Like most readers, I usually despise films made from books that I've loved. Most of the time, they are ruined by the cuts necessary to compress a book into a two-hour film, not to mention the distortions added by studios in search of blockbusters, like the smooch scene added to the end of the version of Pride and Prejudice that came out a few years ago. There are always exceptions, of course, like the Lord of the Rings trilogy, but they are rare.

So I wasn't sure I wanted to see this film. I usually dislike McEwan’s characters but always admire his writing. And Atonement is a masterpiece. I couldn’t bear to think of it being ruined by a film. One of the things that I particularly liked about this book was that the conflict, the violence came from within the family, instead of from some diabolus ex machina dropped in to jumpstart the plot.

My book club talked forever about this book, caught up in its ambiguities. We compared notes on the possibility of atoning for things you have done from the perspectives of our different religious backgrounds and from our own experiences. We discussed redemption and how it differed from atonement.

Several people disliked the first section of the book, when Briony is a child, complaining that it was florid and overwritten. As most people already know, she happens to see a scene involving her older sister and a young man. Briony's misinterpretation of the scene has tragic consequences. The second section follows the young man as a soldier in the Great War, while the third section deals with the years just after the war, when Briony and her sister are both nurses in London. A brief final section is set in the present.

The style of each section is markedly different. It seemed to me—and this was my defense to my clubmates—that McEwan deliberately wrote the sections in styles reflecting the literary styles of the period in which they are set. The first section, the idyllic country house and family life, seemed to me like the romanticism of some Georgian literature, Rupert Brooke's poetry for example. The Great War section was written in the gritty realist style of Graves or Owen, while the immediate post-war years section reminded me of “angry young men” such as John Osborne and Alan Sillitoe. The final section, of course, is pure post-modernism, playing games with the narrative and structure.

Well, I'm just a reader and experts in lit crit will undoubtedly find my summary laughable, but I still think the progression of literary styles in Atonement is remarkable. The film, despite the necessary elisions, manages to preserve these differences while crafting a coherent story. Well done, I say.

I followed the Barnes book with another story about a search for a stuffed bird. No post-modern dictionaries or bestiaries here, simply good writing. No choppy sentences or jump cuts between characters, just good story-telling. I was completely enthralled by this book, racing through it and, yes, caring deeply about all the characters, heroes and villains alike.

The bird in question here is the Mysterious Bird of Ulieta. The naturalist on Captain Cook's second voyage to the South Seas brought back this stuffed bird, the only one of its kind ever seen, and presented it to Joseph Banks, who had been the naturalist on Cook's first voyage. Then it disappeared. So much is true. Two hundred years later, the chase is on to find this valuable specimen.

As in Byatt's Possession two storylines are intertwined, one in the present and one in the past. Davies does an excellent job of maintaining the focus in each and switching from one to the other without losing this finicky reader. In the present, we follow Fitz, a taxidermist and lapsed conservationist, and his young student boarder, Katya, as they race to find the bird before two other groups, who both intend to sell it to a pharmaceutical company planning to pull the bird apart in order to copyright its DNA. In the 1770s, we follow Joseph Banks himself as he struggles to weave together the different threads of his life: the woman he loves, the renown he wants, and the work he cannot relinquish.

Without spinning it out unnecessarily Davies gives each scene the time and space it needs to develop fully. Thus, he makes each scene so intense, so vivid, that thinking of them is like remembering my own past. And, as in the Barnes book, Davies is concerned with what we can make of the shreds of the past. And with where we run out of ways to knot them together, leaving them to fall apart in our hands.

Curious as to why it only took one paragraph for me to be fascinated with Fitz, I went back to the beginning. I already knew he was a taxidermist from the chapter heading, so wasn't surprised to find him working on a dead owl, but intrigued, certainly. The description of the December evening, the heat from the lamp, the feel of the skull and the skin made it seem as though I were there in the room with him. I felt Fitz's cautious elation when his difficult task seemed to be working and his irritation when the phone's ringing interrupted him. Remembering the practical jokes callers often pull on him, he decides not to answer it, only to change his mind out of concern that it might be Katya's mother trying to reach her.

So, what do we have here? His obvious competence at and concern for his work put me on his side immediately—I love reading about people at work—but it was his consideration for Katya and her mother that made me like him. The sensory descriptions and touch of humor pulled me into the scene, and the questions raised (Why is someone calling a taxidermist late at night? Who is Katya? Will the owl be ruined?) pushed me to read on.

And read I did. I'll certainly be looking for more books by this author.

Enough bad books! I knew I could count on Julian Barnes and he did not let me down. I waited to read this book until I had read the Flaubert novelette upon which it was based. Un Coeur Simple is the story of a servant who despite her low position in life and the many losses she endures, maintains her placid ways and her love for those around her. She also maintains her faith, although towards the end she gets a little mixed up and prays to a stuffed parrot given her by a neighbor, as well as to the more traditional Catholic god. After all, she reasons, the Holy Spirit is shown as a dove, so why not a parrot?

The Barnes book is a first-person narrative by Geoffrey Braithwaite, a pedantic doctor whose interest in Flaubert leads him into a search for the actual stuffed parrot that sat on Flaubert's desk as he wrote the story.

First off, hurray! One main character, with layers and layers of complexity to unpack, even if he does talk more about Flaubert than about himself. Secondly, this is one smart book. Not just the details about Flaubert's life and works, but the way they are presented and woven into the narrator's life. By an odd coincidence, I had just finished reading the wonderful Henry James Goes to Paris by Peter Brooks which is about Flaubert's influence on James, well, Maupassant, Zola and Balzac, too, but mostly Flaubert, so I had just been thinking about the relevance of his stories to the way we live—and write—today.

In his final, unfinished book Bouvard et Pecuchet Flaubert stepped beyond the realistic narrative he helped develop and began to play with the structure of the book in a way we would now describe as post-modernist. Similarly, Barnes intersperses chapters of straight-forward narration (though brimming with allusions, of which I barely caught a fraction) with chapters of lists, chronologies, a dictionary, even a bestiary. And yet, amazingly, these games move the story forward, while making me want to laugh and cry from one sentence to the next.

And what is the story? Ostensibly, Braithwaite is trying to determine which of two stuffed parrots was Flaubert's, the one at the Hotel-Dieu in Rouen, where Flaubert spent his childhood and his father practiced medicine, or the one at the museum at Croisset, where Flaubert went to live with his niece at the end of his life. However, Braithwaite is constantly second-guessing himself and his motives. He undercuts his own research into Flaubert, with debates about the value of learning about the writer's life. “Why aren't the books enough?” he asks.

But this book is really about the difficulty of capturing the past. For all his research and reading, his placing of one detail against the next, there is really no way for Braithwaite to know for sure what happened or what someone was thinking. The same handful of facts can be shuffled and made to produce multiple, quite different storylines. Also, a new discovery can change everything, such as finding that the kind of cab used for Emma Bovary's seduction was actually so tiny that such a scene would have been awkward and ludicrous.

Braithwaite's attempt to sort out and understand Flaubert's history turns out to be the method he has chosen to understand—if not recapture—his own past. I found his quest profoundly moving. This is a book I will read again and again.

This book was so tedious that I would have abandoned it after a couple of chapters if it hadn't been my book club's selection for the month. The writing style wasn't bad—many of her sentences and images were quite good—but the book simply had no content. The story follows a group of whiney, self-centered young people who, despite their privileged lives, complain constantly. The story also follows their parents, who have been fingered as the villains of the piece by the author and the young people themselves. Even though the parents have fallen over themselves giving these spoiled children everything, sent them to Ivy League schools and in some cases continued to cook for them and do their laundry even though the “children” are almost thirty years old, still it must be the parents' fault that these children are not happy. Obviously.

Last week I wrote about making the reader care about the characters, saying that it helped if they were likeable, but that it was not necessary. If this author had set out to write a book that ensured I would not care about her characters, she could not have done a better job.

For one thing, no, I could not like this bunch of drama queens. For another, there were seven equally main characters, with each chapter flipping point of view between them. If you don't stay with characters for more than a few pages, how can the reader get to know them? How can the author dig deeply enough into any one character to present any depth or complexity, any nuance? And that's another thing: in this gaggle of main characters, there wasn't a single one who was more than a superficial stereotype: daughter of famous man who fears she can't measure up, pompous middle-aged daddy having affair with young girl, uncomplaining earth mother who loves hubby despite all, effeminate and promiscuous homosexual man, confused 20-year-old in search of identity.

So much for characterization. As for plot, well, there was a lot of yakking about love affairs and wanting to be special. There were a couple of books and some articles being written, a magazine being prepared. Ho-hum. To manufacture a climax, the author had to drag in the attack on the World Trade Center, not that it was anything more than a backdrop to the lives of these self-centered characters. Who cares if thousands of people die? The important thing is that hubby goes back to earth mother, the magazine launch is OBE, and the 20-year-old leaves town.

Perhaps the author is right and most New Yorkers did react to the attacks on the World Trade Center, not with concern for those who died or for the first responders who put their lives at risk, but with selfish, melodramatic glee: Maybe I knew someone who died! Oh, poor me! Everybody pay attention to me!

I would hate to think that.

It's rare for me to say that a book isn't worth the paper it is printed on, but this one sure isn't. Some people in my book club enjoyed it, although (as one said) it was like reading a tabloid. Someone who used to work in publishing said that the author's descriptions were perfect and only too true. Another member of the book club thought it might be a spoof on the New York publishing industry, but we agreed that it wasn't funny enough for that, citing The Devil Wears Prada as a good example of an industry spoof. Another person suggested that the book itself was a spoof, that the author set out to write a ridiculously terrible book that would not only be published (because it was about the New York publishing industry itself), but also get excellent reviews and become a best-seller. If that was her intent, then she certainly succeeded. What a waste of time.

I found Water for Elephants an enjoyable read (see this blog, 2 July 2007), so I checked out Gruen's earlier book. After a prologue-like chunk of back-story, the book starts out like a bad sitcom: within the first few pages, the heroine has lost her job, discovered that her teenaged daughter is on the verge of being expelled from school, and been abandoned by her husband. Unfortunately, this heroine's surliness and self-absorption made me think all of these events justified and placed my sympathies exclusively with the other characters who had to put up with her.

She has also been informed that her father, whom she hasn't seen in years, has ALS (Lou Gehrig's disease), so she collects her daughter and heads to her parents' riding school, determined to take over and run it. Mired in self-pity and arrogance, she quickly brings the school to bankruptcy. The worst kind of daughter, she is still (at 38) stuck in a teenager's rebellion. The worst kind of parent, she undercuts her own attempts to discipline her daughter, giving the girl treats when she misbehaves. And this woman, who apparently doesn't understand the first thing about rewards and punishments and has no self-discipline, is supposed to be a whiz at training horses?

The descriptions of horses and riding are the best things about this book. However, the heroine's self-centered and destructive behavior made me dislike her so much that I found myself hoping more horrible things would happen to her so that she would start acting like an adult instead of a spoiled teenager. Sadly, that never happened, turning her eventual triumph into a disappointment, for me anyway.

While this book was ruined for me by my intense dislike of the heroine, it is not impossible to have a central character whom the reader dislikes but cares about anyway. An example for me is Snowman in Margaret Atwood's Oryx and Crake whose trials moved me although he wasn't particularly likeable (see this blog, 5 November 2007). I couldn't help rooting for him as he navigated his peculiar world.

This whole business of how to encourage a reader to care about a character is fascinating to me. Obviously readers are more likely to care about a character they like and sympathise with, but even that simplistic formula has its variables. I've been surprised, discussing books with friends and book clubs, how often we've disagreed about the main character. For example, one of my friends named the narrator of Truth and Beauty whom I found both creepy and dishonest (see this blog, 6 August 2007) as the character she had admired and cared about most deeply. Another detested Jane Eyre, who remains one of my favorites. More on this subject another time.

Thinking about the effects of global warming, the loss of open land to suburban McMansions, and the widening gap between rich and poor can be depressing. However, this series of essays is curiously hopeful. As always, McKibbon has the numbers to back up his descriptions of the challenges we face, but here he gives us possible solutions, things you and I can do.

He uses the term “deep economy” to echo the term “deep ecology” which urged a more cohesive look at environmental issues. Instead of just enacting some new law to limit emissions, “deep ecology” looked at the way we live our lives and what choices we can make that will cause more fundamental changes and improvements. Similarly, McKibbon urges us to think beyond the usual statistics economists love—GNP, growth, stock markets—and instead look at measures of human satisfaction.

Like most people, I feel overwhelmed and powerless when I try to think about the problems mentioned above. Therefore, I was thrilled by McKibbon's vivid descriptions of solutions—small-scale, to be sure, but solutions nonetheless. And when he starts talking about communities—building them, strengthening them, looking to them for answers—well, he is singing my song. Moving toward a more local economy just makes sense for everyone: business owners, workers and consumers.

The chapter that may be most familiar to people is on eating food grown locally. Where I live, we are lucky to have several farmers' markets and, during the season, many independent roadside truck stands. I have been going to one farmers' market for over twenty years. Many of the vendors are the same. It's been a joy to me to watch my fruit guy's children grow up and my vegetable lady's business expand. The flower lady, who loved my dog, grieved with me when the dog succumbed to old age. Writing in this blog about A Brief History of the Dead I said that if I were ever to win an award, the first people I would want to thank would be all the folks who enrich my life and make it possible by fixing my car, making pizza, etc.

These, too, are people who are part of my community and decades of interaction, of watching their children grow up, have made them precious to me, as precious as my friends and dancing partners, my poetry chums and book club pals. At this time of year, we look to our families but also take time to socialise. I just want to take this moment to celebrate all the people in my life. Thank you. Read this book.

I picked up this book because I’ve enjoyed other books by this author, but perhaps that says more about me than about his writing. His World War I trilogy fell into my hands just as I was reading everything I could find—poetry, history, memoirs—about that time. And I came across The Fatal Englishman the year that my bedside table was stacked with books about Antarctica: Cherry-Garrard’s memoir, Scott’s journals.

Human Traces was more of a challenge. It is the story of two men, Jacques Rebiere and Thomas Midwinter who decide to devote their lives to the study of mental illness in the hopes of understanding and curing the diseases afflicting Jacques’s brother and others. We first meet the two men in 1876 when they are 16, and follow their story, and the entwined stories of their wives, children, patients, and co-workers for the next 45 years, through the ambitions and dreams of youth, the disappointments and shortcomings of midlife, the reflections and griefs of age.

Faulks writes well. He made me care about his characters and what happened to them even though I have little interest in the Victorian period or in the early days of psychology. He writes well enough to keep me reading no matter how annoyed I get. And I did get very annoyed with this book.

For one thing, it seemed just too long. Did we really need the full text of speeches and letters, pages and pages quoting a scientific paper, long lectures about the latest discovery? It seemed like padding to me, as I waded through it, and I kept wishing he would get on with the story. Yet I kept reading.

For another thing, the story, the plot itself, was a bit thin. Every time a conflict threatens to emerge—such as when Thomas’s sister falls in love with Jacques and decides to marry him against her parents’ wishes—the potential unpleasantness falls apart like mist, and everyone is happy after all. The experimental cable car works without a hitch; a wealthy sponsor appears when the men need money for their sanatorium; an affair is forgiven with the husband not even realising the wife knows about it.

Gradually, however, it became clear that the plot was not really about such things as money and marriage. Instead, it was about ideas: the conflict between ideas and theories of how the human mind works, how it malfunctions, how to fix it. The late 19th century was the time, as well, of Darwin and the conflict between ideas of science and religion, when people debated just what separated humans from apes.

And so, by the end of the book, I was grateful for every lecture, every scientific paper, every tedious debate. Because, by the time I turned the last page, I did feel that I had learned something new about what it means to be a human being.

One last western. A traditional theme of the west is renewal, the chance to leave the past behind and recreate yourself. In A.B. Guthrie’s The Big Sky Boone Caudhill leaves home after finally standing up to his abusive father. In 1830, he is 17 years old and determined to walk from Kentucky to St. Louis, and from there into the west. Callow and trusting, he runs into trouble almost immediately but eventually makes his way up the Missouri River accompanied by two friends he has picked up along the way: Jim Deakins, a merry and loyal friend who has all the gregariousness that Boone lacks, and Dick Summers, an old mountain man who passes on his skills to the two younger men. Even more than the chance to start over where no one knows him, the skills that he learns from Summers contribute to Boone’s renewal and form the essence of the man he becomes.

Together the three men travel the mountains, from the Seeds-Kee-Dee to the Snake, from Jackson Hole to the Tetons, trapping beaver and anything else they think they can sell, living off the land. After a few years in the mountains, Boone looks like an Indian himself, with his buckskins and feathers. He has learned to appreciate the Indians’ ways and how to accommodate himself to them and eventually finds his way to Teal Eye, daughter of a Blackfoot chief.

The Big Sky is not a romantic tale of dancing with Indians and combining the best of both worlds. Instead, it tells of a savage life where you are in constant danger from animals, the weather, other mountain men, Indians, and all you have is the friend at your back, your weapon, and your own courage. Boone finds that courage in himself, along with the kind of ruthlessness needed to be a trapper in the mountains, far from any kind of law. He finds, too, a way of life that suits him down to the ground. There is an innocence about Boone, a dislike for the complexities and betrayals of other white men. He doesn’t fit in with the Indians, either. He is best off by himself. “This was the way to live, free and easy, with time all a man’s own and none to say no to him . . . Here a man lived natural. Some day, maybe, it would all end, as Summers said it would, but not any ways soon.”

Just as in All the Pretty Horses there is a nostalgia for a time past. It seems as though people head into the wood in search, not just of adventure and a chance to prove themselves, but to reconnect with a way of life, a way of being that is stripped to its essentials, that is more genuine, to discover our essential nature. It is a romantic notion, one that recurs, from the Romantic Movement of the 18th century looking to nature for freedom from the stultifying formalism, to Thoreau with his little cabin and rows of beans, to the back-to-the-land dreams of the 1960s.

Where we get in trouble, though, is in confusing that escape from civilisation with freedom. In Wendell Berry’s essay “The Nature Consumers” collected in The Longlegged House, he describes an encounter in the 1960s with some boatmen on a river near his home in Kentucky who thought that because they were on the water, they were free to do whatever they wanted. “A wild, uninhabited place, such as he wanted to believe he had come to, is by the definition of our frontier experience a free place. One has no bosses there, one is free of responsibility and can do purely according to pleasure. How illusory that is is proved by the fact that the country is inhabited and that some of the inhabitants objected to anyone’s behaving as if it were not. How illusory it is, and how dangerous, is proved by American history: Those pioneer forebears of ours, so attractively free of responsibility, no only settled the country but also used up the fertility and wealth and beauty of it at a rate that made their lives a disgrace to them and a burden to us.”

Sometimes I just get in the mood to read westerns, but they have to be of a certain type. Not about cowboys—ranch life doesn’t interest me. Nor does violence. I’m interested in the adventures of a man (or woman, but in these books it’s nearly always a man) who can read the sky or listen to the wind. A man who can interpret a bear’s track or find water in a dry land. A man who can be alone in the woods for weeks and months at a time, comfortable with himself and at home in the world.

Elmer Kelton is one of the best writers of westerns, and this is one of his best books. Young Michael Lewis is entranced by his father’s stories of far-away Texas, which still belongs to the Spanish. One of those men who keeps moving his family westward as the land gets too crowded, Mordecai continually leaves Michael and his brothers to farm the land while he himself sets out to find some better place or seek some great adventure.

Listening to their father talk about Texas, Michael dreams of a vast and unspoiled land, so when his father and a group of neighbors set out for Spanish-controlled Texas to capture wild horses, Michael decides to follow. However, his first encounter with that land is both brutal and devastating, and he barely makes it home alive. Years later, having become a solitary trapper in the woods he loves, Michael is still haunted by his dreams of Texas and eventually decides to return, accompanied by his younger brother Andrew. As Michael travels along, he recognises that the land around him is good farmland and considers abandoning his quest and staking a claim here. But he is afraid it will soon be settled and changed.

Susan Lang, author of Small Rocks Rising and other books, has said that in westerns, the land itself is a character. As I mentioned re All the Pretty Horses love of the land seems to be wrapped up with nostalgia for an unspoiled world. Perhaps it is just our hindsight, but the trappers and mountain men in these stories, even as they forge their way into new territory, are already regretting its loss, as if the present were shadowed by the future. Part of the romance of the west is that it was “unspoiled” and “unsettled”. But of course there were people living there already.

In The Practice of the Wild Gary Snyder points out that what we call wilderness isn’t all that wild. When explorers landed on this continent or pioneers pushed into the interior, they were not entering an unpopulated land. There were people there and animals and trees and plants, all with their own sets of rules. Ecologists have picked apart the components and interdependencies, even of systems devoid of people. There are rules. They may not be our rules, but they are there nonetheless.

So when we set off into the woods, we are not entering a truly wild place, merely a place where our normal rules don’t apply.

These liminal places fascinate. We sing songs in a minor key and read those fairy tales about venturing off into Germanic woods. It seems—at least until we learn the language—as though anything can happen. Where there is space for something new to emerge or be created, an opening, something new to be explored, an adventure to be had.

Not being overly impressed with the other two McCarthy books I'd listened to and finding the print version impossible to read, I didn't plan on tackling any more. However, I coouldn't resist this one because it was narrrated by the fabulous Tom Stechschulte and I wanted the company of his familiar voice.

The Road is one of those buddy, road-trip stories with a couple of differences: the buddies are a father and young son, and their trip takes place in a post-apocalyptic U.S. where few people are left alive and all of the infrastructures we count on, from food distribution to law enforcement, have disappeared. The survivors have become scavengers, governed only by whatever personal moral code they retain or, if banded together with others, by the mores of that group. Not so different from the wild west.

The father and son are headed south for reasons that are never explained, on foot, with their possessions in a metal grocery cart. They are regularly robbed of these possessions—blankets, coats, food—and sometimes replace them by stumbling over a cache that hasn't already been picked over. They try to avoid other people, not trusting anyone's motives and not wanting to end up as dinner for some ragged and starving band.

I found the story pretty boring, but kept listening, lulled by Stechschulte's voice. What I most liked was the father's protective care and concern for the child. I don't believe I've ever read about such devotion to a child from a man's point of view. At times the father almost seemed to worship the child, the one article of faith left to him, the embodiment of his only hope for the future.

In contrast, I thought of those self-centered parents today who abandon their children: fundamentalists who send their children to Christian boot camps to make them stop listening to pop music, rich people who buy their kids everything on earth and send them off with nannies or to boarding school, drug addicts who can't focus long enough to notice their children. Not all fundamentalists, not all rich people, not all drug addicts it goes without saying, but there are plenty of abandoned children at all levels of society.

Realising that I've read a lot of dystopias and end-of-the-world stories lately (Never Let Me Go, Children of Men, A Brief History of the Dead, Oryx and Crake, The Handmaid's Tale), I began to think about what it takes to survive.

In the early 1970s, I knew a man who had already recognised the fragility of our social infrastructures, something many of us didn't think about until the Y2K flap. He bought land in a remote area and stockpiled grains and beans in sealed metal trash cans. He collected hand tools and taught himself to fix any kind of machine, making parts when none were available. He didn't buy guns, like some survivalists, but there was a potential violence in him that convinced me he could protect himself.

The world didn't end. Food is still being delivered to the grocery store down the street; people still stop for red lights (most of the time); policemen and EMTs still come when you call 911. True, I seem to encounter the me-first phenomenon more and more often, especially on the highway, and wish the pendulum would swing back to more concern for the community as a whole. But it doesn't hurt to be reminded now and then of just how fragile the structure of our society is and how close we are to chaos.