I’ve been playing hooky with the blog, admittedly. This is partly because I have been working hard on a writing project in the hopes I’ll have a decent first draft completed by next NaNoWriMo. I’m writing an article for a bar association journal (the text of which I’ll upload here when I’m done). Also, I’ve been reading and re-reading the fabulous Scalia footnote from City of Arlington v. FCC because it may hold the key to the secrets of the universe. If only I were just a little smarter.

So I’ve only got time for a quick post. Let’s talk about books, or more specifically, summer books. Depending on who you ask, a good summer book is either 1) interesting and challenging (like Judge John M. Woolsey, who read Ulysses on his vacation in preparation for drafting the opinion ruling it not obscene); or 2) pulpy and so formulaic that spilling one’s margarita over two-thirds of it makes little difference (like seventy-five percent of what’s sold in bookstores today). I prefer the former. This summer I think I am finally going to suck it up and read Middlemarch, and possibly finish the Henry James I started a couple of summers ago before I drank too many margaritas. But if Georgian realism is not to your taste, I humbly offer up the following suggestions:

1) The Third Coast: When Chicago Built the American Dream, Thomas Dyja


City of Scoundrels: The Twelve Days of Disaster That Gave Birth to Modern Chicago, Gary Krist

I’ve been on a Chicago kick ever since I read Devil in the White City. Both of these are eminently readable, although you may learn to fear fire.

2) The Swerve: How the World Became Modern, Stephen Greenblatt

This has been out for a while. If you haven’t yet read it, you should; it will change the way you understand history.

3) Embroidered Ground: Revisiting the Garden, Paige Dickey


The Writer in the Garden, Jane Garmey (ed.)

My backyard runs, roughly, at about a seventy degree angle to my house. The whole neighborhood is hilly. When we moved in I had to re-engineer everything I knew about landscaping. Dickey is a celebrated gardener who writes lovingly about her relationship with her garden, how it has developed and changed with time and with her advancing age. The Writer in the Garden is an anthology of essays by writers including the likes of W.S. Merwin, Andrew Marvell, Katherine Mansfield, Vita Sackville-West and Jamaica Kincaid.

4) The Stockholm Octavo, Karen Engelmann

A smart, dense historical whodunit.

5) The War of Art, Steven Pressfield


Make Good Art, Neil Gaiman

Both books are food for creatives, or for people who would like to be more creative. Also, if you don’t know who Neil Gaiman is we probably can’t be friends.

6) The Virtues of Poetry, James Longenbach

I know you won’t read it, but I wish you would. I wish everyone would.

7) Gilead, Marilynne Robinson

An aging man’s love letter to his young son, and to life. Robinson’s writing is the literary equivalent of cool, clear blue water and a fragrant breeze. I go back and forth about what book is my absolute favorite, but Gilead is always in my top three.

8) The Night Train, Clyde Edgerton


Train Dreams, Dennis Johnson

Two very different books united, but a train runs through them (apologies to Norman Maclean). Night Train is a coming of age story set in the deep south, as television brings “race music” to a small town. Train Dreams ranks up there with Gilead in my mind. I won’t tell you more than that. You will love it.

9) The Barbarian Nurseries, Hector Tomar


These Dreams of You, Steve Erikson

Both are novels about disintegrating families, the recession, and the ways that immigrants experience America. Both are ultimately hopeful.

10) The Devil’s Tickets, Gary M. Pomerantz

For the lawyers who can’t leave the office behind. Pomerantz relates the true story of Myrtle Bennett, who shot her husband to death in 1929 for calling her a “bum bridge player,” and her lawyer, James A. Reed. A little knowledge of how bridge is played is helpful but not necessary. The real story concerns nascent feminism in a nation on the cusp of the Great Depression.

Let me know if you have your own suggestions or if you like (or hate) any of mine. Happy summer!


The article on women’s hair that I referenced in my previous post has been removed from the American Bar Association’s news website,  and I have discovered that my post is the first result returned for a Google search of “women’s hair” and “ABA.”  Kinda cool.

Meanwhile, over the weekend a disgruntled Tweeter of conservative political persuasion advised me to “get out more, ” “read something,” and “learn something.”  Because a woman who disagrees with said Tweeter and others like him is necessarily ill informed and sheltered.  (For what it’s worth, I’m currently reading The Swerve: How the World Became Modern by Stephen Greenblatt.)

I have from time to time considered toning down my political posts and Tweets, if only because I do get tired of being cursed at by strangers.  But I cling to the notion that ideas should be shared freely, and that they improve in the sharing especially when they are buffeted around some.  I can’t surround myself with people who agree with me to the exclusion of everyone else because I am willing to learn.  Although I prefer to do it with people similarly capable of tolerating dissent.

For this Monday Morning Hearsay, then, a passage  from Derek Walcott’s swoon-inducing homage to Homer, and the epic journey:

Just as the nightingales had forgotten his lines,
cameras, not chimeras, saw his purple sea
as a  postcard archipelago with gnarled pines
and godless temples, where the end of poetry
was a goat bleating down  from the theatre steps
while the myrtles rustled like the dry sails of ships.
“You ain’t been nowhere,”  Seven Seas said, “you have seen
nothing no matter how far you may have travelled,
cities with shadowy spires stitched on a screen
which the beak of a swift has ravelled and unravelled;
you have learnt no more than if you stood on that beach
watching the unthreading foam you watched as a youth,
except  your skill with one oar; you hear the salt speech
that your father once heard; one island, and one truth.
Your wanderer is a phantom from the boy’s shore.

Derek Walcott, Omeros (Farrar, Strauss and Giroux 1990) (excerpted from Chapter LVIII)