Reid Mitenbuler, Bourbon Empire ***

This social history of American whiskey starts out strong. Because Mitenbuler is describing pre-history, before any colorful characters enter the story, the first few chapters focus on the larger forces that led to the creation of bourbon: the ubiquity of corn in the new world, the disrupted supply lines from the Caribbean during the Revolutionary War, the use of whiskey as currency and as a way to monetize excess grain, the barrel aging that occurred as whiskey traveled down the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers. These chapters reminded me of Nature's Metropolis in the way it described the interplay of natural and social processes.

Once we reach the historical record, around the time of the Civil War, Mitenbuler can't resist the lure of outsized characters, gangsters, charlatans, and political hypocrites. The story becomes much more anecdotal, although the author continues to paint the larger picture as the industry shifts and consolidates. The final chapter, about a visit to a two-person distillery in New York state, reads very much like the kind of magazine profile that earlier portions of the book have mocked.

Yoko Ogawa, The Memory Police ***

The title and flap copy for The Memory Police suggest that the novel is "about the terrors of state surveillance," but I don't think that's a proper characterization. Objects are disappearing on an unnamed island—hats, birds, calendars—and the Memory Police come for those who don't forget the disappeared things. However, the disappearances appear to be a natural process not a state-sponsored one and the people are confused or apathetic rather than terrified.

The book introduces many ideas and images concerning our relationship with objects, for example the way objects cease to exist once our emotional attachment to them and their use is gone. Disappearances happen all the time in the normal course of change (pay phones, CD players, coworkers); are we supposed to lament these losses as a constricting of our souls? We also lose memories—and the objects they refer to—as we age. In The Memory Police, the narrator tries to conserve memories by hiding her editor in a secret room that soon becomes a repository of forgotten objects and a comforting retreat. Why does she do that, and why do the Memory Police care if some people don't forget things?

This enigmatic book offers many tantalizing allegories, but they never built into a larger whole for me. Is that intentional or did I miss somethings? Is it because of a cultural difference between me and the Japanese author? I'm tempted to say The Memory Police would be great for sparking conversation at a book club, except I know that most readers aren't interested in discussing unsolved mysteries.

Ben Macintyre, The Spy and the Traitor **** 1/2

The Spy and the Traitor is essentially a biography of Oleg Gordievsky, a highly placed KGB agent who provided MI6 with reams of valuable intelligence during the 1970s and 1980s, until he was "burned" by Aldrich Ames (the traitor of the title).

The story is dramatic, especially once the Russians suspect Gordievsky and he needs to escape from Moscow. The best thing about the book, though, is how it presents the day-to-day operations of the spy agencies and shows how they are offices like any other, with the same combination of high performers, slackers, and screw-ups.

Gordievsky is the hero of the story, and my one complaint is that he comes across as too one-dimensionally heroic. Macintyre doesn't probe Gordievsky's motivations much. A few of the spy's actions feel questionable, but the author gives them the most charitable interpretation. The afterward mentions some "bones of contention" and hint at a prickly personality; I would have preferred to have that personality show in the story.

And one final question: Why did the KGB leave Gordievsky free in Moscow when they were pretty sure he had betrayed them?

Elizabeth McCracken, Thunderstruck ***

I read this collection of stories based on Evelyn's review.  "All the characters... were flawed in personality, but were living their lives as if they were not" -- sounds right up my alley.  In most of the stories, a character has an experience that forces him or her to suddenly see themselves from another person's point of view.

I think the stories in Thunderstruck would be great to analyze in a writing class, because they are very technically proficient in construction and in tone. All of the elements seem to be there, but for some reason they fail to engage me. The characters don't come alive. I enjoyed the stories as well built narratives but didn't feel them.

Lucy Ellmann, Ducks, Newburyport **** 1/2

The nearly 1000 pages of Ducks, Newburyport contain the musings of an Ohio housewife, written in a unique stream-of-consciousness style with nary a period or paragraph break. It's an intimidating block of text, but the prose flows smoothly once you fall into its rhythms. Words and ideas pop up obliquely, their connection to the surrounding thoughts unclear, only to bear fruit many pages later. The two words of the title, for example, come to our narrator's mind a few times before she finally thinks more about the story of her mother nearly drowning as a child when she chased ducks into a pond in Newburyport. The larger themes of the book emerge in the same circuitous way.

The story has subtle and interesting things to say about maternal relationships, the necessary white-washing of history and how it impacts our attitudes, and how we carry on and find joy in the face of everyday fears.

Three things prevent me from giving Ducks, Newburyport the coveted five star rating:

• The length, while possibly necessary, is intimidating.
• The interspersed sections about a mountain lion feel increasingly contrived.
• The narrator doesn't have any epiphany or growth.

David Lynch and Kristine McKenna, Room to Dream ***

Room to Dream is a "hybrid of biography and memoir" of David Lynch. I love the idea of alternating chapters of traditional biography with chapters of the subject telling stories relating to that period of his or her life. Unfortunately, though, that's not what Room to Dream really is. The biographical chapters are not researched or written to provide insight into Lynch's character; they are fawning collections of admiring quotes. We learn the basic facts about Lynch's life and get anecdotes from various collaborators, but nothing resembling a character portrait.

I would have really liked to know more about how Lynch dealt with a huge studio production (The Elephant Man) after spending years on a passion project with his friends. How was he able to make the adjustment? How did he appear to the professionals used to more experienced directors? I'd also like to know more about the course of his relationships with his wives.

Especially in his later years, when he has an entourage catering to his needs, there are numerous clues to suggest that Lynch can be a difficult and capricious man to deal with, especially for women. (Some of the behind-the-scenes footage on the DVD for Twin Peaks: The Return includes moderately creepy behavior.) I wish the book went beyond Lynch's public persona of a nice Midwestern artist with the restless creativity to create a more nuanced view. You know, like a biography.

Machado de Assis, Dom Casmurro *** 1/2

Dom Casmurro is a (barely) nineteenth century novel (published in 1899) that feels like a twentieth century novel: an unreliable narrator, an ironic tone, and an ambiguous outcome. Our narrator Bentinho starts as a feckless fifteen-year-old boy in love with the girl next store, Capitu. At his birth, his mother promised God that he would become a priest, but Bento wants out of it. He eventually manages to leave the seminary, marry Capitu, and settle down in a home next door to his best friend. At the climax of the story, Bento becomes convinced that he is not his son's father, that Capitu betrayed him with his friend.

Machado de Assis is often called Brazil's greatest writer, and Dom Casmurro is his best known book. Arguments continue to rage about whether Capitu cuckolded Bento. My personal feeling is that she did not. From the very beginning of the book, Bento describes characters who clearly have ulterior motives that he fails to recognize, and just before he begins suspecting Capitu he himself experiences an attraction to his friend's wife. In other words, he's clearly a poor judge of character who only understands (or misunderstands) people's intentions in terms of his own.