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jonscott9's reviews
206 reviews
The Tender Bar by J.R. Moehringer
5.0
Beautiful memoir of growing up and into and out of a city. And a bar, always that bar. No surprise that I would relish TTB, as Moehringer would go on to ghost-write Andre Agassi's own autobiography. My eyes inhaled that read, and not just because a lot of it was about tennis.
Love this wit and wisdom from "Father Amtrak" in TTB's Chapter 24:
"Can I tell you something?" the priest asked. "Do you know why God invented writers? Because He loves a good story. And he doesn't give a damn about words. Words are the curtain we've hung between Him and our true selves. Try not to think about the words. Don't strain for the perfect sentence. There's no such thing. Writing is guesswork. Every sentence is an educated guess, the reader's as much as yours. Think about that the next time you curl a piece of paper into your typewriter."
Love this wit and wisdom from "Father Amtrak" in TTB's Chapter 24:
"Can I tell you something?" the priest asked. "Do you know why God invented writers? Because He loves a good story. And he doesn't give a damn about words. Words are the curtain we've hung between Him and our true selves. Try not to think about the words. Don't strain for the perfect sentence. There's no such thing. Writing is guesswork. Every sentence is an educated guess, the reader's as much as yours. Think about that the next time you curl a piece of paper into your typewriter."
Thirst by Mary Oliver
3.0
Regretfully, I read this too long ago to recall what I particularly cherished about Oliver's batch of poems. Thirst contains pieces that are by turns precious and wide-eyed with delight at the world. That will always be timely.
Hardcourt Confidential: Tales from Twenty Years in the Pro Tennis Trenches by Patrick McEnroe
2.0
Beyond rarely do I quit on a book, let alone one about tennis, but this was an outlier.
I could put it down.
I could put it down.
Monica C-Format by Nan Fischer, Monica Seles, Monica Seles
3.0
It's intriguing, the parallels between Monica Seles's autobio from 1996 and the newer one from James Blake. Both are tennis stars. Both were coached in life by their fathers, who both surrendered to stomach cancer. Both experienced freakish on-court injuries and resulting physical-emotional complications.
"I spent two years in the prison that he was to inhabit."
Seles's take on her own life is occasionally poetic – this from a woman who, at the apex of her career at age 19, was stabbed on a tennis court by a deranged man as the world watched? She then spent two-and-a-half years in relative seclusion, away from the opponents and the media blitz and the noise, yet always haunted by the man's face, a German face that never saw a day in jail for his crime.
This is the heartrending tale of a girl who grew up in economically deprived Yugoslavia laughing as her father, a cartoonist, drew characters' faces on tennis balls for her to bash, either against a wall or over a chain "net" they set up between cars in a parking lot. She loved fairytales and found herself in a real-life horror reel.
This is the story of a sports career that could have been, that was shut up for a couple years, and then never quite regained its former brilliance and exuberance.
After her own attack, Seles remarks about watching with horror the Nancy Kerrigan drama play out on TV. "It's happened again," she writes. "It's happened to another athlete, another female sports star." Those are two women who could hold quite a conversation.
The book ends well, with a comeback and another Grand Slam victory in Australia. But the precocious giggles of the teen phenom who burst onto the scene at 16 are gone. Gone also is the respect for another country's judicial system. Somehow intact is her belief in the goodness and beauty of humanity.
It's just sad that what could have been the most dominant career in women's sports history was silenced for a time, peaked again briefly, and then never returned to the top of the mountain. Seles has certainly known the pinnacle and the valley both.
"I spent two years in the prison that he was to inhabit."
Seles's take on her own life is occasionally poetic – this from a woman who, at the apex of her career at age 19, was stabbed on a tennis court by a deranged man as the world watched? She then spent two-and-a-half years in relative seclusion, away from the opponents and the media blitz and the noise, yet always haunted by the man's face, a German face that never saw a day in jail for his crime.
This is the heartrending tale of a girl who grew up in economically deprived Yugoslavia laughing as her father, a cartoonist, drew characters' faces on tennis balls for her to bash, either against a wall or over a chain "net" they set up between cars in a parking lot. She loved fairytales and found herself in a real-life horror reel.
This is the story of a sports career that could have been, that was shut up for a couple years, and then never quite regained its former brilliance and exuberance.
After her own attack, Seles remarks about watching with horror the Nancy Kerrigan drama play out on TV. "It's happened again," she writes. "It's happened to another athlete, another female sports star." Those are two women who could hold quite a conversation.
The book ends well, with a comeback and another Grand Slam victory in Australia. But the precocious giggles of the teen phenom who burst onto the scene at 16 are gone. Gone also is the respect for another country's judicial system. Somehow intact is her belief in the goodness and beauty of humanity.
It's just sad that what could have been the most dominant career in women's sports history was silenced for a time, peaked again briefly, and then never returned to the top of the mountain. Seles has certainly known the pinnacle and the valley both.
Surprised by Joy: The Shape of My Early Life by C.S. Lewis
4.0
Lewis said himself that the most compelling parts of people's autobiographies are their childhoods. Unfortunately I couldn't quite get into the early-going chapters of this book that were about his upbringing. I wasn't interested in the all-boys boarding school days or some other segments. This book really picked up for me when Lewis began explaining his transition from childhood Christian to atheist to theist and again to Christian. The mental picture of a higher power and a mere man moving their pieces on a chess board was intriguing. I could stand to read the last half of the book again.
(The title refers to the concept of Joy itself, not to the name of Lewis's later wife.)
(The title refers to the concept of Joy itself, not to the name of Lewis's later wife.)
Under the Banner of Heaven by Jon Krakauer
4.0
Leave it to me to avoid a bandwagon (see: "Arrested Development") and finally opt to read this heralded book about Mormon killers while on vacation. Shew.
And by Mormon killers I do mean both people who kill Mormons and Mormons who kill (kill "Gentiles" [anyone not Mormon, including Jews] and kill their own). The book is timely in that Mormon fundamentalists recently sprang into the news again, though hardly by their own desire, with the Texas polygamist colony fiasco in which lachrymose children were stripped from their prairie-dress–wearing mothers and placed with protective services. That intrusion's since been ruled unlawful, and the children were even returned to the compound, to their families.
It surely bears noting that this book centers on the killing of a mainline Mormon mother and her infant daughter by fundie Mormons, her estranged husband and brother-in-law. In adopting this thread throughout the book, Krakauer (the uber-successful magazine scribe of Into the Wild and Into Thin Air fame) frames it much like In Cold Blood, Capote's groundbreaking, timeless work. Indeed, it appears more and more as the book progresses that, when he's not content to simply play a prof of Mormon history for a chapter or two, Krakauer's eager to make this read his best go at copping Capote.
He largely succeeds. The book's a bit long at 360ish pages but shorter than, say, Devil in the White City, a book I kinda wanted to lump it in with. It's engrossing, immensely readable. The beliefs (of mainline Mormons and their fundie brethren, whether they acknowledge them or not), the histories (grislier than you could imagine, with the prophet Joseph Smith going out in an OK Corral-styled bloodbath in a jailhouse), and the personalities (of Smith, of Brigham Young, and of the everyday Mormons and splinter-group leaders encountered) are all larger than life. Even Elizabeth Smart and her kidnapper make it into the mix, though it seems a distracting digression every time Krakauer drums it up. (We can only assume he bothers due to the CNN familiarity factor.)
If this is in fact "the one true entirely American religion," it's a fascinating one. Among the lighter beliefs is that Mormons don't drink coffee or take in caffeine. Then there's the timeline for the permissibility of polygamy (or "spiritual wifery," or "celestial marriage," or whatEVER), which is entirely debatable, depending on who you talk to. I grew so very angry at Joseph Smith and Brigham Young, particularly the former, for the obvious con men, hypocrites, and oft-deplorable husbands and human beings they were, this despite their undeniable charms and ways with words and movement building. (Sound like anyone in today's America?) That someone (Smith) can decry polygamy while at the same time ravishing 20- or even 15-year-old brides himself (up to 45 of them in all) is just something to mourn. (Question: How does someone even maintain 45 relationships at once? Probably because they're not relationships.)
What's more, a lot of the family trees depicted here have inbred branches growing out of inbred branches. I can't emphasize enough how supremely screwed up it is, stepdaughters being taken by their stepfathers and so on. (But to be fair, this was also the century of stateside slavery perped by us Gentiles, although so many wives in this Mormon era could also be deemed slaves.) It's also a chore to follow some of Krakauer's pedigree delineations, reminds one of trying to keep straight all the real-life political characters in Woodward and Bernstein's riveting-and-then-dull All The President's Men.
The story begins and ends with the tragic, disgusting deaths of a smart, strong-willed young woman and her daughter. The details of the murders are recounted in such a way that In Cold Blood didn't chill me, in ways that the sexual assault and killing of the girl Susie Salmon in The Lovely Bones' first chapter didn't get to me. I could barely read the relevant sections of this book, wondered why Krakauer included them and wished he'd pull up the reins. But he was and is relentless with all that he does, and writes, and that will not change.
A lot about even mainline Mormonism doesn't make sense to me, and seems hushed up so "Gentiles" won't trip over it, but the fact remains that, when you meet and know Mormons, you realize they are quite wonderful people. They do much for communities and are largely successful, driven, faithful people. (I mean, look at Mitt Romney.) It just so happens that most of the Mormons - mainliners and fundies both - met in this book are horrendous people, particularly Ron and Dan Lafferty. God bless Brenda and Erica Lafferty, their lives cut far too short by the most senseless reasoning.
And by Mormon killers I do mean both people who kill Mormons and Mormons who kill (kill "Gentiles" [anyone not Mormon, including Jews] and kill their own). The book is timely in that Mormon fundamentalists recently sprang into the news again, though hardly by their own desire, with the Texas polygamist colony fiasco in which lachrymose children were stripped from their prairie-dress–wearing mothers and placed with protective services. That intrusion's since been ruled unlawful, and the children were even returned to the compound, to their families.
It surely bears noting that this book centers on the killing of a mainline Mormon mother and her infant daughter by fundie Mormons, her estranged husband and brother-in-law. In adopting this thread throughout the book, Krakauer (the uber-successful magazine scribe of Into the Wild and Into Thin Air fame) frames it much like In Cold Blood, Capote's groundbreaking, timeless work. Indeed, it appears more and more as the book progresses that, when he's not content to simply play a prof of Mormon history for a chapter or two, Krakauer's eager to make this read his best go at copping Capote.
He largely succeeds. The book's a bit long at 360ish pages but shorter than, say, Devil in the White City, a book I kinda wanted to lump it in with. It's engrossing, immensely readable. The beliefs (of mainline Mormons and their fundie brethren, whether they acknowledge them or not), the histories (grislier than you could imagine, with the prophet Joseph Smith going out in an OK Corral-styled bloodbath in a jailhouse), and the personalities (of Smith, of Brigham Young, and of the everyday Mormons and splinter-group leaders encountered) are all larger than life. Even Elizabeth Smart and her kidnapper make it into the mix, though it seems a distracting digression every time Krakauer drums it up. (We can only assume he bothers due to the CNN familiarity factor.)
If this is in fact "the one true entirely American religion," it's a fascinating one. Among the lighter beliefs is that Mormons don't drink coffee or take in caffeine. Then there's the timeline for the permissibility of polygamy (or "spiritual wifery," or "celestial marriage," or whatEVER), which is entirely debatable, depending on who you talk to. I grew so very angry at Joseph Smith and Brigham Young, particularly the former, for the obvious con men, hypocrites, and oft-deplorable husbands and human beings they were, this despite their undeniable charms and ways with words and movement building. (Sound like anyone in today's America?) That someone (Smith) can decry polygamy while at the same time ravishing 20- or even 15-year-old brides himself (up to 45 of them in all) is just something to mourn. (Question: How does someone even maintain 45 relationships at once? Probably because they're not relationships.)
What's more, a lot of the family trees depicted here have inbred branches growing out of inbred branches. I can't emphasize enough how supremely screwed up it is, stepdaughters being taken by their stepfathers and so on. (But to be fair, this was also the century of stateside slavery perped by us Gentiles, although so many wives in this Mormon era could also be deemed slaves.) It's also a chore to follow some of Krakauer's pedigree delineations, reminds one of trying to keep straight all the real-life political characters in Woodward and Bernstein's riveting-and-then-dull All The President's Men.
The story begins and ends with the tragic, disgusting deaths of a smart, strong-willed young woman and her daughter. The details of the murders are recounted in such a way that In Cold Blood didn't chill me, in ways that the sexual assault and killing of the girl Susie Salmon in The Lovely Bones' first chapter didn't get to me. I could barely read the relevant sections of this book, wondered why Krakauer included them and wished he'd pull up the reins. But he was and is relentless with all that he does, and writes, and that will not change.
A lot about even mainline Mormonism doesn't make sense to me, and seems hushed up so "Gentiles" won't trip over it, but the fact remains that, when you meet and know Mormons, you realize they are quite wonderful people. They do much for communities and are largely successful, driven, faithful people. (I mean, look at Mitt Romney.) It just so happens that most of the Mormons - mainliners and fundies both - met in this book are horrendous people, particularly Ron and Dan Lafferty. God bless Brenda and Erica Lafferty, their lives cut far too short by the most senseless reasoning.
Holy the Firm by Annie Dillard
5.0
This is poetry masquerading as prose. It's slim at 75 pages, but the last five pages nearly had me in a trance. Some of the most compelling, tightest writing I've read.
All Aunt Hagar's Children: Stories by Edward P. Jones
3.0
"Despite all that has happened to you, you are, in the end, no better than all the rest of us who must fight to stay afloat. We want, we rage, we desire, we fail, we succeed. We stand in that long, long line. Where were you when they taught us that?"
This clip serves as as a pretty good thesis for this collection of short stories from Edward P. Jones, Pulitzer-claiming author of The Known World. The current running through these tales is that of African-American families living in or aspiring to live in Washington, D.C., at various times in the 20th century. Sound interesting? No? Then it's not for you. But it is for those who admire style and form, and who have the patience to let a story unfold over 25 or 30 pages rather than be spoonfed their lit-ertainment.
To be honest, I only read half of the volume's 14 stories. I didn't feel committed anymore at the midpoint and felt I'd given it a good go. (Also, a friend referred me to Daniel Pennac's Rights of the Reader, a list of 10 that include "the right to not finish a book. There's a whole lot of lit in the world; I feel so off the hook!) A problem I found with Jones's stories is that some weren't clear-cut enough for me to differentiate their details from other stories I read later. Tucked up in my noggin, they started to bleed together.
"In the Blink of God's Eye" opens and tells of love and loss, a primary theme in these shorts. (What better themes are there?) "A Poor Guatemalan Dreams of a Downtown in Peru" is not as pretentious as that title would have one believe, but it's also a romance, if one set up by and revolving around a host of tragic coincidences that are quite possibly more maddening than those that comprised The Kite Runner (and that says something). "Guatemalan" crests early and often and ends beautifully, though.
"Spanish in the Morning" inhabits a schoolgirl's thoughts and ways to startling effect. "Resurrecting Methuselah" weaves one family's plight around the father's breast cancer diagnosis (he simply can't believe in the mid-20th-century that that's what he's got). That story ends rather abruptly or shabbily, though, tapering off to nothingness. (I had this gripe with Roald Dahl's The Umbrella Man shorts as well.)
"Old Boys, Old Girls" has a woman's former lover coming upon her corpse in an apartment and then systematically tidying up the premises and inexplicably cleaning up her body and dressing her in fresh clothes atop the covers. It's morbid maybe but touching, certainly. The titular story, “All Aunt Hagar's Children,” has an ex-con enlisted by a dead man's mother to find her son's killer. She doesn't watch revenge; she simply wants to know who did it. The man is resigned but determined, and what he uncovers at tale's end is worth the read.
"Blood spilled with violence never goes away, I remembered my mother teaching Freddy and me, and you can see it if you have a mind to."
This clip serves as as a pretty good thesis for this collection of short stories from Edward P. Jones, Pulitzer-claiming author of The Known World. The current running through these tales is that of African-American families living in or aspiring to live in Washington, D.C., at various times in the 20th century. Sound interesting? No? Then it's not for you. But it is for those who admire style and form, and who have the patience to let a story unfold over 25 or 30 pages rather than be spoonfed their lit-ertainment.
To be honest, I only read half of the volume's 14 stories. I didn't feel committed anymore at the midpoint and felt I'd given it a good go. (Also, a friend referred me to Daniel Pennac's Rights of the Reader, a list of 10 that include "the right to not finish a book. There's a whole lot of lit in the world; I feel so off the hook!) A problem I found with Jones's stories is that some weren't clear-cut enough for me to differentiate their details from other stories I read later. Tucked up in my noggin, they started to bleed together.
"In the Blink of God's Eye" opens and tells of love and loss, a primary theme in these shorts. (What better themes are there?) "A Poor Guatemalan Dreams of a Downtown in Peru" is not as pretentious as that title would have one believe, but it's also a romance, if one set up by and revolving around a host of tragic coincidences that are quite possibly more maddening than those that comprised The Kite Runner (and that says something). "Guatemalan" crests early and often and ends beautifully, though.
"Spanish in the Morning" inhabits a schoolgirl's thoughts and ways to startling effect. "Resurrecting Methuselah" weaves one family's plight around the father's breast cancer diagnosis (he simply can't believe in the mid-20th-century that that's what he's got). That story ends rather abruptly or shabbily, though, tapering off to nothingness. (I had this gripe with Roald Dahl's The Umbrella Man shorts as well.)
"Old Boys, Old Girls" has a woman's former lover coming upon her corpse in an apartment and then systematically tidying up the premises and inexplicably cleaning up her body and dressing her in fresh clothes atop the covers. It's morbid maybe but touching, certainly. The titular story, “All Aunt Hagar's Children,” has an ex-con enlisted by a dead man's mother to find her son's killer. She doesn't watch revenge; she simply wants to know who did it. The man is resigned but determined, and what he uncovers at tale's end is worth the read.
"Blood spilled with violence never goes away, I remembered my mother teaching Freddy and me, and you can see it if you have a mind to."
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban by J.K. Rowling
3.0
It's plain to see that the Potter series simply advances, be it in plot, in tone, in maturity, in violence, in death. The beat goes on.
Bear with me here, but what I can't stop thinking about is how the series reminds me of Ian Fleming's James Bond books, or the movie versions anyway. (Hey, they're both British -- get off me.)
Hogwarts professors of magic are akin to Bond's Agent Q, the gadget guru who demonstrates exquisite new toys for 007 -- toys that he will inevitably come to use later on in the story for some crucial reason.
Then there are all the scenes where Harry and his friends are eavesdropping not-so-innocuously on conversations between bad guys or their instructors. These clips remind me of soap operas, where characters talk to themselves (and thus to us) out loud to explain details and move things along.
But back to Bond: Every book has its climactic showdown at the end -- will it be Voldemort or another wiz-gone-bad this time? or even a monster? -- and so much time is taken up by the requisite baddie in explaining to Potter how he's tracked him or plotted his eternal destruction. So many words -- why not just kill the kid if you're so BAD? Ah, but we need story and explanations for wrongs. And we do love finding out that someone isn't as bad (or not bad at all) as we were trained to think with the information up to that point.
This is getting long. I enjoyed this one as I did the previous two, and I'm looking forward to the fourth. Those I know who have read the books all herald it as their favorite.
Bear with me here, but what I can't stop thinking about is how the series reminds me of Ian Fleming's James Bond books, or the movie versions anyway. (Hey, they're both British -- get off me.)
Hogwarts professors of magic are akin to Bond's Agent Q, the gadget guru who demonstrates exquisite new toys for 007 -- toys that he will inevitably come to use later on in the story for some crucial reason.
Then there are all the scenes where Harry and his friends are eavesdropping not-so-innocuously on conversations between bad guys or their instructors. These clips remind me of soap operas, where characters talk to themselves (and thus to us) out loud to explain details and move things along.
But back to Bond: Every book has its climactic showdown at the end -- will it be Voldemort or another wiz-gone-bad this time? or even a monster? -- and so much time is taken up by the requisite baddie in explaining to Potter how he's tracked him or plotted his eternal destruction. So many words -- why not just kill the kid if you're so BAD? Ah, but we need story and explanations for wrongs. And we do love finding out that someone isn't as bad (or not bad at all) as we were trained to think with the information up to that point.
This is getting long. I enjoyed this one as I did the previous two, and I'm looking forward to the fourth. Those I know who have read the books all herald it as their favorite.
What Is God Like? by Rachel Held Evans, Matthew Paul Turner
5.0
A compact, inviting little jam of a read for kids about how a higher power operates in our world and lives. Beautifully illustrated and inclusive. For those into progressive theology and the like, check out more from Rachel Held Evans, who tragically died in her late 30s as this book was nearing completion. Such a legacy of love, diversity of thought and open-minded belief. This is a children's book about God that gladly abides in all of life's mysteries, its grace and its gray space.