Week 5
I've not much to say about this week. I followed my running program, dyed my hair a beautiful shade of purple, and made a long list of things I’d love to do on my annual leave. I did a spring clean of my subscriptions. I’m on season 2 of Mad Men - the first season reaaaally drags, but it gets so much better as it goes on. I watched a lot of movies - Paddington in Peru, Companion, Pretty Woman. I’m not entirely sure how I managed to start and finish 2 books, let alone finish 3 this week.
I posted about this blog on Instagram last week, and so if you’re not one of my faithful 5 friends, welcome :~) I hope you enjoy, and thank you so much for reading!
What I Ate In A Year by Stanley Tucci
I wrote about Tucci’s previous memoir, Taste, in this post here. I wrote admiringly of Tucci’s writing - informal, familiar, the kind of writing synonymous with the welcoming gesture of someone ushering you into their home, sharing a meal with you, sitting over a cup of coffee on a rainy day with you. It’s a fitting description.
I loved this book. I love the mundane aspects of daily life, and Tucci wasn’t afraid to write about them. He referred constantly to the pasta with butter and cheese he made for his 5 year old daughter. He wrote briefly of arguments with his wife, and how they affect his food. The book is peppered with sly references to his suspicion of his wife’s affair. There is obviously a lot of his life left out, but what was written was enough to create a real sense of intimacy. Similar to 2021, I loved how Tucci wrote about food and the community of food. His passion for food is clear and feels inspiring, even to someone who can barely boil water (me).
The only part of this book I didn’t enjoy were the coy references to other celebrities. It felt like an “in the know” secret in Taste, but it felt almost frustrating in this book. At one point, I closed the book and vented to my friends that Tucci had referred to Harry Styles as Harry S. - at that point, either say who it is completely or don’t mention him at all.
Rating: ★★★★★
Honor by Thrity Umbrigar
My sister lent me a stack of books in December, but told me to wait until I felt better before reading them because they were difficult, grim reads. And she was right (she always is - hi J!).
Honor follows Smiti, who is called to India by a friend to cover a story about Meena, a Hindu woman. Meena is a widow, and lives in exile. Her crime? Marrying a Muslim man. As Smiti begins to delve into Meena’s life and her background, she comes face to face with her own privilege, but, more importantly, her own life events.
I loved this book. I couldn’t put it down. The writing wasn’t anything special but that didn’t matter, and only added to the strength of this book - because the story is important, it’s difficult, it’s one that makes your heart ache. The writing needs to be clear and unflinching in its telling.
But the worst part of reading this was knowing these are lived experiences. I hated reading parts of this, but only because I couldn’t quite fathom what I was reading. But there’s no criticism I can make of this book. My copy has a sticker to say it’s part of Reese Witherspoon’s book club and I’m almost mad I didn’t get to it first.
Rating: ★★★★★
My Friends by Hisham Matar
This is another book that felt incredibly slow to start, but once the plot developed and the pondering musings of old-Khaled ended (for the most part), I couldn’t put it down.
Khaled is born in Libya, under an oppressive government. At a protest in London, the protestors are shot and Khaled’s life changes forever. Along the way, he forms connections with Mustafa and Hasam, both of whom are affected by the Libyan regime in similar ways. For Khaled, his life is forever centred around the protest, and his every move stems from that single day.
The writing is… I’m going to say it’s plain. But that’s a good thing. The book is, for the majority, a look at the past and a telling of Khaled’s history. But it’s done so well, perfectly capturing the kind of plain, neutral writing that made me forget this wasn’t someone’s real life. This is a novel. It’s not a memoir. Hisham Matar is not Khaled.
I loved reading this but I’m not sure what I gained from it, other than a deeper understanding of politics in Libya, and how friendship, loyalty, and family can form the core of a person. Strip everything away from a person, and you’re left with the bits and pieces of everyone they’ve ever loved. I wouldn’t recommend it to everyone, but that’s not necessarily an entirely bad thing.
Rating: ★★★★☆