Last Friday, I finished Purple Hibiscus by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. This was a book I purchased from Barnes & Noble online because it was like 5 bucks. And I was intrigued because the author is Igbo (like me!). It was interesting to learn her background as Nigerian-raised and educated, but that she had further college-level work in the U.S., so there was an awareness of both worlds.

The book was fascinating because it depicted a Nigeria I’m not particularly familiar with, e.g., people who live in cities and have electricity (sort of) and running water (only a few). My relatives largely live in villages without those two conveniences of modern life and with a well and a generator, we make life in the village somewhat “normal” by Western standards.

The story itself - a sort of coming of age story of a very sheltered teenager - is interesting more because its perspective is unusual. There just aren’t that many books that reach our shores about Nigerian teenagers. Here, fifteen year old Kambili lives under a strict and abusive father who is generous with the Catholic Church and community. The result is that he is a well-regarded benefactor for the church and considered one of the most important men in town, not only for the food he gives at Christmas, but also because he runs the one newspaper that is willing to criticize the government. Yet at home, he is somewhat of a tyrant, demanding perfection from his children in every aspect of their lives (school, schedules, worship, dialogue at the dinner table), punishing what seems to be even the slightest deviation.

The book is written well from Kambili’s perspective - she knows what a sheltered fifteen year old would know and as she starts thinking new things, the reader is brought along the journey with her. There is some fairly well-worn coming-of-age ground here - shy, sheltered girl mistaken for a snob; traumatic domestic situation that appears normal to outsiders; a little rebellion; etc. The story is redeemed, though, because the characters are realistically drawn (even though set in an unfamiliar land) and behave and react and make choices that are so believable even when heartbreaking.

So this book is bulletproof. I finished A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers a few weeks ago, but for some reason wasn’t motivated to write about it. I went in with high expectations (always a mistake), and came out thinking it was great, but with vague, nagging sense of disappointment that I cannot fully articulate. I love McSweeney’s and since just about everyone under 30 living in San Francisco has apparently already read the book, I had heard raves from several different places, including how cool it was to read about parts of the city they knew and to read Eggers describe doing things my very friends also do. Also there was that big ol’ “Pullitzer Prize Finalist” bubble on the cover. So that was the hype, but it did not help that contemporaneously with reading I kept stumbling across pieces, well, making fun of Eggers, e.g, this (follow up here and here), this, etc. [all via Edward Champion’s Return of the Reluctant (also)].

Back to the bulletproof aspect - this book is (brilliantly) so knowingly self-aware of just how incredibly self-indulgent it is. So before you can even make that point (which, well, it’s still sitting there), it’s been made and brushed aside. But it’s an autobiography and those are inherently self-indulgent. And as one preface in some autobiography I read in my first history course in college (I think it was by a slave - the book not the course), every autobiography has to be taken with a grain of salt because people cannot be expected to recollect perfectly nor can they be expected to not exaggerate.

My favorite part, to be honest, was what comes before the proper book - the copyright page, preface, acknowledgments, etc. They are the longest most consistent stretch of amusement in the book. The first part, about Eggers’ parents dying, floors you with the honest, open, gory details. The relationship with his brother Toph is fun to read because he depicts it with such adoration, and his becoming a parent is so, well, heartwarming even if his life as a twentysomething like that of other twentysomethings is a study in self-absorption and know-it-all-ism. The brushes with fame (Adam Rich, Vince Vaugn, Mr. T, Judd from The Real World San Francisco, a girl from Dangerous Minds) add an interesting twist, but make him even less ordinary. Overall, it was a good, fun read.

Last night I finished The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon. I wanted something short after the interminable (though quite interesting) The Mighty and the Almighty. I didn’t quite expect the The Curious Incident to only take four days on the train, but I devoured this book finishing it last night, almost similar to when I read Pride and Prejudice pretty much in one night because I just had to find out how it all ends. I love this book.

The point of view of one autistic boy, Christopher Boone, is so believably honest and heartbreaking. His approach to being a detective is amusing and so strangely logical. There’s a lot of math, which is funny to say about a novel, but somehow, like all of the unexpected things, it works. The twists were great and unexpected and you uncover the mystery as Christopher does, really slipping into his mind effortlessly. What’s great is that because the book is written from Christopher’s perspective, as if he is actually writing it, the novel is extraordinarily accessible. I highly recommend it.

Last night I finished The Mighty and the Almighty: Reflections on America, God, and World Affairs by Madeleine Albright with Bob Woodward. Albright is, of course, the former Secretary of State and was my college’s commencement speaker the year after I graduated - Bill Cosby was the year before I graduated. (Similarly, in high school, Tom Hanks was the graduation speaker the year before mine. I have no luck with that.) But I’m not bitter.

Anyway, The Might and the Almighty is a very interesting exploration of the way faith and religion influence political motives and choices in various countries and contexts. Albright has the unique perspective of being able to tell stories about how she approached certain world leaders and international issues with a respect for the influence of faith. Also, Albright has the luxury of dropping brilliant quotes from Bill Clinton (who also wrote the introduction) all over the place. It’s a good read and ultimately, Albright’s optimistic that if we all appreciate each other’s faith , but even she acknowledges there are a lot of “ifs” that stand in the way of that kind of resolution.

The AP via MSNBC.com is reporting that the US fatalities in Afghanistan and Iraq have now equaled (and then swiftly exceeded) the number of people killed on September 11. By any analysis, that’s a tragedy and it’s sad to realize that that figure is only going to increase. The problem with the story, of course, is that by folding the numbers of lives lost in Iraq and Afghanistan, the AP and MSNBC aren’t doing much to keep the distinction clear between those two theaters that technically have nothing to do with each other. Iraq isn’t really about the war on terror or 9/11 so why imply that it is? Other grisly figures include 2,390 who died at Pearl Harbor and, inexplicably, the 405,399 lost by the U.S. in World War II. Of course, the story concedes:

“Historians note that this grim accounting is not how the success or failure of warfare is measured, and that the reasons for conflict are broader than what served as the spark.”

The first part I totally agree with, but nice that the second part only serves to further confuse the issues. Good reporting, guys.

The magic number for the A’s is 4. The magic number for the Cardinals is 5. That’s the World Series I want. I’m pretending I haven’t jinxed it.

And not only is San Francisco the second “smartest” city in America, hometown Oakland the 18th, and most populus city in the metro area San Jose 15th, but those cities are also on the list of priciest places for renters. San Francisco lands at #2 (behind NYC and its wowza $2,469 average monthly rents), San Jose at #4, and even Oakland’s freaking out the renters at #7. It’s lovely that California has 6 of the top ten. I chalk it up to the weather.

Finally, I bought 14 books last night. I have a serious problem.

Update - 9/23, 12:19 am: The A’s magic number is now 2. Even better.

A few days ago, I finished The Confessions of Max Tivoli by Andrew Sean Greer. I launched into this book on the basis that I feel like I don’t read enough local authors. I definitely - in my head - support local artists, local authors, local press, etc., but sometimes it hard to put that into practice. So I did, and I was rewarded for my, you know, doing what I should be doing.

I knew the general plot going in, but the details of it still kind of hit you. However, once you get used to the conceit - the story of a man who is living life in reverse, born as an old man and growing ever younger - the story itself is engrossing. The entire concept and its execution result in a rather sad tale, not just for Max, but for those around him who know and who don’t know about his condition. Greer writes Max as a person with an element of selfishness that’s striking, given that he’s such an inherently sympathetic character. Of course, there’s a sense that Max has almost earned the right to be a bit careless with other people’s hearts.

One aspect of the novel that I found utterly endearing was the late 1800s, early 1900s San Francisco setting. I’m a sucker for history and nods to neighborhoods past and present and the interweaving of meaningul events added something extra that I particularly enjoyed. In fact, I think I’m going to go out and walk the Barbary Coast Trail, which I never quite had any context for until I read this book.

While there are plenty of predictable moments, there are also genuine surprises, sweet exchanges, and a few perfectly goofy episodes. I laughed, I cried, well, not really, but the story does inspire a whole range of emotions, and I’ll have the explore the other works of Andrew Sean Greer. But not stalk him. (I kid because I love.)

So this is the first book by Jodi Picoult that I have read, recommended because she often writes about lawyers. Of course, I pick one of her books where there aren’t really any lawyers except for a minor cameo in the concluding third. Oh, well.

I found Harvesting the Heart extremely well-written and engrossing. It’s all very real and there’s something a tad traumatic about Picoult’s portrait of young motherhood. There are horrifying (probably only to a childless woman) moments that read like birth control in print form. But ultimately, the story skillfully captures how very different women can be mothers and, in a sense, be exactly the same - not terrified or terrible, but capable, and enough. I liked that characters who I found frustrating had the good sense to grow and evolve, to make choices I disagreed with vehemently, and to find a way to a resolution that worked. Like about 95% of all modern fiction, the end comes too quickly, too pat, too neat, but it’s the ending you root for so it’s forgivable.

NB: In my quest to figure out whether I’ll like Wicked (second book listed) better if I feel like Gregory Maguire actually based some of his depictions of Oz on things I don’t remember from the Oz books and the lesser known Oz books, I am reading all the L. Frank Baum Oz books. Previously, The Wizard of Oz.

Maguire got nothing from this except the whole Ozma getting dethroned thing. I finished this a month ago, but couldn’t find the right way to write about it.

This book is slightly ridiculous. It’s hard to evaluate The Marvelous Land of Oz for what it is - a children’s book and a sequel (a sequel to a great example of the genre at that) rather than just a book. But it’s a goofy, daffy book. It’s weirdly “feminist” for 1904 - everyone who makes anything happen is a woman (Jinjur, Mombi, Glinda) and the men all kind of fall into good luck and the fruits of the women’s labor. At the same time, the women who aren’t named Glinda are consistently terrible. For example, Mombi’s just evil for evil’s sake - well, she really wants to be a witch and isn’t allowed so she’s full of misdirected, crotchety-old lady anger. Jinjur’s army of girls (armed with knitting needles, see, beacuse they’re girls) wants to storm the Emerald City so they can steal the emeralds and other jems to make jewelry (not to finance other wars or anything, but to make pretty jewelry, see, beacuse they’re girls). Amusingly, Jinjur’s girls were actually rebelling because they wanted a little more out of their futures than to cook and clean for husbands - Betty Friedan would be proud.

In this, the second book in the Oz series, The Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and Glinda return for the festivities with a random assortment of friends, enemies, and obstacles. Their adventures are interesting if silly and laden with puns (my god the puns, some make you giggle, some make you want to rip your eyes out). The end though, is great, especially in the gender-swapping tolerance and the surprisingly just outcome of who gets to rule Oz.

It was almost too perfect that I chose to read Nick Hornby’s wonderful and engrossing football fan memoir Fever Pitch during World Cup month. Of course, it’s more than a football book, but I was really drawn to his frank admission of the very depths of his football obesession at the same time that the World Cup was reminding me how much fun and how intense it is to watch real top flight soccer. After a season of my own that was ultimately good, but at times beyond trying, it was nice to be reminded why I love soccer, to see impossible goals, to see the dramatic upsets and disappointments, the unexpected successes, the fact that, yes, on any given day, any team can beat any other team (sadly, the U.S. men’s squad never got that day), and all the ways the same result can mean radically different things to different teams.

I finished the book a few hours after Grosso sent the winning PK past Barthez into the back of the net. (At kickoff, Matt asked whether Barthez was “an adventure in goal,” the trite, by the end of it all, expression used for every keeper with a history of brilliant stupidity and stupid brilliance, which seemed to account for fully half the goalies there.) Excellent timing and closure, but now I’m ready to go into the backyard every night to kick around.

The writing is great. I can’t say much more about that. His good rep is well-deserved and I feel that I’ve been properly introduced and can go one to one day read High Fidelity, About a Boy, and all the rest. So on to the content.

It’s hard not to admire, and perhaps envy a little bit, Hornby’s obsession with football. I can think of nothing that I have been so devoted to for even close to the length of time chronicled and I’m only a few years younger than he was at the writing of the book. There are maybe obsessions that have been intense, but brief, flaming out when the quality declined, I got tired of waiting for the next big thing that would justify my affinity, or I inexplicably relocated the object from full-blown obsession to ordinary fandom - The Beatles, Cal Ice Hockey, Chris Noth, possibly soon Pete Yorn. To be able to count on one hand the number of games missed in the relevant lifetime is more admirable than lamentable. However, the book fairly recognizes the difficulty of cultivating such a devotion anew in this day and age. For one thing, even if I lived in London, I probably couldn’t afford to see every home game of my favorite team for the next couple of decades.

And there has been no comparable opportunity to get obsessed stateside. Once I was old enough to be aware, full professional soccer was non-existent in this country until I was in college, car-less and generally limited on funds, and that the closest team was in San Jose - and unfortunately named (seriously, the Clash with that crab-like logo?) - didn’t help either. Sure, I could have fixated on the Cal soccer teams - the oft nationally ranked women or the men. I did attend a number of Cal men’s games my freshman year for many reasons, love of soccer being only a tangential motivation for a 17 year old, but there was always an excuse not to go - they played up the hill at the rugby field, I could never get anyone to go with me, my idiot friend on the team quit, etc.

But still, I identified with Hornby on so many levels. For example, his fairly arbitrary reasons for being an Arsenal fan - they were the first team he ever went to see. Aston Villa is my favorite English Premier League team because the founder of the Oakland Soccer Club chose Villa’s colors as the OSC’s and, consequently, they were the first professional soccer team I ever heard of. That’s not much of reason, hardly defensible, but that was the reason.

The book is also fascinating because it reflects a soccer world I don’t really know.  I’ve been to one measly MLS game, watching the Earthquakes beat the Galaxy last season before the MLS proved it wasn’t really interested in keeping soccer in the Bay Area. But an Arsenal game, any Arsenal game, is clearly another world (even with the new luxury apartments at Highbury), with the only thing in common being the number of players and the presence of the goals. The fans, the game, the feeling, the quality, all must be different animals entirely. Further, I was appropriately troubled by how pervasive the hooliganism and the racism that echoed stories from Foer’s book - and I’m still curious about what motivates people to behave so terribly just because they’ve surrounded the pitch. And Hornby’s perspective and description of soccer tragedies and the almost inappropriate way the game just goes on are so well put.

A last bit of curiosity is the fact that for most of the book, the Arsenal Hornby describes is hardly the Arsenal I know. I won’t pretend to be a fully-engaged Premier League fan: I get the Aston Villa newsletter, which I’m more likely to delete than read; I check the tables every few months; I’ll watch a game on Fox Soccer Channel, but it’s not appointment television; and that’s the extent of it. (Notably, I probably have a much better idea of what’s going on in English pro soccer than the MLS. I suppose I’m part of the American soccer problem.) The Arsenal I know is one of the consistently good teams. They were entering this era toward the tail end of the book, in the early 90s, right before I would have started paying attention, but they had been so dismal, so good enough to avoid relegation, but not good enough to threaten to win almost anything for most of his recollection. But now, they are a powerhouse, one of the first teams I knew after Aston Villa, probably only behind Man. U. Heck, they were in the UEFA Cup in May versus Barcelona - sure they lost, but it’s an accomplishment, and I rolled into the World Cup thinking about how I had just seen the world class efforts of Ashley Cole and Thierry Henry. I find it interesting and ironic how much the club’s success has mirrored his own. He does have some thoughts on the subject on how football has changed since the book.

Next up - Jodi Picoult’s Harvesting the Heart. Picoult was recommended to me by a very nice girl I used to see on the bus who was getting her MFA in writing who I talked about books with a couple of times. I’m also starting Ozma of Oz.