The year in books

It’s a little late to do a round-up of the books I read last year—but so what?

As usual, the preponderance of my reading was non-fiction plus a solid helping of mysteries. I’ll deal with the latter in a separate post, and there are a couple of non-fiction works that deserve individual reviews (God’s Hotel, by Victoria Sweet, and Engines of Change, by Paul Ingrassia). So here’s the overview of the 147 books I took in in 2012.

I read lots of bios—a really bad one of Marlene Dietrich, a couple on Hedy Lamarr, one about Liz Taylor being The Accidental Feminist, Lillian Hellman and Wallis Simpson, amongst others. There was one male in the bunch—King George VI, mostly as an offshoot of the feud between La Simpson and George’s wife, Elizabeth (the late Queen Mum). I’m not above looking for the lower things in life.

The usual history, including the usual fistful on WWII, because there’s always something to learn. Although A Train in Winter: An Extraordinary Story of Women, Friendship and Resistance in Occupied France, by Caroline Moorehead, was so crappy I actually skimmed it. Because apparently, it turns out, every Frenchwoman in Occupied France was noble and self-sacrificing. I was a little surprised because Moorehead’s biography of Martha Gellhorn is actually well-researched and -written.

I did some armchair traveling via books focused on various cities. (Okay, in Europe—maybe this year I’ll venture into Asia or Africa. If someone writes something enticing.)

I’ve already told you my opinion of Robert Hughes’s Rome : A Cultural, Visual, and Personal History. He natters on interminably (I suspected he was being paid by the word) and is incredibly sloppy with his, you know, historical facts. Johnson’s History of London, on the other hand, by London mayor Boris Johnson, is everything Robert Hughes tried to do with Rome, but done successfully. Very enjoyable, and Johnson is definitely a recommendation for even the British Public School system.

In Seven Seasons in Siena: My Quixotic Quest for Acceptance among Tuscany's Proudest People, Robert Rodi falls in love with the city, its culture, the Palio and the contrade that compete in it. I absolutely understand being enchanted by Siena, and Rodi really knows how to tell a civic love story.

I can’t quite decide what Paris versus New York, by Vahram Muratyan, is. I mean—not quite a travelogue, not entirely a graphic love story and not strictly social commentary. But it is delightful. Here’s a sample:

See what I mean?

I state unequivocally that I stand ready to be improved by all forms of literature, including that intended for kids. I got a kick out of Madame Pamplemousse and her Incredible Edibles, by Rupert Kingfisher; The Invention of Hugo Cabret, by Brian Selznick; Adèle and Simon, by Barbara McClintock, after reading a WSJ story on exploring Paris using children’s books as your guides. (Madeline was part of the story; but I’ve already read them all.) First-rate stuff, both stories and illustrations, although Hugo was a bit graphic novel-ish.

Getting back to the adult world, kind of, I quite enjoyed Jonah Lehrer’s Imagine: How Creativity Works, so I was mighty disappointed to find out Lehrer was a lot more creative with his facts than a work of non-fiction should allow for.

And in the rare instance that I actually read an adult novel that doesn’t revolve around police procedures, I chowed down happily on Maria Semple’s Where’d You Go, Bernadette? It’s an epistolary novel (if you count email as epistles), which totally sends up Seattle, the cult of tech and the self-absorption of the zeitgeist there. I don’t think you have to despise the Emerald City to appreciate Bernadette—that’s how brilliant it is.

I’m looking forward to expanding my horizons this year, courtesy of Kindle and the various library systems here in the Valley.