This would have been a "Top 10" list, but unfortunately I don't have much leisure time given my two little distractions. Yet I have managed to squeeze in some reading during nap time and late at night when I should have gone to bed hours ago, but couldn't resist the compulsion to find out what's going to happen. Those are the nights I accept the fact that I'm going to be bleary-eyed and fuzzy the next day, the effects of a literary hangover.
Here are the seven books that had the greatest impact on me this year. Unlike the other "Top 10" lists you'll see this time of year, most of these books weren't published in 2015, but rather are those I read in 2015 and what they meant to me.
1. The Girl on the Train (2015)
Reading this book is
like smoking crack. I couldn't stop. I started it one Friday
afternoon while Tess was napping and ignored my family for the rest of
the night and into the next morning to finish it. I haven't felt this
drawn to a psychological thriller since reading Gillian Flynn's Gone Girl. One of my favorite
aspects of the book is that it plays upon something we all do, which
is compare ourselves to other people and feel inferior. We look at
a strikingly beautiful woman or seemingly perfect couple and do exactly
what a wise woman warned me against years ago: compare our insides to
their outsides. She must have the perfect life. They must never have problems. What is wrong with me? Every
day the main character, Rachel, engages in this idealization while
taking the train into London, passing by the backyard of a happy-looking
couple while sipping cans of warm gin and tonic and yearning for their
seemingly idyllic life. Until tragedy strikes and you learn along with
Rachel that nothing's as perfect it seems and nobody gets through life
without a little
—
or a lot of — heartache and struggle.
Anyone who liked Alice Sebold's Lovely Bones will find themselves entranced by this debut novel by Celeste Ng. There's something about the death of a child, particularly a teenage girl, that brings family dynamics to the forefront during the grieving process. The title alone underscores the theme of how much we withhold from those who supposedly know us best and love us most, those we live with day after day and sleep next to night after night. It's a story about the loss of intimacy and the fear and shame that drive us to hide parts of ourselves, leading to misunderstanding and alienation. It takes courage to share our deepest thoughts and feelings with each other and just as much courage to be receptive to the deepest thoughts and feelings of those we love, especially when they're at odds with our own experience and agenda. There's a saying in Alcoholics Anonymous that "You're only as sick as your secrets." This book not only illustrates that fact, but the reasons we go to such lengths to avoid being honest with each other — and how much it costs us.
There is literature, and there is Literature. Toni Morrison is Literature with a capital "L." I don't know how I avoided reading any of her novels in high school or college, but I stumbled upon this work of art while browsing the shelves of Unabridged, our neighborhood bookstore. On the back wall, they had a display of the top-selling books for each year from the 1960s to the present. As I scanned the titles, this one jumped out at me. When I started reading, I had a hard time getting into it. But as I kept going I was soon captivated by Morrison's complex construction of the narrative, how it jumped from the present to the past and back again to give you just enough information about the main character, Macon "Milkman" Dead, and his African-American ancestry to make you deeply invested in his journey toward self discovery. Morrison's use of language is what really struck me. It has a sophistication that left me in awe, wondering if I could ever aspire to that level of eloquence. Here's a brief example from Morrison's description of Milkman's apathy towards his girlfriend:
She was the third beer. Not the first one, which the throat receives with almost tearful gratitude; nor the second, that confirms and extends the pleasure of the first. But the third, the one you drink because it's there, because it can't hurt, and because what difference does it make?
In keeping with the African-American theme, I read Sue Monk Kidd's latest novel about slavery in 19th century Charleston. More specifically, the interwoven stories of Sarah and Angelina Grimke, two sisters at the forefront of the abolitionist and women's rights movement, and Hetty, a young slave girl who was given to Sarah on her 11th birthday. The fascinating aspect of this book is that Sarah and Angelina were real life people — crusaders you've never heard of who grew up in a wealthy slaveholding family and broke with their Southern roots and religion to become the first female abolitionists in America. As part of this journey, Sarah teaches Hetty to read, an illegal act that results in Hetty being whipped and Sarah being banned from her father's library. Sarah later moves to Philadelphia and becomes a Quaker, withstanding ridicule and death threats as she speaks out against slavery and the oppression of women. Not only was I surprised to have never heard about these sisters given their impact on the women's movement, but reading this book made me contemplate my own capacity for bravery. Faced with evil in my front yard, would I have the courage to take action at the risk of ridicule, physical harm and ostracism from my very own family? It's easy to condemn the more harrowing chapters of human history after the fact. Not as easy in real time, when the costs of going against the interests of greater society are significant and potentially deadly.
As I continue compiling this list, it's becoming increasingly clear that I'm drawn to stories with spiritual undercurrents and possibly aspire to become an African-American woman. Here we go again with a book named Ruby, which I read as part of my book club at work, which disbanded before its first meeting because the colleague who organized it left for another law firm. Nonetheless, I am glad this book found me, as it is a fantastical tale of the effects of trauma — specifically sexual abuse — and the healing powers of someone else's loving presence as the survivor works through the damage. My favorite line in the book is when Ephram, the main character, tells Ruby, the victim of childhood violence, "If you're brave enough to live it, the least I can do is listen." I mean talk about generosity. It made me reflect on how much I've gained from listening to my friends and family when they're in pain and struggling. I have found listening so, so powerful. It's an act that is highly underrated given our society's focus on advice giving and having all the answers. Listening with all our hearts and all our attention tells the other person, "You are okay. I'm not going anywhere. Tell me anything." The author, Cynthia Bond, has done her fair share of listening while conducting writing workshops for abused and runaway teens in Los Angeles.
This children's story was the UK's best-selling picture book in 2000, yet somehow I'd never heard of it until a colleague from our firm's Belfast office came to visit this fall and brought it for Owen. It's a clever story recounted with a catchy rhyme about a mouse taking a walk in the woods and trying to evade its predators. I've been reading children's stories more than anything else these days and I found it a refreshing break from The Bernstein Bears, Clifford, Curious George and, God help us, Thomas the Tank Engine. I have found that I don't like children's books and TV programs that have a moral to the story, those that hit you over the head with the value of sharing or being "a really useful engine." I like a book that weaves an imaginative tale, with no other purpose than capturing kids' attention with silly phrases like "owl ice cream" and "scrambled snake" and descriptions like, "His eyes are orange, his tongue is black. He has purple prickles all over his back," to which Owen always responds, "Ewwwwwww!" Since discovering The Gruffalo, we've become fans of Superworm and Room on the Broom, also written by Julia Donaldson and illustrated by Axel Scheffler.
This is a case of the right book at the right time. I ordered it from Amazon after a trusted adviser said, "You might be ready for this." Ready indeed. This book taught me more about my life's purpose than anything else I've ever read and deepened my understanding of what it means to be mindful, as I recount in this post. I always thought spiritual development was about becoming calm all the time, barely blinking in the face of injustice or adversity. Au contraire. It's about recognizing when you've been "hooked" by an insult or fear and start telling yourself scary stories that make you shut down or get all worked up and make a rude remark, eat a gallon of ice cream, write a nasty email, scream at someone in traffic, down a bottle of wine, max out your credit card or engage in any kind of behavior with the thought, "I'll show them!" or "I deserve this!" The "development" part of spiritual development that Pema Chodron explains in this surprisingly concise book is learning to sit with this energy rather than engage in whatever habits we've developed to avoid discomfort. As a reformed door slammer, I could use less drama in my life and this book tells me exactly how not to fuel the fire when I'm pissed or scared and wanting to get rid of the feeling by medicating, condemning, or evening the score. What a relief. I'm sure I'll have plenty of opportunities to practice in 2016.
Happy New Year!
