“The Bradshaw Variations” by Rachel Cusk

Next in the lineup of Book Treats for our July vacation (even though the vacation has now ended), an old-but-new-to-me book by Rachel Cusk. (I did read most of it on the plane on the way home, for what it’s worth.)

Unsurprisingly, this book isn’t plot-heavy; it’s more descriptive about family relationships and the thoughts of the individuals in those relationships. It starts with Tonie and Thomas Bradshaw, who have recently made a change that flips the dynamic in their lives: Tonie is now working full-time while Thomas stays home with their young daughter Alexa. Then we move on to Howard (brother to Thomas) and his wife Claudia and their three children. We also see Leo (a third brother), his wife Susie, and their two kids, and we even meet Mr and Mrs Bradshaw, the parents of the three brothers. The book is written almost like a group of short stories with a strong Bradshaw thread running through them all. 

So the title obviously refers to the various Bradshaws—how they are similar, what makes them different. But it also refers to the subtle shifts that occur within the group of relationships. We are given less about what the Bradshaws do than about what they notice (or fail to notice) about themselves and each other, but the hidden tensions are palpable. And in the end it seems the old cliché is true: the more things change, the more they stay the same. 

But did I like it? Yeah, I liked it. I don’t think I’ve ever been disappointed in Rachel Cusk’s writing before. I wouldn’t name this as one of my favorites of hers, but I still want to (eventually) make my way through all of her books. 

“Memorial Days” by Geraldine Brooks

Don't let this immediately put you off, but Memorial Days is a grief memoir. Until his untimely death in 2019, Geraldine Brooks was married to Tony Horwitz, a Pulitzer prize-winning journalist and author (sounds like he was quite famous, though I'd never heard of him--not that there's any significance to that). What with the bureaucracy of death, and her own career, not to mention a global pandemic, Brooks never found the time to truly grieve her loss until she managed to escape to a remote island off the coast of Tasmania in 2023 to feel her feelings and write a book about it. 

The result is beautifully crafted and quietly heartbreaking. Brooks delves into her memory of Tony's death and its aftermath, and interleaves this with her experience on Flinders Island. The story is bittersweet and universally relatable (at least for anyone who is in a relationship that they want to be in). As I read I couldn't help but put my feet in Brooks' shoes and feel her grief right along with her, as I imagined and dreaded going through the same kind of loss in my life. In fact, I assumed that this is what everyone always does when confronted with death, so I was surprised to read in this book that three months before Tony died, his childhood friend had died suddenly at age 60. At that time, Brooks felt sympathy for the man's family but didn’t even think about what it would be like if the same thing happened to Tony . . . until it did. 

Another thing that stood out to me was that Tony used to scribble his thoughts all over the pages of the books he read. Brooks states, “I am glad of this now. If I pick up one of his books that I haven’t yet read, I can know what he thought of it.” I tend not to write in my books (well, other than cookbooks!) but this book blog fulfills that same purpose. My main reason for this blog is to keep track of what I've read and what I thought about it; but it is also a gift to you, Sam.

What I want to remember most from Memorial Days is the advice. Not because it's the most poignant or emotional part of the book, but because death is a fact of life and though no one ever wants to think about it, someday I will be glad to have this guidance. 

• First, the incredibly practical, and something that can and should be done as soon as possible: Jot down all the tasks you do to keep the household afloat. Brooks suggests creating a document called Your Life: How It Works and periodically updating it. 
• Very soon after Tony's death, a friend approached her with what he described as advice that couldn’t wait. There were three things:

1. Make it safe for others to talk about the loved one you have lost by talking about them first. 2. Don’t come home to a silent house; leave the radio on. 

Brooks couldn’t remember the third thing! Which is going to drive me crazy. What if it was the most important thing?? (I try to tell myself if that were the case she would have remembered it, but that's not working for me.)

• Make more time for the beauty. I don't think this is necessarily something that would be helpful right away, but it's what Brooks did on Flinders Island more than three years later.
• Accept the fact that the future you had expected is gone and there is no getting it back; make the life you do have as vivid and consequential as you can. 

I feel like Sam and I already do a good job of squeezing all the juice out of life, but this book was a good reminder of the importance of doing so; it brought it to the forefront. 

“My Lover’s Lover” by Maggie O’Farrell

I am becoming convinced that there are two different Maggie O’Farrells: one who has written amazing books like After You’d Gone, Hamnet, and The Marriage Portrait, and one who is readable but doesn’t quite measure up (The Hand That First Held Mine, and now this one). 

Am I being too harsh? There were parts of My Lover’s Lover that really shone. Like, true O’Farrell-level writing. And even in the parts that didn’t have the same gleam, I found myself really getting into the story. But there was a surprising amount of this book that struck me like the product of a creative writing course. Showing off? Trying too hard? Whatever it was, those parts didn’t ring true for me. 

The story starts with pretty but impulsive Lily, who has a meet-cute with handsome but impulsive Marcus, and suddenly they’re flatmates (along with the also-handsome but less impulsive Aiden). Lily quickly realizes she has replaced Sinead, who was until very recently Marcus’s girlfriend, but Lily is not quite sure of Sinead’s fate. All she’s gotten from Marcus is “Sinead is no longer with us.” 

So far this sounds like a relatively silly romantic comedy, right? Which you know is not exactly my thing. But you also know that not finishing a book is also not my thing. And I have O’Farrell Faith. So I kept going. 

And then it kind of became a ghost story, and I followed all sorts of red herrings. What had happened to Sinead? Did Marcus kill her?? Or maybe she wasn’t actually dead? I even took a crazy leap: Aiden is an anagram for Sinead (if you take away the S). Maybe Aiden was a trans man who used to be Sinead! (Spoiler alert: I was way off track.)

All of these parts of the book were disappointing but readable. It’s only when we get to go back in time and learn about the relationship between Sinead and Marcus that it stopped seeming like a creative writing effort and started seeming like a book by Maggie O’Farrell (the real one). Maybe this was just what Sam would call a “difficult second novel”? Anyway, it’s not going to stop me from reading her books. Six down, three to go. 

“Last Things” by Jenny Offill

This is my dream world: reading all the time. 

Before our vacation in May of 2022, we treated ourselves to a handful of new books to bring with us. (Pretty much the opposite of what we did in April 2025.) This year we decided it was time for another treat. Last Things is the first of five. 

Though new to me, this book was published a quarter of a century ago! I’ve already read Offill’s other two books (for adults) and really loved them, but somehow I’d totally missed the fact that this one even existed. Not surprisingly, I liked this one just as much as the others. I really enjoy Offill’s writing. 

Last Things encompasses the life of Grace Davitt at the age of 8. Her father Jonathan is a science teacher at the local school and her mother Anna works at the raptor rehabilitation center. Family life is eclectic but idyllic. But bit by bit, cracks appear. Jonathan loses his job. Anna decides to homeschool Grace. Jonathan temporarily leaves town for a new job. And all throughout, Anna’s behavior seems increasingly erratic. For a man who proposed to a woman because she never bored him, I would not be surprised if Jonathan found himself wishing for a more boring wife. 

And now, time for the next book!

“The 7th Function of Language” by Laurent Binet

After how long it took me to choose this book, I decided to take a surprising new tack: I asked ChatGPT to choose my next four reads. The 7th Function of Language was one of the four. 

This is a book I probably should have read years ago (though aren’t they all, to some extent?) but better late than never, right? I must admit a lot of the delay probably came from the fact that I felt a bit intimidated by the subject matter. I mean, I’m not sure I’d even heard of semiology before I became aware of this book, and I am not familiar with any of the writings of Barthes, Derrida, Foucault, et al. 

Binet weaves a story around the death of semiotician Roland Barthes in 1980. History tells us Barthes died as a result of injuries sustained when he was run over by a laundry van in the streets of Paris. Binet tells us this death was no accident: Barthes was in possession of a document describing the “seventh function of language”, one that allows the speaker to persuade anyone to do anything. Just think how dangerous such a skill could be if it fell into the wrong hands. 

While it’s entirely possible (maybe even likely) that my reading experience was a more superficial one than it might have been if I had any sort of foundation in linguistics, I am living proof that such a foundation isn’t necessary for reading (and even enjoying) this book. It’s basically a spy novel, and (despite, I’m sure, missing many references) I enjoyed reading this more than I enjoyed reading The Tailor of Panama. I’m sure this was due at least in part to the impeccable translation! I’m obviously not surprised, but I did find myself amazed on more than one occasion; this must have been a very difficult book to translate, but somehow it has the appearance of effortlessness. 

“Mr Salary” by Sally Rooney

I guess I knew this was only a short story when I bought it, but I was surprised when it arrived by how tiny it is. It’s hardly bigger than my hand, and more of a pamphlet than a book. But I moved on from the slight initial disappointment as one does when one can’t get enough of Sally Rooney. 

I started reading yesterday evening during a small gap in our schedule; I spent maybe five or ten minutes with it, and I was sucked in from the very first paragraph. I picked it up again at breakfast and had another small shock when I turned page 33 and saw the remaining pages were blank. How could it be over already??

This could have been a full-length novel, and it would have been just as great as Rooney’s others. But even in this tiny format, it’s a good read. It’s really amazing that in only a few dozen pages Rooney was able to develop the characters of Sukie and Nathan, and juxtapose them in a compelling relationship. It’s like magic. 

“as she climbed across the table” by Jonathan Lethem

After I finished my last book of fiction, I took a long time to select my next one. I had plenty to choose from, so that wasn't the problem. I stood in front of my TBR shelves, contemplating first one, then another, but eventually rejecting each one (this one too long, that one too short, another too sad or too silly). 

Finally I settled on as she climbed across the table. Short, but not too short. Possibly sad or silly or both, but at least the author wasn't untested: Jonathan Lethem has written more than a dozen books, of which I've read one. (Though that was more than a decade ago!) 

This is one of those stories that seems simple and can certainly be taken at face value, but it feels really allegorical. It seems like one of those books that is rife with symbolism and full of deep meaning.

At face value, this story is narrated by a professor of anthropology, Philip Engstrand, who was living with particle physicist Alice Coombs until very recently. A Nobel laureate at their university, Professor Soft, has created something never seen before: a void, an absence, a vacuum, a separate universe, that comes to be known as Lack. Alice's professional interest in Lack quickly becomes an obsession, to the point where she admits to Philip that she is in love with It. Most of the story revolves around Philip dealing with having been jilted for Nothingness, with Alice in turn being rejected by It. 

Digging a little deeper . . . I didn’t get it. It's a story about obsession and the human need to find meaning in the unknown, even when the unknown is unknowable. And maybe that's why I didn't get it? Because there's nothing there to get? (Probably not. But that's what I'm going with.)

“Unsettled?” by Steven E Koonin

Nearly a year and a half ago, I ordered four books about climate change, aiming to fill gaps in my knowledge. I chose one that was very simple and straightforward, which I hoped would give me a good foundation; one that went into greater detail but seemed like it was pretty neutral (just the science and facts); one that I haven't read yet but I'm assuming takes a pretty hard turn towards insisting anthropogenic climate change is unquestionable and we must take drastic steps to combat it (because it consists of a bunch of essays collected by Greta Thunberg); and one that swings in the other direction--without espousing outright climate change denial, it definitely sows seeds of doubt about the current conventional wisdom: Unsettled?

I think I pretty much detested my way through reading it. In fact, I wrote this exact thing in my notes: "I'm on page 3 and I already hate this book." I didn't note why, though. Glancing back at that page now, I can guess it's because this is one of the pages Koonin uses to try to prove he has the necessary expertise to be its author. (He is a scientist, and I am sure he is very intelligent, and he has worked both in the US government and for British Petroleum as an advisor regarding the climate . . . but I find it hard to get past the fact that he is a physicist, not a climate scientist.) Even a dig at Trump on page 6 (a quote from John Lewis: "When you see something that is not right, not just, not fair, you have a moral obligation to say something, do something") is not enough to convince me to put my faith in Koonin. I mean, I feel like that quote was included just to try to get me to let my guard down. It seemed like a too-obvious signal that the author isn't one of those under Trump's sway. 

I think the loathing began with the blurb. "When it comes to climate change, the media, politicians, and other prominent voices have declared that 'the science is settled.'" Is that true? (Not that the science is settled, but that prominent voices are claiming so.) I don't recall anyone referring to climate science as "settled science." I am inclined to view this statement as a straw man. Not to mention it's not surprising if the media are getting it wrong. The media are always getting it wrong, or at least they rarely get it exactly right, no matter what "it" is. The media are reporting about climate change in black and white when the truth is more nuanced? When you're limited to a few column inches rather than a 700 page report, oversimplification is kind of a given. "The climate is changing, but the why and how aren't as clear as you've probably been led to believe." There's just something presumptuous and insulting about this statement. "Despite a dramatic rise in greenhouse gas emissions, global temperatures actually decreased from 1940 to 1970." Is this really true? I don't want to have to fact-check this whole book, but it's starting to feel like I may need to. "Unsettled is a reality check buoyed by hope"--sounds like it's pandering to climate change deniers--"offering the truth about climate science that you aren't getting elsewhere," which sounds like a red flag to me, as it is any time one person claims to be the sole bearer of the truth.

My overall impression of this book is that Koonin doesn't see the forest for the trees being cut down. I would summarize his position like this: past climate data is inadequate in scope and quality, and it doesn't show strong patterns. Climate predictions for the future are not reliable: how the climate is responding to our influence, and the impact our influence will have, are core questions that remain unanswered. We don't know for sure what will happen if we stay on our current course. If we take action to try to mitigate climate change, we don't really know what the result will be (if any). So why bother doing anything? We might as well just keep doing what we're doing, and learn to adapt to changes. 

To me, Koonin's logic seems circular. It's like he's saying our only really precise data is very recent, so we can't use it to predict what will happen with the climate in the future. But he also says we can't just extrapolate current trends--we also have to take past data into account. To put it more succinctly, it's like he's saying: We can't rely on past data. But look at the past data.

Here are just a few of the specifics that bothered me. 

• Koonin states that "heat waves are now no more common than they were in 1900... the warmest temperatures in the US have not risen in the past 50 years..." This shows either deliberate obfuscation or clear misunderstanding of climate change. The current definition of climate change is that global average temperatures are increasing. 

• A graph on page 39 clearly shows a dramatic increase in global ocean heat content since 1990. Koonin first tries to argue this away by saying we've only been thoroughly measuring ocean surface temperatures for the past 50 years, with deeper levels only measured since 2000 (hinting that the dramatic rise since 1990 is just the continuation of a trend that isn't seen on the graph because data from prior years is insufficient). Then he claims that the ocean has seen similar rises in temperature in the past, prior to human influence (and prior to the more thorough measurements that are being taken now). Which is it? Insufficient data from prior years not allowing for formation of a graph that doesn't make it look like ocean temperatures are rising precipitously? Or the data from prior years is sufficient, and we can see that the current rise mimics past rises prior to human influence? It seems to me like the data is sufficient when it fits Koonin's worldview, and it's insufficient when it doesn't. 

• On page 68, Koonin states what I've been thinking: yes, hundreds of millions of years ago the atmospheric CO2 levels were far higher than they are now--but there were no humans back then, and humans are not adapted to such high levels. He even admits that at current rates of increase, atmospheric CO2 will rise to levels high enough to cause drowsiness in humans . . . but not for "some 250 years." Right, no one alive today will be around for that. But does that absolve us of all responsibility? It won't affect us personally, so we don't have to care?

• On the same page, we learn that CO2 remains in the atmosphere for so long that reducing emissions "would only slow the increase in concentration but not prevent it." Isn't slowing the increase better than nothing?? Koonin gives the impression that there's no point in even trying.

• In the same vein, on page 165 we see that it should take 200 years for sea levels to rise enough that Honolulu is inundated. According to Koonin, because of this time scale, we should calm down and not worry. Whereas my thinking is: shouldn't we try to make changes with the aim of preventing this from happening? Or make changes to help us cope with the eventuality? 

My opinion: the recent rise in CO2 (and methane) in our atmosphere is undeniable, and its rapid rise is unequivocally caused by humans. (Koonin doesn't deny this either.) I guess I'm on board with the uncertainty of climate predictions. But I'm totally not on board with the idea that we shouldn't bother trying to course-correct. The bottom line is that our carbon emissions (pollution!) do have an effect on the climate, and that effect is not good. So we should be reducing carbon (and methane) emissions. Even if it turns out not to make any difference--we have to try. We have to do better.

Instead of reading this book, I think it would be much more helpful to explore Information is Beautiful. 

“The Hill Road” by Patrick O’Keeffe

Following closely on the heels of yesterday’s finally-concluded book and aided by a day off work, I’ve finished reading this collection of four novellas set in the Irish countryside. At a total of 225 pages, I should have come to the end far sooner than I did, but I suppose that's neither here nor there. 

When I first came across it, I didn't know anything about this book or its author, but I can tell you exactly why I bought it: it was on sale for $1 at Books-A-Million, and it was published by Penguin. And although I have no specific memory of this, I'm sure I also did the Dip Test to make sure the writing didn't suck (spoiler alert: it didn't). All this was years ago, though--who knows how long, exactly--and in the intervening time, this book languished on my shelves in a very un-Kondo-like way. (For those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about, see "The moment you first encounter a particular book is the right time to read it.")

This is the last of the slim volumes I brought with me on our April trip (though I obviously didn't read it during our April trip) with the idea of leaving a trail of books behind me. Having so nearly achieved its purpose (being read, obvs), I couldn't just re-shelve it, so it stayed in my TBR short stack. But when I finally got started, I found it slow going. I'm sure it didn't help that I was trying to read three other (non-fiction!) books at the same time. Each evening I would start with the one I was least interested in and force myself to read it for five minutes (which, in tangential but exciting news, has now brought me within 25 pages of the end of that one!) and would then cycle through the other two books until I allowed myself the treat of fiction. While this system will give me the (eventual) benefit of having read some books that are more good-for-me than enjoyable, I think it was detrimental to my reading of The Hill Road. Maybe for my next fiction selection I should try the "dessert first" method. (As I type this, I already know I won't allow myself to do that. If I do, it will end up being the "dessert only" method.)

The titular novella in this book comprises nearly half of the entirety, and I'm pretty sure it was my least favorite story of the four. It seemed to take me weeks to get through that one, and only a day or so for each of the others. That's not to say it wasn't well-written or worth reading, because it was both; but I don't feel like I settled into it the way I did with the other three. The central element that I remember is Albert Cagney's unraveling after his return from fighting in the Great War, as told through the memories shared with the story's narrator. Next was "Her Black Mantilla," about orphaned Alice Gilmartin who is sent to live with Lena Tarpey and her bed-ridden brother; Alice very nearly has a tryst with the man who had been in love with her older sister years before. Which, now that I think about it, is kind of a spoiler--oops, sorry about that. Then, in "The Postman's Cottage," Eoin O'Rourke's mysterious disappearance is ruminated upon years later, and although it's never clearly stated, by the end it seems that Kate Dillon knows what happened to Eoin. Lastly, in "That's Our Name," the death of the beautiful Yank found beaten and hanging in a tree is not such a mystery to Marty's mother. All four stories have secrets and memories and death, but maybe the first was a bit too sprawling or expansive compared to the other three.

“god is not Great” by Christopher Hitchens

I can’t believe it’s been more than a month since I last finished a book . . . okay, that’s not entirely true. It is a bit surprising given my typical reading habits, but when you know the specifics—I have been reading four books at the same time, and I’m not especially keen on any of them—it makes perfect sense. 

Anyway, one down, three to go. Unfortunately I didn’t give this book the most careful of readings, and now I’m wishing I had taken notes. 

Why did I choose this book in the first place? I don't remember even being aware of Christopher Hitchens until relatively recently. Maybe I first heard of him when Sam named him as one of the Four Horsemen of New Atheism; then Skeptics' Guide to the Universe talked about him in episode #336, following Hitchens' death in 2011. (I've been listening to their back catalog, and probably came across this episode in January of this year. Notably, I have just discovered that in 2.5 more episodes, I'll be hearing a SGU/Hitchens interview from 2007). Jay Novella specifically called this book a Must Read, and the provocative title piqued my interest. 

Hitchens has a very sharp and sarcastic tone in this book, and he refers to myriad people and historical events that I have no knowledge of. I could have spent ages on this book, going down all kinds of rabbit holes and learning many things I still don't know, but I was not prepared to spend that amount of time with it. My aim was to get a taste of the writer, not to intensely inspect all his claims and statements. But I do think I can sum up the main ideas of the book: all religions (and the god or gods of each) were created by man. Faith has been used as an excuse for many evils and abuses. And religious faith is not a prerequisite foundation for acts of kindness or a life of good moral character. Hitchens describes a focus on the afterlife and religion in this way: "It is as if someone, offered a delicious and fragrant out-of-season fruit, matured in a painstakingly and lovingly designed hothouse, should throw away the flesh and the pulp and gnaw moodily on the pit."

“Lady” by Thomas Tryon

This is the last of the ugly books I brought on our trip last month (which I obviously didn't read during our trip, but I of course felt compelled to read soon afterward). This is the second (and likely last) book I've read by Thomas Tryon, the other being The Other. I was sure Lady had been recommended to me in a comment on my Three Weeks blog post, but I checked just now, and that wasn't the case. Then I thought maybe the comment had followed my post on The Other, but it wasn't there either. I guess I'll never find that comment, and I'm sure I'll never remember where to look for it. And so I'll never recall why exactly the commenter thought I would like this book.

I didn't not like this book, but there was something a little off about it. I found the story a weird (if slightly less wholesome) combination of Stand By Me, A Christmas Story, Where the Red Fern Grows (without the dogs, or the fern, or the tear-jerkiness), and even a little bit of Anne of Green Gables (without Anne, or the nostalgia). The writing seemed overly florid and old-fashioned. And half the time I found myself wondering if it was possiby quite autobiographical--not because the story was so believable or realistic, but because it was so full of unnecessary detail. Not in a quirky, Dickensian way, but in a "what was the point of that paragraph?" way. But in the end I decided it wasn't based on Tryon's life (although he was born in Connecticut) and I found myself not really warming to the book. I don't know if that's because I'm being a book snob (this book is already fifty years old, but I'm pretty sure it's not considered a classic; it doesn't seem to be talked about or remembered) or if the book just isn't that great.

Lady tells the story of Woody, a young boy living in Pequot Landing, Connecticut, in what is probably the early 1930s. He befriends the pretty, wealthy widow living across The Green, Adelaide Harleigh, who goes by the nickname Lady. And the whole book is basically Woody growing up and gradually, over decades, learning Lady's secrets (most of which were probably much more shocking nearly a hundred years ago--or even in 1974, when the book was first published; and most of which were telegraphed pretty clearly before being spelled out in plain English). All that said, I still managed to enjoy the reading experience, and I'm always glad to knock another book off my TBR list (and it's just a bonus that it's one I'm happy to expunge from my shelves afterwards). 

“The Life Cycle of the Common Octopus” by Emma Knight

I'd been looking forward to reading this book ever since I first heard about it, which was months before it was released. But by the time it finally arrived, I found myself avoiding picking it up for a little while. What if it was just meh? What if I didn't like it at all? Or what if I liked it too much?  

Finally I got over myself and read it, and in the end it was just right. Knight's writing is clear and precise, and she has some really good turns of phrase. Unfortunately I didn't note any until this one towards the end: "Her way of looking made Pen feel like a fish at the market, gutless and splayed on ice chips, on the verge of being sliced up and eaten raw." Pretty evocative! I could imagine just what that felt like.

Despite the title of this book (and the reference to a fish market), I made it all the way through chapter 40 with nary an octopus in sight (unless you count the epigraph). But that's not as surprising as it might seem. This is not a story about marine biology, but about human relationships, and how they grow, change, and sometimes dissolve over time. The octopus only exists as a metaphor for the self-effacement of motherhood, which can occur in even the most intelligent beings; when fought against, it can make the mother feel judged as selfish and unnatural. At least according to Margot.

Motherhood isn't really the major theme of the book, though. It definitely appears in various tangential threads throughout the book, but the main character (Penelope "Pen" Winters) is a Canadian university student studying in Scotland, with not even a hint of a baby on the horizon. There is a minor mystery in her life, though. When Pen's dad went to university in Scotland, his best friend was Elliot Lennox. But for some reason Lord Lenox and Ted Winters are no longer on speaking terms, and Pen wants to know why. So we are treated to a cast of unique characters and their university life, as well as Pen's interactions with the posh (but also down-to-earth and welcoming) Lennox family. And as it turns out, sometimes the best mysteries aren't the ones you solve--they're the ones that teach you something about yourself and the people you love.