Well, if you’re reading this, then you’ve successfully followed the map I left–covered with candle-smoke smudges and “here be treasure” scrawls–at the old blog address. Welcome. I’m so excited to be here that I spent an hour yesterday reclassifying all of my old posts into new categories. Okay, so most of them fall under “Books and Reviewing.” I’ll probably add more categories. As you’ve noticed, this blog is a work in progress.

I’m back from vacation but still on family leave until the end of September. I’ll be reviewing and blogging at about two-thirds power until I’m back in the office (my real office, downtown).

Vacation was wonderful. I enjoyed seeing my family over my shoulder while I repeatedly chased my two-year-old through unlockable screen doors and toward large bodies of water. I was going to describe it as “controlled chaos” but that gives a misleading impression. I hope that future vacations will feature some degree of “control.”

My favorite moment was watching my two-year-old jump on a couch with his cousins until he was too tired to climb back up. Theoretically, he could do that anywhere, but at least in Montana there was a beautiful view of mountains out the window.

I toted a couple of books around, and acquired a third while I was there, but my attempts at reading were pathetic. I read 43 pages of Sandra Mackey’s Lebanon and half of the first short story in Claire Davis’ Labors of the Heart. I did make it through a short story in The New Yorker while my brother carried the baby and my wife chased the two-year-old. I can’t tell you the title or the author but I can definitely describe the plot. Reading it was pure bliss.

Since I’ll be staying here (at this URL) awhile, I plan to finally flesh out my list of links to other blogs and sites. Watch this space. (More precisely, the space on the left.)

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Well, I’m not officially at work these days, but for the next ten days I won’t be here, either. I’ll be on vacation in my home state of Montana.

I’m taking two books: Lebanon: A House Divided, by Sandra Mackey (seems topical), and Labors of the Heart, by Claire Davis (for review, but seems appropriate, as she wrote Winter Range).

And now I must go remove all liquids and gels from my carry-on baggage.

I’ve written before about how I don’t really like reviewing from photocopied galleys. Even when they’re bound, the 8½ x 11″ pages are unwieldy. When they’re unbound, I’m always afraid that a sudden gust of wind is going to make me reenact the last scene in The Wonder Boys.

(Is that scene in both the book and the movie? I’ve read the book and seen the movie, but for the life of me, I only have an image of Michael Douglas frantically chasing the wind-blown pages of his massive manuscript.)

But the book I’m reviewing right now is on single-sided, unbound 8½ x 11″ sheets of paper, and I don’t mind a bit. Why? I’ve discovered that I can read it while I’m feeding my son. (I may have mentioned once or twice that I’m home on family leave.) Other books won’t lie open without an elaborate system of weights and counterweights (coffee mug, stapler, whatever is at hand), and, with my son in one hand and a bottle in the other (that’s a bottle of milk, wiseacres), turning pages is impossible.

With an unbound galley, however, I can just nudge the top sheet off onto the floor with my elbow and keep reading. (I reorder the pages later.) Sounds pretty ridiculous, I know, but I’m pressed for time. My latest crop of reviews isn’t due until next week, but tomorrow I’m leaving for a week’s vacation, and I really, really don’t want to text-message my reviews from scenic Flathead Lake in Montana. I’d rather be in the lake, and lake-water and electronics are a volatile mix.

The book I’m reading so precariously, by the way, is The Last Match by David Dodge. It’s published by Hard Case Crime, and unbound galleys or no, I always look forward to what they send. Aside from one title that I had mixed feelings about, I’ve liked-often loved-all the Hard Case Crime books I’ve reviewed. I’ve even read some that weren’t assigned, just for fun. Publisher Charles Ardai has shown a remarkable eye for both great reprints and great new books that read like the old ones.

David Dodge is the guy who wrote To Catch a Thief, and this one is in a sort of similar mode. It’s about the international misadventures of a small-time crook and con artist who starts out as a rich lady’s companion and graduates to cigarette smuggling and other scams. It’s set on the French Riviera and in Tangier, and I have a feeling I’ll see other locales as well.

The plot is a little wacky, but it keeps moving, and the language is full of zingy patter. The narrator says things like:

I’m strictly a club-fighter on the dance floor. With another stumblebum, I stumble too. With a good dancer, I’m a lot better. 

I started reading it before I read the publisher’s info sheet, and at first I thought it was like Seymour Shubin’s Witness to Myself, a new novel by an older writer, writing in his good, old style.

Good thing I’m not a pulp historian. Dodge has been dead since 1974. But this is a real find. Written shortly before his death, it lurked among his papers until now. The pulp heyday was over when this was written-and it would be years before the revival started-but you’d never know it from the gusto of Dodge’s prose.

Well, I’d better stop writing before my son wakes up hungry. But while he’s getting his milk fix, I’ll be getting my pulp fix.

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Something I’d meant to add yesterday was that, even though every book is different, the similarities in the way I frame some of the reviews can almost make it feel like I’ve unconsciously created templates for them. There’s the First-Novelist-Shows-Promise template and its twin, Promising-Novelist-Can’t-Deliver-in-Sophomore-Effort. There’s also Usually-Good-Novelist-Isn’t-Quite-So-Good-This-Time. Then there’s Great-Novelist-Is-Great-Once-Again-Making-Us-All-Feel-Somewhat-Inferior.

Then there’s I-Don’t-Understand-What-the-Author-Is-Trying-to-Say, and its opposite, I-Understand-What-He’s-Trying-to-Say-But-It’s-Not-Worth-Saying. Also Too-Many-Stories-Going-On and Not-Enough-Stories-to-Hold-Our-Interest.

There’s Some-People-Are-Bound-to-Like-This-But-I-Didn’t and I-Don’t-Care-What-Anyone-Thinks-This-Is-a-Masterpiece.

A few others:

• He/She-Isn’t-As-Good-As-His/Her-Spouse/Mother/Father
• Clearly-an-Attempt-to-Cash-in-on-Harry Potter/The Da Vinci Code
• Clearly-an-Attempt-to-Cash-in-on-Harry Potter/The Da Vinci Code-but-Still-Worthwhile
• I’m-Sorry-but-I-Just-Can’t-Get-All-That-Interested-in-Novels-about-Novel-Writing
• They-Sure-Don’t-Write-Them-Like-This-Anymore
• They-Don’t-Write-Them-Like-This-Anymore-For-Good-Reason
• You’re-Too-Young-to-Write-a-Memoir
• You’ve-Written-Three-Memoirs-Why-Not-Try-a-Novel?

I’m sure there must be others. Note that I haven’t actually used all of these, but it never hurts to plan ahead.

Last night I finished reading Bleeding Hearts, by Ian Rankin, and just now I drafted my review. I’m trying to work quickly, because I never know when my four-month-old will wake up.

Bleeding Hearts is not the latest Inspector Rebus novel. Like Blood Hunt (2006) and Witch Hunt (2004), it’s a first U.S. edition of a book Rankin published in the U.K. in the 1990s, writing as Jack Harvey. The three aren’t as good as the Rebus novels, but they’re too good to keep hidden from U.S. audiences.

Because I reviewed Blood Hunt so recently, I had a strong sense of deja vu as I started my review of Bleeding Hearts: I was writing the same review. The plot and character names were different, of course, but my review’s framing device was the same and my summary was essentially the same.

I’ve only been at Booklist since 2001 and yet I have had this feeling a number of times. Usually it happens when I’m reviewing the latest book in a series. Most series authors publish a new installment every year, and while they invent new plots, of course, they don’t change the concept too radically. So inevitably I’m going to feel like I’m saying some of the same things.

It’s a challenge to stay original. And I can only imagine what it would be like if I’d been here for 20 years. (Bill Ott tells a funny story about this-maybe I can encourage him to post it in comments.)

On the other hand, it could be argued that keeping things original serves my ego more than the book and the reader. I may want to look like I have something unique and interesting to say every time out, but if an author’s books or series can still be placed in a similar context, saying something truly unique might mean I’d risk looking too hard for something original to say-let’s call it “reading too hard”-and finding something that is: a) a bit of a stretch, or b) not of interest to most readers. I love feeling as if I discovered something that will enhance readers’ understanding of a book, but that same impulse can turn a reviewer into an annoying know-it-all.

Also, some readers may not have read the previous reviews, or may be coming to an author or series for the first time with the most recent book, which means they need to know the big picture, not some small detail.

Still, there is something that gravels me when I read an old review and find I’ve said the same thing before. I guess the ideal approach is to use shorthand to place the novel in context while offering some new thought that makes the review seem like the latest entry in a developing conversation.

As I’ve said, it’s tough to do that when you’re a book reviewer (writing 175-word reviews) and not a book critic (800 words and, often, many many more). But-and I suspect I speak for many of my colleagues-I do take pride in being able to say a lot with 175 words. I have definitely read longer pieces elsewhere that didn’t add much to what our reviewers have said.

Uh-oh, he’s waking up.

A little while ago, while reading Jarhead, I started a list of books that “say something about the experience of war and its aftermath.” It’s not a subject area in which I’m well read, but I received some helpful suggestions both in the comments to that post and via e-mail.

Brad Hooper, who studied history before becoming a librarian and then an editor, offered the following:

World War I:
Regeneration, The Eye in the Door, The Ghost Road (a trilogy), by Pat Barker

Civil War:
Lost Triumph, by Tom Carhart
The Red Badge of Courage, by Stephen Crane

Revolutionary War:
Washington’s Crossing, by David Fischer
1776, by David McCullough

I also got an e-mail from another historian, Steve Carey, a good friend of mine who also happens to be an Army captain who commanded an infantry company in Baghdad. He prefaced his comments by saying that he thought Jarhead was “more historical fiction than memoir,” but allowed that maybe he was only envious for “not cashing in on my own made-up combat experiences.”

Here is a lightly edited version of Steve’s annotated list (I took out some of the friends-only banter and reordered it according to the way my list was ordered):

Here’s my list of “best” books, all memoirs or nonfiction, that I believe most accurately relay the experience of soldiers in combat. All touch upon, in one way or other, the struggle you addressed in your Booklist article to remain focused on the larger task of fighting and winning a war in an environment which is (mostly) mind numbingly mundane and boring. 

Iraq
Baghdad Express: A Gulf War Memoir, by Joel Turnipseed
WAY better than Jarhead, it deals with Marine truck drivers instead of “I’m too sexy for my shirt” Marine snipers. Very accurate, though the author is at times intolerable - failed but well-read philosophy major serving in one of the least-respected jobs (opposite of Marine sniper) in the Marine Corps reserve (which actually helps me buy his memoir shtick more readily).

Afghanistan
First In: An Insider’s Account of How the CIA Spearheaded the War on Terror in Afghanistan, by Gary Schroen
There are a couple of other memoirs from Afghanistan - Jawbreaker and Not a Good Day to Die come to mind - but First In is the only one that I have actually read. It concludes with a good damning critique on the manner in which the Iraq war diverted resources from the effort to destroy Al Qaeda, resulting in the current situation.

Somalia
Black Hawk Down: A Story of Modern War, by Mark Bowden
…is right on the mark.

Vietnam
Platoon Leader: A Memoir of Command in Combat, by James McDonough
A little self-aggrandizing, but good. Larry Heinemann’s Close Quarters is better (as is O’Brien, as you note), but is an informed novel rather than a no-shit memoir. At least Heinemann has the decency to call it a novel…

Korean War
I have not read anything except what Hackworth wrote, which I can not recommend for a best list. His stuff, while good, carries with it too much of his personal agenda (however noble) of making himself look good while poking the Pentagon in the eye - he used his memoirs too much as a soapbox.

World War II
(Pacific - UK)
Quartered Safe Out Here, by George MacDonald Fraser
One of the best war books ever - great writing. It’s about the British in Burma.

(Pacific - US)
Goodbye Darkness: A Memoir of the Pacific War, by William Manchester
This is very good, too.

(Europe - US)
Company Commander: The Classic Infantry Memoir of WWII, by Charles MacDonald
Talks about how little control officers really had over their men, and that by the last few months of the war the soldiers’ only real motivation was to stay alive by any means possible.

I would have to give more careful thought to anything prior to WWII.

In my original post I considered the idea of a making this a “best” list, then decided that was too daunting. But with so many good suggestions, I think I’ll have enough for something pretty useful anyway.

Anyone have any more? Remember, I’m most interested in books that treat the experience of war, and to keep things from getting out of hand, I’m limiting it to wars with U.S. involvement (but within that, it makes sense to include some non-U.S. perspectives).

I was going to sit down and write about how I was able to finish four reviews today because my three-month-old, whose naps are usually short and unpredictable, snoozed the morning away. But then he just spent the last hour having an inexplicable (to me, anyway, probably not to him) screaming fit. The baby giveth, and the baby taketh away.

I’m still a little rattled. So instead of something original, I’m going to lift from the book whose review I have yet to finish: The Joke’s Over, by Ralph Steadman (Harcourt).

Steadman, as you undoubtedly know, is the amazing artist who illustrated many of Hunter S. Thompson’s books and articles, most famously Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. He’s Welsh and a perfect tempermental foil to Thompson. And I think any friend of the exceedingly difficult gonzo journo can probably be described fairly as “long-suffering.”

Anyway, Steadman’s slashing, ink-spattered drawings are savagely eloquent, but it turns out his writing’s not bad, either. He obviously had immense respect for Thompson, but also some unaddressed gripes, and he puts it all down in his book with dry wit and seeming honesty.

Describing his confusion at arriving at the Kentucky Derby in 1970, he writes:

From there on in I was on my own. Innocence and a Welsh way of asking directions, coupled with a look of utter bewilderment, stood me in good stead. I noticed this early on and acquired a knack of looking more bewildered, more innocent, and more Welsh if things got hairy. 

Describing a spectator at the Derby, he writes:

…a 22-carat gash appeared somewhere around the place where his mouth was supposed to be. It was like the back end of a goat with its tail up. 

Later that year, in New York after covering the America’s Cup, in need of a favor, he dials the only number he knows:

I had met her in Bologna at the Children’s Book Fair, the previous year. She remembered me because I had put her in hospital by overturning a car in a ditch on our way back to her hotel after a party. She had broken a couple of ribs but was okay now. 

Okay, I could excerpt all night, but I’ll end with this one:

Normally I don’t drink unless I need to, which is often, in this world, to soften the dreams of reason. 

To that, I say, chin-chin!

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