A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith. Part of my problem with this book was that I thought it would be darker. Part of my problem was that the writing wasn't great. Part of my problem was that Angela's Ashes was great. And part of my problem was that this was too darn close to my family history. As in, the names were frequently the same. As in, I have the same name (abbreviated) as the main character's younger sister. I think I heard lines from this book growing up. This main character would be my grandmother, but it's my mother who loved this book. For my take on my own childhood, see Wallace Stegner's Big Rock Candy Mountain. In any event, this is a must-read (or listen) for anyone whose Irish roots first grew in New York City.
A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again by David Foster Wallace. When it was good it was very, very good. When it was bad it was boring. Sorry, poor David Foster Wallace, but I'm not so interested in television as you were, and nobody can be interested enough in David Lynch. And I'm speaking as someone who was once in an elevator with David Lynch, me with my parents and wearing platform gold-lamé shoes and sequined, rainbow-colored pants. But two essays in this book are epic. One, the state fair essay, and one the title-providing cruise essay. This last one is worth the price of admission, got me very wound up for a few days about cruise ship food, before letting me down on the "drinks not included" thing. Extra points for the most excellent narrator. DFW is becoming one of those writers whose work I must read In Toto.
No, not the little dog...
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