Made in the U.S.A.

Billie Letts is one of my favorite writers. Her first three novels-- "Where the Heart Is", "The Honk and Holler Opening Soon", and "Shoot the Moon"-- are peopled with characters straight out of reality, facing situations which (sadly) are straight out of reality. When I read her novels, I make friends. When I finish her novels, I am sad to let go. "Made in the U.S.A." does not disappoint.

I found the novel serendipitously. Every time I'm in Barnes & Noble, browsing, I check for a new one. But this time, i was in Target, looking for a book that wasn't yet out ("Shanghai Girls"), when I saw her name in white from across the aisle. I had to have it, even without reading the synopsis on the back.

"Made in the U.S.A." tells a familiar story, on the surface: teenage girl in the mid-west falls on hard times, and the drama continues to unfold, one grisly chapter at a time, until-- finally!-- something good happens. But what Billie Letts does with plot and character carries the reader from the lowest lows to the highest highs (much rarer, interestingly), with ease and unease simultaneously.

Her language is not confounding. In fact, she writes as people generally speak: colloquially, crafting metaphors her readers can easily understand and using details they have experienced themselves. But the ease of the language belies the unease, the feeling of anxiety in the pit of a reader's stomach. Because Letts' stories are swiftly moving, but the journey is often unsettling. I found myself cringing, shaking my head, trying to stave off disappointment and disgust and reproachment all at once.

But the story continues in the way that life continues: one pitfall after another, one night following one morning following one night. And when the reader gets to the end-- to the series of jubilant verbs on page 354-- she is glad she kept turning the pages.

I love Billie Letts. I think she is the quintessential American writer of the time. For readers of all ages she offers dynamic characters, sage wisdom, and quiet solutions to gregarious problems.

Happy reading.

The Namesake

"The Namesake" is written by Jhumpa Lahiri, and I think she works literary magic crafting a tale about a single family. The parents were born in India and moved to Massachusetts. Their kids were born in the U.S. and never understood their parents' draw to Calcutta. Mixed in there are several love stories, a few heartbreaking losses, and many, many questions.

For whatever reason, I found myself, at times, empathizing with the main character. The way he views the world-- as a collection of places rich with memories, imbued with the past-- is how I see the world so often. When I go to a place, I remember the people I've been with there, the food I've eaten, the music I heard or things I experienced. Every place has a weight. Some of the weight is too heavy; some of the weight is just right. The movie theaters and classrooms and restaurants where I've shared time with people-- or spent time alone-- every place holds memories that inform my life, that let me know I have, at the very least, been around.

In the end, "The Namesake" left me a little unfulfilled. The last line does not have the power I was hoping it would have. But it does sort of remind me that life goes on-- that this story persists beyond the last page for the characters Lahiri so carefully constructed. And, so, I'm mostly okay with it. It's a story that feels real, a story that has been lived by millions of Indians (and immigrants) since our country was not our country. It is a story without which we do not exist as we are.

It is a story about Self, identity, family, love, place. It is a story about the known and unknown past, the wholly unknown future, and the brevity of the present. Beautifully written and hauntingly moving, "The Namesake" makes me pause, reflect, and, somehow, long for places past, present, and future.

Empire of the Soul

I just finished "Empire of the Soul" by Paul William Roberts. I am left with an impression of India that lingers at the end of every personal narrative I've read about the nation: it is teaming with life. It is gleaming, and steaming, and screaming with life. But, in the midst of this apparent chaos (wrought, perhaps, by Siva himself), two simple notions persist: love and truth.

Always in these accounts of India, the author is able to pinpoint his truth. Always in these accounts of India, the author is able to pronounce deep love-- a love of the people, a love for the people. I am always left feeling like the author at the beginning of his tale: someone seeking something she can not yet define but with an inclination that it must lie in India.

"Empire of the Soul", unlike "Shantaram", is a work of complete nonfiction. Paul William Roberts visited India several times, in both the 1970s and the 1990s. He writes at times as a philosopher, as an historian, and as an outsider seeking that which lies within. He provides accounts from all over India: from Bombay to Tiruvannamalai, from Goa to Calcutta. He introduces the reader to the people he met, to the places he explored, to the obstacles he faced and usually overcame. He questions his own motives and those of the people around him, particularly Westerners apparently on their own quests. He visits holy men in his near-constant plight to understand religion for himself.

Over the course of the travelogue, the reader becomes accustomed to India. She climbs onto a camel, sees the sadhu standing on one leg for thirty years, speaks with Mother Theresa. Roberts gives his reader an almost scientific explanation of his experiences, but his lucid writing never confounds.

For those interested in India (and who crave a history lesson without a weighty textbook), Paul William Roberts has crafted a fantastic read.

Quotes from "Empire of the Soul":

The city had moved on, but the temple remained. In India, the past refuses to die, undisturbed by new realities... indifferent to God and man. (221)

Mighty opposites rule this world. In this clash of opposites, Calcutta is the most truthful city on earth, exposing all the wounds, the scars, the festering sores, the realities we in the West hide away as if they did not exist. (244)

I had never really doubted the wisdom I'd come to find and had found here I had no questions about the big issues. Even death no longer really scared me... I looked hard for what exactly did scare me. And I found it: I scared myself. Why had the wisdom my mind had absorbed so long before not moved into my heart, my body, my life? Reading a memo does not stop you starving. (326)

The reason so many wise and wonderful men and women have never ceased speaking Truth into deaf ears, I thought that dawn, is that Truth exists to bear the burden, carry the fright. It's not our problem. (350)