Evie Wyld, All the Birds, Singing ** 1/2

All the Birds, Singing takes place in a compelling and well-described milieu – two of them, actually, since the story is split between the present and the past. The present-day story is on a remote sheep farm on a rainy Scottish island; the flashbacks are in the Australian outback at hot, dry sheep stations. Wyld creates an effective mood in both places: a dark dread in Scotland and a desperate exhaustion in Australia.

Unfortunately, these great settings are populated with stock characters from genre fiction. Most detrimental is that our narrator, Jake Whyte, has no personality beyond the stereotypical closed-off-because-damaged woman (cf. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo; Dark Places). The action in the present day story doesn't feel realistic to me, and the reverse-chronological flashbacks felt purely like a literary gimmick.

Sinclair Lewis, Dodsworth ****

The 1936 film version of Dodsworth was a gem that Evelyn and I discovered working through a critics' list of the best American films. I was impressed by its perceptive and chilling depiction of a retired couple drifting apart as they travel through Europe.

Sinclair Lewis, author of the book Dodsworth, is a Nobel Prize winner who no one seems to read or talk about anymore. His biographer says, "He was one of the worst writers in modern American literature..., " which is rather discouraging. However, I was impressed enough by the film that I craved the added depth of the novel.

The biggest difference between the book and film is the scope of Sam Dodsworth's plight. In the book he has a full-on mid-life crisis, leading him to question his success, his place in the world, his Americanism. The movie, wisely, focuses on the frightening (to me) chasm that opens between Sam and his wife Fran; it turns out they want entirely different things from life. It's enough to make me reluctant to retire.

I expected Lewis' prose to be clunky and staid, but it was fine and lightly satirical. The story could stand to lose a few repetitive incidents, some characters do make thematic speeches, and the ending felt rushed after the leisurely pace of the rest of the book. But overall I enjoyed the writing and found plenty of insights. The descriptions of 1930s Europe were a bonus.

Sam Low, Hawaiki Rising, and Ben Finney, Hokule'a: The Way to Tahiti *** 1/2

When I was reading We, the Navigators, my sailing crewmate Bohun Kinloch said that he too was reading about Polynesian navigation techniques. These two books focus on one voyage in particular: the 1976 trip from Hawaii to Tahiti aboard the traditional Polynesian canoe Hokule'a, sailed without instruments. Hawaiki Rising also describes a follow-up voyage four years later.

While they include some navigational lore, these books are more about the overall Hokule'a project. The emphasis is on the construction of the canoe and especially its role in the resurgence of Hawaiian culture. The project became embroiled in cultural politics, which lead to significant conflict among the crew during the voyage.

There were tensions onboard from the start. Mau Piailug, the navigator, didn't get along with David Lewis, the Western expert, and there was another native navigator on board from Tahiti. The captain didn't command the respect of the crew, many of whom were surfers chosen for their cultural prominence not sailing experience. They grumbled about the food and accommodations, smoked pot, smuggled a radio on board, set a Western-style jib, and generally threatened the experiment at every turn. It all culminated in a fistfight and public recriminations when the reached Tahiti. Mau quit in disgust.

In short, effective navigation isn't necessarily the biggest challenge on long-distance voyages.

Jeff Hobbs, The Short and Tragic Life of Robert Peace **** 1/2

The Short and Tragic Life of Robert Peace is the biography of a man who grew up in the poor, crime-ridden neighborhoods of Newark, received a degree in molecular biophysics from Yale, and returned to Newark to teach biology at the Catholic high school he'd attended. The author is one of Rob's Yale college roommates. The title is a spoiler for how it all turns out.

By its nature, the story touches on sociological and philosophical questions about the psychological impact of growing up in poverty, what it means to succeed in life, and how our decisions affect our fate. However, the author made the wise decision to stick closely to the facts and to present Rob's life as it might have appeared from his point of view.  Rob's decisions and actions always seem perfectly reasonable and understandable, even when we start to watch him make bad ones.

Hobbs does a very good job giving realistic characters to the various people in Rob's life, to Rob and his parents most of all. He also makes insightful points about the bigger questions without getting too abstract or preachy... although, I have to say that there are some sections, especially later in the book, that sound like cliched college essays. (In the Author Q&A at the back of the book, Hobbs says he started by writing personal essays to help himself understand Rob's story; I'll bet these weaker sections come directly from those essays.)

I loved reading a biography about a basically normal guy. I got a vivid sense of him as a person, and was deeply disturbed by his squandered potential and tragic end.

Ron Rash, Something Rich and Strange ***

Ron Rash is an author and poet from western North Carolina, and I read most of this story collection during a visit to the region. Rash's stories are well written with clear narrative structure, and were perfect for reading on vacation. 

But, I have to say that none of them surprised me or attempted anything other than straightforward literary short fiction. I didn't get a particularly strong sense of place, nor would I have guessed that Rash is a poet. 

In short, Something Rich and Strange is enjoyable but generic.  Since Rash is a Southern short story writer, reviewers compare him to Flannery O'Conner. I've read Flannery O'Conner and you, sir, are no Flannery O'Conner.