64 Books Like Two Lives

One of biologist Heinrich’s books, an extended nonfiction essay, may seem an eccentric choice here, but–like other works of this writer’s–it has had a profound effect on the way I regard the natural world in northern New England, my home territory.

There are life-scientists who write well and ones who command a patent, deep knowledge of their subject matter. None comes to my mind who so magnificently combines a fine novelist’s sensitivity to language with so broad and detailed a scientific awareness as Heinrich does. And he is bold. It takes a mind and writer of his caliber, for instance, to make a thumb-sized golden-crowned kinglet the hero—and a doughty one at that, one obliged to eat thirteen times his body weight to survive subzero nights–of his study.

The particularity of Heinrich’s vision is exemplary, something that I, a writer obsessed with the ecology of the region he shares with… show more.

What I admire so deeply in Ms. Robinson’s work is her capacity to tackle immense themes (from abolitionism to free will) in prose that is deliberately understated and yet stirs me deep in my soul and elicits my deep concerns for her characters, in this case, the title figure.

When I first read Robinson, I thought of B.B. King’s comment on the guitarist Johnny Winter, famous for his prolific, note-opulent solos. When asked about these tours de force, Mr. King diplomatically said, “Sometimes it’s not what you put in but what you leave out.” I know that, as primarily a poet, I can become seduced by the “lyrical” capacities of style; Robinson serves as a good check on that yen for excess and shows how presentations that might seem artless can shake the very earth.

Alice Munro is, I believe, my favorite living author (written before Alice's death on May 13, 2024). As with Marilynne Robinson, the choice of this particular collection, as opposed to others of Munro’s, verges on the arbitrary. Her capacity to render inner lives–which more often than not are quietly turbulent–seems to me matchless and she achieves her effects without straining for effect. She always seems to find the pluperfectly concise language to draw us into the small maelstroms of a character’s life. 

As one who is persistently intrigued by the way in which pasts and presents can conflict with, interfuse with, and complement a character’s view of her/himself and the ambient world, I am also much taken by Ms. Munro’s frequent recourse to achronological presentation. Her plots tend not to be that in any conventional sense of the word; things seem to happen suddenly and simply, and while these things… show more.

In both my novels I explore the cultural, almost exclusively oral history of Maine woodsmen and -women. An old man now, I knew people who worked as loggers, river drivers, and so on before the advent of power tools, electricity, or motorized hauling.

A non-writer friend told me about this book, which is concerned with the same culture across the New Brunswick border, mere miles from where my novels are set. His evocation of that arduous, raconteur-populated, dangerous world bolstered my own seat-of-the-pants knowledge and offered a wealth of specific physical detail and a sense of storytelling’s central importance in the old logging communities.

The book, then, served as a model for my own explorations of a culture whose likes we will never see again and whose preservation in words is among my own most passionate aims. 

A searing, short memoir translated from French that captures the life-shattering changes that begin for the author as he hears that his wife may be one of the victims of a terrorist attack at a concert she was attending in Paris. Leiris writes how he wants desperately to stay in the present—hoping that his wife is not one of the victims—but the present swiftly changes to the past as he learns that, despite his hope that it was not so, his wife is one of the victims who was killed. Leiris turns to face life with his toddler son without his beloved wife. 

“She sang as if she was saving the life of every person in the room.” This quotation. This is why I love this book. The character in reference, Roxanne Coss, is a world-famous soprano caught in a hostage situation, but for me, it was impossible to read that line without realizing—without immediately understanding—that, oh, this is what makes a singer truly transcendent.

Not vocal range or records sold, but their willingness to sacrifice themselves on stage, momentarily, for our pain. It’s perfect. Heartbreaking and perfect, as is the entire novel. I can’t recommend it highly enough.

We rarely stop to think about memorials in terms of what emotion might have prompted them.

That is what Doss does here, covering a wide range of subjects and geographic sites. It is clear from her analysis that grief, fear, gratitude, shame, and anger have inspired a range of works representing a range of motivations for commemoration.

After reading this book you will never look at memorials in the same way. I had never thought of memorials in terms of emotional affect before and now consider it a major factor to be considered.

Alice Lascelle’s Ten Cocktails is not so much a recipe book as it is a musing on the ten drinks that have defined one woman’s personal journey as a drinks journalist. Part travelogue, part memoir, part historical tour, the book explores the author’s own experiences with drinks while diving into their broader social contexts.

The accounts are meaningful, engaging, and surprisingly entertaining. I particularly loved the description of her British parents’ inadequate storage of ice and the woefully poor gin and tonics they served up as a result. An all too familiar scene from my own household growing up - I now understand why I disliked this drink for so long.

If you’ve ever fantasized about restoring a crumbling medieval Italian villa, then you’ll get to live that experience vicariously through this memoir.

The author has a wonderful sense of the absurd as she recounts her family’s multi-year efforts to turn a roofless villa into their dream home, complete with a complicated teenage daughter who is trying to find her way in the rural Italian countryside where the family has been transplanted.

Brimming with idiosyncratic and endearing characters. 

Perhaps no book has moved me more than Ireland by Frank Delaney. 

Through a series of tales told by an itinerant storyteller the author paints a series of haunting, vivid portraits of Irish history. Each story stands alone, but over the course of three nights of story-telling, the pieces of this mosaic come together, revealing a clearer history than most history books could hope to present. 

Delaney reaches deeper historical facts and allows a rare glimpse into how people felt and what they believed. I felt that I was listening to the storyteller, rather than reading words. This presents the Irish people in a unique and engaging light.