When I started the Quarantine Book Club in April of this year, it was with the hope that it would be short-lived. That ship sailed long ago. It was around this time last year that I first read about a mysterious new kind of pneumonia discovered in China, totally unaware of how that illness would change my life in a matter of months. Two months later, I was still travelling every second week, but there were signs of what was to come – travellers in masks at Pearson International Airport, an increasing sense of concern over minor illnesses.
All along, I read. Books have been my companions since childhood. But I enjoyed putting off reading them to go out and have fun as much as I enjoyed reading them. In the past nine months, they have served as a substitute for many things, especially those nights out.
We’re all looking to different things to help maintain our sanity right now. And if, like me, you’re mostly looking to the stack of books on your nightstand, welcome to the monthly meeting of the Quarantine Book Club.
Like most months, I haven’t loved everything on my reading list – I seriously struggled, once again, with a Henry Fielding book, wasting much of the month trying to finish it. But what I don’t love, someone else might. Even, I suppose, Henry Fielding, although I find it increasingly hard to believe. 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, Quarantine Book Club | Edition III, Quarantine Book Club | Edition IV, Quarantine Book Club | Edition V, Quarantine Book Club | Edition VI, Quarantine Book Club | Edition VII and Quarantine Book Club | Edition VIII. You can also see my whole list on Good Reads.)
Vertigo – W. G. Sebald
I wanted to love this book. I’ve read about Sebald for years, and maybe that was the problem – too much build up, not enough pay off. Vertigo was good, but in translation, not great, and my German isn’t strong enough to read the original text. Ultimately, it left me with the feeling that I need to read more of Sebald to understand who he was as an author, before I can truly decide if I’m a fan of his work or not.
My Brother Michael – Mary Stewart
Continuing my journey through my mom’s collection of Mary Stewart novels, I finally found one to love. And I loved it, admittedly, because it was set in Greece, a country very close to my heart. The description of familiar landscapes was like taking a journey back in time, and was the closest I’ll get to Greece this year, so I was content with it. It’s of note that the heroine in My Brother Michael is a bit less helpless than Stewart’s typical protagonists, at least in the early chapters, which was a nice change of pace.
My Brilliant Friend – Elena Ferrante
Once every decade or so, an author releases a series of books whose hero is so compelling that the whole reading world becomes invested in their story. Harry Potter. Lisabeth Salander. And now, Elena Greco and her best friend, Raffaella Cerullo. Lenuccia and Lila. Through four books, Lenuccia, prompted by sudden Lila’s disappearance in late middle age, begins to look back on, and tell the story of their lives together, beginning in their childhood in Naples in the fifties. My Brilliant Friend is the first of the four. The intimacy of the storytelling in this book is breathtaking. Although the story is told in the past tense, the author gives you the sense that the main character is discovering much about her own life for the first time in the retelling. I was sorry when the story ended – and immediately bought the sequel.
Tom Jones – Henry Fielding
This book cost me weeks of my life and I will never get that time back. My loathing of Henry Fielding is already well-established after my reading of Joseph Andrews earlier this year. But I was willing to give him a second change, and for the first hundred pages of Tom Jones, I almost thought he might change my mind. And then, no. Not even a little. I read about Henry Fielding while reading this book, to try to get a better sense of the only writer whose books I’ve ever truly despised. In my research, I learned that he is among the fathers of modern policing. Clearly, despite centuries between us, our views on life are irreconciblable. I won’t be reading anything further from his catalogue.
It’s because Tom Jones was so impossibly long, dull and sanctimonious that I only read four books this month. I considered including some other books I loved earlier in the year in this post to fill it out. In the end, I decided against it. My hope is that I’l have lots of reading time over the holidays. That way, I can come back in January, with any luck, with six books that I really love to share. In the meantime, happy holidays. And, of course, happy reading!
