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 The Berlin Stories: The Last of Mr. Norris and Goodbye to Berlin by Christopher Isherwood
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
A lot went on in Berlin between World War I and World War II.
After Erik Larsen’s In the Garden of Beasts piqued my interest, I read Christopher Isherwood’s The Berlin Stories, a two-novel package of The Last of Mr Norris and Goodbye to Berlin.
The Broadway play and movie Cabaret are loosely based on Goodbye to Berlin.
Like Truman Capote’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s, the male protagonists’ homosexuality is only hinted at by the author, though it helps the reader’s understanding to be aware of it. The Hollywood productions of both Breakfast and Cabaret turn the heroes straight as an arrow.
The heroes in both novels, William Bradshaw and Christopher Isherwood, are one and the same. Fraulein Schroeder, my favorite character, turns up as the landlady in both novels. In Goodbye to Berlin, Isherwood is not mentioned by name at first. But Frl Schroeder calls out, “Herr Issyvoo, Herr Issyvoo!” Later, he introduces himself as Mr. Isherwood.
Not sure why I find this so funny, but I do.
People think Germans could not have realized what the horrifying outcome of the Nazi regime. But these novels, published before WWII, show the shadow of Fascism spreading across Berlin and the fear the more intellectual citizens felt.
Frl. Schroeder represents the non-intellectual German. Isherwood says of her,
“Already she is adapting herself, as she will adapt herself to every new regime… If anybody were to remind her that, at the elections last November, she voted communist, she would probably deny it hotly and in perfect good faith. She is merely acclimatizing herself. . . Thousands of people like Frl. Schroeder are acclimatizing themselves. After all, whatever government is in power, they are doomed to live in this town.”
The 1935 Goodbye to Mr Norris is more of a fun romp with some foreshadowing of the Nazi takeover toward the end. 1939′s Goodbye to Berlin is more weighted with the political battle between the Communists and the Nazis and the growing atrocities that compel Isherwood to leave Berlin.
Isherwood writes beautifully and I can’t wait to read the rest of his books.I still hear “Herr Issyvoo!” in my head.
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 What Really Matters: Searching for Wisdom in America by Tony Schwartz
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
I have owned this book for many years and have read this book many times; it’s one of the few books I reread when I need a lift. I can open it to any page and start reading. As a result, my paperback copy is looking pretty mangy.
What Really Matters introduced me to people that I went on to read more about, especially Ram Dass and Ken Wilber. I enjoyed the chapter on Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain because I owned Betty Edward’s book and had already worked through her drawing exercises. Schwartz’s drawing chapter, though novel, is not one I go back to.
What Really Matters, published in 1995, predates all the how-to-find-happiness theories that are flooding the bookstores and Internet now. But this old book feels more authentic than a slapped-together manifesto full of tips and tricks.
I am disappointed that Tony Schwartz has created a new career as a “do-better-at-your-job” motivational speaker. The few clips I’ve watched of him lecturing seem more schlubby than my image of an author who sincerely searched for wisdom as he researched people and paths that purported to have the answers.
Read it; you may find an answer or two.
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 The Eye in the Door by Pat Barker
What’s a trilogy without a middle? A trilogy without a middle is just a book with a sequel; two Oreo wafers without the white center.
I don’t know what two call a set of two books. “Duology” sounds artificially inflated and is it really a word? “Trilogy” makes me think of Star Wars, Lord of the Rings and The Godfather series. Call something a “trilogy” and you imbue it with power.
I read the first and third books of the World War I Regeneration trilogy. Book One, fantastic; Book Three, good, but only because I read Book One.
Happily, I found The Eye in the Door (Book Two) in a bookcase that I generally ignore. How will this one stack up I wonder? But an ordered stack of unread books sit waiting on my nightstand. The Eye in the Door may jump up a couple levels in the stack. But I will not break my habit of alternating fiction and non-fiction to get to it.
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 The Night Circus Jacket Somewhere in the middle of this book, I became annoyed with the so-called magic night circus. There are only so many synonyms for the word “magical” and the author uses them all.
Kudos to Morgenstern for description after description of the most tactile visuals she could dream up. But circus tents alone cannot hold up the story.
The inexplicable, convoluted “game” at the center of the plot built me up and let me down. So much promise and mystery in the beginning! How would Celia and Marco get together? What are the rules of this game? What sinister forces lie behind it?
I was so willing to go along for the ride, but my suspension of disbelief finally snapped, right about time the precocious twins Poppet and Widget become central characters. I can’t take a Poppet or Widget seriously. Sorry.
The plot points of The Night Circus unfold awkwardly and unsatisfactorily. Also, the chronology is cumbersome. Morgenstern sends readers back and forth through time. First years apart and then days apart, switching too often to keep track. I kept flipping back to see what year it is and what year it was and oh god, now I have to pay attention to the months too.
For that reason, I am glad I read a hardback version rather than a Kindle e-book. The book jacket and inside design conjured up the look and feel of the late 18th century and a black-and-white circus. I would have missed those graphics on my Kindle. A good friend listened to the audio book. She says listening to the descriptions read aloud enhanced the imagery.
With all these criticisms, you’d think I hated the book. But no, I tore through the book to find out what happened. When a book puts that magical “can’t-put-it-down” spell on me, the book defaults to “good.”
I’m just mad it wasn’t great.
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 Ignatius J. Reilly How would you psych up for a trip to New Orleans? I am re-reading A Confederacy of Dunces, the Pulitzer Prize-winning novel that epitomizes the city, the tale that puts the color in the phrase “colorful characters.”
I read Dunces first for the funny, fantastic madcap story. But re-reading it, I discover its layers, the sadness behind the bluster and the universal humanity behind each of the New Orleans locals: Miss Trixie, who just wants to retire and get the Thanksgiving turkey owed her, asleep again at her desk; Dorian Greene, the foppish French Quarter habitue; and Burma Jones, a janitor working below the “minimal wage.”
And the anti-hero, Ignatius J. Reilly. I just like to hear the sound of “Ignatius J. Reilly” over again in my head.
Ignatius is sloth himself, blaming the world and the fools around him for everything that happens. And everything that doesn’t happen. Oh, Fortuna!
Especially poignant is the relationship between Ignatius and his mother. He is cruel and condescending to her yet he makes a show of putting her on the maternal pedestal in public all while not fooling anyone. Mrs. Reilly refers to her son as “my boy” and appears not to understand or care when she is being disrespected.
But she does care and she does get fed up. She makes “her boy” get a job and surprisingly he does, first at Levy Pants, then as a hot dog vendor in the French Quarter. By the end, she is ready to have him committed.
The author, John Kennedy Toole, committed suicide thinking his book would never be published. The novel was published in 1980, eleven years after Toole’s death, thanks to his mother pounding endlessly on publishing doors.
Wait! Who does that sound like? Mrs. Reilly, is that you?
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