A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian by Marina Lewycka

This was an amusing little light-reading diversion for the women’s auxiliary chick-lit club of Skokie, Illinois.  The “Skokie Women’s Discussion Group” met yesterday (2^nd and 4^th Wednesdays of every month).  They love these stories that portray all men as bumbling idiots, easily swayed by any wiggly pair of “knockers.”  These stories that cast men with rock-solid egos, albeit with sometimes squishy other parts.  Besides work, these men play and watch games, and eat a lot.

This fictionalized memoir reads more like a series of neighborly chats at the checkout queue of the local Sainsbury’s, with the focus of the week being one of three alternating points: 1) sisterly bonding; 2) 20^th century Ukrainian history; and 3) a generous helping of Judge Judy.  All in all, I thought Marina’s writing style was “cute and entertaining.”  It’s a harmless book that can be read quickly or intermittently as the mood suits one.  I will recommend it to my sister, who wouldn’t miss a Judge Judy episode; she loves the sheer crassness of those who would seek J.J.’s opinion/decision.  My Slavic friends (in my age group) are all fervent, nationalistic slaves to polka dancing.  They will pour over this book with serious, critical attention.  For those more modern American friends of mine, the 99%, I’d recommend it to the women in my age group.  The family bonding/understanding issue is far bigger and certainly more important that what was attempted in this chin-wag book.  Nonetheless, it at least brings up the point that “older sister” maybe has some insights into the family history/dynamic from which younger sister was sheltered.

So, the undisclosed factor in my soft handling of this book is that my college 4th year roommate, and 5th year (I switched from engineering to Math, Physics, & German) best friend was known as Oleks Rudenko.  That was 1959-60 thru 61: the University of Arizona at Tucson. Oleks was a young teenager during the German offensive East (1941) and subsequent retreat West (1944).  He had joined the partisans for Ukrainian independence as a runner early on.  He was captured by the Germans and sent back as a worker.  In 1945, he was free as a 17-year old survivor to roam Germany with a band of like-thinking ex-patriots.  He had wild tales to tell of commandeered jeeps, teen-aged adventures, smiling American GIs with cigarettes, food, and gasoline.  He came across to America in 1948; worked to make money, learn English (badly, but it served him well in 50’s America) and also enough to get into college.  I stayed with Oleks and his wife eight years later (1968) when he was finally settling down and I was starting graduate school. 

I danced a lot of polkas in those days with the Slavic graduate student clubs; learned a lot of Eastern European history.  I hope that Oleks found peace with the dissolution of the Soviet Union:  I don’t know; I lost contact in the eighties.  I hope he got to go back.

The causes never die. 

What is the What by Dave Eggers

I’ll open with an apology: my normal voracious reading appetite has been soured for the past few months by attending four funerals over the summer.  I’m not reading as much, and I’m reading with impatience and an intolerant eye.

Nonetheless, I think I’m still reading good books like Joan Didion’s “Blue Nights,” which makes one think that she and JCO are in some sort of high-stakes poker game for who can open their veins wider.  For leitmotif, I’m gobbling up John Grisham’s latest, “The Litigators,” which is great fun.  My pulp-fiction bathroom book is “House Divided,” by Mike Lawson: a spy/murder/lawyer book about the NSA (like the Peace Corps, one of the few regrets at not joining from my post-college possibilities).  But back to the mortality memoirs, I recently finished JCO’s “The Corn Maidens” and am now setting out on the Julian Barnes book, “The Sense of an Ending.”  Even with the fluff reading, this is all well-written stuff: thoughtful, well-researched, and thoroughly life-relevant, even life-enhancing.

O.K., I guess I can’t avoid commenting on this month’s installment in our library book club text collection of dry, acidic diction.  “What” is right up there with “Envy” and “Sanctuary” as a compilation of words that characterize TMI: Too Much Information.  “Bliss” was in the running for this year’s prize, but wound up fourth – it was too accommodating to the reader.  These journalism articles, overly long and repetitive, were examples of bad memoirs – boring content, instead of exciting novels – emotive and insightful.

One lesson I’ve learned this year, and wish I could enforce, is that journalists should not be allowed to publish books.  There’s so much good stuff available, why encourage the proven bad writers.  One should: encourage youth and encourage fledgling authors; but hacks .??. – no advances – make them self-publish.

The cases in point are Eric “Bliss” Weiner, Neil “Sanctuary” White, and Dave “What” Eggers.  To me, these are men who beg, borrow, steal, and/or whatever to get their words out.  They’re con-men – out to sell a newspaper (Please see all the old Barbara Stanwick and/or Gary Cooper movies from the thirties).  These people changed that industry.  Reporters are now characterized as soulless jerks and creeps, male and female, who lust after the salacious and will go to any end to find gossipy items (just Google: Murdoch, Sun).

[But see, here I go: reacting to the loss of my mother, a radio friend, a church friend, and a local neighbor.]  I want to [and will of course] continue to say that my mother’s parents were both lifelong newspaper people.  My grandma opened her first paper at 19, as publisher/editor on the Louisiana/Texas border.  My mom’s father taught me to run the linotype at a young age.  They jointly ran the county papers, including the Waterloo {where my mother was raised} Gazette.  These kind of people are the genesis and inheritors of “the freedom of the press.”

My three minutes are running out.  I have hardly spoken of Eggers or his book.  Eggers is a bad writer – it’s a shame he had to drop out of Cal-Berkeley.  One reviewer tactfully says, “it defies categorization” – biography or novel – fiction or memoir.  I answer that an author knows what they are writing.  The story is not “engaging”, as another reviewer says; it is completely boring – I read it all – I never was interested in anyone’s story ---- whether they lived or died ---- nor what they were living or dying for ---- not in anything from the book.

Eggers didn’t do the number one thing an author must do: make me care whether they lived or died, whether they thrived or succumbed, whether they became relevant or not.  Journalists only have to achieve a buy-in for two minutes of one or two days. 

Good writers make you think about their characters for weeks, months and years afterward.  I will not remember Achak Deng next week. 

Will You .?