Strangely, I've never read anything by Allende prior to this; perhaps it's my odd aversion to magical realism. Still, I saw so much buzz building around this book that I went ahead and checked it out. Immediately I was swept up into the chaos of refugees fleeing Civil War Spain only to endure the melancholy of exile in Chile. It's a magnificent story, filled with love and history and so much of the awfulness of the 20th century...yet filled with the goodness of people, too.
Wild: From Lost to Found On the Pacific Crest Trail, by Cheryl Strayed
I'm only, like, eight years left to the party on this one, but whatevs. This is a book that has, so far at least, aged well. Or at least, not aged poorly. I'm sure that Cheryl Strayed was quite an idiot to readers in 2012 when they first began to read of her ill-advised venture into the California wilderness; she was that same idiot when I began reading in February. I don't want to get too far into the story here, I will say that there were many parts of this book which resonated with me--particularly the author's struggle to come to terms with her family, most of whom were dead or else scattered to the winds. A particular quote, about her stepfather, gutted me: "He hadn't loved me well in the end, but he'd loved me well when it mattered."
Why We Can't Sleep At Night: Women's New Midlife Crisis
I turn 40 in three months. And because I round up, in my own mind, at least, I'm already 40. I'd be lying if I said it doesn't bother me. And yet, turning 40 isn't what's bothering me. What's bothering me is this feeling of restlessness that seems to grow within me, month by month, as I ponder where I was, where I am, how I got here, and what comes next. I'm not unhappy. But I am...curious about what comes next. Which may be what makes me different from so many of the people described in Why We Can't Sleep: the author plunges deep into the lives of hundreds of US Gen X women, now in middle age, and the various struggles they encounter. There are rays of hope in these womens' lives, and Calhoun offers plenty of good insights, but so many of the women in this book don't seem curious. They seem defeated. Is it because I'm on the tail-end of Gen X, and inherited some of the optimism of Gen Y? Is it because of my white and first-world privilege? Is it because I'm childfree, and thus free of the grim despair that attends the knowledge that I've brought a new generation into this ugly and failing world? My life will end with me, and I am genuinely curious about the remainder of it, and what good can come of it. Still, this was a highly necessary read, and there was plenty of info that was highly relatable.
Other books I read this month this month:
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