Book Club

I've never counted the number of books in my house -- there must be a thousand -- hardbacks, paperbacks, new, used, pristine, tattered, all read (except for a few college leftovers, and the impenetrable Essential Canon of Classical Music, by David Dubal, too daunting for even my fanaticism), ranging from Allan Nevins's comprehensive Civil War octet to eighteen Anthony Trollope intriguing morality tales to assorted Jack Reacher, Harry Bosch, Travis McGee (for anyone old enough to remember), and Hardy Boy adventures, some stacked two deep, floor to ceiling, on six walls of shelves.

One would think that a lifelong bibliophile who devoured three thousand pages a month would have had at least one book club in his resume, but apparently even that voracious appetite was an insufficient credential, as the invitation to join -- and the initiative to organize -- a synergistic assemblage of like-minded worms had quietly eluded me for the four decades I had been conspicuously entrenched within the narrow confines of zip code 24503; it was a prickly void not to be remedied until the kindling of my mature romance with JSG.

Reflecting on this incongruity, I can only conclude that, while I heard whispers of an exclusive fraternity convening regularly for discussion and analysis of scholarly works, the vast majority of book clubs are composed of either females or couples.

Indeed, my ex-wife, MHS, was during periods of our marriage a member of one, and possibly two, although I always believed the lure for her was the social interaction. She wasn't much of a reader -- well, who is, compared to me -- and was forever tossing aside the book-of-the-month tabbed at page fifty, having cracked it two days prior to the meeting, which I, determined to leave no tome unturned, swiftly brought to its proper completion.

Sometime during her tenure on the Board of Directors at Oakwood Country Club, in an effort to generate interest and attract members, MHS established a book club there. She did an admirable job publicizing it, researching titles, securing facilitators, and even gently coercing me into presenting P. D. James's Original Sin, although my good-faith effort to support this endeavor faltered when I looked around and discerned that I was the only male in the room and the only attendee under the age of seventy.

Could it be that my failure to pursue actively a book club affiliation was subconsciously intentional? As James Atlas writes in the New York Times, March 23, 2014, "Reading is a solitary act, an experience of interiority," and since I'm very comfortable in that state, perhaps I was naturally disinclined to disturb the quietude or apprehensive about my ability to articulate its simple pleasure.

Besides, I treasure my reading time -- too much, I acknowledge -- and even if it is filled with malodorous trash freshened with an occasional weighty biography, I'm reluctant to sacrifice any for a more fragrant bill of fare, no matter its purported intellectual value, just as I rarely recommend my own favorites. In other words, let us all wallow in our own preferred slime or bask in the sunshine of self-edification.

As for a couples clique, it's obviously dependent upon two factors: a group of friends or acquaintances interested in reading, and pairs in which both spouses are willing to participate. If those stars never aligned for me, they magically did for JSG and her husband at the time, DGG, twenty years ago when they bonded with three compatible duos, at whose homes they have been gathering monthly since then on a rotating schedule. The hosts' right to choose the book for the evening is not without a stipulation: they must prepare the main course, while their guests bring wine, salad, and dessert.

Life changes have spawned several iterations, yet remarkably the club has persisted through two divorces (and two remarriages) -- which requires the splintered partners, JSG and DGG, to alternate meetings (and assigned readings, which is a relief to me) -- and an exodus which opened a vacancy for a substitute couple, who themselves later relocated to Richmond but who trek back to Lynchburg every month for a sleepover and open up their own residence three times a year for a mass invasion.

I am gratified to have been embraced enthusiastically by one and all -- once I passed inspection by proving that my intentions toward their beloved JSG were entirely honorable.

An innocent bystander will be justified in asking -- and I'm not being critical; after all, these are my friends -- "Is this a dinner party or a book club?" And I'm not sure what the criteria are for making an accurate assessment. These affairs typically meander along for about three hours, as cocktail and dinner conversation twists and turns through current events, politics, children, pets, trips, humorous incidents, and deep memories until, just as dessert is being served, and complimented upon, one of the eight will broach the obligatory and inevitable "What did you think?" question, to which no object need be appended.

The consensus is usually "Aye," sometimes qualified with a quibble or two, and seldom does anyone turn an emphatic "thumbs down." But we're not literary masters, in spite of a smattering of liberal arts degrees and English majors (which, after all, date back forty-five years). Just how do we go about evaluating this novel or nonfiction piece as art or drivel?

I think it's fair to say that while everyone sitting around the table enjoys reading, few suffer from the guilt or compulsion that demands from me the fulfillment of all homework; occasionally, a book will surface spoiled by a telltale bookmark protruding like a periscope, even in the grasp of the ever conscientious RTH, a retired minister with a decidedly liberal bent. But what entitles me to the mantle of righteousness? If the subject at hand fails to engage the voluntary student, why not cut one's losses rather than waste valuable time slogging through to the end?

Normally though, RTH and his wife BTH come well-armed with evidence of their diligence, although in different modes -- he with tangible pages spotted with underlinings and scribblings, she with Kindle highlights retrievable at the touch of a fingertip, usually accompanied by a thoughtful comment.

Needing little encouragement to voice their authoritative opinions (after all, it's endemic to their profession) are our two attending physicians: SPF, a retired plastic surgeon who travels to third-world countries repairing children's broken smiles; and WBB, a family practitioner whose contractual work often makes for sixty-mile commutes (each way) and twelve-hour days and who is fond of pronouncing a book, "The best one I ever read!" Before long, each will have seized upon a dramatic element, a prominent character, or a pregnant theme as a launching pad for some tangential personal tale or erudite disquisition.

Sincere, perceptive, empathetic, passionate, and just as outspoken as their husbands on important issues, although with a softer tone, are CAF, an accomplished amateur actress and recent nursing school graduate, first in her class, no less, and JSB, a former teacher.

As one who thrives on convoluted mysteries and outlandish thrillers, where suspension of disbelief is a given, I expect a higher standard in the club's purported meritorious offerings, and am perhaps too hasty to reproach an author who resorts to an improbable coincidence or a convenient suicide to resolve a narrative dilemma. But whether it's disparaging or laudatory, I try to contribute at least one insightful observation to the discussion, which, I admit, often fails to rise to the level of my peers, due to two self-imposed handicaps. As if I'm trying to reach the finish line in a foot race, my reading is premature and perfunctory; by the time the club meets, four other books have intervened, and I've forgotten what this one is all about. There is a rationalized method to this madness: I need to compensate for JSG's procrastination over the same single copy.

JSG possesses the innate kindness and sensitivity that preclude her from speaking ill not only of another person (at least in public) but also of any book promoted by her friends, except in the most oblique manner, lest they take umbrage. Drawing upon her litigious training, she will mount a valiant defense, always seeking a positive angle.

Which is why, when the quarter marker points our way, picking a worthy nominee becomes an exercise in self-flagellation, as excruciating as shopping for a new dishwasher, which has taken her six months, and involving the meticulous investigation of online lists of top ten listings and the repetitive scrutiny of pages of professional reviews. Most of my suggestions are rejected outright, although I'm still carrying in my wallet a homemade gift certificate dating back to December 25th entitling me to the title of my choice, no questions asked.

I've tried to impress upon JSG that, just as "You can't judge a book by its cover," neither can you judge the deciders by their book, and that she shouldn't take the forthcoming verdict personally. We may be sitting in the guilty party's home, but after a round of wining and dining no one remembers or cares who offered up the evening's sacrificial lamb.

February was a two-act drama in itself. With her deadline drawing nigh -- and she had thirty extra days, since we always leap a month -- she finally zeroed in on two historical fiction contestants, The House Girl, by Tara Conklin, in which a young New York law associate working on a class action suit searches for the descendant of slave who may have been the actual artist of a series of gorgeous paintings credited to her white mistress, and Anthony Marra's A Constellation of Vital Phenomena, about which more will be revealed in good time.

The former seemed the more practical and economical choice after I unearthed a copy in our local library, but it failed to pass JSG's rigorous research, which sent me on the prowl for the latter. Givens Bookstore had one in hardback -- the paperback had not yet been released -- which I scarfed up on the spot, two weeks prior to our departure for New Zealand, which gave me time to breeze through it before handing it off to JSG for her travel reader.

All went well until we reached the Wilderness Lodge and checked into our room. As we carefully arranged  our clothes on the floor, I noticed her rooting through every zippered compartment and hideaway in her two bags, desperately seeking A Constellation, but to no avail, as was a longshot telephone call to our prior night's inn. She gamely tried to download a version on her i-pad, then weathered the loss with aplomb (I would have been apoplectic deprived of a book for four days, including one on board four airplanes) until we could replace it once we got home.

Both purchases were worth it, as were the time and money invested in these Book Club companions, only the first two of which I would ever have tackled on my own:

The Warden, Anthony Trollope's riveting portrait of Septimus Harding, the kindhearted priest and caretaker of a hospital housing twelve old men, who must resolve the moral dilemma of their poverty and his own lucrative salary when confronted with a lawsuit prosecuted by a zealous reformer who is courting his daughter;

11/22/63, Stephen King's tour de force, in which Jake Appling's benevolent efforts to change the course of a domestic dispute and global history land him in a bygone era exquisitely rendered, a poignant romance, a stew of unintended consequences, and a thrilling denouement so logical one departs thinking, "This might really have happened";

Colum McCann's Let the Great World Spin, in which persons from diverse social strata cross paths and impact each other's fates in the shadow of Philippe Petit's tightrope walk between the World Trade Center's Twin Towers on August 17, 1974: a street priest struggling between his faith and the woman he loves; one of his flock, a heroin-addicted prostitute, who takes the place of her daughter, also a prostitute, in court, with tragic results; the judge, disillusioned by the insensitive bureaucracy he serves; his grief-stricken wife, forever mourning the death of her son in Vietnam; and two married artists strung out on cocaine;

Another novel of vignettes, Tom Rathman's The Imperfectionists, who comprise the staff of an English-language newspaper in Rome on the verge of obsolescence: the indolent obituary writer gone to Switzerland to interview a dying intellectual; the militaristic copy editor immersed in the composition of a massive style guide; the editor-in-chief looking to rekindle an old romance as she discovers her husband is cheating on her; a young Cairo stringer beguiled by a fast-talking war correspondent; and the chief financial officer en route to Atlanta finding herself seated next to a man she just fired;

The Pulitzer Prize winning Visit from the Goon Squad, by Jennifer Egan, also episodic in structure, but moving back and forth in time, and even into the future, as she follows pop music writers, producers, and performers through four decades of misunderstandings, addictions, betrayals, and errant behavior: the genius guitarist, the rich girl friend, the kleptomaniac turned sculptress, the celebrity journalist who attempted to rape a starlet, and the publicist working to soften the image of a genocidal tyrant;

Rules of Civility, Amor Towles's deft evocation of Manhattan in the late 1930's, as seen through the eyes of a young secretary, Katey Kontent, whose aspiration to breach the walls of New York society is accelerated by her roommate's chance encounter in a village jazz club with the elegant, mysterious Tinker Grey, who entices her on a year-long journey that will change all of their lives forever;

Jennifer Haigh's Faith, a compassionate portrayal of a Boston priest accused of molesting an eight-year-old boy, narrated by his sister Sheila, who explains how he sought refuge from his families' troubled past in the comforting orthodoxy of the church and how he now finds its relevance and mystique undermined and his faith tested when it spurns him, while she and her brother strive to learn the truth;

Julian Barnes's Sense of an Ending, a slim, unsettling meditation on the unreliability of memory, in which an unexpected bequest compels a retired divorced man to revisit strong emotions from his past, reassess his self-perceived passivity and insignificance in light of possibly having motivated a friend's suicide, and realize how much he's gotten wrong;

The odd and annoying Sweet Tooth, in which Ian McEwan's narrator, the beautiful Serena Frome, is seduced into low-level intelligence by her senior lover, immediately falls for her own agent, a writer whose charge is to produce stories with anti-communist themes, and is ultimately exposed as a victim of her own illusions, as is the reader by the author's cheap post-modernist trick;

So Long, See You Tomorrow, William Maxwell's concise tale of a man haunted by three tragedies: the death of his mother in the 1918 influenza epidemic; his budding friendship with another youth, Cletus, that ended abruptly when the boy's father murdered his wife's lover and committed suicide; and his failure to speak to Cletus years later when the two pass each other in the corridor of their new school in Chicago, a minor inadvertence which leaves him tormented as he tries to imagine the passion and cruelties that ruptured two families;

Larry Watson's Montana 1948, in which another boy, David, undergoes a rite of passage as he observes his father, Wesley, a small town sheriff, torn between his obligation to pursue justice and his loyalty to his domineering father and his revered brother, Frank, a physician, when evidence emerges that Frank has been sexually abusing Sioux women and murdered one of them, David's beloved housekeeper;

Mark Haddon's lightweight Spot of Bother, an eponym for the lesion George Hall discovers on his hip, which he thinks is cancer but is emblematic of other poisons circulating in the bloodstream of his nuclear family: his own disdain for talking; the affair his wife is having with a former colleague; the upcoming marriage of his tempestuous daughter to a man socially beneath her; his gay son's foundering romance -- all of which drive him to the brink of a nervous breakdown, before ending predictably well;

Crescent, by Diana Abu-Jabar, the Williams Reads selection for 2013 (A copy is sent to all incoming students who along with staff and faculty will "explore diversity through a common reading experience."), in which Iraqi-American Sirine, chef at a Middle Eastern restaurant near the UCLA campus, encouraged by the professor uncle who raised her, falls in love with a charismatic Iraqi exile, Harif, whose guilt at abandoning his family and longing for his homeland awaken her sensibilities and shatter her innocence;

Amy Waldman's The Submission, in which the revelation that the award-winning design for a 9/11 memorial at the site of the World Trade Center was the inspiration of a Muslim sweeps a diverse ensemble into a life-threatening maelstrom: Mohammad, the architect whose stubborn pride will brook no compromising of his principles; Claire, who represents the victims' families yet remains steadfast in her support of Mohammad; Sean, whose resentment for his brother's death draws him into a troublesome alliance with the protestors; and Asma, whose identity as a mourner for her husband is suspect because he was an illegal immigrant;

Waiting for Snow in Havana, by Carlos Eire, professor of religion and European history at Yale, an amazingly detailed memoir of his 1950's Cuban upbringing in a comfortable but absurdist household dominated by a father who is a judge, art collector, classical music buff, and the reincarnation of Louis XVI (he believes), yet too hidebound to emigrate when normalcy is shattered by the abuses of the Castro coup, which are epitomized by young Carlos's refused admittance to the Disney film "Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea," because of, he imagines, its homosexual subtext;

How We Do Harm, by Dr. Otis Brawley, chief medical and scientific officer for the American Cancer Society, who, as the subtitle states, "breaks ranks about being sick in America," indicting doctors who select treatments based on their reimbursements, hospitals and pharmaceutical companies that stretch the boundaries of diagnosis to feed their gluttony for revenue, and patients demanding sophisticated procedures and medication regardless of problematic efficacy -- all manifest in the tragic case of Ralph, whose free screening metastasized into twelve biopsies, prostate removal, radiation, a hole between his rectum and his bladder, and his death from a urinary tract infection;

Another memoir, My Reading Life, by Pat Conroy, although it's more a collection of stand-alone essays, in which the best-selling author pays homage to those persons who have infused him with a passion for his avocation: his librarian mother, who always matched with a book every animal he brought home from the woods; his high school teacher Gene, who nurtured his early promise as a writer; Norman, a publication executive, who fostered his maturity by encouraging discipline, focus, and emotional depth; Cliff, whose bookstore became his informal university; and Thomas Wolfe, whom he exalts as his literary hero;

And finally A Constellation of Vital Phenomena, by Anthony Marra.

This is a book dense in style, diffuse in structure, and dark and disturbing in subject matter. While the title is derived from a definition of life published in a Russian medical dictionary, those phenomena are reduced to the capacity to endure the unrelenting suffering, terror, and violence that engulf the inhabitants of Eldar, a village in war-torn Chechnya.

Akhmed watches helplessly from across the road while his friend Dokka is abducted by Russian soldiers for sheltering Chechen rebels. He finds Dokka's eight-year-old daughter Haava hiding in the woods and takes her to the one person who can offer her sanctuary: Sonja, the only remaining doctor in the regional hospital at Volchansk and so talented she can suture chest wounds with dental floss. In exchange for caring for the girl, Sonja insists that Akhmed, also a doctor, come back every day to assist her, even though he barely graduated from medical school and is more suited to drawing likenesses than repairing bodies.

Constellation takes place over the subsequent five days in 2004, with alternating chapters arcing rearward ten years to explore the backstories of Akhmed, Sonja, and other persons who are entangled with them and each other in a delicate web that takes the whole length of their journey to be perfected.

An earlier arrest cost Dokka his fingers when he refused to betray any fighters or refugees, yet he still manages to play chess with Khassan, an elderly intellectual forever writing his multi-volume history of Chechnya. Khassan lives with but doesn't speak to his son Ramzan, a gun runner who was castrated before saving himself by turning informant; as his neighbors physically have melted away, so has his soul been destroyed by torture.

Sonja's sister, Natasha, has fled her home a second time; earlier, we learn, she was lured into drug addiction and prostitution. She returned to work with Sonja at the hospital, but wearied of the hopelessness and fled again, stopping at Dokka's shelter, where the gift of a pistol will have grave repercussions.

Flashbacks reveal the dismal past of this "sliver of humanity the world seemed determined to forget": a population exiled by their Soviet masters, allowed to return to a homeland occupied by foreign elements, and then demoralized by guerrilla attacks and merciless retaliations.

Marra's characters maintain their sanity by storytelling and by crafting primitive works of art. Akhmed spins yarns to Dokka's dying wife. Natasha reads the first published volume of Khassan's history while a wave of invaders overruns the city. Deshi, a nurse at the hospital, breathes imaginary life into a dead man whose clothing she finds and who left burial instructions for his sister on a note she will never see.

Akhmed paints portraits of forty-one "disappeared" residents and nails them up around the village. Natasha draws a view of pre-war Volchansk on the cardboard covering the hospital windows. Each condemned man in the Landfill scratches his name on the pit's dirt wall, which his comrades commemorate and then obliterate when he is summoned to his fate.

On one hand, Marra laces his narrative with bizarre incidents and images: Haava has "the pale, waxen skin of an unripe pear"; Akhmed is bonded to his demented wife by what is no longer there, "as a web is no more than holes woven together"; Sonja sees her life as "an uneven orbit around a dark star, a moth circling a dead bulb"; a man's amputated stump pokes "from the edge of a white bed sheet like a rotten log through snow cover."

At the same time, the conflict's pervasive insanity remains anchored in concrete reality: unexploded bombs lying in a street covered with toilet bowls; a clown weeping in a basement during an aerial attack; a soldier insisting his prisoners wear seat belts en route to a death camp.

The gradual unveiling of successive horrors of increasing intensity becomes almost unbearable. A brief "immense, spinning" moment of joy pierces Dokka when he learns from Akhmed that "Haava is safe," but neither will know her future, that in twenty years she will publish a dissertation on the effects of climate change on freshwater microorganisms and at the age of sixty-eight hold a grandson in her hands. The heroic perseverance of her rescuer at the cost of his own life remains humanity's sole redemptive beacon on this bleak landscape.

I recommend it, Book Club or not.