Direct Red -- Read it, STAT!

Direct Red, subtitled "A Surgeon's View of Her Life-or-Death Profession" is an unlikely candidate for the term "good read" -- how sympathetic are we really to surgeons, those aloof and arrogant uber-doctors who swoop in, make a pronouncement then move on? Who cause such terrific agony and evoke such great fear?

Perhaps Gabriel Weston's book is so wonderful to read because, while she clearly has a vocation as a surgeon, she also had a passion for books and studied literature. Each chapter describes another aspect of what it means to have a life in your hands, literally, and each shows another example of how there is no such thing as "easy" surgery. Even a simple tonsillectomy can go awry.

But the book is also very much about Weston's inner conflict between being a cool intellectual and a person with a soul -- both are necessary for greatness as a surgeon, but neither quality sits well with the other. She talks about how she overlooked an ailing child, essentially gave him an aspirin and told him to go back to sleep without really considering why a young boy would have such a severe headache. He died. She talks about how terrified she was to make her first difficult call as the senior surgeon on a case, knowing that in the world of surgeons she'd be a laughing stock and her career would be over before it properly began if she were wrong. In that instance, she saved a life.

Direct Red is not a long book. It is probably a necessary book, humanizing a group that doesn't really want to be seen as merely mortal, and describing a side to health care rarely seen and poorly understood. Luckily it is so wonderfully written you won't mind taking the medicine in the message.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo; The Girl Who Played With Fire

It is rarely a good idea to know much about the author of any novel, lest the "novel" part begin to seem less a work of imagination and more one of therapy. But the author of these two books, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and The Girl Who Played With Fire, is a shadowy figure lurking in the pages and is curious, mysterious and puzzling in his own right.

The main character of the books is an idealistic journalist and what a great coincidence, so is Stieg Larsson, the author! the "Girl" is a super-brainy computer geek who can find out anything with a few keystrokes. This sounds about as interesting as your average newspaper but hang on, the stories take flight despite the reporter-rhetoric.

By his author picture on the back covers we can see he is a typical reporter -- soft and squishy, not that attractive but not entirely un-; a bit nerdy, clearly a guy who didn't score big in highschool. He is dead, and these two books were published, part of a trilogy, posthumously. We anxiously await the third, as they improve as we go.

Larsson is also a bit pervy if the books tell us anything at all, a plain-faced and doughy man with a big kink and wild imagination, who is unlikely to have had much of the action he writes about. But then again, pervs don't often care much for beauty. His main character is a sexually voracious skinny boy-girl, almost autistic, who dislikes much communication. Talk about gift-wrapped for a man. The great news is she gets breast implants in the second novel so is skinny as a teenage boy, but with knockers. Gift-wrapped with a bow.

Larsson, it is said, is dead, felled in some way mid-story, while covering some intrigue. Sounds a bit perfect to me. I hope this is instead a massive marketing stunt and there's even more where the Girl came from.

American Wife, Curtis Sittenfeld

It is hard to imagine that the bland Laura Bush could inspire anyone to do anything other than yawn, and this is why some people write books and you don't. Curtis Sittenfeld has written a terrific novel imagining the inner life and background of the woman who puts the "dull" into dullsville, whose automtaton smile and colour blocked clothes seem to suggest Stepford is not too far from Reston, Virginia. American Wife is an imaginary look into that blank brain, and in fact any brain of a certain generation of good upstanding women who somehow manage to cause no harm, or at least manage never to be actually blamed for the harm they do. That's quite a skill.

The young "Laura" is actually Alice, to whom some dreadful things happen. So far so interesting but as imprinted as she is by tragedy or startling discoveries she manages to actually say very little. She owns up to nothing, really, not even a christly crap that wrecks the plumbing in the one and only bathroom a dozen people must share -- she lets events wash over her and smiles and nods and goes with the flow.

Alice is called up short by two people, and not until the near end of the story. The great question is then posed -- is being "good" the same as being not too bad? Is "good enough" ever good enough? And what responsibility does the president of the free world's intimate partner have to ensure he doesn't run off and kill thousands in a country he previously would be unlikely to be able to find on a map? But she got away unscathed from something similar -- perhaps that then becomes simply the way things are done. You simply smile and get away with it, and everyone thinks you're nice. What a rich reward for doing and being so little.

The Believers, Zoe Heller

Zoe Heller is a phenomenally gifted writer. Her novel What Was She Thinking? Notes on a Scandal is delicious in its cunning, perfectly describing the malevolent passive-aggressive manipulation that either is caused by or causes loneliness. She perfectly captured the essence of a character we all know but who slips away from us at the moment we think we've nailed her. There are so many "sweet" old women (and they are so often women) who tabulate and track the actions and foibles of others strictly for the purposes of judging them harshly. The momentary feeling of righteousness is the essence of their addiction. No one is allowed to be too happy, or too carefree.

The Believers, Heller's newest book, is already slated for the movies. In it is an acerbic mother whom many of my friends will recognize, a true bitch of the "it's a dog eat dog world, get used to it" school of maternal feeling. So relentlessly cruel is she that we can't quite pity her for wanting so badly to believe in the story of her marriage rather than the marriage itself. It's hard to see her side of things or to feel sorry that she stoically put up with a philandering husband knowing that the marriage was a constant while his flings were flings, only to find out that he actually did love someone else and moreover, had a FAMILY with her. No, actually, we sort of see his point. I'd run to the nearest warm heart, too.

This book will be a movie and probably a very good one -- Patrick Marber, who wrote Closer and Notes on a Scandal is not only a friend of Heller's but the screenwriter of this, too. The book is entertaining enough, Heller is a terrific writer, but it is not altogether good. The Believers of the title are those in an idealistic family who are struggling to believe in a higher purpose and reason to live while being unable to actually connect with life. Each character is cut off and shut off save one, the one who didn't believe in much malarkey at all. She is the tragic sister who believed what her bitch mother and father told her -- that she wasn't very pretty and certainly not that smart, she shouldn't expect much. Luckily for her she got over that, a sign that not being a believer is maybe the best route to happiness.

So, this is a decent book for discussion purposes, a book club pick if there ever was one. But it's just that. Decent, not delicious.

Waiting for the blow

I've taken a break from Edgar Sawtelle, because my own life has become slightly more tense and the sense of impending doom was getting to me. Something will happen to these mute, sweet, defenseless characters and I don't know what it is except it will be sad, and bad.

In being mute Edgar taps into a heartbreaking boy who has followed me all my life, in different forms and found in different books. These are the boys I grew up with, and boys who grow up anywhere where having a feeling is simply not discussed. Not that it is un-masculine, it simply isn't there. When I asked my brother how his friend was doing after a breakup with a woman and mother of his kid, whom he'd been with for at least a decade, my brother shrugged and said "he's awright I guess, saw him at the bar the other day." In their inability to say, process, live whole, these boys get into big trouble. Another friend was one of these, a brilliant boy who appeared that he really was going to beat destiny. He was the youngest-ever full time photographer at a photography-heavy newspaper, he was fearless but also sensitive enough that he could always get the amazing picture of the victim, or the family, or the utterly raw look of someone who has found pain unbearable -- all the stuff of daily news photography. There was something young and vulnerable about him and even victims of terrible crimes felt some kindred spirit.

He was a bright light and going far until destiny grabbed him in a near-Shakespearean way. Drugs given by his Iago quickly became an addiction, or perhaps drugs were the Iago, making him paranoid, bitter, angry. He was no longer the hard-working wunderkind, he started to mess up, not show up, started to be aggressive where his sweet self would have opened doors and hearts.

Finally he seemed like he was going to pull out of it. He went to rehab, he came back to work, he seemed if not his old self at least someone we recognized.

One day he missed work, then the next day, then the photo editor suggested a friend and fellow photographer go round to the house to see what was up. I think they expected the bacchanalia of the past -- women, bikers, smoke, coke. What he found was our sweet friend in the back seat of his car, in the garage, the car having run dry of gas. Dead but looking merely asleep.

This is what happens to boys who cannot speak, express, deal. I don't know what will happen to Edgar Sawtelle or his dogs, but there is an Iago at work or perhaps a Claudius...someone up to no good. Too scary to go on, I've taken a break to read murder mysteries. At least with these we care less about the characters and know what to expect.

Reading the writing on the wall

And here we are, on the eve of an election and the eve of history. But what history? America is not the first racist country to elect a black person or a woman; it is, however, more proud of this achievement than others.

Every newspaper and blog is covered in thick election coverage and what a journalist friend calls the "hagiography" of Obama. No one thinks he will lose, and so as the heir apparent will soon, perhaps as soon as tomorrow, start to have his day in the light.

Of all the dark horses in this race and all the hiding in plain sight, it is Obama who has gotten off lightest.

During the primaries it was Hillary Clinton who took a lot of the fire, today it is the bumbling of the Palin-McCain camp. Palin's outfits alone have taken many an eye off any appropriate ball. Obama had the good sense to tell his own story in a couple of books, being sure to add the odd, small mea culpa -- I wonder if any of it is terribly sincere. The comment that his memory of his first kiss with his now wife "tasted of chocolate" sounds very Judy Blume. Or Ross and Rachel. A bit twee, in other words. It's a small thing, but it has the tone of an oft-repeated story valued for its "cute"; it reminds me of someone trying to show his affectionate side rather than really having one.

Now he will take on the full weight of history. He can't but fail. Far too many hopes, dreams, ill-defined expectations are resting on his head.

Great campaign though.

Edgar Sawtelle

Five years ago, on the heels of a few setbacks and a sorry breakup, I got a dog. My first.
The decision was as thought out as anything life changing can be, as in, not very well thought out at all because how can you decide on the unknown? I realized that I don't get along with people, I live a life with no responsibilities beyond getting myself out of bed and washed in the morning (and getting out of bed proves harder to do than you'd think), a life of utter self-indulgence when you look at it. I was living a life very much as I'd lived it since the age of 18, as a student....relentless "what do I want now, how can I make ME happy now?" and it was frankly boring.

So, with no partner and no children to look after I decided on a dog, a very small one because I am actually afraid of dogs. I thought tiny would be easier. I have had a great many cats in my life and a cat didn't answer the urge -- they are too independent, I wanted something that needed me. Some reason NOT to head to a bar after work. I needed a reason to go home and to like it there.

Enter Bear, as seen to your right, a very teeny beast and one, I'm given to understand, only her owner could love. She is haphazard in terms of obedience, annoyingly yappy, and a bit of a fright to look at with her long hair that is almost constantly in dreadlocks because she despises being brushed and prefers to wash her own face. In fact, though her teeth are all of 1/8 of an inch long she can indeed draw blood if you have a brush in your hand. However, despite her flawed character she is decidedly my dog, never fully happy when I'm not with her (or so I try to believe). She likes to be nearby at all times, content to watch me read books if that's what's going on; when she sees the mascara come out she starts to cry at the bathroom door by way of persuasion, "please please take me with you". When I was most depressed over yet another hard breakup she sat at my feet and stared into my face, whimpering and crying as I did not allow myself to do. My only fear in life now is that somehow I will not perfectly look after her, and if real harm were to come to her, it would kill me. I don't know how people have courage to have children -- it must be terrifying to love anything or anyone that much.

And so we come to Edgar Sawtelle, a wonderful book sometimes told from a dog's perspective, about a relationship between a silent boy and man's (and a boy's) best friend. When the boy forgets himself and Almondine can lick his face, the dog spins with joy. The dog is the boy's voice and protector, the dog is thrilled to have a job to do.

Permeating this story is a sense of dread, quiet and almost hidden but there. You know that maybe on the next page or the one after it, something will break your heart. This is the way of mute beings whether they are silent because they cannot speak or silent because they don't know the words to use. They will break your heart because you want to protect them from what they cannot comprehend or communicate, and as such they are a victim to it.

I don't know what doom is impending, just that I feel it. I have not finished this gorgeous book. But you should start it as well.