The Last Book Party by Karen Dukess: A review

This is another book that falls in the "beach fiction" category. I seem to have read several of those this summer. That wasn't really planned; it just sort of happened that way.

For this one, the year is 1987. We head out to the Truro section of Cape Cod where most of the action takes place, but we start in New York where 25-year-old Eve Rosen is a bright young editorial assistant at a publishing house. It is a dead-end job and she is bored, so when she has an opportunity to leave it and take a position as a research assistant for the summer for Henry Grey, a well-regarded New Yorker writer, she jumps at the chance. Grey and his poet wife, Tillie, spend their summers in a Truro bungalow that is a magnet for writers and intellectual types. Their handsome son, Franny, also spends time there. And the bungalow is where Eve's new job will take place.

We learn that Eve is a wannabe writer herself, but she hasn't actually finished a story in years and she hasn't had anything published since college. She has a younger brother who is a math prodigy and he is considered the genius in the family, a genius who suffers from some psychological issues. He absorbs their parents' interest and concern and Eve's talents are not valued by them. They seem to be waiting for her to find some man to marry who will take care of her. But for now, they will permit her to live with them at their home on Truro while she pursues her summer job with Henry Grey.

Eve becomes infatuated first with Franny and then with Henry, which makes for some awkwardness. Henry proves to be very seductive with thoroughly predictable results, while his wife is off pursuing her own pleasures. Meanwhile, the couple continues planning their big end of summer book party where the guests come dressed as a favorite literary character and everyone gets to try to guess who they are. The choice of a character to impersonate can tell much about how the person sees him/herself. Or not, in some cases. All of the action of the summer seems pointed toward that party.

Dukess' book is full of literary references and she evidences a real love of many of the classics of literature. She also shows a love a language, although I did find one example that set my teeth on edge. She referred to someone "honing in" on a subject. One sees that more and more and my online dictionary even says it is an acceptable alternative to "homing in". Well, it isn't acceptable to me! It's just wrong and annoying.

I was interested in the plot of this novel and its depiction of the book scene, but in the end, it seemed to me that there was not much there there. At least, there wasn't much that contained a fresh perspective. And after I finished and thought back on the story, I realized that none of the characters had really engaged my interest. They just didn't make much of an impression on me. On the whole, the book was a light beach read, something that can hold the attention for the afternoon but is not destined to be remembered and savored.

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Poetry Sunday: Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver

How about we share another Mary Oliver poem? After all, you can never have too many of those. In this one, the poet seems to acknowledge that it is often hard to simply live in and enjoy the moment, perhaps because we are afraid it can't last. She urges us to give in to that moment and fully experience the joy. Although "much can never be redeemed, still, life has some possibility left." Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is no...

Poetry Sunday: Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney

My mother was a farm wife and a prodigious canner. She canned fruit and vegetables from the garden, even occasionally meat. But the best thing that she canned, in my opinion, was blackberry jam. Even as I type those words my mouth waters! Of course, before she could make that jam, somebody had to pick the blackberries. And that somebody was quite often named Dorothy. I think Seamus Heaney might have spent some time among the briars plucking those delicious black fruits as well, so he would have known that "Once off the bush the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour." They don't keep; you have to get that jam made in a hurry! Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust ...

Poetry Sunday: Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman

You probably remember poet Amanda Gorman from her appearance at the inauguration of President Biden. She read her poem "The Hill We Climb" on that occasion. After the senseless slaughter in Uvalde this week, she was inspired to write another poem which was published in The New York Times. It seemed perfect for the occasion and so I stole it in order to feature it here, just in case you didn't get a chance to read it in the Times . Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman Everything hurts, Our hearts shadowed and strange, Minds made muddied and mute. We carry tragedy, terrifying and true. And yet none of it is new; We knew it as home, As horror, As heritage. Even our children Cannot be children, Cannot be. Everything hurts. It’s a hard time to be alive, And even harder to stay that way. We’re burdened to live out these days, While at the same time, blessed to outlive them. This alarm is how we know We must be altered — That we must differ or die, That we must triumph or try. ...

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