Author: Jennifer Graham

(Knopf, 177 pages)

Thomas McGuane’s 18th book, A Wooded Shore, fits nicely on a shelf in a man cave. Comprising eight stories and a novella, the collection is mostly about ordinary men: men striving but failing to rise to the myriad occasions that life presents. The fact that most take place in Montana shouldn’t be a deterrent to anyone in New England.

Take “Slant Six,” my favorite of the bunch. It is a deceptively simple slice-of-life story about a couple, Drew and Lucy, going through common problems of life, like dealing with an aging mother/mother-in-law. The story opens with Drew, a lawyer, stopping by a hardware store. There he runs into a former client trying to figure out what shade of white his wife would want off a color wheel featuring 27 different shades. As the story unfolds, we learn that the couple, despite Drew’s profession, live in a rental with a “tall, lean and Lincolnesque” landlord named Jocko who lives with a parrot named Pontius Pilate and likes to mow the lawn in a thong. “The fact that Jocko was their landlord seemed to stand for everything they hadn’t gotten in life,” McGuane writes.

The fact that Drew and Lucy work hard at being good people, even volunteering to pick up trash along two miles of a highway, seems to offer no karmic benefit. In the seminal scene of the story, the couple go to a party at a client’s house, where they interact with the various people who cross paths in their life. The story concludes with a smart callback to the paint color-wheel scene and an observation by Drew that is haunting and likely universal.

Memorable also is “Balloons,” which has just a little more than eight pages but delivers a surprise punch in the final paragraph. It’s narrated by a doctor who had an affair with a woman, Joan, who “stirred up our town with her air of dangerous glamour and the sense that her marriage to Roger couldn’t last.” That was true: Joan eventually left Roger, leaving her former husband and her former paramour to awkwardly interact with one another, around town and in the examination room. Even after the divorce, the narrator was unsure whether Roger had known about the affair. When he comes to the doctor’s office with news and a surprising request, he doesn’t question the motive. Theirs had seemed an idyllic marriage at the start: The narrator reflects, when looking at the church where they were married, “I had never seen two such good-looking people as Joan and Roger at their peak.”

Some writers of short fiction end their stories so abruptly that it seems they got tired and decided to stop and let the reader figure out where they were going. That’s not the case in this collection; the endings appear well-thought out, even if the story itself drifts a little bit. That’s the case in “Retail,” which introduces us to Roy, an insurance salesman who achieved modest success selling policies to people who owed him something in some way: old classmates, distant relatives, an abusive foster mom. When Roy achieves local stardom by rushing into a burning house to save a child’s cat, his fortunes improve, but he still finds himself managing an unimpressive group of salesmen and trying unsuccessfully to court a widow in an adjacent office.

And so it goes: despair and hope, hope and despair, one foot in front of the other, and occasionally a flash of revelation. Each story can be seen as mildly to enormously depressing, but for the schadenfreude.

There is pain and loss at the heart of these stories, which gives them their depth. McGuane’s extraordinary voice, honed over 85 years of living, gives them their meaning. A —Jennifer Graham

Featured Photo: A Wooded Shore, by Thomas McGuane

Our reviewers read a lot of books this year; these are the ones they gave A grades to.

Fiction

The Magnificent Ruins, by Nayantara Roy, is “a beautiful, messy journey as Lila searches for her identity among two very different cultures and within a family defined by each other in the best and worst of ways.” A- —Meghan Siegler

Run for the Hills, by Kevin Wilson, is “a genuinely fun novel that strikes the right balance between poignancy and comedy…. If Hollywood options this … I’ll be at the theater on opening day.” A- —Jennifer Graham

The Road to Tender Hearts, by Annie Hartnett: “…at the core of this novel, there is a warmth and genuineness that breaks through its comically dark outer layer.” A- —M.S.

Culpability, by Bruce Holsinger, has “a deeply intelligent storyline that blends technology, philosophy and ethics…. Culpability moves slowly at times … [but] Holsinger, as it turns out, knows exactly what he’s doing, and his ending is nothing short of genius. A —J.G.

We Do Not Part, by Han Kang, translated by E. Yaewon and Paige Aniyah Morris, is “an achingly beautiful story that will send readers to Kang’s previous novels, which include 2017’s Human Acts and The Vegetarian, published in the U.S. in 2016. Bring on the K-lit.” A —J.G.

Heartwood, by Amity Gaige: “In simple and sparse narration that blooms with lyrical descriptions of New England landscapes, Heartwood manages to be part mystery, part thriller, part how-to-hike-the-Appalachian-Trail guidebook — or it might convince you to never set foot in the woods again. Either way, start Heartwood and you’ll likely be a thru-reader, all the way to the end.” A —J.G.

Tilt, by Emma Pattee, “is a novel about the end of the world as we know it, a species of the so-called ‘apocalypse genre,’ [but] it’s also about coming to grips with your life when your life has not turned out as you planned, when you are so dissatisfied with your lot that even an earthquake doesn’t mess up your plans.” The book “thrums with tension and is gorgeously written, with scenes and phrases that will long remain with the reader. … Tilt is a remarkable literary debut.” A —J.G.

Nonfiction

The Ghost Lab, by Matthew Hongoltz-Hetling, resulted from “a years-long investigation into paranormal enthusiasts and their work” and is “a fascinating book …. Regardless of how you feel about the paranormal, Hongoltz-Hetling is a first-rate reporter and storyteller, and The Ghost Lab is easy to love — as long as you’re not one of its subjects.” A+ —J.G.

Waste Wars, by Alexander Clapp, is “a sobering story that’s being compared to Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring, which in 1962 launched the environmental movement with its examination of the devastating effects of pesticides. But Waste Wars is not so much about how America’s garbage is destroying us, but about how it’s trashing other countries. A —J.G.

Everything is Tuberculosis, by John Green: “We remember things not by memorizing facts but by hearing stories, and Green has amassed a medicine chest full of stories about tuberculosis, and about the evolution of medicine in general.” A —J.G.

All the Way to the River, by Elizabeth Gilbert, “is … a strange and often unsettling book that upends the myth of Elizabeth Gilbert given to us by Eat, Pray, Love.” A —J.G.

Aflame, by Pico Iyer: “In Aflame … Iyer writes lyrically and movingly about the gifts of solitude and quiet and why they matter, especially in a culture that seems determined to deprive us of them. And yes, he also writes about wildfires, inevitable because the setting is California, and death and suffering. But the title is a metaphor for burning in the heart, as well.” A —J.G.

Featured Photo: The Magnificent Ruins, by Nayantara Roy

(Celadon, 269 pages)

As possibly the only person on the planet who hasn’t read Gone Girl, I am unqualified to compare Gillian Flynn’s 2014 novel to any other book, but I know enough about it to know what it means when other people do this. The comparison promises multiple twists that will knock you out of your chair, your perception of the events and characters totally skewed.

Best Offer Wins is the latest novel to pulsate with the Gone Girl vibe, earning Marisa Kashino the kind of buzz that rarely accompanies a first-time author. It has an entirely relatable premise: a young woman is shut out of the housing market because of too many buyers (and hedge funds) flush with cash and becomes caught up in her quest to be the winning bidder on a suburban D.C. house she wants to raise a family in.

Margo Miyake and her husband, Ian, don’t have children yet, but they’re trying. They’re living in an apartment “so small you can vacuum almost all of it from a single outlet,” having sold their modest starter home planning to upgrade with the profits. But then they find out that the housing market has changed in terrible ways since they’d bought their first house.

Every house they want is getting dozens of offers, many well over the asking price and all cash. Margo and Ian are well off compared to most Americans — she’s in PR, he’s a government lawyer — and they are prepared to spend more than a million on their forever home. But even that’s not enough, and so when Margo gets an insider tip that a four-bedroom home in a desirable neighborhood in Bethesda will soon come on the market, she decides to pull out all the stops, sneakily befriending one of the homeowners and snagging an invitation to dinner at the house.

Friends, the cringe doesn’t come in on little cat feet; it bursts in like a golden retriever left too long outside in the cold.

But the cringe turns into something darker as Margo, the narrator throughout, becomes more and more obsessed with the house. She’s mentally moving in, imagining her new, perfect life within its walls so vividly that she even orders new house numbers to replace the current ones that she doesn’t like. When the homeowners, a gay couple with an adorable adopted daughter, grow suspicious and Margo realizes that her Plan A isn’t going to work, she recalculates and embarks on another scheme, and then another, even as her obsession begins to negatively impact her work and her marriage. It’s not at all clear whether, if she somehow places a winning bid when the house formally comes on the market, she and her husband will still have the income to qualify for a mortgage, or even if they will still be together at all.

As Margo plunges deeper into her quest, we learn, in bits and drabs, why this particular house matters so much to her, and what the life she imagines living there represents. We learn that she had a deeply insecure childhood, that her parents once lost a house to foreclosure, that she once lost a dog to which she was deeply attached. She may or may not be mentally unstable; she may or may not be justified in the increasingly bizarre ways in which she tries to obtain the house.

We’re also not so sure about her husband, Ian, who at first seems devoted to Margo and undeserving of the derision she casts on him. Later events call his devotion into question, but that’s par for the course; it’s unclear if anyone in this story is who they initially seem to be, except for a neighbor’s dog, Fritter, with whom Margo is infatuated.

Margo moves in and out of our sympathy, as she botches important work assignments, comes to the brink of losing her job and takes advantage of good-hearted friends who help when she asks. Yet she is also surrounded by people who have what she wants — to include great homes and children. At times she is even envious of her husband, who had a stable upbringing: “He grew up with a dad who coached his little league teams and a mom who sent him to school with homemade cupcakes on his birthdays. Two loving parents who call us at least once a week to check in,” Margo tells us. “But my childhood, erratic as it was, gave me something even more valuable, something I have come to accept that Ian will never have: hunger.”

There is a dark humor that underpins the narrative, and the story moves swiftly; except for the backstory, the events happen within a couple of weeks. The answers to the two questions that power the book — will Margo get the house, and if so, at what cost? — are impossible to to guess, right up to the final pages of the book, making Best Offer Wins the proverbial page-turner.

But making it to the end of a book doesn’t necessarily mean the reader will like it once they get there, and the ending raises other questions. Is a book enjoyable just because it is engrossing, because it distracts us so effectively from the real world? Sometimes that seems to be the case. But what if we rush to the end of a book, caught in its current like a fast-moving river, and once there, the ending turns out to be deeply unsettling? Is the book still enjoyable then? Those are the unexpected questions that Best Offer Wins presents, ones that I’m still mulling. B+ —Jennifer Graham

Featured Photo: Best Offer Wins, by Marisa Kashino

(Summit Books, 352 pages)

Is there anyone over the age of 20 who hasn’t seen an Anthony Hopkins film, or 20? It’s hard to imagine. As he approaches his 88th birthday on New Year’s Eve, the Welsh actor best known for his Academy Award-winning performance in The Silence of the Lambs has amassed a formidable body of work, and became the oldest actor to win the Oscar for best actor for The Father in 2021.

Talent on the silver screen, however, doesn’t always translate to talent on the printed page, as any number of Hollywood memoirs attests.

But Hopkins’ new memoir, We Did OK, Kid, is surprisingly compelling and will be of interest to even people who aren’t especially enthralled with cinema. Like all good celebrity memoirs, it is strongest in reflecting the experiences of a human being, not a star. Hopkins’ luminous career is almost incidental to the lessons learned over the course of a lifetime as someone who was underestimated in his youth and had to overcome parenting that was, let’s just say, not always ideal.

The title comes from Hopkins’s own message to the child that he was, at age 3, in a photo that appears on the jacket of the book. He had a slightly enlarged head that worried his parents and elicited teasing from cruel peers who called him “elephant head.” Making things worse, he was not much of a student. A pivotal moment came when he was sent to boarding school by his parents, against his will.

He writes: “I vowed, I’ll take my chances and never get close to my mother and father again — or anyone else for that matter. I no longer cared. I decided to live life on my terms, to open my eyes to the future. Forget the past. Childhood over. Copy that. Over and out. The ghost had entered the machine.”

He was 11 at the time.

Despite this steely girding of adolescent loins, Hopkins continued to perform poorly in school. He recounts the dreaded opening of the envelope containing his grades that would arrive at his home. On one such occasion, his father exploded, saying, “Honestly, you’re bloody hopeless. You’ll never get anywhere, amount to anything in life, the way you’re going on. … Can’t you do anything useful?”

Young Hopkins, who had been cultivating a demeanor of “dumb insolence,” listened to the rant coolly and then told his parents, “One day, I’ll show you. I’ll show both of you.”

It wasn’t a relationship-ending exchange — father, mother and son then went out to see a movie — but something changed again that day, in Hopkins and in the way that his father viewed him. It is one in a series of memorable scenes that the actor recounts throughout the book, like his first encounter with a young Richard Burton (another legendary Welsh actor, who died in 1984), and having drinks with Laurence Olivier, to name a few.

The first indication that young Hopkins had the seeds of an extraordinary orator within him came when he was asked to read a poem before his class at the boarding school. (His teacher’s response was “Thank you. Rather good.”) The poem was “The West Wind” by John Masefield, and it’s among the meaningful verses and monologues he shares in an appendix of the book — a nice touch.

Bumbling his way through his first stage-related jobs, Hopkins was told more than once that he wasn’t careful or attentive enough; he was fired from one job. But everyone he encountered seemed to recognize a raw talent in him despite the rough edges. He earned a scholarship to an acting school on the strength of an interview. One woman recommended him for a job after briefly interacting with him in a restaurant. His capacity for memorization is legendary, and it was a skill he developed as a child when he repeated words and phrases over and over. His current wife, Stella, believes he has some form of Asperger’s syndrome, “given my proclivity for memorization and repetition … and my lack of emotionality.”

“But,” he writes, “like any stoic man from the British Isles, I’m allergic to therapeutic jargon. Even if the world might prefer I accept the Asperger’s label, I’ve chosen to stick with what I see as a more meaningful designation: cold fish.”

The “lack of emotionality” comes across on the page in stark, clipped prose. No one will ever accuse Hopkins of overwriting. He tells what needs to be told, nothing more, and yet the book sometimes feels like a confessional. He writes, for example, of his failures as a father to his only child, Abigail, after leaving her mother when she was a toddler “after the worst two years of my life.” Although he went on to marry again twice, he vowed not to have more children. “I knew I was too selfish. I couldn’t do to another child what I’d done to her,” he says. Performing in a production of Lear, “the line that hit me harder than perhaps any I’ve ever spoken was ‘I did her wrong.’”

He wonders if his failure to connect with his daughter was in some way connected to his experiences in his own parents’ house, even though his father turned out to be a complicated person. Despite his harshness to his son, he also cried when young Hopkins delivered his first line in a play at a local YMCA (it was a beatitude: “Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the world.”) And he asks his son to recite lines from Hamlet when he is on his death bed.

Like father, like son, Hopkins grew up to drink heavily, which contributed to the abrupt end of his first marriage. After a doctor warned him that he was drinking his way into the grave, he started attending meetings of Alcoholics Anonymous.

At the first one, “I was moved by the speaker’s story. He’s just like me, I thought. He was a truck driver, not an actor, but we were the same.”

Sitting in that room, Hopkins thought, “They’re all misfits like me. Like all of us. We feel we never belong. We feel self-hatred. All of us are the same. I’m not alone.”

It is that sort of revelation that makes this more a human story than a celebrity memoir. Yes, there are big names in this book, but coming as they do from Sir Anthony Hopkins (he was knighted by Queen Elizabeth in 1993), they never feel like name-dropping; how could they? In most cases, he is the bigger star. He did far more than OK. And yet in the deeply human memoir, Hopkins plays an ordinary man, perhaps his most extraordinary role of all. B+

Featured Photo: We Did Ok, Kid by Anthony Hopkins

(Harper, 224 pages)

When my son was little and found it hard to sit through movies, he once announced in the middle of a showing, “If they don’t start blowing stuff up soon, I’m outta here.”

Even as an adult, he wouldn’t make it halfway through a Catherine Newman novel.

Newman’s success comes not from explosive plots but from the memorable characters she develops and the dialogue she crafts that makes the experience of reading her books not like reading a book but like eavesdropping on your neighbors or the people at the next table at a diner. In Wreck she returns to the family she introduced in 2024’s Sandwich, which was a nod to both the Cape Cod town and to challenges of people caring for both children and parents.

Two years older, 50-something parents Nick and Rachel (who goes by Rocky) are still looking for that empty nest. Son Jamie is married and working as a consultant in New York, and daughter Willa has a university job that involves caring for fruit flies in a lab, but Rocky’s father has moved in with the family after the death of his wife. While prone to missing a beat in a conversation, Grandpa is otherwise in good shape, and things are going well for the family in general.
But then, as Newman writes in a memorable opening in which an horned owl looks down from its perch as a car and a train are about to collide, “a great screeching has begun.”

The young man who dies in the accident, Miles Zapf, was a local; the family knew him, but only casually. But there is an unexpected connection that gradually becomes clever as the investigation continues and Rocky and Willa become increasingly obsessed with the case, and Rocky starts paying attention to Miles’s mother’s posts on social media.

Meanwhile, Rocky has a strange rash that is spreading all over her body, sending her from one perplexed doctor to another and finally into Boston for a spiral CT scan, and into the rabbit hole of the internet, where every ailment is just one click away from being seen as a malignancy.

Again, there is nothing in the way of a hang-on-to-your-seats plot to find here, just a slow unraveling of normalcy, the loss of which no one notices until it’s gone. Newman herself told an interviewer she struggled to find an elevator pitch for the book, “because nothing really happens,” which isn’t exactly true, but the events do unfold, shall we say, languidly. At times, Newman seems reluctant to even let her characters finish a meal, because they are all enjoying being together so much. (More than one chapter is just the family having breakfast and talking.)

And yet how can you not love a writer who uses Godzilla as a verb? As in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory, there are surprises around every corner, surprises in packages of words.

Readers will recognize people in their own lives in Newman’s characters, who are rich in human foibles while deeply empathetic. Rocky’s late mother, for example, appears in one memory in which she is reporting on the health of someone she barely knows. Trying to figure out why, Rocky muses that her mother must have been trying to connect with her, maybe about their own frailty or mortality. “I don’t know why all our tender feelings have to masquerade as news,” she thinks.

In one of my favorite scenes — which takes place at yet another family meal — Rocky mulls over how validated she feels when her adult children take up one of her habits. It feels like a vote of confidence, she thinks, when a child later comes to buy the same kind of olive oil, for example, that you do.

But then she recounts the day that Jamie suddenly announced to his parents, “It turns out, I really like lamb.”

“The utterance was a little more heated than one might expect. ‘You guys have always been like, We don’t like lamb. Like, as a family. We are a people who don’t like lamb!’”

The ensuing conversation is both comical and full of the best kind of family drama, the kind that will one day result in a story, not lingering bitterness.

Combining humor and poignancy can be hard to pull off, but Newman is a master. In the matter of her health, Rocky says, “I’m the kind of kale-eating person who nonetheless has a massive stable of doctors, everybody whinnying and rearing up on their hind legs and neighing out their copay requests.” It is in writing about Rocky’s journey through the health care system that Newman’s gifts shine through, pointing out the frustrations that a patient can have with the system while at the same time being grateful for the technology and the professionals who see us through illness. And, of course, the bewilderment of a once-healthy person suddenly thrust into this strange world:

“One minute, you’re with all the healthy people on the beach, everyone enjoying the sunshine and salt spray, maybe tossing a Frisbee around. And then suddenly you’re alone in the waves, getting yanked out to sea by some medical undertow, the shore receding from view while all the healthy people wave to you pityingly.”

Newman writes about pill organizers and stool samples, and teaching hospitals and patient portals, while making wry observations about the sort of stuff offered on Buy Nothing websites and the aching love a mother has for her children, which subsides not in the least when they move out. In other words, she writes about real life. It is, Rocky says, kind of like the game Chutes and Ladders: “The constant ascending and descending — every good and bad thing seeming, in moments, so random and temporary.” In Wreck, Newman gives us a diversion from our own, reassurance that we are all in this together, and there are laughs to be had even when things don’t turn out the way we hope. Readers will hope they’ve not seen the last of Nick and Rocky. B+ —Jennifer Graham

Newman will read from Wreck at The Toadstool Bookshop in Peterborough beginning at 6 p.m., Friday, Nov. 21.

Featured Photo: Wreck, by Catherine Newman (Harper, 224 pages)

(Harper, 305 pages)

When Alfie Logan is 8 years old he learns that he has the supernatural ability to undo the past. By whispering the word “twice,” he can transport himself to any previous moment of time and relive his life from that moment, correcting any mistakes he previously made.

That’s a power that would come in handy, for sure, but it’s one that is also fraught with danger, as we learned from the Back to the Future franchise. But in Mitch Albom’s new novel Twice, this isn’t the world-altering time travel of Dr. Who or Marty McFly. Albom puts the power into a child who is about to lose his mother, but with caveats: Alfie can’t go back to the same moment twice, and he can’t keep anyone from dying when it’s their time.

Albom is the Detroit columnist who parlayed his bestselling memoir Tuesdays With Morrie into a side career of writing heartwarming books. This one, the reader has reason to suspect, will be no different, even though it begins with a jailhouse interrogation of the grown-up Alfie, arrested for suspected gambling fraud and apparently suffering from some terminal illness that will soon end his life. How did someone blessed with the ability to undo mistakes wind up in these circumstances? And what happened to make Alfie estranged from the love of his life, Gianna Rule, a woman Alfie wired $2 million to after winning three straight games of roulette at a Bahamas casino?

These are the questions that Albom bets will sustain readers through a story that requires a monumental suspension of disbelief over its premise: that a superpower of “second chances” can be passed on through families, like a propensity for bunions or brown eyes. Incredibly, it works.

The narrative flips back and forth from the interrogation of Alfie by a cynical detective named LaPorta and what’s written in a black marbled composition notebook, the kind you buy at the Dollar Store. The notebook is titled “For the boss, to be read upon my death,” and it’s a journal of sorts in which Alfie explains the story of his remarkable life to an unidentified boss.

Unable to answer the detective’s questions without sounding like someone who is seriously mentally ill, Alfie offers him the notebook. It takes us back to Alfie’s childhood in Kenya, where his parents were missionaries and he befriended a captive elephant named Lallu and a girl about his own age named Princess. Then came his mother’s death, an event made even more traumatic because he had disobeyed his father’s instruction to stay with her, and his mother died alone. It was then that he discovered his gift, which allowed him to go back to the morning before his mother died — and not to prevent her death, but to at least be present with her, to be a comfort as she died.

The bereaved father and son soon move back to the United States, to Philadelphia, and Alfie begins playing with his gift. “A bad grade on a spelling test? I went back and aced it. A strikeout in a baseball game? I relived the at bat, this time knowing what pitches to expect. If I mouthed off and got punished, I repeated the encounter and kept my mouth shut the second time. Consequently, I rarely paid a price for bad behavior. And unlike most kids, I was never bruised or bloodied for more than a few seconds.”

If this sounds like it’s not a recipe for raising a responsible adult, well, yes, that’s a major plot hole. But because Alfie has a good heart and has suffered trauma, we know he’s a good guy and we are to pull for him, and there’s no way that he actually ripped off a casino, right? Also, as he pursues Gianna Rule as a young adult, even enrolling at Boston University in order to be near her, we accept that he is a good man and not actually a stalker. But as their off-and-on relationship unfolds, it’s increasingly complicated, especially when Alfie’s well-meaning rewinds undo one of their most significant interactions.

The journalist Katherine Lanpher has said that the three most beautiful words in the English language are “What happened next?” That question is the fuel that powers this story; Albom is a gifted and experienced storyteller who knows how to lure his readers to the last page. And the ending of this book does not disappoint. What ultimately happens is wholly unexpected, and the interlocking events that lead to that point fit together nicely, even though the suspension of disbelief is just as necessary on the last page as the first. But if you believe in magic, or want to believe, it totally works.

At one point Alfie writes in his notebook, “There are planks that we walk, and planks that we jump off,” and jumping off seems appropriate for Twice. The book sounds kind of strange, and it is kind of strange, but it’s a lovely feel-good book to kick off the holiday season. B

Featured Photo: Twice, by Mitch Albom