Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes translated by Tom Lathrop

 It started as a conversation between my husband and I. We both hold master's degrees and are avid readers. "Have you every read Don Quixote?"

"No. That's sad since there are so many literary references to it." And just like that the first book of our "book club" was chosen. A little research lead us to choosing Tom Lathrop's translation. We both found it very readable and personally I liked the style of his footnotes, where he often speaks directly to the reader.

It is quite a read for someone with a full time job. I found I had to take breaks, alternating between "Don" and other books I was in the process of reading.  Sometimes work kept me away for a week. It ended up taking me approximately four months to finish. My husband read it faster, but he is a faster reader than I am.

All that being said, I am glad I read it and would recommend it. Here are a few passages that stood out to me:

"...,"responded Sancho, "... And it sometimes happens that you look for one thing and find another. ...." p. 124 

"... Oh, Dulcinea del Toboso, day of my night, glory of my grief, Polaris of my travels, star of my fortune - consider the place and condition to which your absence has brought me, and be moved to some favor commensurate with my deserving loyalty! ..." p. 217

    What offended me the most was his saying that I'm old and maimed, as if I had it in my power to stop time, and as though my maimed arm was a result of some tavern brawl rather than from the noblest battle any age ever witnessed, or that current and future ages will ever witness. If my wounds don't seem resplendent in the eyes of the man on the street, they're revered at least by those who know where they came from, since the soldier looks better dead in battle than free in flight. I'm so convinced of this that if the impossible were offered to me right now - that I could be free from my wounds by not having participated in that battle - I would refuse. Wounds that a soldier has on his face or chest are the stars that guide others to the heaven of honor and to the thirst for earned praise. Also bear in mine that you don't write with gray hairs, but rather with your intellect, which only gets better with the passage of time. p.508

    To all this don Quixote responded: "Children, senor, are part and parcel of the bowels of their parents, thus they are to be loved, no matter how good or bad they are, as much as we love our life-giving souls. The job of the parents is to guide them from when they're small, along the path of virtue, good upbringing, and good Christian customs, so that when they grow up, they can be a comfort to the old age of their parents and a glory to their descendants. And insofar as forcing them to study this or that science, I don't believe it's a good idea, although trying to persuade them seems harmless enough. And if they don't study with an aim to pane lucrand ["to earn a living" in Latin], when the student is lucky enough for heaven to have given him parents who will permit it, I'd be of the opinion that they should allow him to study anything that they see he's most inclined to, and although poetry is less useful than pleasure-giving, it isn't among those pursuits that will dishonor the person who possesses them. p.620

[don Quixote] ... I also say that the natural poet who makes use of art will be better than and will surpass the poet who strives to be one through art alone. The reason is that art doesn't surpass nature; it just perfects it, and when nature is combined with art, and art with nature, they will bring out the most perfect poet. p.622

[Sancho] ... She must have been cruelly wounded and pierced by Cupid, whom they say is a little blind boy who, even if he's a bit bleary-eyed, or even completely blind, when he takes aim at a heart, no matter how small it is, he hits it straight on and splits it in two with his arrows. p.926

[Sancho] ... "I've also heard that the first and principal thing that arouses love is beauty, and since your grace has none at all, I don't see what the poor thing fell in love with."

    "Listen, Sancho," responded do Quixote, " there are two types of beauty - one is of the soul and the other is of the body. The beauty of the soul flourishes and is seen through one's intellect, in one's chastity, good behavior, generosity, and good upbringing, and all of these traits can be found in an ugly man; and with this sort of beauty - and not the beauty of the body - love can arise with great suddenness and force. ..." p.927

[don Quixote] said, "Books like these, although there are many of them, are those that should be printed, because many sinners can profit from them, and an infinite number of lights are necessary for so many unenlightened people." p. 966

    "Look, Sancho," said don Quixote, "there's a great difference between deeds on does for love and those done out of gratitude. ..." p.990

    "I don't understand any of that," replied Sancho. "I only understand that while I'm sleeping, I have no fear, no hopes, no work, no glory. Blessed be the person who invented sleep, the cloak that covers all human thoughts, the food that takes away hunger, water that drives away thirst, fire that warms you when you're cold, coolness that tempers heat, and finally, the money with which all things are bought, the scale that makes the shepherd equal to the king and the fool to the wise man.. There's only one thing bad about sleep, the way I hear it, and that is that it's like death, because there's not much difference between a sleeping man and a dead one." p. 996

The End of Your Life Book Club by Will Schwalbe

It sounds depressing, doesn't it. Yet somehow even though you know you are reading about cancer and you know how the book will end, it is inspiring. I felt the same way when I read Elie Wiesel's Night. As the mother of two sons, I loved reading about the bond between mother and son. It seemed to deepen as the book as the book went on, with acknowledged differences and deeper understanding.
Just a few parts I want to note:

     "That's one of the things books do. They help us talk. But they also give us something we can talk about when we don't want to talk about ourselves."
     Mom went on to tell me, as we sat there, that she really believed your personal life was personal. Secrets, she felt, rarely explained or excused anything in real life, or were even all that interesting. People shared too much, she said, not too little. She thought you should be able to keep your private life private for any reason or for no reason. She even felt that way about politicians - so long as they weren't hypocrites - and worried we'd never find enough good and interesting people to run for office if we pried into every corner of their past. p.58

And I'm also talking about kindness, not just about being nice. You can be gruff or abrupt and still be kind. Kindness has much more to do with what you do than how you do it. p. 110

And yet how many more chances would I have to thank her for what she'd done for me and taught me and given me?
     What I suddenly understood was that a thank-you note isn't the price you pay for receiving a gift, as so many children think it is, a kind of minimum tribute or toll, but an opportunity to count your blessings. And gratitude isn't what you give in exchange for something; it's what you feel when you are blessed - blessed to have a family and friends who care about you, and want to see you happy. Hence the joy from thanking. p.211

     It's almost taken for granted now that people - children especially - should be encouraged to create, and one obvious benefits to mankind brought about by the Internet is that it has opened up worlds of creativity. Mom certainly appreciated that. But she also was content not to make things but just enjoy them.
     "Everyone doesn't have to do everything," she told me. "People forget you can also express yourself  by what you choose to admire and support. I've had so much pleasure from beautiful and challenging things created by other people, things I could never make or do. I wouldn't trade that for anything." p.293

Oh the Glory of it All by Sean Wilsey

I'm suffering from a bit of a book hangover - from a memoir no less!

I just finished Sean Wilsey's "Oh the Glory of it All" and my thoughts immediately went back to Sean's mother's memoir. I went back to review it first on Goodreads and wrote this:

I just finished Sean Wilsey's "Oh the Glory of it All", which has made me come back to this book and write a brief summary of my impressions. I read this book 3 year ago. Some one gave me the book, saying she couldn't think of anyone else who would want to read it. Hmmm.... Anyway, I started reading with no prior knowledge of the people or events in the memoir. As I was reading, I felt like a looky-loo driving by a horrible car accident. Some parts were so difficult to read. I wanted to scream at these people! I remembering googling the people in the book to find out who they were and having a difficult time putting down the book because I wanted to find out how it all came to an end.  I'm glad I read Pat's memoir because it led me to Sean's, which I loved. Sean's was actually published first. If you read one, you need to read both. If you love to read memoirs, these are great to read together and would make for great book club discussions.

Then I went on to review Sean's memoir:

Oddly enough it is almost 3 years to the day that I finished the memoir "Oh the Hell of It All" by Pat Montandon, Sean's mother, which led me to this book. "Oh the Glory of it All" is Sean's memoir covering the same time period and was actually published first. And of course, it is Sean's story. I have stated that I only give 5 stars to books I would reread, and truthfully I probably won't reread this one. But Sean's ability to bare his soul and emotions relating his truly heartbreaking childhood and then show such astute reflection and insight at the end, makes this memoir worthy of 5 stars. So many parts of this book are hard to read, just like his mother's memoir, but I found myself wanting to know how he became who he is today. If you have read "Oh the Hell of it All" or Dave Eggers' "A Heartbreaking Work of a Staggering Genius" you need to read this book. If you haven't read Dave Eggers' memoir, I highly recommend it.

So as with all the books I write about in this blog, I am always struck by certain passages that speak to me in some ways. Here they are:

     Kids are trusting and wise and I cannot think of a less useful combination to be born with. The wisdom lets children know who they are. And then the trust lets everyone else take that knowledge away.  p.443

     It's funny how easy it is to take things away from children. It only takes desire. So easy - to confuse and make kids bad, to hurt and get them lost. It is a snap for even the weakest, dullest adult. Kids have no power. Only emotions. Though everyone remembers the power of their childish emotions so well. They echo on through your whole life. Down a corridor until you arrive at a room full of them. They can push you far, far into your life before you are even aware of them, let alone reconsider them.
     Which raises the question: If parents have absolute power over children, how can that not corrupt?
     And yet there was something childlike about Mom and Dad - even as they destroyed my childhood. p.444

     I feel as all deep mourners must feel when they grieved for a loved one and all they want to do is keep them in their heart and someone wants to talk about something fucking else. p.446

     The writing had to stop. Maybe it's possible to put things in the past by leaving them there. p.449

     And that's when I realized I was done with this book.
     At a certain point research is no different from running. I had done plenty of both. Eventually you've got to stop, make a leap, and leave the ground behind. p.475

     I'd made peace with Mom and Dad. I'd never make peace with Dede. But there was a peace in knowing that. And in knowing who I was.
     A memoir, at its heart, is written in order to figure out who you are.
     This one started as the story of Amity. .....To write about Amity I had to go back to Cascade, Woodhall, St. Mark's. In each case I was received with a kindness that did not exist when I'd been a student. Was this me changing or them changing? With this question came the realization that I wasn't really writing a book about schools. I kept saying I was, because it seemed like the simplest explanation, and I couldn't stand the word "memoir" - a word that made people look at me dubiously and say, "Aren't you a little young?" (though I wasn't) - but I wasn't. This book has been about identity. Identity is the theme. Knowing who you are. My relationship with everyone in this book changed and evolved. And I'm grateful to everyone in this book ...... for making me who I am. That's why I thanked Dad in his coffin. That's why I've dedicated this book to my mother. Dad and Mom and Dede all shaped and played with my identity. Dad knew who he was in business and in the helicopter. Mom knew who she was when telling a story, giving a gift, or dazzling an audience. Dede, I have failed to understand. As a child I was tricked into loving her, and as a teenager I wanted to stick my fingers between her legs and rip her open like a fortune cookie. I don't know what I thought that fortune would have said. But it took the unlikely combination of the three of them - mother, father, stepmother - to make me who I am.
     If the three of them hadn't been so consistently themselves, it might have turned out otherwise. This book might have been unwritten, and I might be living in the beautiful city where I grew up......
     This book is the identity I've made - a better shot at salvation that trying to fix my father's mistakes. Though the decision was made for me.
     I can't wait to write about something besides myself.

     I hope my son has a life of his own.  p.476

The Vacationers by Emma Straub

This is a great character driven novel.

He wanted the children to remain uncomplicated with each other, though he knew it was futile. Parenting adults wasn't at all like parenting kids, when the whole merry band was inclined to believe you, just because. p. 42

All four Posts held their breath simultaneously, each wishing for the moment to last. Families were nothing more than hope cast out in a wide net, everyone wanting only the best. Even the poor souls who had children in an attempt to rescue a dying marriage were doing so out of a misguided hopefulness. p.269

There was nothing in life harder or more important than agreeing every morning to stay the course, to go back to your forgotten self so many years ago, and to make the same decision. Marriages, like ships, needed steering, and steady hands at the wheel. p. 292

The House of Sixty Fathers by Meindert Dejong

This Newberry Honor book is definitely dated. It was written in 1956. Today's students would probably find it hard to read and relate to. I enjoyed it. As a bonus it has pictures by Maurice Sendak.

     "But would my mother and father still be in such a town of battle?"
     The guerrilla smiled a thin smile. "If I know a father, he will wait until the last moment in the small hope that you may return. And if I know a mother, she will wait until the Japanese are in the streets and their bayonets at her back before she gives up a first born son." p. 104

There sat the lieutenant half turned, and he did not understand what his mother said. Ah, but he did understand. He understood! The heart understands without words.  p. 189

The Boston Girl by Anita Diamant

If you treat every question like you've never heard it before, your students feel like you respect them and everyone learns a lot more. Including the teacher. p.120

When a shy person smiles, it's like the sun coming out. p. 149

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows

This is the first book I have read written in epistolary form. I thoroughly enjoyed it and was fascinated how the authors brought to light the nuances of each character through the letters they wrote.

I find these passages from the book so true:

Perhaps there is some secret sort of homing instinct in books that brings them to their perfect readers. How delightful if that were true. p. 10

That's what I love about reading: one tiny thing will interest you in a book, and that tiny thing will lead you onto another book, and another bit there will lead you onto a third. It's geometrically progressive - all with no end in sight, and for no other reason than sheer enjoyment. p.12