…finished these books in the last month(ish):
~ Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can’t Stop Talking by Susan Cain ~ If I were to give this a numbers rating out of 10, I think it’d be a 7. Cain brilliantly handles the way our group-think society ignores the real value of introverted thought processes. She’s done her research well, and shares it well too. If you’re an introvert trying to figure out ways to explain yourself to the extroverts around you, this book could be very helpful.
There were some areas where I think the book was very, very weak; I hope to write a post on them soon, because they touch on bigger issues in education and the world today. But still. A good read, overall.
~ The Feast Nearby: How I Lost My Job, Buried A Marriage, And Found My Way By Keeping Chickens, Foraging, Preserving, Bartering, and Eating Locally (all on $40 a week) by Robin Mather ~ This was a gift from the DHM, who knows her daughter well. I do love books in this genre so very much! Based on the title, I was initially afraid that this one including Bitter Diatribes Against The World. Mather seems to be too sweet and cheerful an author and person for that, though. She was dealt a crummy hand that left her reeling, but that reeling bit takes up very little of her book. She focuses on going through the seasons at her tiny Michigan cabin, in the fashion of a chatty almanac or homesteading journal. Some of her information seemed a little basic for the type of readers most interested in this book (the differences between the cow genders, for instance) but mostly it was just an enjoyable ramble through the year for foodies and locavores, with fabulous looking recipes at the end of each chapter.
This one was also very easy to read in a life that means Almost Constantly Being Interrupted. Mothers of littles, take note.
~ Two Part Invention: The Story of A Marriage by Madeleine L’Engle ~ I came across a L’Engle quote on a friend’s blog, and instantly realized that I’d been deeply craving a L’Engle book without realizing it. This is the only one of the Crosswicks journals I’ve read (so far), but it was the easiest to get from the library, so I went with it. Since I’d last read it at 19 and single, I also figured it would be a good one to re-read at almost 30 and married.
I don’t always agree with L’Engle’s theology; in several areas, I think she underestimated the Bible and the true authority of an omnipotent Heavenly Father. So. Please don’t take what I say as absolute concurrence with her every thought. I DO, however, think, she had a beautiful gift for understanding many things about the way life should be lived, and what love really looks like, and the meaning behind true art.
This book is no exception. It made me cry (a lot more than I did at 19, I’m sure). It made me think. And it made me feel quite a bit more alive, which is a gift given by truly excellent writers. Wonderful, wonderful book.