Quarantine Book Club | Edition IV

We are very definitely not in quarantine anymore. Despite a recent (relatively small) surge in cases brought on largely by domestic travel, our government stated this week that it intends to forge ahead with reopening whatever the risk – and is uncertain about enforcing the use of masks in public. Suffice it to say that I feel much less safe than I did a few weeks ago, and am increasingly spending my time indoors. Welcome, friends, to the fourth edition of the Quarantine Book Club. I’ve reconciled myself to the fact that we will be meeting in this space every month for the foreseeable future. Luckily, there is no shortage of books in the world…

Like most months, I haven’t loved all the books I’ve read this month – but what I don’t love, someone else might. That’s part of the fun of a book club. If you’ve read any of the six books below, I’d love to hear your thoughts about them in the Comments!

(And if you’re curious about what else I’ve read, you can look back on Quarantine Book Club | Edition I, Quarantine Book Club | Edition II and Quarantine Book Club | Edition III. You can also see my whole list on Good Reads.)

Memoirs of Hadrian – Marguerite Yourcenar
My fascination with the last great Roman emperor is no secret. And this book paints an astonishingly accurate portrait of his life, one that is unlikely to ever see an equal. But it left me wanting more. More action, more drama, more… something. I blame myself for reading it in English rather than the original French. Sometimes, things really do get lost in translation.

Where the Heart is – Billie Letts
Years ago, a friend of mine developed an obsession with the movie version of this book. We’re talking insisted-that-I-watch-it-with-her-every-weekend obsessed. It was crazy, particularly since the movie is, at best, okay. That memory left me with little hope for the book, but that allowed me to be pleasantly surprised when I enjoyed it. It was a quick read, but a good one, with characters you can’t help but love.

Letters to Milena – Franz Kafka
I almost like Kafka’s personal correspondance better than I like his books. Almost. But reading it during quarantine proved particularly interesting because he was so often in ill-health. His mental and physical well-being, constantly varying, dictated much of his life and work, which was not anymore unusual at the time than it is now. What was unusual was for someone to talk about it. Kafka was extremely open in his correspondance with Milena in particular, and although I can’t pretend I understood every aspect of their strange relationship, it was fascinating to read about it. And to understand how much of an impact their health in fact had on it.

The Lost Garden – Helen Humphreys
This truly was the perfect little book. Elegantly and simply written, brief but moving. All of the characters were flawed, but eminently loveable. I couldn’t wait to find out how it ended, but was sorry when it did, which to me is the hallmark of a good book. This one is well worth the read.

The Secret History – Donna Tartt
I probably should have read The Lost Garden after The Secret History, rather than before. While both are exceptionally well-crafted novels, Donna Tartt’s opus is long and intricate where Helen Humphreys’ is simple ad spare. Both authors have a knack for creating flawed and utterly human characters, but Tartt’s are despicable where Humphreys’ are delightful. Humphreys temporarily restored my faith in humanity, while Tartt destroyed it again within a few pages. This is a wonderful book, but a dark one. Make sure you are ready with a light, cheerful read follow it up.

In the Midst of Winter – Isabel Allende
I couldn’t read enough of Isabel Allende’s book when I was in high school. I discovered Gabriel Garcia Marquez at fifteen and thus began my love affair with Latin American literature. In her time, Allende has written some truly memorable novels. But I’d read most of those before I turned twenty. I am sad to report that I find her more recent works to be formulaic at best, and very often derivative. This book was fine. From another writer, it might even have been enjoyable. But it is so far from the literary sophistication that Allende is capable of that to me, it almost felt unworthy of the paper it was printed on. In other words, a serious disappointment – but not a surprising one.