost on many Feathertown residents, the changes it sets in motion for Dellarobia, from earning her own income to meeting like-minded people to discovering a passion for learning, become the source of conflict closer to home. Her interest in the butterflies becomes official with Dr. Byron hires Dellarobia as a research assistance, heightening tensions with Cub’s family who have long worried that Cub’s wife considered herself too good for their simple son and further dividing the loveless couple.

Though she never strays from Dellarobia’s side, Kingsolver’s relationship to her characters is remarkably tenuous. The stubborn ways of Dellarobia’s in-laws, their resistance to accept scientific fact, their inclination to profit off the havoc of nature by charging admission to monarch-seeking visitors all feel quite antagonistic under Kingsolver’s pen. But as we become party to the nuances of Feathertown and Turnbow politics, Kingsolver’s attitude toward the locals turns more sympathetic. This is made quite plain when an environmental activist corners Dellarobia with his schpeal about changes she can make in her daily life to reduce her negative environmental impact. Stricken by poverty, the lifestyle suggested by this green-minded man is one which Dellarobia and the vast majority of Turnbowians are already forced to adopt – reducing flying, buying secondhand clothing, eating less meat, repairing instead of replacing broken machines and household goods. The coldness of Dellarobia’s mother Hester reads as pure evil at first, but reveals itself as a product of protective instincts more than malice. And despite the frigidity of Dellarobia and Cub’s marriage, Kingsolver’s loyalty to Dellarobia does not prevent her from highlighting Cub’s virtues and kindnesses. Though she at times paints Dellarobia’s family and neighbors as too simple, stubborn or thoughtless, Kingsolver also recognizes the integrity of their way of life as well as the motivations behind their ways of thinking and being. It’s almost as though Kingsolver created characters in such a way that readers, and maybe even the author herself, would be challenged to develop simplistic, black and white attitudes toward them.

Though not exactly subtle, Kingsolver raises important and ultimately unavoidable questions through this elegant work of fiction. When Dr. Byron explains to Dellarobia the way in which these monarchs are a warning flag for the future of humanity, it is hard for readers to separate the worry Dellarobia feels for her children from that readers would hold for the young people in their own lives, facing a bleak future at the hand of environmental ruin. Kingsolver’s representation of Feathertown’s residents mirrors some of the widely-held attitudes toward Southerners and conservatives, but also challenges many of the associated stereotypes such that readers cannot help but consider their own private prejudices. In fact, Kingsolver challenges many of our preconceived notions about others in Flight Behavior. She encourages non-judgment and seeing things for more than what they at first appear to be by exploring the break down of us versus them mentalities. And her suggestion that such tiny things as the butterflies, their patterns and behaviors, could mean so much for the larger world is a deeply appreciated ode to mindfulness. By posing such heavy issues for consideration under the guise of (sort of) science fiction, Kingsolver makes it impossible for her readers to avoid thinking about these urgent problems.

There are certainly a few flaws I could site in Flight Behavior, including certain story lines left unexplored and others introduced for seemingly little reason. I imagine that over time, however, these things which felt like hiccups in Kingsolver’s brilliance will reveal themselves as totally minute or laced with meanings beyond my original comprehension. Either way, Flight Behavior was a beautifully written examination of the workings of nature, people and their differences, and how to understand both. And it’s another one to add to Kingsolver’s quite noteworthy collection.

Don’t let the fact that the first chapter of John Irving’s twelfth novel is focused almost entirely upon a logging accident in the New England town of Twisted River deter you from picking up this phenomenal book. As an Irving fan, I’m familiar with his work but never before have I been as completely engrossed and impressed with the novelist as when reading Last Night in Twisted River.

Though the story begins with a logging accident, it ultimately moves away from the town of Twisted River and on to settings throughout New England, the midwest, and even Canada. When Dominic Baciagalupo, the cook at one of Twisted River’s few eating establishments, and Daniel Baciagalupo, his 12-year-old son who becomes a writer as an adult, have to hurriedly escape from Twisted River, they leave behind their close friend Ketchum and what few other ties they have to learn to create a new life elsewhere. Circumstances are continually forcing them to relocate, settling down in new towns with new restaurants, friends, and women. An elaborate story strung together by friendship, family ties, and secrets both dangerous and dark, the novel nearly spans a whole lifetime but never once falls dull.

In classic Irving style, this intelligent story slowly unravels and then comes back full circle, complete with startlingly true characters and a teasing interplay with the novelist’s own past.

The last week of December offered me an unusual wealth of free time that I occupied primarily with eating, sleeping, and reading. There were plenty of prize-winning novels in my pile from the library, but it was Blind Sight, Meg Howrey’s debut novel, that proved the most entertaining and left the most lasting impression upon me heading into the new year.

Howrey’s narrative structure is completely unique and compelling from the get-go. We find ourselves privy to the musings of Luke, a teenager heading into his final summer before senior year. The beginning of each chapter is composed of Luke’s attempts at college essays and other written ramblings, followed by a third person narrative closing out each chapter. I’m pretty sure this is one of the only books I’ve ever encountered that offered both types of perspectives on a central character without the use of multiple narrators. But Howrey’s narrative ingenuity is just the beginning of Blind Sight‘s many virtues.

Luke is considered an accident among his family, the first male descendant in twelve generations which have followed a very distinct pattern when it comes to producing offspring. The youngest of three children, Luke’s mother Sara is all New Age, taking each of her children on ritualistic pilgrimages on the cusp of their thirteenth birthdays, prohibiting any entertainment that promotes violence, and encouraging meditation, natural healing, and the like among her progeny. Luke’s sisters Aurora and Pearl are positive figures in his life, providing him with a firm handle on how to talk to women and an unusual level of knowledge regarding menstruation. And they all live with Nana, Sara’s widowed mother who is a devout Christian and prays for her grandchildren on a daily basis. As the sole male in his family’s sea of women, Luke was brought up in a way largely different from that of his male friends.

Though Luke’s family is obviously outfitted to provide some comic relief (though I probably identified with Sara a bit more than Howrey intended), the real story pertains to the long-missing family member, Luke’s father Anthony Boyle, better known as the actor Mark Franco. Luke’s mother shared one night with Anthony/Mark after Aurora and Pearl’s father divorced her and left the family. Anthony/Mark met Luke just once when he was a newborn. When he became famous, however, Sara was so far removed from celebrity culture and popular entertainment that she barely knew who Mark Franco was, let alone came across his well-known face and recognized Anthony Boyle, Luke’s father.

When Anthony/Mark contacts Sara in the hopes of meeting with his now-teenaged son, plans are made so that Luke can spend the summer with his father in Los Angeles. Though the relationship is at first strained by lack of familiarity between the two and the vast number of years spent apart, a unique rapport develops between father and son as they travel around the country for Anthony/Mark’s various acting gigs and publicity stints, to visit Luke’s paternal grandmother, to relax in Hawaii, and to camp in Sequoia National Park.

Blind Sight is part family saga, part coming of age story. Humorous situations are devised, undercutting some of the heavier aspects of Luke’s written ramblings and his at-times difficult relationships with various family members. Luke and his father attempt to forge a father-son bond against the backdrop of a Hollywood career and exorbitant vacations, a completely alternate reality for Luke whose Delaware upbringing prized mindfulness, simplicity, and the renunciation of material goods. Though Howrey’s story is largely that of Luke negotiating his newfound role in his father’s life, all that he learned and valued via the female household in which he was raised begins to come into question too.

Though the situation itself isn’t entirely unique (I believe I’ve read a story or two about absent parents, at least one containing a famous or remarkably rich father), Howrey creates an extremely relevant, relatable, and engaging story out of this basic construct. For a first-time novelist, Howrey’s ability to narrate as an authentic and sympathetic teenaged boy is truly remarkable and her storytelling was entirely enrapturing throughout. I was quite pleased to find a book that I could read for two hour stretches at a time (since I finally had the opportunity to do so!) without growing bored or simply logging pages until reaching the final one.

I love to read and make as much time to do so as possible. Each book I begin with the hope that it will instantly grab my attention, keep me hooked through the last page, and stay on mind even after I finish. I’m constantly seeking the next novel that will stand apart from the others, and Blind Sight stood up to the test. Reading Bling Sight was a delightful experience, one that I didn’t want to end (save for the ten books waiting to be opened as soon as I finished). Though the book wasn’t exactly as profound as those I place among my very favorites (Markus Zusak’s The Book Thief or Nicole Krauss’ The History of Love for instance), the experience of reading Blind Sight was very much like that of reading those books that have become my favorites for the first time.

Although I consider young adult fiction to be a guilty pleasure of mine, sometimes I don’t feel quite so guilty about it. Despite the fact that Daniel Handler’s YA novel Why We Broke Up feels even more juvenile than most picks from the young adult genre because it is a picture book (artist Maira Kalman’s work is included at the beginning of each chapter), the art is actually a quirky and creative means to tell the story of why protagonist Min (short for Minerva) broke up with Ed Slaterton. I certainly anticipated feelings of guilt before I started reading this one, but once I picked it up those feelings evaporated rather quickly. This was an incredibly enjoyable read and one I wouldn’t feel an ounce of shame to recommend to me friends (which is why I’m writing this review, I guess).

So the plot: en route to her now-ex’s house, Min composes a letter detailing the reasons why she and Ed broke up as she goes through a box of all her Ed-paraphernalia. Each item within the box (illustrated in the book by Kalman) is afforded its own chapter in which Minerva elaborates upon the circumstances surrounding the physical object that reminds her of Ed and how it made her fall for Ed or foretold their coming break up. In so doing Minerva shares with readers the story of how she came to fall for Ed in the first place. It’s a deceptively sweet young love story told within the confines of an unapologetic break up novel, the classic tale of two young people from different worlds falling in ill-fated love.

Minerva, an unabashed cinema nerd, continually cringes as Ed’s friends try to describe her – she always dreads being labeled “arty” but what she is more commonly classified as, “different,” isn’t much better given its vagueness and potential for profoundly negative connotations. Ed is co-caption of the basketball team, a charismatic high school senior that seems to have dated pretty much every girl in school with even the slightest ounce of popularity to her name. Min and Ed meet one another at a party, a chance encounter for two high schoolers from completely different social circles – after a disappointing basketball loss, Ed and company crash one of Min’s friend’s parties. Minerva’s friends are a delightful bunch, fiercely loyal to both one another and their respective ideas of themselves as independent and authentic. They spend time at coffee shops and see black and white movies at the art house movie theater, they explore the most interesting haunts of their neighborhood and have ironic Bitter Sixteen birthday parties. They aren’t the most developed teenage characters in the world of fiction, but they are appealing in their earnest attempts at being themselves and their ability to plainly recognize the superfluousness of popularity, athleticism, and high school drama. Ed’s friends fall on the other extreme, a group of far more one-dimensional characters who spend their time at bonfires dominated by gossip, kegs, and an endless game of musical girlfriends among the basketball players.

But then Min catches Ed’s eye and introduces him to her world. There is something rather endearing about the trope of the artistic love interest opening up new doors for the more conventional one and Handler carries it out rather sweetly.

Of course, conflict arises. Ed was conditioned to behave towards women in a certain way that is far from conducive to Min’s expectations of coupledom. Min tries to ignore Ed’s complete lack of taste, not to mention his lack of genuine interest in her friends. Their circles are so far removed that social events require careful and elaborate planning so as to evenly split time with both groups. Ed’s ex-girlfriends are constantly around, constantly contributing to Min’s sense of self doubt. Min learns her lesson that you can’t choose a boy over your true friends.

Handler also gives readers a fair share of what we always seek in romance novels, whether written about the young or the old – a glimpse into the remarkable and unrepeatable world two people create together. Even though we know all along, thanks to the author’s wise choice of title, that this relationship will end with a split, that doesn’t negate the moments of tenderness, humor, and adventure that Min and Ed share. On their first date, Min takes Ed to see a movie and, upon leaving the theater, surmises that an elderly lady also exiting the theater is in fact the aging star of the film they just watched. The ensuing narrative of Min and Ed following the supposed actress around town and to her home highlights the way that Min brings out a certain side of Ed many don’t see, not even Ed himself. It’s a side that is game for adventure, that seeks something in life other than the unquestioned norm, but he painfully needs some guidance in how to access that part of himself to begin with. Each item in Min’s box is a testament to this world that no longer exists by novel’s end, the small touchstones that indicate the type of people Min and Ed were in the short time they spent together.

Handler expertly characterizes a modern day Romeo and Juliet, a pair that obviously don’t belong together but are still drawn to one another in ways that are at once plainly clear and deeply complicated. Why We Broke Up is easy to mock (I’ve seen my fair share of negative reviews whose titles are hackneyed puns along the lines of “Why I Broke Up With This Book”), but I appreciate Handler’s bold (and I would argue successful) attempt at navigating the seas of teenage love and heartbreak in a fresh way. And if it makes you feel any better, you don’t have to tell anyone that pictures accompany the story though in retrospect, I ultimately found them to be just another sweet touch.

Some books just begged to be discussed with others. For this very reason, I began a book club… and then started another one. But you still can’t always anticipate what is going to be a conversation-starting read, you can’t dominate reading groups with the suggestions of a single person, and you can’t count on finding someone else who find the same titles irresistible.

Lauren Groff’s novel Arcadia was one such book that I wish I’d had the opportunity to discuss with others. I originally discovered it on a Best of 2012 list, then kept it in the back of my mind as a book club pick. The allure of this book ultimately overcame my patience. I was drawn to the highly recommended novel because of it’s storyline about communal living, because of the ideals that I imagined would guide a book full of hippies and naturalists.

What I got was a little bit of what I expected and then some. Groff’s novel does center around a commune by the name of Arcadia and some of it’s members are just as you’d suspect – advocates of free love, pot-smokers, do it yourselfers. But Groff creates rich and universal characters that are far more than mere stereotypes.

Arcadia centers around one family from the commune, Ridley (also known as Bit) who is the only son of Abe the carpenter and Hannah the depression-riddled baker and academic. We visit Bit at four periods in his life, following him from the early days of his childhood in the idyllic splendor of Arcadia, to his adolescent years when Arcadia is overrun by too many souls and not enough pace. We meet him again as an adult living outside the confines of Arcadia, married to one of the other products of Arcadia and with a young daughter of his own. The final phase of the novel sees Bit as the single father of a teenage daughter, struggling with the decline of his parents and the spread of an epidemic worldwide. Through the lens of Bit’s life, Groff’s novel provides more commentary on society at large than on communal living – a topic perfectly suited for discussion.

While an adult Bit is teaching photography at a university, he assigns his students the challenge of going on a digital fast, avoiding digital technologies for a period of a few days. One of his students composes a brilliant paper containing her reflections on the assignment – how technology affects our connections with one another, how it must have taken so much more effort and thought to maintain relationships with others previously, how life must have been more deeply and intensely felt in the present moment because digital technology had not yet made everything immediately available. It is a refreshing perspective on the way in which we interact with others and experience life, one that I bet would give many readers pause.

Soon thereafter, Bit considers the lack of ambition he feels as a result of his communal upbringing. In Arcadia he was never taught to constantly reach for conventional standards of success. His values were the simplest of things – happiness, safety, security. As an artist in his adult life, Bit questions whether his lack of artistic drive and his indifference to galleries and cultural renown are detrimental to his wellbeing or simply products of the system of values on which he was raised. Though the items he lists among his ideals are not foreign to non-Arcadians, they certainly constitute a very small portion of the voluminous values and indicators of success by which others measure their life’s worth.

Both expressly and indirectly, Groff meditates on community, its meaning and achievement and value. BIt mourns the loss of community post-Arcadia, but finds alternatives means to satisfy it in conventional society. Within the boundaries of the commune, Bit’s history was common knowledge – even his birth story was legendary among Arcadians. His identity was not something that needed to be crafted or presented to others, but was rather a taken for granted piece of the Arcadia story. Living in New York City as an adult, Bit recognizes the city’s ability to fill the void left by his lost childhood. He recognizes the beauty of Arcadia as a product of the people and their connections with one another, not the result of its geographical location or design. In Bit’s mind, the closeness of urban cities is the best approximation of that communal connectedness in modern day life. Because what ultimately defines communes isn’t their location in oft-isolated and uber-natural locations, but the way in which their members are tied to and reliant upon on another. Though they may appear otherwise to the outsider (and I am admittedly an outsider writing here), it seems to me that communal living is ultimately about connecting with people, particularly those that share a similar mindset and desire a shared lifestyle with one another.

Maybe I’m just predisposed to romanticizing idealists and hippies, people who challenge conventional ways of living in adherence to their world views. Even if communes and Woodstock aren’t your cup of tea, Arcadia is an entertaining read as well as a challenging one. It forces us to consider whether we are consciously choosing the lives we lead and how we connect with each other.