Review of Home, by Marilynne Robinson

This book illustrates the dichotomy between the idea of home and its reality. "Home" the idea might evoke feelings of comfort, safety, companionship, desire fulfilled; synonyms such as "refuge," "shelter," and "haven" come to mind. Who wouldn't want to live there?

The book shows that a home might actually be a place of discomfort, disappointed and stifled longing, and misunderstandings; if not a place of outright danger it might house prickly-edged sensibilities that must constantly be circumvented or soothed.

The Boughton home is the latter, as much as the old man and his grown son and daughter long for it to be the former. The distant past -- the lore and furniture of ancestors -- encroaches and cannot be removed. Glory and Jack are clearly not "at home" there.

Page 102: "He lets us wander so we will know what it means to come home. What does it mean to come home?"

Page 282: "What kinder place could there be on earth, and why did it seem to them all like exile? Oh, to be passing anonymously through an impersonal landscape! Oh, not to know every stump and stone, not to remember how the fields of Queen Anne's lace figured in the childish happiness they had offered to their father's hopes, God bless him."

It's not, of course, that the current occupants are bad people or don't try to be a family. Indeed, they work very hard at loving each other, but are constantly thwarted because their own more immediate and unavoidable pasts join the fussy, dark curtains in crowding out the sun.

Experience had taught [her parents] that truth had sharp edges and hard corners, and could be seriously at odds with kindness. They had learned that excessive devotion to even the highest things seemed and probably was sanctimonious, and that the one sufficient measure of excess was that look of annoyance, confirmed in themselves by a twinge of embarrassment, that meant the line had been crossed. They recognized grace in the readiness of the darkest sinner to take a little joke, a few self-effacing words, as an apology. This was something her father in particular, who was morally strenuous but sociable, too, had learned to appreciate cordially. Truly there were perils on every side in the pastoral life, and her father was wary of them all. (page 17)

Kindness, however, was one of the things that irked Glory. She found her black-sheep brother too polite as he tip-toed through the minefield, and her father too quick to forgive (before he had been able to reconcile his tone of voice with the intent of his heart). Rev. Boughton had taken the view that a man's "crime was his punishment."

Maybe great sorrow or guilt is simply to be accepted as absolute, like revelation. My iniquity/punishment is greater than I can bear. In the Hebrew, her father said, that one word had two meanings and we chose one of them, which may make it harder for us to understand why the Lord would have pardoned Cain and protected him, and let him go on with his life, marry, have a son, build a city. (page 101)

The most telling line is on page 247: "Her family was slower to forgive a failure of discretion than they were to forgive most things actually prohibited in Scripture."

The father believed his prodigal was grieved to not belong, lonely in the midst of a large and boisterous family. "How could I be angry at that?" he says to Jack. Taking responsibility, he says, "I should have known how to help you with it."

No, it's not that this is a bad family, a miserable household. It's just very realistically drawn. Robinson patiently includes every gesture and eye-blink to convey how fraught with hazard love/home can be.

Jack cleared his throat. "It's been good to be home. It really has."

The old man raised his eyes and studied his son's face. "You've never had a name for me. Not one you'd call me to my face. Why is that?"

Jack shook his head. "I don't know, myself. They all seemed wrong when I said them. I didn't deserve to speak to you the way the others did."

"Oh!" his father said, and he closed his eyes. "That was what I waited for. That was what I wanted." (page 311)

At first I read into it the idea that what was wanted was the admission, but that seemed cruel, and the father was not cruel. What he wanted was the naming, to be known as "father" by the much-beloved son. He wanted his son to resume his proper place, to request -- even demand -- the fatted calf.

Home is a place we presume to belong, where we are accepted for ourselves.

Reviews of Lilith, The Man Who Was Thursday

Wordsmith and I had read these books in the past, and both found them to be quite different from what we recalled. Perhaps that's owing to their dreamlike qualities.

It's a genre I don't find tremendously appealing, but the books are very readable. There's enough in them to grasp hold of, to keep you from feeling that just anything can happen, as in the dreams we remember upon waking. The Man Who Was Thursday, by GK Chesterton, is subtitled "A Nightmare," but it hadn't seemed so "wild" the first time I read it. What I remembered was its suspense and intelligence. This time through I noticed more its humor.

My strongest impression of Lilith, (George MacDonald) from the first reading was the delight I felt in the Little Ones, a feeling shared with the narrator. They had awakened in him a protective, nurturing feeling, and that was something to which I could relate. But I had completely forgotten everything about the ending. More about forgettable endings later.

So, it's good to read things more than once, years separated, because you bring to them a different sensibility and you might learn more of what the author had in mind. For instance, as a young person when I read Lilith, I would not have been keyed in to all the epistemological and existential questions that the book asks and answers (Who am I? Why am I here? Where am I? How do I know what's real? What should I do? What happens when you die?). It's not that I wanted to learn the answers this time around, but that I could recognize them and see what MacDonald was trying to do.

A few important thoughts we took away from it:

Vane, the narrator, wants to be the hero in his own story. That's a fair assumption for a main character, but it's not to be the case here. He eventually learns the folly (vanity) of it.

At the beginning of the story, he's told that doing something -- seemingly any decisive deed -- will turn the strange world in which he finds himself into his home. He imagines himself capable of knowing what to do and bringing it to pass, but errs by resisting what is asked of him -- obedience, belief, dying.

He, like every one of us, thinks dying is what you do at the end of life, but it's really the beginning -- here and in the world MacDonald creates. Time and again Vane is implored to lay himself down -- die to self -- but it's so hard. Proper dying is surrender to the Maker's will, not to self-loathing or despair.

A few important quotes from Lilith:

When one says to the great Thinker:--'Here is one of thy thoughts: I am thinking it now! that is a prayer--a word to the big heart from one of its own little hearts.'

[T]o understand is not more wonderful than to love.

In this world never trust a person who has once deceived you. Above all, never do anything such a one may ask you to do.

You lost your chance [to love the Little Ones], Mr. Vane! You speculated about them instead of helping them.

One of the sentences I highlighted in TMWWT is, "Moderate strength is shown in violence, supreme strength is shown in levity." Maybe that's Chesterton's point, although I liked it better when I read it as a straight suspense thriller. The levity kind of ruined it for me. I can't decide what Chesterton means. Is he saying that anarchists are ridiculous, or that people who worry about them are ridiculous? I guess both could be true.

Wordsmith and I spent more time discussing Occupy Wall Street than the book, and there could be lessons here for them and us:

You've got that eternal idiotic idea that if anarchy came it would be from the poor. Why should it? The poor have been rebels, but they have never been anarchists; they have more interest than anyone else in there being some decent government. The poor man really has a stake in the country. The rich man hasn't; he can go away to New Guinea in a yacht. The poor have sometimes objected to being governed badly; the rich have always objected to being governed at all.

. . . When duty and religion are really destroyed, it will be by the rich.

What I really couldn't understand was the ending. I didn't remember it at all. In fact, all that really stuck with me was the tension of the early chapters. (It was as though I'd stopped reading altogether.) The culmination affirms a biblical worldview, but is stranger than Lilith even though everything happens in "the real world." It calls into question what is real. My last highlight:

Shall I tell you the secret of the whole world? It is that we have only known the back of the world. We see everything from behind, and it looks brutal.

Upcoming selections

We went ahead at our September meeting and set out the selections for the rest of the year, based on the list we've been compiling of Books We Want to Read Before We Die.

First up, for October . . . Lilith, by George MacDonald, and The Man Who Was Thursday, by G.K. Chesterton.

About The Man Who Was Thursday: "G. K. Chesterton's surreal masterpiece is a psychological thriller that centers on seven anarchists in turn-of-the-century London who call themselves by the names of the days of the week. Chesterton explores the meanings of their disguised identities in what is a fascinating mystery and, ultimately, a spellbinding allegory."

About Lilith: "Rich in symbolism, steeped in paradox, this is a tale of a man's journey and his coming to terms with the frailty of humanity when it is seen in the light of God. MacDonald never hides the basis of his paradigm--that there is a God who loves us, who knows better than we do what is best for us--rather, he weaves it into a rich tapestry of adventure wherein key characters make known the paradox that is at the heart of Chrisitianity: he who would be first must be last."

Both are very different, a little difficult, interesting. We should have a good discussion on the 20th.

November - Home, by Marilynn Robinson. We read Gilead our first year. This is a follow-up book. You might want to read Gilead if you haven't already. Great book.

December - off

January - Life of Pi, by Yann Martel. Winner of the 2002 Man Booker Prize for Fiction. "Pi Patel is an unusual boy. The son of a zookeeper, he has an encyclopedic knowledge of animal behavior, a fervent love of stories, and practices not only his native Hinduism, but also Christianity and Islam. When Pi is sixteen, his family emigrates from India to North America aboard a Japanese cargo ship, along with their zoo animals bound for new homes. Life of Pi is at once a realistic, rousing adventure and a meta-tale of survival that explores the redemptive power of storytelling and the transformative nature of fiction. It's a story, as one character puts it, to make you believe in God."

February - The Michigan Murders, by Edward Keyes, and Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers, by Mary Roach

March - The Blue Star: A Novel, by Tony Earley. This is a sequel to Jim the Boy, our first-ever selection, a sweet tale. You'll want to read it.

April - The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, by Rebecca Skloot

May - The Spirit of Food, by Leslie Leyland Fields, and Eat, Pray, Love: One Woman's Search for Everything Across Italy, India, and Indonesia, by Elizabeth Gilbert

We settled on these, and then, on the way out the door at Schuler's I saw a book by a feminist writer I've appreciated: Naomi Wolf's The End of America: Letter to a Young Patriot. I'd like us to squeeze this in by making it our summer reading selection, or first thing next September. It would be a good lead-in to the 2012 election. And it has linkages to Thomas Paine's Common Sense. We should read them both.

Review: Silas Marner

Somehow I made it through school without having to read Silas Marner. If what Susan Hallender said is true, then I think that's a good thing. One sure way of killing great literature is to force a person to read it. I'm very grateful for Wordsmith's selection of this classic. I may never have read it otherwise, because unfortunately it has that taint of being "a book you read for school."

If I were a young person, I know I would have had a hard time completing the book. At one point I couldn't figure out Eliot's point in suddenly introducing the townsfolk through their lengthy discussion in the pub. Who are all these people and why should I care? For I while I put the book down because I cared about Silas and Eppie too much and feared something really awful would happen to them.

A good writer doesn't waste anything, and Eliot is a good writer. Tension is natural in any love story; she doesn't have to do anything really awful to her characters to keep you interested. And the scene in the pub is, after all, important because this isn't just a story. It's an examination of civic life. How do people live together? What orders their lives? How do they handle crises? How do they treat strangers?

It's also an examination of faith versus reason. Lantern Yard seems to represent a hyper-spiritual community, where faith is mistaken for mysticism and superstition. Knowledge and reason are mistrusted. It doesn't eradicate envy and greed, theft or falsehood. It doesn't know what to do with them.

Raveloe villagers, in contrast, have things, enjoy food and drink, go to church irreligiously. It isn't devoid of faith at all, as evidenced by the hearty exhortations of Dolly Winthrop. People know what they believe and have woven it into the fabric of their lives. (Nice metaphor, eh?) At least they behave correctly toward Silas, and they remind him to behave correctly, too. I'm thinking of the scene where Silas accuses a fellow who's been in his home of taking the gold. Another man reminds him of the law against presuming guilt until it's proven, a law derived from the scriptural requirement of two or three witnesses. They accept Silas, they help and seek justice for him. They support him in his adoption of Eppie. It's not accidental that Lantern Yard ceases to exist, overtaken by the Industrial Revolution, while Raveloe thrives.

Eliot seems to admire the natural and rustic. She writes of "unnurtured souls" and "least-instructed human beings" as being capable of the highest, finest qualities.

"There is hardly a servant-maid in these days who is not better informed than Miss Nancy; yet she had the essential attributes of a lady -- high veracity, delicate honour in her dealings, deference to others, and refined personal habits. . . ."

Aside from Silas, I found the character of Godfrey Cass most interesting. He was complex. There was more actual tension in the story concerning him. Would he sacrifice himself? Would he do right by Nancy? What kind of man was he? Would he insist on having his way? Would he ruin everything?

Nancy's a little flat, but she asks herself a good question, with which I'll close: "I can do so little -- have I done it all well?"

Wordsmith's Summer Reading

This summer I've read a couple of Daphne du Maurier books: The House on the Strand and Julius. Neither was what I expected - not like the mysteries I've read - but both were well written and really interesting. Julius follows the life of a man from birth to death and depicts the reality of and relationship between evil in the world and in the human heart. The main character of The House on the Strand lives in two worlds... or so he thinks. Du Maurier is so good at convincing you to believe something and then turning everything around to show you what's really true.
Right now I'm finishing up Mark Twain's The Prince and the Pauper. Twain's never been a favorite of mine, but I might reconsider since I'm enjoying this one.
Next I'm planning to read The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan, then on to George Eliot's Silas Marner, our September selection. I love summer reading!

Selection for September: Silas Marner by George Eliot

Here's what Susan Hallender said about it in an Amazon review:

Question: How can you ensure that a person will hate a book? Answer: Make her read it for 7th grade English class, make sure that the language is old-fashioned, and above all, make sure that the ideas and concepts are over her head. If that's what happened to you, and that's why you have an aversion to Silas Marner, and you are now over 30, pick it up again. Read it twice. Silas Marner is one of the greatest novels in the English language.

. . . When you're all done, before you file Silas Marner on the shelf, go back and read the paragraph about Silas' thoughts when he discovers that his hordes of coins are missing. If you have ever felt sudden extreme loss, you will recognize the stages of despair from disbelief to acceptance "like a man falling into dark water." Which is why this book is not suitable for children, and is most appreciated by those who have undergone their own moral redemption.

Silas has been the inspiration for many other characters, including Dicken's Scrooge. He has been portrayed in movies, including "A Simple Twist of Fate" starring Steve Martin. But none is as good as the original. If you haven't read it since junior high, try it again. Silas Marner is an excellent book. There's a gem of human understanding in every chapter.

See you September 15th!

Thoughts on The Beautiful Side of Evil

I don't plan to say too much, but what I will say is that Johanna Michaelsen truly opens your eyes to some things that we don't like to think about or dwell on. And that's probably how it should be. The point that comes through in The Beautiful Side of Evil is that it's a mistake to think too much or too little about the matters she discusses. (You can see I don't even like to put them into words.) The occult is definitely not something to play around with. Her book is fair warning.

Which brings me to a question that occurred in our discussion: What's so beautiful about evil? The author certainly leaves no beauty to be desired there. It seems to me that the reason more people don't fall for this stuff is they're not so open to any experience as Johanna was. They're more doubtful about strange phenomena. They're frightened of it. For good reason. It has no fascination for me.

Strangely enough, in my mail this week at work was a catalog from Inner Traditions. I have no idea how I got on their list; it was addressed to me at one of my blogs for work. I can't think of any reason they would connect it to what they're selling. I mention it here because their list of products reads like some of the things Johanna warns about. To me, it was interesting the kinds of things this new-agey catalog brings together:

Books about new consciousness ("How to thrive in transitional times and participate in the coming spiritual renaissance") and plant wisdom ("Consulting plant spirits for spiritual and psychological guidance and healing"). Books about "ghostly processions of the undead" and "talking animals." Other topics include yoga, voodoo, "rebel angels," the planetary mind, essential oils, Chi Kung, shamanism, Tai Chi, neurofeedback, and end times. On facing pages there's a book about the Temple of Solomon and another about invoking the scribes of ancient Egypt.

So, this stuff is definitely out there. And it's really OUT THERE, if you get my drift. Buyer beware!

Review: The House of Mirth

Lily Bart is a tragic heroine. I don't know whether she was the first such in literature, but she does seem unusual when considered alongside Jane Eyre, Elisabeth Bennet, or Fanny Price (Mansfield Park, Jane Austen). Maybe she'd be more in the vein of Catherine Earnshaw (Wuthering Heights). In my mind, she fits somewhere in the neighborhood of Holly Golightly (Breakfast at Tiffanys), but not quite as fallen as Moll Flanders and Becky Sharp (Vanity Fair, William Makepeace Thackeray).

We discussed how responsible Lily was for her fate. How much did she understand about her condition? How much could she have changed? Using my Kindle as a highlighter, I was able to find a surprising number of quotes that show she knew (or should have known) she skated on thin ice:

Hitherto Lily had been undisturbed by scruples.

Miss Bart had in fact been treading a devious way, and none of her critics could have been more alive to the fact than herself; but she had a fatalistic sense of being drawn from one wrong turning to another, without ever perceiving the right road until it was too late to take it.

All her past weaknesses were like so many eager accomplices drawing her toward the path their feet had already smoothed.

[T]here had been nothing in her training to develop any continuity of moral strength: what she craved, and really felt herself entitled to, was a situation in which the noblest attitude should also be the easiest.

Just looking at those sentences, it's a wonder we can root for her, but we do. We want her to find love on her own terms. We like her, even though, if we met her today we might find her impossible to bear. A woman who literally lived off beauty and charm? Perhaps we would find her vain and consider her useless. Who would be her modern equivalent? Paris Hilton? Jessica Simpson?

No, Lily was not vapid. Grace as she possessed does go a long way. Today she'd at least have a high school education and would be more equipped for gainful employment. She'd resist being thought of as mere decoration.

To Carrie Fisher, Lily is a fascinating study. Lily wanted to be regarded for her mind. She wanted freedom, but barely knew what it was. She only got whiffs of if from Selden. He tells her,

"My idea of success . . . is personal freedom."

"Freedom? Freedom from worries?"

"From everything--from money, from poverty, from ease and anxiety, from all the material accidents. To keep a kind of republic of the spirit--that's what I call success."

The idea intoxicated her and led to her downfall. She didn't have the luxury. The "republic of the spirit" -- what I take to be self-possession, self-direction, being true to oneself -- was beyond her reach. She "had never learned to live with her own thoughts." "She could not acquire the air of doing things because she wanted to." As beautiful and sophisticated (in a certain sense) as she was, she was only a slave. She was beyond dingy.

What did Edith Wharton want us to think? She herself was a member of the society she critiqued. She loved beauty; built an opulent mansion; wrote a book on house decor. She also was unhappily married. Was Lily an alter-ego? Her cry for help?

The title suggests something deeper in her mind. The brief glimpse we're given near the end of the book is a clue. The introduction of a new homescape -- simple and spotlessly clean, sheltering a family that lives within its means and is founded on compassion, redemption, and forgiveness. These aren't accidental. Is The House of Mirth a parable of the deceitfulness of pleasure? Is Lily the female version of the Proverbial simpleton -- enticed by beauty and lured by love, who "does not know that it will cost him his life" and is "all at once" hopelessly ensnared?

It's a nice coincidence that the same night we discussed this we also discussed The Beautiful Side of Evil. Charm is deceitful and beauty is vain.

Postscript: I forgot to say something about why Lily is heroic. She's likeable too in that she sacrifices herself for others. Selden and Bertha Dorset never know what she did for them at such a cost. Ironically and tragically, she is judged as having done the very thing from which she spared them. In a sense, she dies for them.

Final word:  "It is better to go to the house of mourning, than to go to the house of feasting [mirth]: for that is the end of all men; and the living will lay it to his heart." (Ecclesiastes 7:2)

May selection: "The Beautiful Side of Evil" by Johanna Michaelsen

This is a true account of a young woman who, while in search of spiritual truth, became a personal assistant to a psychic surgeon in Mexico for 14 months. Then, in answer to her prayers, God revealed the true source behind the miraculous healings she witnessed... Johanna reveals how this deadly deception is not isolated to her unusual experience but rather is invading our everyday lives, even our churches.
Lisa says, "This was written in 1960 and has a forward by Hal Lindsey. I have two copies I can bring to church Sunday and I found one on KDL.org and one at half.com."

Due to scheduling difficulties with our April meeting, we'll discuss The House of Mirth and The Beautiful Side of Evil on May 19.

April selection: The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton

"The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning; but the heart of fools is in the house of mirth." (Ecclesiastes 7:4)

Beautiful Lily Bart failed to head the warning, turning directly from the funeral parlor to the homes of New York City's 400 -- friends whose wealth and fast living led her to believe she, too, could have a life of ease.

I've read The House of Mirth twice, and seen the movie (not as great), but I'm looking forward to reading it again and discussing it with everyone on April 21 28 May 19.

Finding a good book to read

At our last club meeting, the hazards of finding books -- particularly online -- came up. Unless, or until, Barnes & Noble comes up with a rating system like there is for movies, the reader is pretty much in the dark about a new author and the contents or subject matter of his or her books.

I'd like to recommend what I'll call the literary pedigree approach to finding good books. It's worked very well for me.

Start with an author you've found to be enjoyable and trustworthy. Then get to know the authors that influenced him or her, and other authors who've been influenced by them.

I can still trace the pedigree that began for me with C.S. Lewis. I read, I believe, all his fiction works -- The Chronicles of Narnia, the space-time trilogy, The Great Divorce -- and then I wondered, "What next?"

Also around that time I read some of his non-fiction, and a biography or two about him. I recommend doing the latter. If you find an author that you like, get to know him or her better by reading an autobiography or biography. And pay attention to the books he or she likes. You might even be able to find this information on Wikipedia.

In Lewis' case, one literary influence was George MacDonald. He wrote Lilith, Phantastes, The Princess and the Goblin, At the Back of the North Wind, and many other terrific books. They are listed on his Wikipedia entry.

Also listed are other authors influenced by him, and I have enjoyed works by many of them: J.R.R. Tolkien, Madeleine L'Engle, and even Mark Twain. One in particular, G.K. Chesterton, brought me to some favorites: the Father Brown mysteries and The Man Who Was Thursday.
A contemporary (to us) author that found inspiration in MacDonald is Michael Phillips. His titles will keep you busy for a long time. Indeed, following the Lewis pedigree gives readers a wealth of good reading.

One other author in the Lewis realm -- a friend, though not an Inkling -- is Dorothy Sayers. Her Lord Peter Wimsey mysteries are delightful. From there the trail in my memory of links between authors peters out, but you get the drift.

By following such a trail, starting with an author of substance and learning about from whence the substance was derived, you won't go too far wrong. You'll find books that are worth reading. There's no lack of books to read these days; discerning which are most worthwhile takes a little research but is not too hard.

Review: Stealing Buddha's Dinner, a memoir by Bich Minh Nguyen

This book contains the childhood memories of a Vietnamese woman who came to this country as a baby in 1975 as Saigon fell to the Communists. She has no recollection of her old country, yet suffers as a displaced person after her family settles in our hometown of Grand Rapids, Michigan. It was pleasant and somewhat jarring to see it through her eyes.

Ambiguity seems to be a theme. As she grows up, she is deeply attracted to, and yet repulsed by, Americans and their ways.

Television is her entree into the culture. From it she learns the language and absorbs its lessons. As most children do, she takes it quite literally that the products she sees advertised will make her happy and fulfilled. She seems to come to an understanding early on that they won't satisfy, but the promise is so strong that she can't quite shake it.

Dissatisfaction she has plenty. Her family is fragmented, a blending of immigrants -- her Vietnamese father, sister, grandmother, and uncles with a Hispanic stepmother and stepsister. She's never known her mother, and there's no one who will tell her what she wants to know about her. While the stepmother is an English-as-a-second-language instructor who does her best to learn the system and make it work for them, the rest seem to go their own way and assimilate to varying degrees.

And it's in the days before multiculturalism. Political correctness, as odious as we often find it, nevertheless has not had its good effect of creating an awareness of the value of other cultures. And so she suffers the slings and arrows of misunderstanding, prejudice, and outright cruelty. Kind people make overtures, but with Bich it seems to only increase her isolation. She can't process what's going on around her, and can't articulate what's going on inside. The people in her life who should have nurtured her were either absent or silent.

The book gives you a good sense of her feelings. Much is relatable to everyone's experience at one time or another. Who hasn't felt like an outsider? Ugly? Hungry? Who isn't grateful to have overcome those feelings, as the author finally seems to by the end?

Readers must have patience with the shifting timeline. It often isn't clear how old the writer was when an event occured. I felt, though, that the glimpse into another life, in a time and place that I have lived through, was interesting and worthwhile.

In homage to the theme of food that ties all her chapters together, we decided to meet at a local restaurant where we could sample Vietnamese food. Lai Thai Kitchen on Leonard NE is a pleasant space with good food and accommodating staff -- who said they were Buddhist when we showed them the book we'd read and our reason for coming. And, just as in Bich's grandmother's bedroom, there sat a Buddha at the restaurant's entrance, complete with an offering of watermelon.

Selection for March: Stealing Buddha's Dinner

From the author's website: As a Vietnamese girl coming of age in Grand Rapids, Michigan, Bich Nguyen is filled with a rapacious hunger for American identity. In the pre-PC era Midwest, where the devoutly Christian blonde-haired, blue-eyed Jennifers and Tiffanys reign supreme, the barely conscious desire to belong transmutes into a passion for American food. More exotic seeming than her Buddhist grandmother’s traditional specialties—spring rolls, delicate pancakes stuffed with meats, herbs, and bean sprouts, fried shrimp cakes—the campy, preservative-filled “delicacies” of mainstream America capture her imagination. And in this remarkable book, the glossy branded allure of such American foods as Pringles, Kit Kats, and Tollhouse cookies become an ingenious metaphor for her struggle to fit in, to become a “real” American, a distinction that brings with it the dream of the perfect school lunch, burgers and Jell-O for dinner, and a visit from the Kool-Aid man.

Stealing Buddha's Dinner is a vivid, funny, and viscerally powerful memoir about childhood, assimilation, food and growing up in the 1980s.

Plan for our March discussion: To meet at a China Chef . . . unless someone can suggest a good Vietnamese restaurant.

• Discussion questions
• Interview with the author

Review: The Devil in Pew Number Seven

This book is a memoir of actual events in a little girl's life, events that changed the course of her future and shaped her character. A weaker person, indeed her own father, would be scarred irreparably. But, ironically, it was the lessons he'd taught her by the time she was seven years old that saved her from becoming bitter.

Before you crack open the cover, you know something really bad is going to happen. And after the first chapter you know what it is, but it doesn't ruin the suspense. (There's plenty of mystery remaining as to who and why.) The Devil in Pew Number Seven lags a bit when the author gets a little carried away with her metaphors attempting to describe events before her own birth; the pace and power of description picks up once she comes of age. But from start to finish the book is a page-turner, a quick and rewarding read.

The reward comes in considering the nature and source of forgiveness. Big topic for a little girl, but she learned it at an early age. Her parents trained her for it, though the reason came from a different direction than what ultimately it was most needed for. It's heartening to realize that the lessons learned before one is seven can last a lifetime. The author's parents served her well.

At the same time, a large part of our discussion centered around the issue of whether she'd had to come to the point of forgiving her parents for remaining in a situation of terror that would ultimately cost one of them their lives and the other a complete physical and mental breakdown. Should they have left the church, or at least moved away from Mr. Watts? They repeatedly gave their reason for staying as devotion to "the call" of God on their lives, but was it sacrifice or foolishness? It was right for the Apostle Paul to put his own life on the line for the gospel, but he didn't have a wife and children. And he had direct revelation from God. The question remains open -- and important to drawing conclusions for ones own life -- whether staying in Sellerstown was God's will for them.

Related:

• Sellerstown shooting story told by little girl who survived
• Churches need to recognize the symptoms of avenger violence
• Dont miss the video below, which offers some interesting revelations and explains the early over-writing.

Selection for February: The Devil in Pew Number Seven

Rebecca never felt safe as a child. In 1969, her father, Robert Nichols, moved to Sellerstown, North Carolina, to serve as a pastor. There he found a small community eager to welcome him—with one exception. Glaring at him from pew number seven was a man obsessed with controlling the church. Determined to get rid of anyone who stood in his way, he unleashed a plan of terror that was more devastating and violent than the Nichols family could have ever imagined. Refusing to be driven away by acts of intimidation, Rebecca’s father stood his ground until one night when an armed man walked into the family’s kitchen . . . and Rebecca’s life was shattered. If anyone had a reason to harbor hatred and seek personal revenge, it would be Rebecca. Yet The Devil in Pew Number Seven tells a different story. It is the amazing true saga of relentless persecution, one family’s faith and courage in the face of it, and a daughter whose parents taught her the power of forgiveness.

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Review: The Once and Future King

The tone and theme of T.H. White's novel are both a little surprising. I found the at times cartoonish atmosphere unexpected yet amusing, which lightened what would otherwise have been a heavy thesis on war and justice. The theme is brilliantly developed and the writing style fluid. White must have been deeply moved by what he saw developing in Europe circa 1939 -- 20 years or so after the end of World War I and on the cusp of Hitler's invasions and the rise of other Fascist dictators -- to create such a masterpiece. As the frontispiece suggests, White well chose a story that's in Britain's psyche.

The humor also relieved some pretty horrible scenes, particularly in book 2 about Morgause. In our discussion, someone said they found the scene where the unicorn is butchered hard to read. Yes, but it's also one of the most realistic and vivid portrayals of efforts to make a good presentation of what is an essentially botched job (sin).

We agreed that one of the most beautiful sections is in the first book, when Wart is a goose. If ever humans could repudiate war and live like the birds in peace and equanimity, wouldn't life be good? White reminds us of the geese in the last chapter, as he returns to all his themes in a summation. Because of this, we used the last chapter as a jumping-off point for our discussion.

Why do men fight? "Was it the wicked leaders who led innocent populations to slaughter, or was it wicked populations who chose leaders after their own hearts?"

What will bring peace and justice? "Countries would have to become counties -- but counties which could keep their own culture and local laws. The imaginary lines on the earth's surface only needed to be unimagined." Only the return of our future king will make this real. This apparently was not a prospect that White intended his readers to expect.