Crime Fiction: The Man from Beijing by Henning Mankell

In the world of crime fiction, sometimes it seems as if the only thing anyone’s talking about is Lisbeth Salander, the heroine of Stieg Larsson’s “Millennium Trilogy.” Those three novels -- The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, The Girl Who Played with Fire and The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest (due out in the States next month) -- comprise one of the finest series of crime thrillers ever written. In sparse, precise prose, Larsson paints vivid characters, plots nail-biting action and leaves readers wanting what every writer hopes his readers will want: more.

But as good as Mr. Larsson’s books are, they’re not the only game in Stockholm. Henning Mankell, well-known for his Kurt Wallander series of mysteries, has just published a real blockbuster read, The Man from Beijing (Knopf). Set in more or less the same world as Larsson’s series -- Sweden -- this standalone work is a sprawling tale of desperation, crime, revenge, sibling rivalry and relentless investigation. Its plot begins in present-day Sweden, then jumps back to America in the mid-1800s, then on to today’s China, and finally back to Sweden. No single-location mystery for Mankell; by opening up his plot to many nations and time periods, the author is able to pack his story with every manner of conflict, from human to cultural to historical.

Gripping in every way, The Man from Beijing starts off with the slaughter of 19 people in the small Swedish hamlet of Hesjövallen. Naturally, no one saw anything, and the clues are all but nonexistent. There are only a few people left alive in that little town, and they apparently know nothing. The highly detailed police-procedural part of this book happens here, as investigators rip the scene of the crime apart to find anything that might be considered a lead. All anyone can find is a red ribbon.

But then the story shifts location and focus. Enter Birgitta Roslin, an aging, big-city judge who learns she has an interesting connection to the murders. Like us, she’s drawn to it. The investigators do their best to rebuff her, but by that time the case has jumped from the news to her heart. She can’t let it go -- and that’s a good thing, because neither can we.

In the parallel universe of this tale, we then meet three poor Chinese brothers who lived 150 years ago. In their darkest hour, they’re taken -- slave-like -- to America to work on building the young nation’s first transcontinental railroad. They aren’t the only foreigners on the scene. There’s also one particular Swede, who turns out to be a hell of an evil, bigoted taskmaster.

Meanwhile, back in the present, China is preparing to host the 2010 Olympics. Not surprisingly, there’s a lot of politicking, a lot of jockeying for power, for money, for control. And at the center of it all, businessmen whose enterprises aren’t totally legit. While they wrestle for China’s present, they also fight to determine the trajectory of its future, looking for ways to both lower China’s population and spread its political force abroad. They look to Mozambique, where a million Chinese citizens can work the land and build a new destiny for both countries.

How does all of this fit together? To call the story line intricate would only begin to scratch the surface. Mankell treads lightly, for the most part, sketching bits of plot and character in such a way that he seems to provide answers but also manages to ask many more questions. Birgitta Roslin is the most complex player of all, willing to put everything on the line for the purest of motives. A judge by day, she has both health and marital problems. They’re not remarkable, but they are what you might expect -- and this makes her someone with whom we can easily identify. In the midst of such massively surprising revelations about her family and this case that’s drawn her in, her mundane problems are almost a welcome relief to her and to us.

Mankell’s style -- as translated by Laurie Thompson -- is just as spare and direct as Stieg Larsson’s. In a way, Mankell’s sentences straddle two worlds: he stands off a bit from much of the action, offering almost chilly, matter-of-fact descriptions, yet manages at the same time to lodge himself deeply in the minds of his characters. It’s as if he’s stripped out layers of emotion to leave us with the stark reality of the evidence and the equally stark motivations that drive his characters. The result is a fascinating blend of styles that keeps the plot tense and the revelations startling. For so many reasons, The Man from Beijing is a brilliant work that’s both challenging and extraordinarily satisfying.

On Film: The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

Adapting great novels into great movies sounds easy -- but it isn’t. Filmmakers constantly bump up against the movie our minds produce as we read ... and seldom is the film as good. While there are plenty of exceptions, sometimes filmmakers just screw it up, like they did with the recent adaptation of Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief, which bears only a passing resemblance to the book. And sometimes they get it just right, as they have with The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. Directed by Niels Arden Oplev, the Swedish book has been made into a Swedish film (though an American version is in the works). In fact, it’s the most successful film in Swedish history.

Oplev’s film is an instant classic, bringing to physical life a character I’d have bet was all but impossible to realize with any real success: Lisbeth Salander, the pierced, tattooed, raped, waif-like creature who drives all three of Stieg Larsson’s wonderful thrillers. As played by Noomi Rapace, Salander is as vulnerable and indestructible as she is in the novel, and the effect is unforgettable. The actress, whose sharp features seem anxious to soften, if only for a moment, embodies the girl with a perfect mix of warmth and ice, making real the photographic memory that embarrasses her and a brilliant mind that sees all the darkness of life but too little of its light.

Mikael Blomkvist, the magazine publisher who becomes a detective, sort of, is played by Michael Nyqvist. The actor’s ragged face and sad eyes don’t hold the fire the character in the book does. In the film, the character seems resigned to his fate, though he doesn’t know what it is. To me, Blomkvist is more of a fighter, a tougher nut. Nyqvist does a good enough job, but in a role that must go head-to-head with Salander, I saw him with a harder edge.

The rest of the cast is perfect -- and more important, believable. But the real star of this film is director Oplev. He harnesses the talents, in particular, of the cinematographer and editor to create a terse, tense thriller of the highest order, tightening the plot with every scene. He’s trimmed the dense book down to its essential moments and crafted a film that’s cohesive and compelling. Stuff is missing, sure, but you don’t miss it.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo is often a brutal film, violent and cruel-minded and searing. But then, that’s the point. The original title of the novel and the film translates as “men who hate women.” That’s certainly a truthful title, but it’s got no style. Be warned that in the film, as in the book, the violence frames the action; it’s hard to watch, at times, but every disturbing bit of it serves a marvelous story.

Presented in Swedish with English subtitles, the film is playing in limited release. Check your local listings -- and don’t miss it.

January’s sister publication, The Rap Sheet, covers the film here.

Fiction: Horns by Joe Hill

Funny thing about the kids of the übertalented. When they inherit the talent, there’s the potential for epic satisfaction. This was my thought as I finished the new novel Horns (William Morrow) by Joe Hill, the very talented son of Stephen King.

What would you do if you woke up one morning with a set of horns poking out of your head? What would you do if those horns held the power to force people to tell you the truth? Or if they gave you the power of suggestion -- really convincing suggestion? And what if you found out things you never wanted to know, things that changed the road your life was chugging along on? And what if that road was unavoidably paved with murder, ruination, and revenge?

These questions form the first several dozen pages of Horns, and the answers unfold over the next 400.

Throughout this book, I was never sure if I was reading a crime thriller or a horror novel. But hell, I’m not sure it matters. Joe Hill’s style is quick, fluid, and smart -- a lot like his dad’s back in the day.

Iggy Perrish’s life is pretty normal, really. A good guy, a nice guy who wants to do the right thing at every turn. But there are complications: His dad is a famous musician. His older brother, Terry, is a television personality. His old friend, Lee, seems to have no real life at all, just bouncing from one sorry event to the next. And his girlfriend, Merrin, was brutally murdered a year ago -- and everyone thinks Ig did it. Those are the kinds of complications that can screw a guy up.

In a way, Horns is about how Ig’s past and future converge and diverge. His future was with Merrin; that fate seemed sealed when they were teenagers in love. But life had other plans, as it often does. And though he’s in the thick of it all, Ig doesn’t really have a clue.

Til he sprouts those horns. Then he has all the clues he needs.

The horns are the bane of his existence, a curse that reveals the slimy underside of the lives of the people who surround him. Like the devil, Ig can see the worst of people, even the ones (especially the ones!) who are obsessed with showing only their best. What really happened to Merrin? That’s the driving question of Horns. The horns are the gimmick Hill uses to enlighten us. Every time Ig touches someone, a piece of the backstory unfolds. We see the past -- along with Ig -- in flashes that happen to contain just the information we need. It’s a conceit that would come across as hokey as it is convenient -- if it didn’t work so well. Sometimes enthralled, sometimes ashamed, I bought every moment of it. Turns out the devil really is in the details.

You take the horns, the peeks into Ig’s past, the sticky teenage fumblings in the dark, the dirty-secret fantasies of some of these people, and the pitch-black shades of their well-hidden realities, and you feel like you’re reading a book written by Hill’s dad. It was almost distracting, that nagging thought, and I had to force myself to stop thinking it. After all, it’s not quite fair. But fair or not, like it or not, this apple’s fallen at the knotty-rooted foot of his family tree. Though there are places in Horns when I wish Joe Hill had done a bit more writer’s work, he’s clearly inherited his father's talent for crisp writing, finely etched characters, telling details, just-short-of-too-far plotting, and clever turns of phrase -- and created a story that’s almost (what’s with the fairy tale ending, dude?) epically satisfying.

Fiction: The Swan Thieves by Elizabeth Kostova

I’ll say it here and now: Elizabeth Kostova’s The Historian left me cold. I said as much in these very pages back in 2005. I mention this because I had little reason to want to read Kostova’s new novel, The Swan Thieves (Little, Brown & Company), except one: I remembered what I did like about The Historian: Kostova’s writing. The woman knows how to make beautiful sentences.

Still, I was afraid The Swan Thieves would turn out to be a massive disappointment, just as, for example, Jonathan Littell’s The Kindly Ones was. That, too, I reviewed in these pages -- and not kindly.

When I got my hands on The Swan Thieves, then, I felt the urge to dive in, but I held back. I read on tiptoe. And then it overcame me. I am happy to report that this novel is far superior to The Historian in its scope, its character development, its sheer way with words and images. Kostova’s writing here sings. It’s as if she decided that each scene had to be describable in one adjective -- awkward, lovely, frightening, startling, heart-breaking... something -- then resolved not to use that word in any way, to help it along. Stunning.

The Swan Thieves is about painting and artists, their obsession with their subjects and the way they capture them on canvas. It’s about light and color and image and the lasting effect they can have, long after the artist is dead.

This luscious, tantalizing book reveals the mind of one painter, a man who -- for reasons of his own -- attacks a painting in Washington’s National Gallery of Art. Why he does it is the driving force of The Swan Thieves -- but it’s the characters that bring the novel to life. There’s the artist, Robert Oliver, who has been placed in an institution. Unwilling (or unable?) to talk, to interact in even the most basic way, he is assigned a psychiatrist, Andrew Marlow. Marlow is an artist, too -- of the mind. He knows how to get inside a psyche the way a painter knows how to get inside the images he envisions on a canvas. When Oliver won’t open up even to him, Marlow is forced to dig; he must paint his own picture of Oliver using his ex-wife Kate and his lover, Mary.

As in Kate Christensen’s wonderful novel The Great Man -- also about an artist -- the actual subject of the book, Oliver, doesn’t appear in the present all that much. Rather, we learn about him through other people. The tension comes from knowing their admittedly biased recollections alternately poke holes in and illuminate others’. In The Swan Thieves, this convention works brilliantly. Poetically, it transforms Oliver from painter to painting, something observed with little or no backstory. It’s as if he’s been hung in a museum, himself, a mute slave to how others see him.

Oliver’s story is made all the more interesting by a collection of letters he owns -- and which Marlow purloins. They’re a series of letters written during the 19th century between two French artists, one of whom, Beatrice, might have become one of the great Impressionists, had she kept painting. At first, the letters seem to have been included only as a distraction or a secondary layer. As it turns out, why Beatrice didn’t fulfill her apparent destiny is central to the mystery of The Swan Thieves: the answer unlocks both Robert Oliver's motives and his obsession, at the same time.

Are Your Kids’ Books Rated R?

In 1984, parents raised angry fists over Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, in which the villain pushed his hand into the chest of a man and yanked out the poor guy’s beating heart. They said this sort of violence didn’t belong in a PG-rated movie. The result? PG-13.

In 2009, a suburban dad -- that would be me -- read an advance copy of a new novel called Will Grayson, Will Grayson and came upon this instant-messaging reparté:

boundbydad: thrust your fierce quivering manpole at me, stud
grayscale: your dastardly appendage engorges me with hellfire
boundbydad: my search party is creeping into your no man’s land
grayscale: baste me like a thanksgiving turkey!!!

This, in a book due in April 2010 from Dutton Young Readers, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., and intended, says an informational note, for readers aged 14 and up.

14 and up, I thought. 14 and up? 14 and up?! To me, “14 and up” is just another way of saying PG-13. And the excerpt above is no PG-13.

Then, 30 pages beyond the quivering manpole, I came across this:

cock + pussy = a happy rooster-kitten couple

Um, would you want your pubescent child reading this?

Officially Worried
As the father of boys aged 13 and 9, who both love to read, I am now officially worried. Is this the stuff of books for Young Readers? For 14 and up? When I was a kid, I was free to read pretty much whatever I wanted, and my kids have the same freedom. While I’ve steered my older son away from, say, Disclosure, which is about sexual harassment, in favor of other, less sexually graphic Michael Crichton options, here’s the thing: When I allow my son to read novels for grown-ups, I know what we’re -- and more to the point, he’s -- getting into. And until now, I thought the same thing about books for Young Readers.

My fear: He picks up Will Grayson, Will Grayson on his own, intrigued by its very intriguing premise. (Two high school students named Will Grayson meet each other, and each changes the direction of the other’s life.) Eventually, he gets to page 70, then page 101. Before writing this article, I wondered if this was language he knew. But when I showed him the pages, he was so mortified that he didn’t know what to say. Neither did I.

Ratings are made based on vocabulary and situations. In terms of the former, if memory serves, one of the Motion Picture Association of America’s lines in the sand for what separates a PG-13 rating from an R is the word “fuck.” Sometimes it’s a question of how many times the word (or a form of it) is used, sometimes it’s about context. For example, if the word is used sexually, the film gets an R. ArtAndPopularCulture.com says the word “cock” alone can move a film from PG to PG-13. Using these guidelines, Will Grayson, Will Grayson would be an R-rated movie.

But it’s a book -- and for books, what’s the standard? “There is no standard at all,” says Luann Toth, managing editor of the book review section of the School Library Journal. “It’s pretty arbitrary. Publishers do their own thing. Unlike multimedia, which tries to have a standard, there is no equivalent in the book world.”

So-called book ratings, like “14 and up,” indicate reading level, not content. And even when such indicators are used, they’re buried on the back, in tiny type, near the barcode. Hardly responsible publishing.

Driven by Ratings
Now, before you cry “Censorship!” understand that I am not advocating any form of artistic restriction. In 1988, Doubleday published my first novel, Total Eclipse. It featured teens, but in no way was it meant for teens; it was marketed to adults. My point: as an author, I consider censorship abhorrent. I would never suggest the book’s authors edit the lines out, but I would urge their publisher to add a rating that reflects its content.

Much of our culture, after all, is driven by ratings. We accept and trust them; we would think carefully and search for more information before taking a young child to an R-rated film, for example.

Ratings, of course, are based on content, not interpretation. For as long as I can remember, television has aired “viewer discretion is advised” messages when programming content warrants it, and now there are actual ratings, too. Videogames sport E (Everyone), T (Teens), M (Mature), and other ratings. And music wears on-pack parental advisory notices due to explicit lyrics. Such warnings have not discouraged sales, though some recording artists have produced “clean” versions of certain songs. In the end, all of these notices have simply created better-informed consumers. More, they have helped consumers maintain their own moral baseline, their own ethical center -- and no matter where your own ethical center happens to be, having the information you need to maintain it is the point.

If movies, television, music and videogames are rated according to their own systems, why aren’t books? Why are books marketed according to reading level but not content? Marketing books according to reading level alone is like rating videogames according to people’s ability to push the buttons on control devices. Imagine: THIS GAME IS RATED E BECAUSE, HEY, EVERYONE KNOWS HOW TO PUSH BUTTONS! Never mind that pushing those buttons shoots machine guns that reduce characters to piles of digital blood and flesh.

Ratings are not censorship; they’re a guide to what buyers will find inside the package. And before you accuse me of being homophobic, stop. While the IMs cited above happen to be between two male characters, would they be any less disturbing if boundbydad were a girl?

The Problem Is Marketing
The problem with Will Grayson, Will Grayson isn’t the book itself. John Green and David Levithan have written an entertaining novel that contains important messages about the power of self, creativity, friendship and love. It’s got an innovative hook, a cool premise, a compelling narrative and complex characters.

The problem is the way Dutton Young Readers is marketing it. When I spoke with the book’s publicist, she acknowledged that the publisher had anticipated this problem and told me I was the first of what they imagined would be many calls from parents about this book. She assured me that kids 14 and up have access to and use this sort of language all the time (this came as quite a surprise to my son). And she added that Dutton would be publishing the book on schedule.

Fine. But adding an honest rating to the book’s front cover would help Will Grayson, Will Grayson find the readers it is intended for. Its publisher -- and all publishers -- should take more responsibility for the books they publish by creating an independent organization whose job it is to establish a clear, objective system for rating books, including front-cover icons that indicate content. Whether they’re single-letter ratings or simply “explicit language” warnings, this level of honest publishing can only be good for everyone involved: authors, publishers, and readers. It would go a long way toward making sure that fiction is just in the books, not in their marketing plans.

Holiday Gift Guide: Jack Kennedy: The Illustrated Life of a President

Is there anything we don’t already know about JFK? I doubt it. Yet year after year, authors find new angles with which to tantalize us about the man, his family, and his legacy. This year’s entry is Jack Kennedy: The Illustrated Life of a President (Chronicle Books), which relates the late president’s story in cogent prose, but the real prize here is the facsimile of personal memorabilia and documents. Postcards, holiday cards, personal latters, diary pages, drafts of key speeches, JFK’s Navy ID card, handwritten notes for Profiles in Courage, and much more. This treasure trove is shows us JFK in a whole new way, letting the evidence of his charmed, cursed life stand for itself, with no explanation or embellishment. The book also features photographs of other artifacts, as well as the iconic images of the subject’s life, from childhood to Dallas. It also includes a look at what happened after the assassination: how LBJ assumed the role of President, how he carried on JFK’s efforts, Bobby’s and Jackie’s and Teddy’s lives, and even the lives of John and Caroline. Though there’s no shortage of Kennedy books, this special addition to that library is something to be seen and cherished.

Holiday Gift Guide: Apollo: Through the Eyes of the Astronauts

When we think of space travel, people of my generation think of the Apollo missions. Starting in 1969, when Neil Armstrong set foot on the moon, we reached beyond our own planet to look deeper into the world beyond home. This book comes at that idea from a new vantage point, that of the astronauts themselves. In essays and stunning photographs, Apollo: Through the Eyes of the Astronauts (Abrams), lets us experience those missions from the inside, getting to know what Buzz Aldrin, Neil Armstrong, Alan Bean, and the other astronauts were thinking and doing at that time in our common history. Each has chosen a favorite photograph, as well, one that crystalizes their own experience.

Apollo: Through the Eyes of the Astronauts is an eye-popping book that brings tangible glory to a time that seems almost quaint and ancient now. The grandeur of those missions, the seat-of-your-pants wishful thinking they embodied, and the venturing into truly unknown territory all make NASA’s troubles of recent years seem almost -- but only almost -- beside the point.

New This Month: A Friend of the Family by Lauren Grodstein

It was the cover that drew me in. A man standing at the edge of a vast sea. Waiting for something to come in? Watching as something disappears? Just staring? Walking into it? I didn’t know. I just knew that I’d been that man once or twice -- and that was enough.

A Friend of the Family (Algonquin), the spectacular new novel by Lauren Grodstein, is a play of intricacies. It’s a book about the details, and each of them rings as clearly as notes in a song. In fact, the novel feels more composed than written, its notes carefully woven through, each with its own tone and color.

There are times when Grodstein’s use of certain notes catches your breath; she’ll mention something in passing, some detail, then mention it again at the moment it will have massive impact, when they’ll bring fresh tension and new dimension to already tense scenes. She plants these moments quietly, with no foreshadowing; you only know they matter when they burst open later. Brilliant.

The novel’s protagonist, Pete Dizinoff, is a middle-aged doctor with a wife and a son. His life has all the normal beats. If it weren’t so ominous, it’d be blessedly boring. Pete and his wife have been best friends with the Sterns for years. Their kids grew up together as the two sets of parents grew older, into their middle age. They’ve expereinced their lives together, side-by-side, even weathering the catastrophe that befell the Sterns’ daughter Laura when she was a teenager.

Laura is several years older than Pete’s son, Alec -- and the novel’s action, tension, violence, and climax all hinge on the budding and unfortunate relationship that flowers between the two of them. Pete is worried -- well, a lot more than worried -- that Laura’s darkness will rub off on his son, just when his son is figuring out who he is. Pete spends much of the novel trying to make sense of a world that seems determined to undermine his family and his life.

Grodstein fills her novel with not only the complexities of family and long-standing friendships, but also with the tension that occurs between outer and inner dialogue. When two people speak with each other, we experience what they say, of course. But Grodstein adds another layer to many of these conversations. She lets us know what one of the characters is thinking; sometimes the thoughts comment on the conversation, sometimes they’re a daydream that has nothing to do with it, and sometimes there are tenuous links, as if the spoken word has inspired thought ... and vice versa. It’s an incredibly captivating and complex device, and so completely right for this book. Remarkable, the author juggles all of this with an expertise that other writers will envy. I sure did.

Each of Grodstein’s characters has a unique texture. Silk here, sandpaper there, almost literally. They come across more like people than characters, like friends you might see in the neighborhood grocery or at the movies. None, though, is more developed than Pete. He’s a guy with butter on his hands, trying to hold on to a glass bowl, but it keeps slipping away and he manges to keep catching it -- until it finally falls and shatters. Likewise, Pete is desperate to keep hold of Alec, who does all he can to squirm out of his father’s grasp. Their shattered relationship echoes throughout the book, poisoning everything that matters most to Pete. He’s a man who loves his son without limits and without question, and he’ll do anything to protect him, even if it means he could lose him in the process. Pete is a man you root for, feel sorry for, understand fully, and are confused by, each in turn and all at the same time. That Grodstein pulls him off is a master stroke.

A Friend of the Family is a searing, unforgettable portrait of a family in crisis, haunted by the past and terrified of a possible -- even probable -- future. It’s fiction at its very best.

Art & Culture: Flow: The Cultural Story of Menstruation by Elissa Stein and Susan Kim

It was bound to happen sooner than later. Someone just had to write FLOW: The Cultural Story of Menstruation (St. Martin’s Griffin). I only wonder why no one did it sooner. But I'm glad it was written on my watch.

FLOW isn’t just a book; it's a movement. It’s sparking debate all over the Internet, from the editors at Redbook, who unceremoniously and unfairly dismissed it (is Redbook still a magazine for women?) to those at The Huffington Post and The Daily Beast, who celebrated it. Then there are all those people in the blogosphere and the Facebookosphere who seem unable to stop singing its praises.

And here’s the thing: FLOW deserves it. It’s not a breakout book (yet), but it sure is a breakthrough. It’s stimulating sometimes heated conversation about a subject that was, until now, taboo. And that’s the point the book’s authors, Elissa Stein and Susan Kim, are making. Menstruation isn’t something to be ashamed of or decried; it’s something to be explained, understood, and celebrated.

Written in a hip, funny voice (and designed with an accessible yet edgy sensibility), FLOW tells it like it is -- or rather, like it’s been for too many years. For example, did you know Lysol was marketed as a douche for 40 years as a way to kill post-sex sperm and make the vagina smell nicer? Did you know the age for a girl’s first period has dropped over the last 200 years from 17 to 13? Did you know that the first pad was marketed in 1896? And did you know -- here comes the hate mail -- that there’s really no such thing as PMS? (Don’t blame me: Research proves that hormone levels do not change during periods.)

But that’s just scratching the surface. As it turns out, periods are woven throughout our culture. To see it, you’ve just got to look a little harder. FLOW looks at language, history, politics, sex, religion, marketing, scent, and more. And sprinkled in among all the cultural, corporate, and personal stories are full-color reproductions of the advertising used to sell feminine products over the last half century or so. In each, you’ll find images and language that perpetuated what we all thought about periods (if you thought anything at all). From From Dr. Scott’s Electric Corsets to The Hite Report, from Tampax to New Freedom, from Kotex to Carrie, it seems Stein and Kim have left nothing out. Frankly, if reading the whole book isn’t your thing, just study the illustrations; their images and words will give you a sense of what’s been going on.

In the last few weeks, I’ve been telling friends about FLOW, to gauge thier reactions. Some have been fascinated, some repulsed (shame on them!). But no one’s been unwilling to admit there’s a story here that deserves to be told. They don’t know what it is, but they sense, every one of them, that there is one. Even better, more than a few (women and men) told me they’d be buying it for their daughters; after all, they said, the girls are going to learn about periods eventually, so they may as well get the whole story. They should learn about it, understand it, and yes, be proud of it. Go with the flow, indeed.

The Lost Symbol by Dan Brown

No one reading this lives under a rock, so I won't insult you by announcing that Dan Brown has a new book out. Heck, by now you’ve either read the book or a few of the reviews. So why am I bothering to review a book that you’ve either read by now or, if not, have little interest in reading? I suppose because, having read the book and some of the reviews myself, I’m starting to wonder if some of the reviewers actually read the same book I did.

Look, I thought The Lost Symbol (Doubleday) was really good. But it's not another Da Vinci Code, and it’s not the second coming of the genuinely brilliant and innovative Angels & Demons. It’s probably somewhere in between, if you want to know the truth. There’s no question Dan Brown can write, although his pace sometimes feels more like a rocketing roller coaster than a novel, and his characters, well, they’re sketched more than written. And I have to say, the man loves his italics, which he seems to think is an acceptable form of punctuation.

As I sit here, thinking about The Lost Symbol, this is what pops into mind: There’s this joke about some guy who says, “I was thinking in my head the other day...” blah blah blah. My kids always laugh at that -- because where else would the guy think but in his head? And there was a TV ad for Cadillac a few years back in which the announcer said something like, “This new Cadillac is longer in length than ever before.” I thought then (and still do), longer in length? As opposed to what? Longer in color?

I mention these because they illustrate the level of The Lost Symbol. The book feels, oh, it feels like we’ve all been here before. It feels so logical (in the Brownian world, at least) that it borders on the obvious. Ancient symbols. Langdon in his dependable tweed jacket, thrust into a situation he doesn’t understand. Clues that should be clear to him from the moment he sets eyes on them, except if he did there’d be no suspense (and thus, demanding that we suspend our disbelief from a much higher hook). Skeptics galore and faux bad guys. A couple of sacrificial lambs. And the inevitable, beautiful, and brainy girl whose life’s work is somehow threatened by the villain, who in this case isn’t quite a religious freak but whose freakiness is almost a religion to him. Except that Judeo-Christian artifacts and dark rituals are switched out for American-slash-Masonic ones, it’s all so damn familiar.

I can’t say I didn't enjoy The Lost Symbol. I got on the ride, I bought into the whole thing, I had a good time, and when it was over, it was very, very over. But can I ask -- and no one has, to my knowledge -- why Brown felt the need to add the ridiculous plot twist? I won’t spoil it for those two or three of you who haven’t read the thing. But my God, Dan! You had the book chugging along at a pretty good clip, and then you toss in that bit about -- well, you know -- the thing about the victim and the villain’s shared past -- and it was like you kicked me square in the pants and hurled me off the train. What gives? Let me tell you a truth your editor was afraid to: You absolutely did not need that bit. And I'll tell you something else: Your book would’ve been a lot smarter if you’d found another way to link them -- or just forgot about linking them altogether.

Here’s the thing about books like The Lost Symbol (and then I’ll shut up). You can’t argue with its sales. But in the end, it’s not really The Lost Symbol that anyone’s buying. What they’re buying is The Next Book From That Da Vinci Code Guy. The sales, in this case, have nothing to do with this book. I mean, Brown could have written a romance novel and sold a million copies the first day.

Come to think of it, maybe Brown should try that next time. Then, at least, the ride would be one we haven’t taken before.

Fiction: The Year That Follows by Scott Lasser

I love the dust jacket for The Year That Follows (Knopf). Look at it, right over there. A beauty, isn’t it? Really made me want to read the book.

And, oh, how I loved the first chapter. Kyle, a young New York City professional, is late for a morning meeting. At the World Trade Center. On September 11. He’s in the elevator when the plane hits. And the moment it happens is one of the most thrilling pieces of fiction I’ve read in a long time. It’s just a few lines, but when I’d read them I actually thought: “Holy crap.” Scott Lasser has a terrific writing style: crisp, knowing, even cunning. He knows how to set up a scene, what to reveal, and what not to. Love that.

After Kyle’s death, his sister, Cat, who lives in Detroit with a son of her own, decides she needs to find Kyle’s son. Though Kyle and the child’s mother weren’t together when he died, Cat feels the need to fashion a connection with his flesh and blood. At the same time, she also wants to reconnect with her father, who lives in California. And she longs to connect with someone in a romantic way.

The book, as you’ve probably surmised, is all about connections. The ones based on blood. The ones forged by law. The ones bound by love. It really is a beautiful little book. And when I finished it, I should have been satisfied, swooning. Instead I was angry. I was at my neighborhood pool when I finished the book, and I almost threw it in.

I was on the ride for all of it. I went with the various connections. I went with Cat to California to see her dad. I went with Cat when she rekindled a relationship with her only serious flame, a high school boyfriend who became a doctor. I went with Cat when she finally found Kyle’s son. I even went with her when she convinced the child’s grandparents to let her have him, raise him, far away from them.

And then Lasser ruined it. Killed the whole thing. I won’t do that for you now, but I will say that there are several ways to end a book. Usually, the best way is to say as little as possible, avoid the nice neat package tied up with string. Better to leave the reader some room to imagine. But Lasser really blows it here. Not only does he give us too much ending, he gives us the worst possible ending. I keep trying to figure out why in the world he would have torpedoed his own book. I keep wondering if I’m missing the point. But I’m sure I’m not. Actually, what I think is that Lasser missed it.

There are books I don’t like, and that’s fine. I don’t expect to like everything. But this book I really loved. I admired it, and I admired Scott Lasser. Until the moment he betrayed me -- and worse, until the moment he betrayed the characters he’d so lovingly created. The Year that Follows could have been a sweet book, almost a fairy tale. Damn him.

Crime Fiction: The Girl Who Played with Fire by Stieg Larsson

In the great mash-up that is our culture these days, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to find anything that’s pure. There’s the adventure/love story. The family drama/serial-killer thriller. The coming-of-age shoot-’em-up. And here I sit, having read the new so-called thriller by Stieg Larsson, The Girl Who Played with Fire (Knopf), wondering how to categorize the thing.

Not that it matters a lick. Trust me. Larsson was a Swedish reporter and novelist who died suddenly, supposedly of a heart attack, although there are rumors that he was offed by some of the criminals he wrote about. The thing is, before he died he wrote three bang-up novels (and part of a fourth) that achieved best-seller status after he died, from one end of Stockholm to the other ... taking the really, really long way around. The first book, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, was published in the States last summer; the second was just published; and the third is due out on this side of the Atlantic in a year or so.

The Girl Who Played with Fire picks up about two years after Tattoo. That novel’s unforgettable hero and heroine -- Mikael Blomkvist and Lisbeth Salander -- haven’t seen each other in all that time, and life has only become more, well, lifelike since then. Blomkvist is writing for his magazine, on the lookout for his next exposé; Salander is living off the billions of kronor she siphoned away when no one was looking, trying to find something elusive: a normal life. They both seem kind of bored. And then a young colleague of Blomkvist is brutally murdered (along with his girlfriend), and so is Salander’s guardian. The prime suspect: Salander herself. And since no one but Blomkvist thinks the whole thing is a big mistake, it’s up to him to prove her innocent.

Larsson crafted Fire with the same deadpan, matter-of-fact style he used in Tattoo, and it works just as well the second time around. He lays out his plot and his characters in a way that almost makes you think very little is happening -- except, actually, everything is happening. He’s sly, Larsson, lacing details through his sentences that won’t become relevant for perhaps two or three hundred pages -- but when they do, you’re with him. You remember.

He’s filled this book with murderers, dirty lawyers, cops of all stripes, old and new friends, and a bad-ass Keyser Söze-type bad guy. To say each one is memorable would be a cheat. It’d be more accurate to say each one is indelible.

The problem I had with Fire is the same one I had with Tattoo: Larsson’s reliance on the geography of Sweden to tell his story. I don’t know why he needs to let us know every street’s name, every little shop, every little everything. The story would move so much faster (not that it’s not fast anyway) without these distractions; worse, the words are tough to pronounce, and so they slow you down, pull you out of the action. It’s a real irritation.

But aside from this -- and really, it’s a minor point -- The Girl Who Played with Fire is just a brilliant read. Larsson takes characters we know and could easily describe in some detail, then layers on fresh nuances, rich back-stories and complications galore. Sure, the story is new, and so naturally the characters will behave appropriately (as in any series whose author is paying attention). But on a much deeper level, it’s clear that Larsson knows these people far better than he’s letting on, and he’s content, in these books, to dole out just the information we need to be completely enthralled. I could keep reading these for ages, and I’m bummed there’s only one more.

The Girl Who Played with Fire -- oddly epic love story, ultra-violent crime thriller and classic buddy novel all at once -- truly defies categorization. I think that’s just one of the things that make it the perfect novel for right this minute.

Fiction: Fragment by Warren Fahy

Fragment, the new novel by Warren Fahy, arrived with not a little hype. A bidding war at the 2008 London Book Fair. Gushing comparisons to Jurassic Park and The Ruins. Jeez! I thought, Gotta read that one! And I'm about 80 per cent glad I did.

Fahy has created a rip-roaring, nature-gone-awry, cautionary tale. See, there’s this island in the middle of the Pacific, and no one’s been there for hundreds of years -- and when the last people were there, they didn't last long. They ended up in the ripped-to-pieces category. Before that, no one had ever been there. What that means is, this island's ecology has developed, since the beginning of time, along a different path than the rest of the planet. And what that means is, every square foot of the place is crawling with creatures -- animal, insect, and eye-popping, nightmare-inducing combinations -- that don't exist in our world, even though they exist on our planet.

Take disk ants, which are sort of like Frisbees on a terrifying diet of killer steroids. They roll around on their edges, then hurl themselves through the air to avoid predators or attack their prey, whom they latch onto with claws. Then they chow down. Oh, and their surface is coverered with bazillions of baby versions, little buggers which really know how to get under your skin—literally. Or take spigers, eight-legged tiger-like creatures whose ferocity makes hungry great white sharks look tame.

Fahy's catalog of the wild gone wild -- ingenious and entirely convincing -- goes on and on. Until about four fifths of the way through, which is when I came upon something that pulled more bile into my throat than all the killings and gross-out monsters combined: a character who's charming, funny, adorable -- and completely out of place in this book (and this world). What the hell, I thought, is this thing doing here? Does Fahy make it work? Yeah, sure. But that's just it: He makes it work, where the rest of the book just works on its own. The character -- in full and clichéd villain-turned-partner mode -- comes on the scene like a badly tuned piano in the middle of a piano-heavy symphony, and it damn near kills the whole thing. (My two cents for Hollywood: When you make this movie -- and you should -- find another way to energize the last section, or suffer the fate that Jar Jar Binks brought to the Star Wars prequel trilogy.)

The story? Oh, can't you guess? After millions and millions of years with virtually no human visitors, a group of hapless visitors happens upon the place (are there ever hap-ful visitors?) triggering a killing spree, global curiosity, and a master plan that puts many lives in harm's way. They also give the author a chance to do his soapbox dance about the danger of letting humans ruin our otherwise lovely planet, thank you very much. (I piled the lecturing into that same 20 per cent.) Is Fahy the new Crichton? He might be, one day. For now his characters are as thin as insect wings (so you sort of root for the creatures who've put them on the dinner menu), but he knows how to tell a story that makes you stay up way past your bedtime.

Fiction: The New Valley by Josh Weil

In his new collection of novellas, The New Valley (Grove Press), Josh Weil uses beautiful, stunning words to define men who don't have the first idea how to define themselves. Each tale unfolds in what appears to be the remotest areas of Virginia and West Virginia, and the geographical remoteness serves as a rich, telling metaphor for the remoteness of the men themselves.

How many collections like this have we read? How many authors use collections like this to establish their own distinct voice? Here, in his first collection, Weil seems to be sprinting in the opposite direction, doing all he can to avoid creating a distinct voice. He doesn’t seem interested in his own voice. Rather, all he seems to care about is crafting a voice for each story. The result is three pieces of work that live between hardcovers and rustic hills, but otherwise live on their own. It’s quite an achievement.

In sentence after sentence, on page after page, Weil hammers out these men on nothing less than an anvil of language. You can almost feel the searing heat as the tales are pounded into shape. So much seems to have been stripped back, the superfluous peeled away until almost the bare skeleton of story and character remain. Yet he leaves us telling details too -- and they sing. In high contrast to the hard edges of these stories, the author sprinkles in gentle, striking images. The language around them makes them all the more tasty, of course. “The moon was gone,” reads one, “but the stars still pinned up the night sky.” We’ve seen this image countless times before -- but when was the last time it was written in a way that took your breath away? It’s clear Josh Weil adores the power of words.

The New Valley is stark. The stories are sharp-edged, as I’ve said, but they’re much more than that. There’s an enviable depth to these characters, a layering of ideas that brings them to life in ways that might very well surprise even them. The tales walk up to you with confidence and look you square in the eye, unflinching. I am here, they say. Take me or leave me. The novellas aren’t like the men they portray; it feels more like they are the men they portray. In langauge that’s sure, quick, and almost magical in its ability conjure dimension from flat paper, Josh Weil has created portraits of hard lives that will stand the test of time.

BookExpo: Tony Buchsbaum’s Notes from the Floor

For the past three days, I have been on the exhibit floor at BookExpo America 2009 in New York City. Open only to people in the book trade, BEA is the place to be if you love books.

Usually, there are something like 25,000 people. Many are manning booths; many more are ducking in and out of them. The point? For publishers to show independent booksellers, the press and competing publishers what they’re cooking up for the next six months or so. There are usually mountains of advance copies, free for the grabbing. And, of course, there are authors everywhere, autographing sessions and the usual assortment of trade-show gimmes, from candy and pens to notepads, T-shirts and posters.

This year, two things altered the BEA experience. The dodgy economy resulted in far fewer books. Gone were the mountains of galleys, replaced by, well, modest hills of them. Some of the big publishers, notably Random House, didn’t offer books unless an author was there to sign them (long lines, anyone?). This meant less shoulder pain -- but it also meant much less excitement on the trade show floor.

Some years, a really big book makes its mark on the show; becomes the one everyone is talking about: The Prince of Tides, Presumed Innocent and The Horse Whisperer are good examples from the past. One big book was the other thing that changed BEA 2009 -- and the closest anyone got to it was the big banners in the entrance hall. That’s right: Da Vinci Code author Dan Brown’s The Lost Symbol, coming from Doubleday in September. More than one publisher told me they’d moved planned books to other times of the year, to avoid being crushed by it.

What else were attendees talking about? Electronic books. The general consensus was that content was king, and how we read is beside the point. (Personally, I like the feel of paper. Plus, the batteries in a book never run out no matter how long your flight is delayed.)

In terms of author sightings, it seemed there was at least one at every booth, every moment of every day. Without looking too hard you could see James Patterson, Dr. Ruth, Diana Gabaldon, Michael Lewis, Robert Goolrick and James Ellroy, to name just six of hundreds. They were all happily signing books. Who did I stand in line for? Jeff Kinney, author of the Diary of a Wimpy Kid series. My son was over the moon later that afternoon, when I presented him with an autographed copy.

Next year, BEA’s organizers say the trade show will change again. Traditionally held over a weekend, in 2010 it will move to mid-week. Whether the mountains of books will return is anyone’s guess. My own suspicion is that it’ll be up to the economy. And Dan Brown.

Finally, the oddest thing: Usually there’s a constant crowd of people registering. This year, every day, the crowd was reduced dramatically after the morning rush -- and by Saturday afternoon there was no one in line to get in. The people behind the counter were just sitting there with nothing to do. And I kept thinking: Why didn’t someone get them something to read?

New Today: The Whatchmacallit by Danny Danziger and Mark McKrum

You know, you could probably go through your whole life and never know what a tittle is. Or a toorie. Or a caruncula. But with the publication of The Whatchamacallit (Hyperion), you can discover what they are. Those, and a few dozen other common objects with uncommon names you couldn't care less about.

But should you care? Or, more to the point, shouldn't you? That's why authors Danny Danziger and Mark McKrum collected the stories behind a whole mess of things you might never bother to consider. But I think readers of January Magazine’s brother-in-crime, The Rap Sheet, want to to know that a scarpetta is the hunk of bread you use to wipe gravy or sauce from your plate. And I think, as one who eats breakfast, you want to know that fines are the crumbs at the bottom of a cereal box.

And speaking of breakfast, did you know that those little stringy bits between a banana and its peel have their own name?! Yep. They’re phloem bundles. And that bit of punctuation in which a question mark is immediately followed by an exclamation point? It's called an interrobang.

In The Whatchamacallit, you’ll find dozens of treasures such as these, each described with certain degrees of gravitas, albeit with the authors’ tongues shoved deeply into their cheeks. Some of the essays are short and sweet, others venture further, becoming mini-treatises on topics that somehow connect to the word in question. It’s essential reading for anyone who loves words ... and if you're reading this, that means you.

Fiction: A Reliable Wife by Robert Goolrick

Robert Goolrick’s first novel, A Reliable Wife (Algonquin Books), isn’t your normal, everyday thriller. Normal, everyday thrillers, as you’ve probably noticed, are propelled by action. Villain threatens with A. Hero retaliates with B. Villain, wounded, strikes back with C. And so on. My point is, it’s action all the way.

A Reliable Wife is a thriller of another kind. In this brief, brilliant book, it’s not what the players do that matters; it’s what they feel, what they think. The considerable action isn’t physical. Rather, it’s mental and emotional. The threats the characters wield require not bigger guns and sharper knives and smarter gadgets, but bigger hearts, sharper insights, and smarter dialogue.

Writing in an eloquent, precise, and sometimes repetitive style that mimics the meandering double-backs of thought, Goolrick sets his primary characters against each another as if they’re archetypes in a painting -- but they only look like archetypes. The middle-aged businessman, rich but lonely. The younger woman, come to bitterly wintered Wisconsin in 1907, having answered the man's ad for a reliable wife. It’s a snapshot, how they are at this moment. But what brought them here? What do they want? What are their secrets? And how will all of that propel their tale forward, knotting up their lives? By turns tantalizing, surprising and shocking, A Reliable Wife shows us how the past and its echoes can change one’s life as easily as a new realization can change one’s mind.

Review: The Kindly Ones by Jonathan Littell

Today in January Magazine’s fiction section, contributing editor Tony Buchsbaum reviews The Kindly Ones by Jonathan Littell. Says Buchsbaum:

While I was waiting for an advance copy of Jonathan Littell's novel The Kindly Ones, winner of the 2006 Prix Goncourt, I satisfied my curiosity by reading articles about it and interviews with its author (in which he came across as prissy and mean-spirited: it was made clear that once he answers a question in one interview, he won't answer it again in another). Anyway, when it finally arrived in the mail, I dove right in.

Then promptly hit a submerged boulder that all but snapped my neck.

By any measurement, this is not a lightweight book. Measured page-wise, it's a 975-page behemoth. Measured plot-wise, it's a complex, detail-laden brick that's a memorable -- but far from great -- read. The subject matter is controversial, unpleasant, even incendiary. Its author is an American who wrote the book in France, in French (that's what qualified it for the Goncourt).

The full review is here.

Children’s Books: Diary of a Wimpy Kid: The Last Straw by Jeff Kinney

By Ian Buchsbaum, as told to his father Tony

Diary of a Wimpy Kid: The Last Straw (Amulet) is the fourth book in the highly successfuly kids’ series; however, it’s the third one your kids can read, since the previous book was a do-it-yourself diary. The series is about a kid named Greg who lives in a world of mischief. Because this is Greg’s diary, the book contains lots of little stories -- and sketches that help to bring those stories to life.

In The Last Straw, Greg spends time trying to impress a girl named Holly. Also, his brother Rodrick does some crazy antics and his little brother Manny makes up a new word (“ploopy”). Trouble is, their mother doesn’t like the word, so Rodrick breaks it up into syllables (“pl,” “oo,” and “py”) and says a different one each day to Greg. Fun! There’s another kid named Shawn, who has a new baby brother.

Greg’s little stories are written in a quick, easy style that’s fun for kids to read. I’m pretty addicted, to tell the truth. The sheer number of little stories throughout the book feels just like every kid’s day -- lots of stuff to do and think about, and lots of fun to have.

I really enjoy the Diary of a Wimpy Kid books, and lots of my friends do too. Basically that would be everybody in my class. The Last Straw is my favorite one, and it’s so good that I’m bummed that I have to wait for the next one. (Note to Jeff Kinney: Please hurry!)

Holiday Gift Guide: Hitman by David Foster

Consider the music producer. Do you know what they do? In the simplest terms, a music producer directs the music, just as a director directs a film. That is, he (or she) brings all aspects of a song to life, from performance to orchestration to mix to final release. Some music producers are famous in their own right; perhaps the most famous is Quincy Jones, who has worked in many different kinds of music, from jazz to pop to film scores.

Interestingly, despite working for so long, Jones doesn’t seem to have a signature style. His work is shaped by the needs of the project. But that can’t be said of every producer. David Foster is one of those who does have an enduring style -- a distinctive voice. For forty-odd years, Foster has been making the music we know and love. He’s worked primarily in pop, though he’s also created memorable instrumental work and composed wonderful film scores. But somehow, even with the variety of genres and the much wider variety of artists he’s worked with, Foster’s music is cohesive. If you listen carefully, you’ll find his style is as distinctive as, say, that of Steven Spielberg.

Over the years, Foster has worked with, oh, let’s just say everybody -- certainly everybody whose name can be reduced to one word: Streisand, Dion, Houston, Groban, Buble, Bocelli, McCartney, Loggins. And then there’s Chicago. Earth, Wind and Fire. I could go on and on. I mean, he discovered Celine Dion, Josh Groban, and Michael Buble. More than perhaps any other producer of the last four decades, David Foster’s work has shaped the sound of our lives. And now he’s collected a lot of his most memorable moments in a new book, Hitman (Simon & Schuster).

This is one fast read. Foster’s life flies by and so does the book. Without dipping into overwhelming detail, he paints his life in choice, telling and fascinating details -- and seems not to hold anything back, even the occasional blemish. Foster is obsessed with work, and he shares his life story in terms of that work. His childhood in British Columbia, when he discovered he had perfect pitch. His first forays into music, playing and traveling with bands. His move to Los Angeles, which is when things really started to happen in a big way. There, he becomes the David Foster we know.

What I love most about his story are the real moments. His preference for milk and cookies at sessions, rather than the drugs of the day. His almost geeky reverence for the iconic performers whose paths he crossed and whose music he helped to create. His awe mirrors our own -- and it makes him comfortably, reassuringly human. In a tough business, that’s pretty meaningful, but his dedication to work and talent and his own values certainly paid off. He’s made music that’s great -- but more, he's made music that counts. And the sales speak for themselves. Fifteen Grammy Awards. Three Oscar nominations. Half a billion records sold.

Part of what’s great about Hitman are the stories about the music that you might know David Foster had a hand in. But even more thrilling was learning about music I love that I didn’t know he’d ever touched. For example, he co-wrote the Cheryl Lynn classic “Got to Be Real.” He produced the Broadway cast recording of Dreamgirls. He created some of Chicago’s career-defining songs, such as “Hard to Say I'm Sorry” and “Hard Habit to Break.” Earth Wind and Fire’s “After the Love is Gone”? His. Whitney Houston’s cover of “I Will Always Love You” from The Bodyguard? His. Natalie Cole’s "Unforgettable" duet with her late father? Foster’s as well.

All this, plus his decades-long work raising money to help Canadian families whose children need organ transplants.

These are the gems that make up a life, but they’re also the gems that make a terrific book. But then, Hitman is more than a book: It’s also a DVD of a new concert, with an accompanying CD. The DVD includes performances by Bocelli, Buble, Dion, Groban, Boz Scaggs, Brian McKnight, and many others. They came out to honor their friend and producer -- and reading his book, learning about his dedication to music, it’s easy to see why. Hitman, indeed.

Holiday Gift Guide: Wacky Packages

I don’t know about you, but I spent far too many of my own tween afternoons pouring over Wacky Packs, those addictive trading cards that fractured ads and product packaging, turning the most inocuous of claims into a hysterical parody that often spoke more truth than the real products taglines did. (I think they played a large role, in fact, in my career choice as as advertising copywriter -- but it’s possible I’m being a tad too honest.)

Now dozens of the best Wacky Packages (Abrams) have been collected in a book of the same name. As it turns out, Art Spiegelman, later of Maus fame, was responsible for a lot of the memorable madness, and there’s an illuminating interview with him here about the world of journeyman artists and art directors of the period, as well as how this series was born.

Best of all, there’s original art for Jail-O dessert mix, Crust toothpaste, Kook-Aid drink mix, Cheapios cereal, Hipton tea, Big Muc burgers, and more than 200 others, from Series 1 through Series 7. This treasure trove is a must-have book for any culture-conscious adult who was a kid about 40 years ago.

A Grand... and a Grand Life

On occasion, I love to read a beefy business book. Tom Peters. Seth Godin. They’re the guys who seem to have their fingers on the pulse of what works -- and more, why it works. Every time I read one of their books, I find nuggets of gold.

So imagine my curiosity when I spotted a book called 1,000 Dollars and an Idea (Newmarket) by a guy called Sam Wyly. It reached out to me, I think, because it didn’t look like a Peters book or a Godin book or any number of those slickly designed business memoirs by any number of quasi-famous people who might appear in Vanity Fair’s annual establishment issue. It looked... real. And you know what? It is.

1,000 Dollars and an Idea doesn’t reads less like a business memoir and more like a thriller. I mean, there’s never any doubt that 007 kills the villain, destroys the lair, beds the girl. And here, there’s no doubt that Wyly becomes a billionaire; it says so, right on the cover. So the big question is: how does it happen? What’s the path? What’s the story?

For Sam Wyly, the story began in a tiny Louisiana town, from being dirt poor to becoming one of the nation’s most visionary businessmen. Back when everyone was looking at computer hardware, Wyly was looking at software. Back when everyone was shying away from doing business with AT&T and its monopoly, Wyly took them on and was instrumental in the company’s break-up. Along the way he also rescued the Bonanza restaurant chain and grew Michaels craft stores into one of the nation’s megabrands. Today, he’s involved in wind energy. Will he change our lives again? Bet on it.

As thriller-like as it is, 1,000 Dollars and an Idea is, at heart, a nostalgic look back at a man’s life. Wyly has an intense respect for his past, his own history. In these pages, his childhood home comes to life. He describes early business meetings and infuses them first with real suspense, then the exhilaration of success. It’s almost childlike, wide-eyed -- and suddenly this billionaire seems like a real guy. Not a god of business, but a guy with good ideas who found himself more successful than he ever dreamed he would or could be. But he knows it could have gone the other way.

“That’s been the experience,” Wyly told me in a recent interview. “You sort of learn by doing. Some things work, some things don’t work. We learn by failing as well as by succeeding at things.”

One of the most arresting details of Wyly’s life has nothing to do with business. In Dallas on the morning of November 22, 1963, he saw the president’s motorcade. “I had just watched the president and Jackie go by, watching from the third floor of the Neiman Marcus building, and by the time I got in my car in the parking garage, it was coming on the radio that he’d been shot. I just couldn’t get over it, it was just disbelief and denial that it couldn’t have happened. And gradually I realized, yeah, it happened, and it’s just... I spent several days just glued to the TV.”

And two days later, he saw Ruby shoot Oswald -- then recognized Ruby as an old neighbor of his. “That was a double stunner.”

This kind of thing happens throughout 1,000 Dollars and an Idea. Though Wyly is always in the middle of something exciting, his focus isn’t on himself as much as it is on the people who helped him and contributed so much to his success and his life.

“I’ve been lucky to have had some really able people come into my life at points along the way,” he told me. “Different people with different skills and different knowledge that contributed to what we’re doing together.”

There’s something about writing a memoir about your own life, then giving so much of the credit away to other people. You don’t see that lot. It impressed me.

Early on, Sam Wyly was in the oil business. Now he’s in the clean energy business -- and there have been a lot of ventures (and adventures) in between. I wondered if there’s one thing that stands out, a legacy.

“I don’t know if I could just pick one thing. I’m a guy who likes a chocolate milkshake one month,” he told me, “and a strawberry milkshake the next.”

We talked a little about John Adams, the HBO miniseries, and the nation’s founding fathers. I mentioned the episodes about writing the Declaration of Independence and said that these were simply men of their times, businessmen and farmers with a vision for something new, even revolutionary.

“That’s what I’ve seen myself doing,” Wyly said after a moment. “To look at something as it is and think about how could it be. And then to set about to make it happen.”

1,000 Dollars and an Idea isn’t hard-edged or prescriptive like Tom Peters’ and Seth Godin’s books. Instead, it’s got a gentle style that feels like you and Wyly are sitting in his living room, and he’s telling you stories... whispering, so you lean in. And when he’s done and you’re driving back home, you suddenly get the one real message, the powerful suggestion that in business and in life, if you have courage, if you stoke your own determination, and if you surround yourself with talented people you, too, can make it happen.

Fiction: The Book of Lies by Brad Meltzer

The Book of Lies (Grand Central Publishing) is an interesting, even arresting read. I can’t say I loved Brad Meltzer’s new novel, but I sure wasn’t bored. I read somewhere that Meltzer said this was the book he was born to write and that he was actually sort of afraid to do it ... though I can’t imagine why. I mean, yeah, the plot’s a stretch -- to say the very least -- but since when is that a reason not to write?

Follow me, if you can: In the early part of the last century, young Jerry Siegel, misfit Jewish kid, invents Superman, possibly our nation's most enduring super-icon. How did this come about? Meltzer posits that it was a direct result of the boy's father's sudden death. Was it a heart attack, as official reports have it? Or was it murder (which makes for a much better story)? And if it was murder, was it somehow linked to the old Cain and Able story from The Bible? You know, the one where God creates a mark of Cain after he murders his brother?

Add in a present-day frame about the novel's hero and his dad -- from whom he has been estranged since boyhood -- and you have the makings of a trifecta of parallelism. Siegel pere and fils. Frere et frere. And hero Cal and his dad. Nice, huh? Except it's a bit too nice, too neat, and too convenient. And perhaps even a bit too far-fetched. I'm more than willing to suspend disbelief for the sake of a good yarn, but I do expect a good-looking sweater at the end of the day, if you know what I mean. And unfortunately, The Book of Lies, while not exactly a bad-looking sweater, doesn't exactly fit in all the places it should.

New This Week: The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson

My mother once said to me that no one is just one thing. A Mafia hit man can also be a loving father. Your best friend in the world can also sleep with your spouse. The president of the United States can be, well, anything but presidential. That’s sort of the story with The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (Knopf), which is being billed as a crime story; the thing is, it’s not just a crime story. It’s also a multi-generational family saga and a really different, really cool kind of love story.

Its author, Stieg Larsson, said to be one of Sweden’s top investigative reporters, wrote a trilogy that starts with this book. They became significant bestsellers throughout Europe, and Alfred A. Knopf will publish all three here at home. The thing is, you won’t see any interviews with Larsson, no signings in bookshops, no reading select passages -- because he’s dead. He died after delivering the manuscripts, and there is, you might say, some question as to whether his death was by natural causes or the work of any number of the anti-democratic, extremist, or Nazi organizations he investigated and wrote about. Clearly, Larsson’s own story could make a pretty great crime novel.

And so. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. What a terrific read this is. Involving, even absorbing, characters. A family bound together by secrets and business as much by blood. Betrayals. Resentments. Screwed-up relationships. The intricacies of business. The dark corners that are part and parcel of investigative journalism. Sex. Pretty great stuff. Populating this world are Mikael Blomkvist, magazine editor, who gets pulled into the tale in its first few pages, and Lisbeth Salander, a 20-something snooper who’s very tattooed of body, very inquisitive of mind, and very prickly of personality.

These two are not just the engine of the book--their relationship, in all its fascinating facets, is the glue that holds it together as well as the thing that keeps you turning its pages. Blomkvist needs Salander to help him uncover the mystery of a missing girl named Harriet -- an event many decades old. It’s steeped in family history and cloaked in secrets that few people want to see revealed. Blomkvist’s boss, Helmut Vanger, is one of those few -- and nothing, it seems, will stop him ... or convince him to stop Blomkvist.

Larsson writes with verve and a knowing sense of fun. He has a great time weaving his yarn, adding color on top of texture on top of flavor. He paints the various Swedish locations with style, even down to the aroma of the meatballs. The pace he sets isn’t quite breakneck, but so many things happen that it feels miraculous that someone was able to keep track of all the details. Most impressive is how smart a thriller this is, and how insightful a love story. Read it, and you’ll find yourself looking forward to the next two ... and mourning the author’s much-too-early demise.

Review: The Little Book by Selden Edwards

Today in January Magazine’s fiction section, Tony Buchsbaum reviews The Little Book by Selden Edwards. Says Buchsbaum:

It all started with Hitler. Or maybe Kafka. Or maybe both. Though not at the same time.

It was 1975, and young Selden Edwards was in graduate school. He had an idea about a contemporary guy -- a rock and roll star and a former baseball hero -- who wakes up one morning in Vienna. No explanations, he just wakes up there. In 1897. And the guy realizes early on that at this time, Hitler’s just a kid -- so if he can bring himself to kill the kid, the history of the world will change. Lives will be saved. Everyone will be saved.

Well, not everyone. What about the kids who would never be born -- kids whose parents would meet because there was a war? Because there was a Hitler?

And suddenly, Edwards had a central conflict -- and the core of a novel.

The full review is here.

Review: Devil May Care by Sebastian Faulks

Today in January Magazine’s crime fiction section, contributing editor Tony Buchsbaum reviews Devil May Care by Sebastian Faulks. Says Buchsbaum:

Devil May Care is a terrific resurrection. Ignoring the last, oh, 43 years, the novel picks up, more or less, a short while after the action of Fleming’s final 007 novel, The Man with the Golden Gun (1965). Not only do the movies not exist, but neither do the couple of dozen novels written by Kingsley Amis (using the name Robert Markham), John Gardner and Raymond Benson, each of which pitted Bond against villains large and threatening, in time zones both in the near and far distance. Here, Faulks doesn’t bother with any of that because it’s simply not in this universe. Instead, he provides any number of nods, both subtle and blatant, to Fleming’s works, mentioning names and places and brands that the average Bond aficionado will recognize with love. I’m tempted to say this is Faulks’ way of placing this Bond -- his Bond -- in proper context with Fleming’s. But then I go back to that dust jacket conceit: “writing as Ian Fleming.” This isn’t Faulks’ Bond, we’re meant to think, but Fleming’s.

The full review is here.

BEA Report: Sore Feet and Screaming Shoulders

It may have been guilt from the volley I launched at him earlier but, if so, I’ll take it. January Magazine contributing editor Tony Buchsbaum sends us his first report -- as well as a few more pictures -- from Book Expo America, currently underway at Staple Center in Los Angeles until June 1st.

Buchsbaum is filing his stories from his iPhone, which means he’s getting killer good at texting. Here’s what he had to say:

Dateline -- Los Angeles -- Thousands of book-hungry souls. Tens of thousands of copies of hopeful bestsellers. And thousands who work in an industry created to get you to read. Add a dash of madness -- as well as many a mad dash for the galley-of-the-moment, and that’s BookExpo, three days of heaven for anyone into books. If it’s between two covers, it’s here.

Picture hundreds of titles, mostly due out this fall, each looking for a mind to enter. Picture publishing people working to get people like me interested. With so many people choking the aisles, there’s no stopping to consider whether a book is worth taking. You just take them be hope it’ll be good. You really do have to judge each book by its cover; there’s no time for anything else. By day’s end, you’ve got a few dozen contenders for “a good read,” so there’s work to do.

Feet ready to fall off. Shoulders screaming. Mind reeling. And best of all, there are still two days to go. -- Tony Buchsbaum, reporting from BookExpo America 2008

Review: Keeper and Kid by Edward Hardy

Today in January Magazine’s fiction section, Tony Buchsbaum reviews Keeper and Kid by Edward Hardy. Says Buchsbaum:

Keeper is Jim Keeper, divorced, mid-30s and now wonderfully enmeshed in a fruitful relationship with Leah and a career path that leaves a bit to be desired. His life is just perfect right about now. His divorce was bad enough that he knows that he’ll never marry again, just to avoid having to divorce again (maybe). But Leah, a workaholic on the fast track, seems fine with that. Everything’s just ducky, in fact, until Keeper’s ex, Cynthia, dies. Leaving him their dog. Who turns out to be dead, too.

Which is when Keeper learns he has a three-year-old son. With no mother, the kid -- Leo -- is moving into Daddy’s house. Except Daddy didn’t ever expect to be a parent ... and it isn’t even his house.

Now, before you call me a spoiler, the jacket tells you all this (well, pretty much). And anyway, it’s from here that Keeper and Kid finds itself, its characters, its voice and its undeniable beauty. See, this is a book that seems to be about transformation, but is really about revelation. Leo, the monkey wrench, is tossed into the motor of Keeper’s life -- and seems to foul everything up. His relationships, his work, his home, his bank account...

The full review is here.