Bookish.

Prague, by Arthur Philips. American ex-pats in Budapest, c. 1990-91. Good collections of scenes from a special time and place, even if the characters could be a little disjointed sometimes (no doubt resulting from the semi-autobiographical nature). Anyway, there was some really good writing and good insights here.

Designs on the Land: Exploring America from the Air, by Alex S. MacLean. Pictures from above. The essays are forgettable. I declare a war on sprawl snobs.

Indian Summer: The Secret History of the End of an Empire, by Alex von Tunzelmann. The end of the raj, and partition of India and Pakistan, as told via the experiences of the Mountbattens, Nehru, Jinnah, and Ghandi. I'm pretty ignorant about this history, and I had no idea about the relationship between Edwina Mountbatten and Nehru. Highly readable and recommended.

Lush Life, by Richard Price. Slick, gritty police procedural in today's Lower East Side. Basically a tale of a random shooting as a result of a mugging, but solving the crime is not the point - you pretty much already know who did it. I was a skeptic initially, but it's true - the dialogue is amazing. Price has written for The Wire, and this book is also a glimpse into a world of slang that is largely foreign, to me anyway. Reminded me of Dashiell Hammett's Red Harvest in that respect, though Matty Clark is no Continental Op. One error I noticed - the book was set in October 2002, but at one point a character makes a reference to Baghdad as an exemplar of urban violence. I think that's probably unintentionally anachronistic. Kakutani rave, and Price profile.

Francis John Murphy, 1923-2008.

My grandfather died a week ago after suffering from Alzheimer's for some years.

My grandfather was a man of quiet virtues. His service in World War II in the navy was, as for many people of his generation, nothing to brag about – just a matter of doing his duty. In his roles as father and grandfather – and in my case, a grandfather who was more like a father – he again served with the greatest devotion, but in quiet ways. It may not amount to heroism to get up and go to work every day, and to come home with gentle affection for your family – but if that is the way you feed, clothe, and put a roof over the head of three people who depend on you…then it may not be heroic, but it’s definitely inspiring.

The impression that this kind of steady, solid life made on me can be hard to describe in words to others – the signature events are things like, in my case, teaching me how to shave, how to ride a bike, and how to parallel park, or taking me on a tour of the battleship USS Wisconsin when it docked at the Philadelphia Navy Yard - because I liked ships and he liked ships, and it’s hard to think of a better way to spend a few hours than clambering through steel corridors, marveling at 16-inch guns, and thinking about the sailors who served there. He liked to read books, and I like to read books. Sometimes I read books that he recommended. Exciting! These things of course add up to days, weeks, and years – and memories - even if they don’t really come in handy at parties.

In the end, that’s not important. You don’t have to know any stories about my grandfather’s life to really get what he was about. Instead, just look at the people who surrounded and loved him – his devoted wife, his two children, and his three grandchildren. And speaking for myself, especially now that I have children, I know that I recognize Grandpop – and lessons I learned from him - in myself and my actions every day. (But Benjy and Anne can relax, because I promise never to wake them up in the morning by dragging the sheets off and then dribbling cold water on them. Surprisingly effective, as it turns out!) In Anne’s case, Jeanne and I made that connection explicit, since her middle name is Frances, after Grandpop – ensuring in a concrete way that his memory will live on in her.

I deeply regret that he never really knew his great-grandchildren before passing into a world beyond knowing, a few years ago, but in small ways they may be able to see him in me. That is a kind of immortality.

To me, Grandpop’s life was about three words: patience, kindness, and love. Thank you, Grandpop, for showing me in your quiet, powerful way what it means to be a loving family man. I hope I can carry the message to your great-grandchildren.

Sing along Saturday.

Take your pick: the alphabet song, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, or Baa Baa Black Sheep.

Moving the pile.

Ghost Wars: The Secret History of the CIA, Afghanistan, and Bin Laden, from the Soviet Invasion to September 10, 2001, by Steve Coll. A primer on the law of unintended consequences, with memorable sketches of CIA chiefs Bill Casey and George Tenet. The key moral question, of course, is how do you decide when not to dither? Dithering can sometimes be the best among a set of bad options. In this case, it wasn't.

Bosnia: A Short History, by Noah Malcolm. Being written and published in 1992 gives this book an interesting (non-)perspective on the later developments in the conflict. I reject his view on Bogomilism and the Bosnian Church as the sheerest poppycock, however. The evidence is plain to see, if you only know where to look.

"While we hoped to be together at the end..."

A remarkable account of the attacks in Mumbai, from inside the Taj Mahal hotel.

Mishpacha Redux.

So we've added one since last year! She's pulling her cousin Joshua's hair, if you look closely. He endured bravely. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

In honor of tomorrow's holiday.

Foodscapes.

Cleaning out the catch.

Soldiers of Reason: The RAND Corporation and the Rise of the American Empire, by Alex Abella. The rise of the military-industrial complex. This writer had free access to a thesaurus.

Into the Remote Places, by Ian Hibell and Clinton Trowbridge. Hibell was a cyclist, into adventure touring, and crazy as a loon. Parts of this travel narrative involve more walking than biking, as when Hibell and his two companions are hacking their way through a swamp in central America through waistdeep water. Fun! Oh, and did I mention that trip through the Sahara? [Update: forgot to add this obit from the Economist: R.I.P. Ian Hibell. Bikes rarely let him down. Escaping once from spear-throwing Turkana in northern Kenya, he felt the chain come off, but managed to coast downhill to safety. He crossed China from north to south—in 2006, at 72—with just three brake-block changes, one jammed rear-brake cable and a change of tape on the handlebars. In his book, “Into the Remote Places” (1984), he described his bike as a companion, a crutch and a friend. Setting off in the morning light with "the quiet hum of the wheels, the creak of strap against load, the clink of something in the pannier", was "delicious". A page on Ian Hibell, set up by a friend, is here.]

The Secret Scripture, by Sebastian Barry. Good prose here, but utterly preposterous plot. You can readily get in touch with your bloody, violent, insane, oppressive Irish roots, if you have any. Shortlisted for the Booker but lost.

Texts.

Things Fall Apart, by Chinua Achebe. Great tale about Okonkwo, an ignorant, superstitious man living in an ignorant, superstitious society - except ignorant isn't the right word since he did know a lot about how to survive and thrive, even if that involved beating the crap out of his wives or children. Anyway, the classic of African lit. A+++ for proverbs and folksy creation tales!

The Road, by Cormac McCarthy. DO NOT read this book while on a night flight, for you will land expecting to find a blasted postapocalyptic wasteland. Strangely affecting even if sometimes monotonic and monochromatic (how much ash can a reader take?). It's unclear what the disaster was (nuclear war?) but judging from this book the holocaust took many many innocent commas with it. The upcoming film was shot in and around Pittsburgh. Draw your own conclusions.

Toddler Dinner Party.

Benji may need some further lessons on proper attire, but his hospitality is right-on. When's the last time your host offered to carry you around on his "shourders"?