Heads and Tails.

Two sides to everything, right? Harder to admit when we are in the midst of an election year. Being in the Twin Cities and watching the hoopla escalate daily around the RNC is daunting. And then a moment at the State Fair when by way of a couple of adorable two-year-olds I found myself talking to a lovely woman who introduced the tiny girl gripping Calder's arm and smiling. This daughter was from the Philippines and just adopted by their family four months ago. We talked about the kids and then my eyes dropped to her shirt and her giant John McCain button. My heart skipped (the enemy!) and then I looked back at our children gazing at each other with beatific smiles. It was a good reminder that the rancor is handed down. Not that we'll ever all agree, and that would be a bad thing anyway, but we can still treat each other with respect and by way of example, by far the most powerful teacher, hand that down to our kids.

After reading A Thousand Splendid Suns (Khaled Hosseini) I realize how lucky we are to be able to spend our time focusing on the intricacies of political posturing over the weather. Snug in the center of our huge country, and not having children old enough to enlist, we remain untouched by war. We can switch off CNN anytime and go on about our lives. Contrasted with the realities of life in Kabul through these past six years it is stunning that we are looking at the same situation from such different places.

It is amazing to see a situation from the other side; to gain even a little perspective and compassion. The way I felt reading this book reminded me so much of the same feelings while reading Stones from the River (Ursula Hegi) which tells the story of World War II in Germany through the eyes of a young girl. Getting a peek from the other side can be breathtaking.

Hosseini tells this story through the women, the mothers. The two main, overlapping stories of Mariam and Laila have many similarities but of course the power lies in the differences. The change from one generation to the next and in the attitudes and expectations of the women in this culture of men. Through Mariam and Laila and the raising of children, we see the possibilities of a new generation. The secondary story lines, Mariam's mother Nana and Laila's mother Fariba, give us a glimpse at how being mothers, parents, also has the potential to cripple us.

The two sides, over the backdrop of the war, is traditional culture and modernity. This fascinating story weaves the two together beautifully and explores how they are inescapably tangled, for better or worse.

And the pitch.

I'm into the Murakami again. Summertime always brings me to Windup Bird Chronicle (Haruki Murakami) and it's lazy, lulling pace. I think this is my fourth time through; my fourth summer with this odd, elegant, magical story. I swear something happens to me, to my brain itself, the weeks I spend with it. Hence my inevitable return. I'm an unapologetic addict and this is my drug of choice.

Bookshelf.

Dog days.

The very same day I found out my Weimaraner, Greta, has lymphoma and is terminal; an amazon.com box arrived containing a copy of The Dying Animal (Philip Roth). I ordered this title on a complete whim after seeing mention in The Week about a movie coming out based on the book and I've always wanted to read Roth. Why now? Why that book? The world is a very strange place.

It has been a week of endings as I also finished both Half Broken Things (Morag Joss) and A Long Way Down (Nick Hornby). There were some really very disturbing parallels between these two novels and again I wonder how particular things find us at particular times. Of course, it is just human nature to make such leaps. The chaos of the universe is immense and so it is very easy to latch on to random details and in our scrabbling, grasping way try to make some sense of them. No matter how horrible.

The Roth happens to be fantastic. It is a short, taut read and should probably be consumed in one sitting (oh, if only such things were still possible!) as it is written without a single pause; without break or any kind of respite. It is as if he just heaved this whole life onto paper in a single go. Incredible.

Suicidal Tendencies.

I feel like a dabbler of late. A literary dilettante. I roam from title to title as the stack at my bedside grows taller by the day. I shift restlessly and get to the meat of nothing. The combination of an intense two-year-old and the busiest month of the year at work may have something to do with my lack of focus.

I've picked away at Half Broken Things (Morag Joss) which came recommended by my friend Sarah. I'm about half (ha!) way through and stalled out. It has it's moments but overall the characters are a really unlikeable bunch. They are a frustrating lot but also oddly intriguing. I do need to find out where this is going...

Along the way (hey look! something shiny!) I veered off into A Long Way Down (Nick Hornby) which, coincidentally, is also populated with some really annoying personalities. Both books deliver accidental compatriots into a completely bizarre situation and then let the reader watch them squirm. Hornby's version is just slightly less dark, almost funny sometimes, and I think that is the current attraction for me.

No, really.

Seriously, seriously horrible.

Lame.

I am the worst blogger ever.